USA > Pennsylvania > The Wyoming Valley in 1892 > Part 14
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They gave them o'er to butchery.
While time shall in full torrent swell, Queen Esther's bloody rock shall tell Of demon orgies, Indian yell, That stunned the victims ere they fell On that dread night of massacre.
Nations and people, all unite To damn the deeds done that dread night On tortured men, homes blazing bright, And call on God to curse and blight
The cause that worked such infamy.
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LITERATURE OF
But few of that heroic band
Who marched th' invaders to withstand, And save from ruin their loved land, Survived the battle's bloody brand To see their country's victory.
A hundred years have rolled away Since on that sad, ill-fated day, Our fathers fell in bloody fray ; And we are gathered here to pay Due honors to their memory.
They who beneath these tablets lie, This lesson taught posterity- 'Tis sweet and glorious to die For country, home, and liberty, Yea, sweeter far than slavery.
Then let us, o'er their honored grave, The glorious flag of freedom wave ! Keep green the memory of the brave ! Wave, freeman ! all your banners wave ! In honor of their memory.
T. P. RYDER,
Formerly a teacher in the public schools and late in the Prothonotary's office, and at present on the editorial staff of the Wilkes-Barre Record of the Times. His productions have appeared in current literature and many of the leading metro- politan papers.
THE OLD RAIL FENCE.
I like them ol' rail fences 'cuz they mind me 'N ez I h'isted off the rail 'at pinned her down uv a day
What cums but once in all our lives 'n sel- dom cums ter stay ;
But fills the h'art 'ith moosic sweet ez y'ars 'n y'ars roll by,
'N make us wish 'tw'ud cum ag'in jest once afore we die.
My ! how the sun did shine that day 'n how the Fur a gal erbout her inches,-then she hung bu'ds did sing ! her purty he'd,
'N natur' smiled so lovin'ly on ev'ry livin' · thing ;
It seem'd ez ef in all the y'arth thar wa'n't a single sigh,
'Cept the wind up in the branches, biddin' all the leaves good-bye.
'Pears like ez if it happen'd jest a leetle while er go :
I wuz strollin' thro' the medder, whis'lin suthin' soft 'n low,
'N jest got to the ol' rail fence when sum one hollered "Pe-t-e !"
"Please cum daown 'n help me aout, th' rail hez co't my f-e-e-t !"
Ye kin bet I hus'led lively 'cuz I know'd twuz leetle Kit,
(Sence last purtracted meeting, we'd bin on the outs a bit,)
so tight,
"O, thankee, Pete," she wispered low, her eyes a beamin' bright.
Then we strolled hum tergither, 'n afore we reached the gate,
I ax'd her ef she didn't think I'd make a likely mate
'N "ye'r awful good at h'istin' rails," wuz all the word she sed.
Wall, menny a bigger load 'n that we've h'isted from each other
· These two score y'ars 'at me 'n Kit hez tramped along tegither,
'N tho' sumtimes they med us bend like trees afore the blast
They brung us all the closer to each other at the last-
'N we love them ol' rail fences 'cuz they 'mind us uv a day
'At cum but once in all our lives, but sum'- how cum ter stay,
'N fills our h'arts 'ith moosic sweet ez y'ars 'n y'ars go by,
'N makes us wish twud stay right on until the day we die.
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THE WYOMING VALLEY.
FREDERICK CROSS, M. D.,
Is a strong and versatile writer. He has an extensive acquaintance with all branches of knowledge. He is well-known as a lecturer on education and scientific subjects ; very public spirited, and exerts a powerful influence in stimulating the literary, educational, and scientific interests.
THE BUDDHIST'S QUEST.
I sought for peace in classic love But found its heroes all too gory,
"Arms and the man " but nothing more: Sweet peace dwells not in ancient story.
I sought in wine a subtle charm To banish care and thirst for glory; But oh! the morn brought double harm, Peace fled and left a shameful story.
Fair science called with winning look: I seized the gift and conned the pages Of nature's ever-changing book, Of laws unchanged through all the ages.
