USA > Pennsylvania > Bucks County > The history of Bucks County, Pennsylvania : from the discovery of the Delaware to the present time > Part 72
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For the memories that encircle The happy days gone by ; For the holy aspirations That lift the soul on high ; For the hope in brighter regions, By seraph footsteps trod, To meet the lost and loved ones, I thank Thee, Oh, my God."
Mrs. Paxson was born in January, 1782, and was married to Thomas Paxson in 1817.
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HISTORY OF BUCKS COUNTY.
Nicholas Biddle, in his life and death a Bucks countian, was a poet of wide reputation. A man of large and careful cultivation, he devoted a portion of his leisure at his beautiful home on the Dela- ware in courting the muse. Of his productions, " An Ode to Bogle"n became popular on its appearance, and is still remembered and quoted. It was written July 16th, 1829, and dedicated, "with a piece of mintstick," to Meta Craig Biddle, his granddaughter, aged four years. We have only room for a few stanzas of this ode :
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" Hail ! mayest thou, Bogle, for thy reign Extends o'er Nature's wide domain, Begins before our earliest breath, Nor ceases with the hour of death ; Scarce seems the blushing maiden wed, Unless thy care the supper spread ; Half christened only were that boy Whose heathen squalls our ears annoy ? If, service finished, cakes and wine Were given by any hand but thine, And Christian burial e'en were scant Unless his aid the Bogle grant.
Death's senechal, 'tis thine to trace For each his proper look and place ; How aunts should weep where uncles stand, With hostile cousins hand in hand ; Give matchless gloves, and fitly shape By length of face the length of crape. See him erect, with lofty tread, The dark scarf streaming from his head, Lead forth his groups in order mete And range them grief-wise in the street ; Presiding o'er the solemn show The very Chesterfield of woe.
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No jot of honor will he bate, Nor stir toward the churchyard gate Till the last person is at hand And every hat has got its band. Before his stride the town gives way, Beggars and belles confess his sway ;
11 Bogle, the subject of the ode, whom Mr. Biddle calls a " colorless colored man," was a light mulatto, and a well-known character of the day, who .resided in Eighth, near Sansom street, Philadelphia. He united the vocations of public waiter and un- dertaker, frequently officiating at a funeral in the afternoon, and at a party the evening of the same day, presenting on all occasions, the same gravity of demeanor.
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HISTORY OF BUCKS COUNTY.
Drays, prudes, and sweeps, a startled mass, Rein up to let his cortege pass ; And death himself, that ceaseless dun, Who waits on all, yet waits for none, Now bears a greater waiter's tone, And scarcely deems his life his own.
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Nor less, stupendous man ! thy power In festal than in funeral hour, When gas and beauty's blended rays Set hearts and ball-rooms in a blaze. Or spermaceti's light reveals
More inward bruises than it heals.
In flames each belle her victim kills, And sparks fly upward in quadrilles ; Like icebergs in an Indian clime Refreshing Bogle breathes sublime-
Cool airs upon that sultry stream From Roman punch and frosted cream."
The jeu d'esprit closed with a stanza addressed to the little grand- daughter of the author :
"Meta, thy riper years may know More of this world's fantastic show, In thy time, as in mine, shall be Burials and pound-cake, beaux and tea ; Rooms shall be hot and ices cold, And flirts be both as 'twas of old. Love, too, and mintsticks shall be made, Some dearly bought, some lightly weighed ; As true the hearts, the forms as fair, An equal joy, and beauty there ; The smile as bright, as soft the ogle, But never, never such a Bogle !"
Samuel Blackfan, a farmer and minister among Friends of Sole- bury, a man of many eccentricities, wrote considerable poetry fifty years ago. He was the son of William Blackfan, and was born on a farm, on the Windy bush road, now owned by Mahlon Atkinson. He introduced poetry into all his sermons. He was found dead in his wagon on the road from Philadelphia, between the Fox-chase and Sorrel Horse. We make the following extracts from his poetry from his " Ode to the Winter Sun :"
" Fair fountain of heat, In bleak winter so sweet, Every sensible person w'd perish ; Yes, rather expire Than to witness thy fire, Discontinue, creation to cherish.
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HISTORY OF BUCKS COUNTY.
How cheerful and warm Coming after a storm, Is the heat from thy orb emanating ; To the people of earth, Animation and mirth In the room of despondence creating.
When thy sister, the moon, At the brilliance of noon, Eclipses thy splendor awhile ; Every creature is sad, Till thy countenance glad Re-creates it again by its smile.
How stupendous and grand, The adorable Hand That created The Luminous Ocean, To brighten our eyes As thou coursest the skies, While thy beams kindle warmth by their motion."
The following, from the same author, the first two verses of lines to " The Belles" are not too old to be appreciated at the present day :
" I apportion a part of each week To dressing my hair with a comb, And the rend'ring it tidy and sleek, Even when I continue at home.
But when I determine to visit The house of a neighboring girl, I adorn it, and trim it, and friz it, In front, into many a curl." * * * *
The meter of the following, by the same, is charming :
" Meandering streams, romantic glades, And winds that pass thro' twilight shades, Retiring from the west ; The saffron moon, the vernal grove, Have still the magic pow'r to move, And harmonize the breast."
His lines addressed to " The Carter" are probably among the best he ever wrote-beginning :
"The carter that crosses the tall Allegheny, Is happier than Jews with their gold ; He matters not whether the weather be rainy, Or keen-blowing, frosty and cold. When he quits his dear Pittsburgh companions awhile, And from Anna prepares to depart, He perceives by the sorrow that saddens her smile, That he hath a high place in her heart."
