USA > Pennsylvania > Bucks County > History of Bucks County, Pennsylvania: From the Discovery of the Delaware to the Present Time (Volume 1 and 2) > Part 37
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Jerome Buck,151/2 eldest son of Samuel and Martha Buck, was born at Doylestown, 1835. He was a pupil of George Murray, and finished his scholastic education with Rev. Samuel Aaron, at Norristown. He afterward studied law, and, on being admitted to the bar, settled at New York. Mr. Buck found time to tread the paths of literature, and with a natural love of poetry his pen not infrequently wandered into that region. In 1865 he was married to Miss Kate McGrath, Kentucky. Of Mr. Buck's poetry we give the following :
"THE WISH."
"The bird will e'en its broken wing Re-wound to find its mate, Must then this heart, so hurt by love .. Be scarred and desolate ?
The wave tho' marred upon the sands. Will distant seas explore, Is it then sure this injured heart Must venture love no more?
The rose, though torn, with odor sweet Its debtor makes the wind, Doth love owe naught to this poor heart Which is to love so kind? .
The harp whose strings are mutilate Sweet strains doth yet retain- It will! this heart, so silent. will Vibrate with love again!"
151/2 Jerome Buck, who died at New York. February 21. 1900, in his sixty-fifth year, was a descendant of Nicholas Buck, who came to this country from Thionille. Loraine, 1752, landing at Philadelphia and shortly settling in Springfield township, Bucks county. His mother was a daughter of Josiah Y. Shaw, Doylestown, a woman of great beauty. and from whom the son inherited his brilliant qualities. On the death of his father his mother married John Titus, Esquire, with whom Mr. Buck read law. Mr. Titus reached the Supreme bench of Arizona and died while there. Mr. Buck was one of the most brilliant men born in Bucks county, in the past century ..
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"CHRISTABEL."
"Where the zephyr softly breathes And gold seeds burst their golden sheathes, Where birds no chorus leave unsung Her ear to charm against his tongue- To kiss lips riper than the grain,
Long sues he Christabel in vain.
Where the frost makes silver tips Of stubble-tops-with ashen lips Rustic Christabel is sighing, Hope itself within her dying : 'He comes not !' sooner comes the snow, And Christabel will lie below."
Among our later poets, Thaddeus S. Kenderdine, son of the late John E. Kenderdine, of Lumberville, has a very respectable standing. Born, 1836, he received a good, but not liberal education, dividing his time between work and school. Seeking a little adventure in the summer, 1858, he drove an ox-team across the plains to Salt Lake City, whence he continued to San Francisco, and returned home by way of the Isthmus, 1859. During the Civil war he served as a lieutenant in the One Hundredth and seventy-fourth Pennsylvania regi- ment. Mr. Kenderdine has written several things that have the stamp of a. true poet. Among his best productions are "The Graveyard," "The Old Mill," "The Old Meeting-house," and a poem of one hundred and thirty-eight lines. entitled, "At Gettysburg," in which battle his younger brother; Robert, fell mortally wounded. His friends consider the last the finest thing he has writ- ten. We insert a few verses from two of his poems, as we have not room for. more :
"THE GRAVEYARD."16
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"Like ghastly, goblin sentinels, Keeping their watch and ward, The tombstones picket the field of death, Solemnly standing guard. Wearied with watching since time far gone Some lean over and some lie prone.
The gates stand invitingly open, Beckoning mortals to come; From the sandy soil, with little toil, Can be scooped a mortal's home. The populous charnel-house seems to say, "Ho! life-wearied children, come this way!"
16 Written for the Doylestown Democrat in 1862.
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A grim old man is the sexton, With his well-worn mattock and spade; He joyfully welcomes new-comers To the fresh-dug nome ne has made. He heareth, unmoved, the rattling clod, And deftly pats the arching sod.
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Form of mold the purest, Cheeks kissed by clustering curls, Eyes that dazzle like sunbeams, Teeth outrivaling pearls; What are they all in these halls so lone? Nothing! ah, nothing but dust and bone!
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Well that the hopes of mortals Triumph o'er their fears; The body may rot and be forgot In the dreamy lapse of years. Fear shrinks at the sight of Death's drear halls, While hope leaps over the graveyard walls."
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"THE OLD MILL."17
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"Half hidden by weeping willows, At the foot of a wood-crowned hill, Nestling in quiet beauty, Standeth the old grist-mill. Its roof is seamed and moss-covered, And tottering is its wall, And silent and still is the old water-wheel, All clasped in time's enthrall. * *
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Hark, how the mill-stones rumble As the golden grain leaps through, List to the clattering "damsel" Shaking the aguish "shoe;" Swiftly is gliding the belting, The cogs whirl round in a maze, And with mute surprise in my juvenile eyes, I wondering stand and gaze.