From Monad up to man, one force, One plan with endless variations
Pursue their unrelenting course For nature blasts her own creations.
Oh, life ! Oh, death ! what hidden power Joins and unjoins these conscious members ?
Is death of life the final hour? Does death put out thought's glowing embers ?
No ! I shall live in other forms And Karma build through countless æons ;
Shall vanquish death till life transforms This lowly song to angelic pæans.
My spirit pure ! Oh blissful rest- Triumphant shout one glad hosanna ; Then quickly melt on Buddha's breast And find sweet peace, long sought Nirvana.
THE AGNOSTIC'S DISCOVERY.
Delsarte's out of date, and art rather late ; The fashion just now is humanity's state;
The promise and potency, all, are found, Of boundless life in the lifeless ground :
What they call revelation don't touch an adult For the flame of life is a chemical trick, For evolution's the proper cult.
And thought is only a twist of the wick.
I can prove to a T, that the human race Have grown by steps to their present place, From a structureless all of sure protoplasm,
And I've traced all the links that extend o'er the chasm.
But come let me whisper a word in your ear : I've made a discovery that seems very queer, We have measured the casket as tho' 't was the whole And neglected to measure and weigh the soul.
"WITH SNOW-WREATH CROWNED."
Her feverish youth is passed away ; Her restless longings now are stilled ; Impatient life and dark dismay And anxious, struggling hope, which filled Her early years, are ended quite ; And life at sunset, calm, profound, Is sweet and mellow as the light, Kissing her brow with snow-wreath crowned.
Not she regrets the dark-brown tress Which once her lover fondly kissed ; For love was false, and gentleness
Fills all the heart where love was missed ; And tender truth and soft embrace And words that wisdoni sought and found, Make doubly clear the sunny face And wrinkled brow with snow-wreath crowned.
As clouds that fleck a summer's sky Float for awhile then disappear, So cares which darken youth's bright eye Melt into blue when age is near. Old age sours not the wine of life, But makes its flood full and round ;
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LITERATURE OF
Old age subdues the rising strife,
The gentle warmth of youth is best. And youth shall love the snow-wreath crowned. Oh ! call not back the years now fled ;
Then hasten on, thrice welcome age,
And bring me wealth of peace and rest ;
The scorching fires of youth assuage ;
The song of youth's a siren sound,
I love the gentle bowing head
And wrinkled brow with snow-wreath crowned.
GEORGE CRONOWAY
Was born in Liverpool, England, February 6, 1842. As a sailor crossed the Atlantic over fifty times; served in the commissary for the government at Harrisburg. Came to Wilkes-Barre twenty-four years ago and worked in the mines. Is now an Assistant Coal Shipper. His songs have been set to music by Dr. Joseph Parry (Gwilym Gwent), Prof. J. A. P. Price and others.
THE ROSE OF LOVE.
The Rose of Love ne'er withers, Nor doth its beauty fade ; A sweet perpetual flower, That grows in light and shade ; Its fragrance everlasting, Its stem with tender thorn ;
The sweetest rose of roses- A rose by Angels worn.
The Rose of Love in sorrow, Absorbs our ev'ry tear ; Life's gloomy path it brightens, Our weary soul doth cheer ; By hands divine transplanted, In this sad world of care ;
A rose forever fragrant- A rose forever fair.
The Rose of Love most tender, Yet grows in ev'ry clime ;
It brightly blooms in summer, And in the wintry time ; Adorns the humble cottage, As well as mansions fair- Than wealth or fame more precious, Than costly gems more rare.
The Rose of Love still fairer, Grows in its native land, Where never weeds of sorrow, Grow in its golden sand ; In that bright land of sunshine, The land unknown to gloom, The Rose of Love celestial, Grows ever in full bloom.
MY OLD CLAY PIPE.
My old clay pipe, my sweet clay pipe, My "chum " this many a day, And friends most dear, relations near- We are both made out of clay. When times are rough, we take our puff, To smooth the moments by ; No happier twain, on land or main, . Than my old pipe and I. CHORUS.
My old clay pipe, my dear clay pipe, My sweet clay pipe and I; No happier twain, on land or main, Than my old clay pipe and I.
My old clay pipe, my faithful pipe, Since thou art in my employ, No clouds of care surround me dare, While in thy clouds of joy ; Age, makes thee dark, but turns me gray, One thing stands ever true ; Our friendship ne'er changed color yet, 'Tis always royal blue.
Oh ! may our friendship last for aye, Without a break or flaw- A bank of comfort thou'rt to me- On thee I always draw. And may thy bowl run never short,
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THE WYOMING VALLEY.
Of that sweet golden weed ; My pipe, my plug, my corner snug, Are all the friends I need.
Remember, boys, we're mortals all, Built not too high below,
Old death is 'round with his pop-gun,
Perhaps we're the next to go ;
Draw wisdom from my old clay pipe, Take nothing for a joke ;
Yet bear in mind, my honest friend, All things must end in smoke.
FRED. WILLIAMS,
Was born in Summercourt, Cornwall, England, July 30, 1848; educated in the parochial school of that place ; left home in his seventeenth year, came to the United States and located in Williamsport, Pennsylvania, in 1871, and followed music as a profession. Later, located in Plymouth, worked as a miner and in- structed bands. In 1883 he was severely injured in the mines in Kingston, and in 1884 he was appointed Burgess and Justice of the Peace. Mr. Williams writes smooth and pleasing narrative and descriptive verse. The Boston Pilot published "Ingratitude, or Old Sport and His Master," and "To a Bullet."
INGRATITUDE, OR OLD SPORT AND HIS MASTER.
Old Sport lay on the door-mat, looking weary, In guarding you and all your goods, your wife worn and sad, and children, too ?
The lustre of his eye was gone, his hearing, too, You never over-fed me, and the food you gave was bad,
was poor ;
The pangs of hunger pinched hin, as he lay My bed was but a mat that lay outside the there all alone ; kitchen door.
He'd gladly eat a crust of bread or gnaw a meatless bone.
I've often left my scanty meal and waded through the slush,
His master in the prime of life, his board with To hunt the pheasant and the quail, through plenty spread, thick and tangled brush ;
Good clothes to wear and pillows soft, on which to lay his head,
Took Sport one day into the woods and tied I faithfully and carefully have laid it at your him to a log ;
And standing there with gun in hand, he thus addressed the dog :
MASTER.
Old Sport, my boy, I'm sorry, but the time at last has conie,
When you, like every other dog, must surely meet your doom.
'Tis true you've been a faithful dog, and that's the reason why
I wish you now may rest in peace, and there- fore, you must die.
DOG.
Is this my pay for faithfulness in serving you so true,
And after hunting all the day, through swamps and forest thick
(Perhaps the very zeal I showed, repaid with cuff and kick),
We've sought our honie, and you your bed, you slept there safe and sound,
While I stood as a sentinel upon the frozen ground.
Because I'm feeble, old and deaf, blind, stupid, stiff and sore,
You now withhold my scanty fare, and drive me from your door.
I love you still, your children, too, I also love your wife,
And when you brought the quarry down, amid the snow and sleet
feet ;
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LITERATURE OF
And if you still refuse me food, O, master, I saved your little Annie's life, for that, O', stay spare my life ! your hand !
MASTER.
I have a younger dog than yon, and p'rhaps he's just as good,
He'll hunt and watch, and guard our house, and earn his daily food ;
Besides, I only want one dog-I have no use for two,
And if I keep the younger one, I must do away with you.
DOG.
I never have deserted you, though hard has I saw the master raise the gun and point it at has been my lot,
Why, then, should I be tied like this, and like a felon shot ?
Why would you wish to take away, that which you cannot give ?
My life is very sweet to me, O, master, let me live !
When she was drowning in the pond I brought her safe to land ;
I watched her very tenderly, when she was weak and low,
For that, O, master, spare my life ! O, master, let me go !
STRANGER.
I heard the piteous pleading, cry, I heard the dog's request,
his breast ;
I stepp'd between the man and dog, I stopp'd the murderous shot,
I cut the cord that held him fast, and freed him on the spot.