There stands the miller musing On the ups and downs of-Corn; His form appears bowed down with years And the weighty sacks he's borne.
17 Published in the Doylestown Democrat, 1862.
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Dust wraps him 'round like a halo, Dented and dingy is his hat- An honest old man was the miller, I ween, Though, on dit, his swine were fat.
Weighing out quarters of flour, Measuring bushels of feed, Plenty of grist-work his dower, Plenty of water his need. Toiling from morn till even, Grinding the golden grain, When death one day chanced over that way And heavenward jogged the twain.
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And now the grist-mill standeth Cheerless and silent and old, Owls and bats through the windows Are flitting fearless and bold; Time and the rats are gnawing At rafter, and beam, and floor, And soon the old mill, so silent and still, Will crumble to rise no more!
Oh! what is life but a grist-mill, Where Right is ground down by Power, Where Fashion is grinding its millions Into very indifferent flour ; Where Vice is crushing out Virtue, Where Mammon is grinding the Poor, Where grists of cares, and hopes, and fear, Pass in and out at the door." * *
A poetic vein runs through all the sons of John E. Kenderdine. Robert, born 1851, wrote considerable in prose and verse, probably his best production being a poem entitled "After The Battle." His elder brother, Watson, is the author of "A Satire" on poetry, and one other production published in The Olive Branch, 1849.
Isaac Walton Spencer, the youngest son of Amos and Ann Spencer, was born in the old family homestead, Northampton, 1815. He received his educa- tion at the common schools and taught during the early part of his life in the middle and lower sections of the county, being a frequent contributor to the columns of the Literary Chronicle and Newtown Journal, and later to the Bucks County Intelligencer. After engaging in mercantile pursuits in the county, and subsequently in Philadelphia, he returned, 1860, and spent the remainder of his days on a farm in Warwick, where he died, February, 1868. He married Mrs. Louisa Michener, daughter of John Jamison, Warwick, and widow of Dr. Charles P. Michener, Newtown. Mr. Spencer wrote and published con- siderable, and the selection we have made first appeared in the Bucks County Intelligencer, 1849.
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"YOUTH."
"I wist I were a youth again, a careless, happy youth Without a thought of grief or care, all innocence and truth, As when in life's effulgent morn each vernal leaf and flower Told but of hopes, when sere and dry, of spring's reluming power. Then, 'neath the spreading vine-clad tree, sweet voices full of love Spoke to the trusting heart of hope on earth and bliss above, And waters bright, whose murmuring streams flow joyously away, Are emblems of our fleeting dreams of joys that soon decay. Alas! they told a happy tale, those scenes of early days! Too soon the brightest colors pale, the sweetest flower decays : Affection's kindest smile may greet, sweet sympathy may bind In concord, harmony and truth, mind with its kindred mind. Yet doubts their dark'ning shadows may around our pathway cast, And thro' the mist affection's smile, sunlight of love, be lost. But hope, immortal, whose bright ray can penetrate the gloom, Remains, till lost in certainty, beyond the quiet tomb.
Vain wish! could I recall again those days, so free from care, So full of hope and buoyancy, back from the things that were, I would not so; the path of life is strewn with thorns and flowers; Vain, transitory, are its joys, even in our happiest hours. Earth is not our abiding place, I would not alway stay Where sins the fairest forms deface and all things feel decay, Where sorrows meet as ere we deem our happiness begun, And, in each cup of joy we quaff, some bitter dregs are run. In youth our hearts and hopes are bright, our home a blissful place, Loved throughts and images arise as now its scenes we trace. In after life our paths diverge, we grope our dubious way, Through darkness and uncertainty by reason's bright'ning ray. But even reason fails to guide the thoughts thro' nists of time In search of perfect happiness-the font of Truth sublime. Still Hope leads on-Faith, freely given, points smilingly above, Earth fades from view-we see the source of Light, and Life, and Love."
Allen Livezey, descended of an old family of the county, and the son of Robert and Sarah L., was born in Solebury township, January 11, 1811. He developed an early attachment for books and was very fond of writing verses. On his marriage he settled in Lumberville, but afterward spent several years in Philadelphia, whence he returned, and settled first at Taylorsville and then removed to Yardleyville. He contributed prose sketches and snatches of poetry to the county papers, etc. His verses "To Cuttalossa," a delightful retreat near Lumberville, we give below :
"How often in my youthful days I've walked along thy winding ways, When shaded from the sun's bright rays, How dear was Cuttalossa.
But what a change in fifty years, I hardly can refrain from tears,
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My mind is haunted so with fears For the fate of Cuttalossa.
How wild and how romantic then The path along this silent glen- Now shorn of all by grasping men Where rolls old Cuttalossa.
Near by the stream I used to run To shoot the squirrel with my gun, And there to fish I first begun In thy waters, Cuttalossa.
But since the trees of ev'ry height Have disappeared from human sight, In shines the sun from morn till night On dear old Cuttalossa.
No more the squirrels do we see Nimbly leaping from tree to tree ; No fox is running wild and free Along old Cuttalossa.
Thy streams grow less, ah! tell me why At thy decline we heave a sigh, And raise our voice to Him on high To spare us Cuttalossa.
There are other writers of verse in Bucks county, whose productions are of a highly respectable character, and would do credit to our volume, but the length of the chapter warns us to bring it to a close and we have room for but few of these.
"WATER LILIES." 1 SIDNEY L. ANDERSON. 19
"Do you know that the Lilies I hold in my hand, Are wafting me back to the fairy land Of my beautiful past? When we sailed that night And watched in the Heavens the Pleiades' light ; Over all the stream with its wealth of flowers Through those silently passing summer hours,
Lay the starlight's glitter, and shimmering glory, And the "Lilies." and I heard the 'old, old story.'
To-night it is floating back to me, That tender, witching mystery ;- In the starry silence, I hear once more, The silvery plash of the dipping oar ; And the odorous Lilies that lay at my feet, In their closed buds, held my secret sweet.
18 Formerly of Newtown.
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Months passed, and Christmas bells were ringing, Glad voices of childhood, the 'Carols' were singing, 'Neath the frosted splendor of mistletoe, Red lips were kissed in the yule log's glow; On the parlor walls hung the holly-wreath red With its crimson buds; and I-had my dead. Hearts pulsing with joy, and I so weary, My lips only murmured their 'miserere.' And when summer warmed the land into bloom, I gathered the Lilies to lay on your tomb.
As storm-tossed mariners recall Some coral belted, calm 'atoll,' Upon whose pulseless, sapphire breast, They safely moored their barque for rest ; So I, to-night with tear-dimmed eye, Dream o'er that dream of bliss gone by. When my soul ensphered in your passionate love Smiled back, as the sea does, the Heaven above; And dreamed that your tenderness would be My haven of rest on Life's surging sea.
And the long, long summer to come, will set me Face to face with your memory ; Never again shall Lilies' bloom, Fill the dewy night air with its rich perfume; And I not remember a starlit night (In the years that are dead) 'neath the pale moon-light, When the Lilies enstarred the rippling river, And we vowed to be 'tender and true' forever."
"GREEN ERIN."
CATHARINE MITCHEL.19
"And sure I was born in the Emerald Isle, Where the Shannon's rough waves are dashing, And I've stood on the shores of Dingle bay When the ocean's white surf was splashing. You would laugh in your sleeve, if ever you heard How I mingled the brogue with my blarney, And with my shilalah a bog trotter beat. , When a boy, on the banks of Killarney. O, Erin, green Erin, is ever my home,- I live near the lake of Killarney.
The mixed rose of England is thorny, I ween; Like false friends, Scotch thistles are stinging ; But the shamrock grows smooth on a fair maiden's cheek When its soft-tinted blossoms are springing ; .
19 Of Hulmeville. From her volume of poems entitled, "The Minstrel's Bride."
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And all the fine folks in Edinburgh town Care not for Saint Pat or Samt Barney, But the priests in old Dublin will worship their names While the mossy turf grows in Killarney. O Erin, green Erin, is ever my home, -- Let me dwell on the banks of Killarney.
Your lofty Ben Nevis, and Grampian hills You have grandly surnamed your Highlands; Let me hear the sound from the Rock Eagle's Nest, That re-echoes among the Islands. I've roamed o'er the heaths, the braes and the moors, But give me the sweet Groves of Blarney ; I've seen your Loch Levin, Loch Ness, and Loch Tay, Still they are not like the lake of Killarney. O Erin, green Erin, is ever my home,- Let me sleep by the side of Killarney.
Your lads they are bold, your lassies are fair, And bright as the dews of the morning; Their hearts are as pure as the bridal wreath Our dear lady's brow now adorning ; But one that I love is now waiting for me, And as sure as my name is O'Karney, I'll stay till this merry wedding is o'er, Then hurry me back to Killarney. O Erin, green Erin, is ever my home,- Let me rest by the lake of Killarney."