DANIEL L. HART
Was born twenty-five years ago in the house in which he still resides in Wilkes- Barre. At the age of seventeen he entered the journalistic world and soon dis- tinguished himself as a sketch writer and humorist. At twenty-three he loomed up in the local horizon as a dramatist, and his cleverly written drama in four acts, entitled " Which," immediately demonstrated that he possessed wonder- ful ability as a writer of plays. The year following he produced an English society drama in four acts, entitled "The Footman." The following from the . Scranton Truth tells its own story :
"The presentation of 'The Footman' last evening, has crowned its brilliant young author with another grand success. The drama from beginning to end held the attention and won the admiration of the audience which frequently was awakened to the highest pitch of enthusiasm. The plot of the play is gracefully and delicately woven. It is constantly changing and drifts from pathos to humor, shadow to sunshine so imperceptibly that the lips are frequently wreathed in smiles while the tear in the eye is still undried. In style it is distinctly original. Every line is characteristic of the author, who can be rec- ognized as easily by his writings as by his photograph. 'Which' and 'The Footman ' contain a vein of refined humor and sarcasm that is peculiarly Mr. Hart's, and reflects his peculiar personality as does his looking-glass. 'The Footman' is strong in all points. In each act the scenes gradually mount into climaxes which carry the audience to the highest pitch of enthusiasm. The
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THE WYOMING VALLEY.
play is a poem, humorously complete and perfect in all details. * * * Judging from the excellence of Mr. Hart's work, he will some day occupy a prominent place in the front rank of American playwrights."
DR. GEORGE URQUHART,
Who was born at Lambertville, New Jersey, came to Wilkes-Barre in 1840, and attended school there and at the Wyoming Seminary from 1841 to 1847. He was graduated at the Jefferson Medical College, Philadelphia, in 1850, and has since practiced medicine and surgery continuously in Wilkes-Barre. During the early part of his professional career, Dr. Urquhart gave much attention to surgical practice and was regarded by his compeers as one of the foremost sur- geons in Northeastern Pennsylvania. At the outbreak of the Civil War, Dr. Urquhart, brimful of patriotism, was strongly tempted to enter the army as Surgeon and Medical Director. Friends of his, both political and professional, knowing his superior qualifications for this work, awaited only his consent to place him where he might have rendered service of the greatest value and im- portance to the sick and wounded soldiers, but at this time the doctor was suf- fering from an accidental injury which unfitted him for field service and he was obliged to decline the overtures. He was examining surgeon for the draft in
1861. However, his desire to serve those who offered their lives to their country in its peril, never waned, and for eighteen years he served faithfully as an examiner for pensions, bringing into this service his ripe experience in prac- tice-his store of knowledge of anatomy, daily freshened by continuous study- his excellent judgment of men, and his sterling honesty ; all of which came to be so well recognized at the pension office that a recommendation from him was invariably followed promptly by corresponding executive action at Washington. He is one of the best prose writers in this section.
A. S. GREENE,
Was born in London, England, May 18, 1821. £ He was educated at King's School, Rochester (Cathedral school, governed by the Dean and Chapter). Afterward he studied at St. Servan College, France, for about two years. His father is in an old East India house, and his only brother was killed in mutiny in the Indian army, on the staff of General Anson. He has two sisters living. Left France in 1849 to take clerkship in mercantile house in West Indies with friends of his father. In 1851 he came to New York to fill position with a branch house there, with whom, and their successors, he remained ten or twelve years, then returned to West Indies to form partnership, in Port au
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LITERATURE.
Prince, with one of his former employers. Subsequently he fluctuated between New York and West Indies for several years. He was also engaged in the South American trade for a time. Finally, after some reverses, he took a posi- tion in the New York office of the Wilkes-Barre Coal Company with Mr. H. Tillinghast, Mr. Charles Parish being then President of the Company. In 1869 Mr. Parish recommended him to a vacancy in the office of Conyngham and Company, (then J. Stickney and Company), in Wilkes-Barre, with whom he remained over twenty years, and now resides in Philadelphia.
END OF VOLUME I.
R 974.831 cap.1
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