"EVENING THOUGHTS." BY LIZZIE VAN DEVENTER.20
"A solemn whiteness veils the sky With misty moonbeams trembling through, The winds are low as a lullaby And the hyacinth bells are full of dew. Their perfume floats upon the air And the night is full of wondrous calm, Save the strange, sweet music breathing there Like the waking notes of a seraph's psalm.
And my heart, like a captive bird, to-night Beats wildly against its prison bars, For I long for a glimpse of that world of light, Of that beautiful home beyond the stars, For a gleam from its streets of shining gold, For a rapturous strain from an angel's lute, For a clasp of the hands that have long been cold, And a word from the lips that have long been mute.
20 Daughter of John Van Deventer, Richborough. Northampton township.
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Six weary months! how the days creep by As we sadly. wait on the lonely shore, With many a longing, many a sigh, For the loved and lost who have gone before, Their feet are pressing the golden strand, Their hearts are thrilling with perfect bliss, For. O! the glory of that bright land, And, O! the pain and woe of this!
And my tortured heart pours out on the night The burden of its anxious prayer : Do they love us still in that world of light? Do they long for us? Do they miss us there? Do they stand and wait at the pearly gate As they see us nearing the river's brim? Will the voices we know in the world below Be the first to chant the 'welcome hymn?'
Oh! the cry is vain, not a murmur mars The slumbrous stillness of the night, And through the mist the watching stars ' Seem to mock my prayer with their eyes of light. But a sweet, low whisper speaks within, 'Peace, weary heart! Peace, child of dust! All hearts are blest in that land of rest !' And I fold my hands in hope and trust."
"MOTHER, HOME, HEAVEN."
REBECCA SMITH.21
"Glorious trinity of words, Sweetest in the English tongue, What a magic spell ye weave, . 'Round the hearts of old and young.
Mother, cherished name the child's first lisping As it steps upon life's stage, Hallowed name the last that lingers, On the feeble lip of age.
How that name recalls to memory, Days and scenes of other years ; How it thrills my heart with gladness, How it fills my eyes with tears.
Tears of fond affection falling For the loved ones passed away, Joy that one so kind and gentle. Watched me in life's early day.
21 Daughter of Mahlon Smith, of Erwinna.
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Home, thou dear domestic altar, Ark of safety and of love, Where the mother waits to welcome Back again each wandering dove.
Here the spendthrift of life's vigor, Turns again with weary feet- And ambition's bankrupt votaries, Seek in thee a calm retreat."
"VOICES OF SHARON."
BY LAURA WATSON WHITE. 22
"Tell us a story, ye trees of the wild wood, Standing around us so stately and staid; Give us a glimpse of the times of your childhoo As we cluster to-day in your Sharonite shade. Tell us of years when your tall tops o'er-reaching, Naught but an unbroken forest beheld; Ere the settler's sharp axe a new story came teaching, And your life-long companions by hundreds were felled.
Read us your history, rocks that lie sleeping, All through the hillsides of Sharon to-day- Valuable truths you must hold in your keeping, Wonderful secrets be hiding away. Feel ye no pride that we come to you pleading Just for a page from the depths of the Past? Think ye the lore too profound for our reading? Deem ye your pearls would be fruitlessly cast?
Modest gray mosses, that lovingly linger, Lining these by-ways we fearlessly tread; Can ye not sight us with unerring finger Back to a day, neither voiceless nor dead, When, through these denser shades stealthily creeping, Wild beasts instinctively lurked for their prey ; While, in their tracks, with drawn bows, came leaping Types of a race as unfettered as they?
Waves of Neshaminy, ceaselessly flowing, Sing us a song of the ages at rest. Years are but waves that are going and going, Stopping nor staying at human bchest.
22 Youngest daughter of the late Ephraim A. White and Lydia L. (Watson) White, Newtown, Pa. The subject of these verses was part of the Worth estate, near Newtown, fitted up many years ago as a pleasure resort, and now included in the George School property. They were recited at a dramatical, elocutionary and musical .entertainment held at Newtown, 1885.
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Rippled and danced ye as gaily and gladly Under the bow of the red man's canoe? Tumbled and rushed ye as wildly and madly Just as it still suits your fancy to do?
Soft airs of Sharon, that wander unheeding : Blustering breezes that sweep through its shade; Pause but a moment and list to our pleading; Why be so careless, or coy, or afraid? Was this your playground in years that had faded Down the dim aisles of the vista of Time, Ere e'en the red man your haunts had invaded, Or human ear noted your rhythmical rhyme?
Glorious sunlight, that over and over This spot hath lighted in ages agone; Beautiful Moon, who art always a rover, Hiding thy light from us ever anon; Stars of the morning, that never more clearly Sang in the past than you're singing to-day, Chant us a hymn that shall draw us more nearly Into the circle of scenes we love dearly- Scenes of an age that has faded away. * * # * * #
Pause we and listen: The voices are 'round us, Nature's sweet music that never is still; Only the language must ever confound us, Each, as he hearkens, interprets at will. Mellow with age are your choruses ringing, Voices of Sharon! and we, who, to-day .
List to the songs of the past you are singing, Feel, in your presence, like children at play."
"UNDER THE STARS." EMILY F. SEAL. 28
"The moon moves grandly up the sky, The snow-hills flash its radiance back, The cold snow-hills, that stilly lie Along the highway's beaten track, Or stretch far out among the fields, Topped by the fences old and gray, And flank'd by naked woodland shields, As still, and bare, and bleak as they. The Christmas fires burn bright and clear, Shaming the moon-beams through the pane. The steady tramp of the coming year
23 Eldest daughter of the late Joseph Fell, of Buckingham, and wife of William T. Seal, Philadelphia.
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Echoes from mountain unto main.
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The young New Year with a joyous bound Steps where the Old Year, moaning, dies. Well may he shake the grey beard round, And scorn him as in death he lies. For the sorrow and sin of years We bury deep in his wide grave, While a Nation's greeting of happy tears Proclaims the new has come to save.24 But I turn from the yule-logs' blaze, The ringing promise of the dawn, To where, beneath the moon's pale rays, The camp-fire's light shines brightly on,
'Gainst dark pine woods the white tents gleam; The weary soldiers silent lie. Can I find 'mong the gathered groups The glance of a familiar . eye?
Is there a young head pillow'd there Fill'd with dreams of his far off home? The star-light on the soft bright hair That I so lov'd to smooth and comb! Where the Potomac's dark waves beat Like caged bird 'gainst its prison bars, Lies my brother in restless sleep, To-night, under the gleaming stars? Oft in the chill September time I woke with shivering start and moan, Dreaming the cricket's mournful chirp Had been my brother's dying groan. The weary days have come and gone Since then when first his sword he bore, And we have learned a patient way For hearts so early grieved and sore. But what to me are ringing bells, And what to me the New Year's joy! Under the glittering stars to-night On snow-hills, lies our soldier-boy. Oh, twinkling eyes from the dark sky, Lit up by the cold moon's pale light, Look from your royal home on high, And guard my brother's bed to-night. Look down, look down, your watches keep As angels from the Father's throne, Hover over his weary sleep. Whisper him words from friends at home, Breathe a charm through the still night air, A shield from danger 'round him cast. Make this, oh, stars, your nightly care, And guide my brother home at last."
24 Lincoln's Emancipation proclamation.
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Octavia E., daughter of Jacob Hill, was born, 1843, and came to Doyles- town in her seventeenth year, where she made her home until her marriage to Henry J. Fahnestock, Gettysburg, October 17, 1872, whither she removed, and died four months after. Her poetic talent was principally developed while she lived in Bucks county, although she had written previously both in prose and poetry. She had decided ability, great perseverance, a quick imagination and showed wonderful talent in letter-writing. She taught for two years at the Moravian Seminary, Bethlehem, with great success, and won for herself a high place among teachers and scholars by her energy, fondness for study, high regard for duty and her unfailing kindness and love for her pupils. During this period her mind showed great capability and gave promise of better things in the future, but she died when but thirty years old. Her friends have care- fully preserved a few poetical treasures from her pen, of which we select the following :
"LENTEN THOUGHTS."
("Jesus of Nazareth passeth by."-Gospel for Quinquagesima Sunday.)
"The loving, joyous Christmas-tide is o'er, The startled Magi seek the Babe no more, The mother-wail is hushed on Rama's shore.
The Forty Days of Satan's tempting near, The purple robe, the crown of thorns appear- Afar, the cry of 'Crucify!' we hear.
As earth awaketh from her winter sleep Our souls awake to sense of sin, so deep That penitence can only pray and weep.
While early blossoms haste to hail the Spring, And homeward-flying birds her message bring, We lay our hearts before our suff'ring King.
Thou loving Christ, grant, while we weep with Thee, Our tears of penitence may heartfelt be- May we forsake our sins eternally.
Touch Thou our eyes. that, as thou passeth by, Our darkened hearts may see and feel Thee nigh, And, pleading. echo Bartimeus' cry.
Do what Thou wilt to make us Thine own- O. Crucified! we would be Thine alone! We pray Thee hear our penitential moan.
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