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HISTORY OF BUCKS COUNTY.
Among our later poets, Samuel Swain, of Bristol, probably stands at the head. He was born on his father's farm in Bensalem, but removed into Bristol at ten years of age. A sickly boyhood and a retired place of birth had something to do in shaping his after life, and he learned early to love Nature and Harmony. His cottage- home overlooks the beautiful Delaware, and there he courts the muse in sweet retirement, and cultivates the affections. Quoting from one of his productions, it may with truth be said, that years have left no frost upon a heart
" That throbs for beauty and for truth And divine in art."
Mr. Swain is the son of exemplary members of the society of Friends ; was married in 1850, and his taste for the divine art has not dis- qualified him for contact with the world, and the rougher routine of making a living. He has written so many good things, that we hesitate to make a choice between them, but present the following :
FROM "LAUREL HILL."
" When I must leave the hearts I fondly love And all the beauty of this bright green earth, I ask no labored stone this form above With words that tell a doubting world my worth.
The only monument my soul desires Shall be the rainbow bent o'er falling tears-
The blessed radiance from the kind heart's fires My love hath kindled thro' departed years !"
FROM "THE FRONT DOOR."
"The love of beauty grows with love of home, And as they fill the soul
They draw us nearer to that love Supreme, Whose presence makes us whole. From all the beauteous and the dear of earth, We frame the amaranth bowers,
And fill the glory of the angel's home With the lowlier sweets of ours!"
We chose the selections, from Mr. Swain, with "By the Sea," written at Ocean Grove, New Jersey, in August, 1873, and esteemed one of his best productions :
" Day after day I weary not of thee, Blue wonder of the world! and tune my ear Morning and evening with a fresh delight To thy unbroken hymn. My fitful heart
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HISTORY OF BUCKS COUNTY.
Takes home the lesson of thy constant praise Ashamed of its poor worship. I feel my soul, With all its wavering purposes ascend To nobler range of power while gazing out O'er the green desert of thy lilied waves Climbing toward Heaven. My life and care Grow paltry in thy light of visions born At thy mysterious verge ! Out from myself I travel on thy breast in search of Him Who holds thy waters in his forming hand, For no such causeway to the invisible world As thine, is mapped on matter ! Evermore Moving to purification, powerful, Unchanged thro' centuries, what can lead like thee To Thought's great Father ?
The messengers
Of Commerce whitening o'er thy perilous waste, The nerves of lightning trembling thwart thy deep Foundation floors, bearing the messages Of hope and fear, of joy and sobbing grief From heart to parted heart, attune thy psalm With the sweet triumphs and divine advance Of human love and peace ! The waves roll on . The progress of the World. They waft the fair Kind messengers of Truth from land to land, And link the fortunes of all climes ! Father of being And Arbiter of earth for evermore, Bring into harmony all nations round The borders of Thy deep. Speed on the day When murderous war and servitude shall eease To erimson these pure waves, whose choral tones Lead human hearts to Thee !"
Some sixty years ago a few persons, inclined to letters, organized " The Lumberville Literary and Debating society," which stimu- lated the poetic talent of the neighborhood. In the society's book of record are found several effusions of the local poets which were dropped into the " box," and read at the next meeting. We print two of these-the first " An Acrostic on Music," by Henry Greatorex : 12 "'Midst the dark ruins of despair, Unhappiness and woe- Securely bless'd by Thee while there, In time of need, in time of eare, Can ceaseless pleasures flow."
12 Henry Greatorex or Greatrake, was born at Wilmington, Delaware, about 1800, resided in Solebury in 1823-24, and was a frequent contributor to the Lumberville society. A number of his pieces are preserved. He left the neighborhood about 1825 or 1826, and his subsequent career is unknown.
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HISTORY OF BUCKS COUNTY.
"THE ROSE."
BY WILLIAM C. ELY.13
" Look yonder, says Harry, that full, blushing rose, How delightful it is to our view ; Its stem gently bends as the soft zephyrs blow, 'Tis an emblem, dear Anna, of you.
Its sweet-scented fragrance spreads an odor around, 'Tis delicious to soul and to eye ; But, now look again-it lies on the ground, It has lost all its rubicund dye.
Such, Anna, is life, a day, and we're gone, To-morrow we yield our last breath ;
That rose has once bloomed, but its blooming is done, And its beauties are shrouded in death.
Our life is a barge on the gulph-stream of woe, (This rose is a typical view ;)
Tho' pleasures may beam for awhile here below, They will flee from the stalk where they grew.
This barge may be wreck'd on the quicksands of youth Ere they double the cape of "Old age ;" Then here let us learn from the lesson of truth
That true modest virtue's a blessing forsooth That will bear us thro' life's latest stage."
ON THE "DEATH OF HENRY CLAY."
BY MARTIN J. HEAD.14
" A glorious orb has fallen! but fallen like the sun Who sinks to rest in splendor when his daily task is done ; Yet whose brightness, never dying, lends to other orbs the light That breaks with lesser radiance on the gloomy brow of night.
He has passed away forever ! but his genius liveth on Like the light that lingers with us when the god of day has gone ; And other orbs that follow in the coming lapse of time Will borrow from the brightness of this leading light sublime."
13 Was a son of Jesse Ely, and born near Carversville the beginning of the present century. He was fond of music, literature and poetry from his youth, and was a frequent contributor to the "box," while he taught school in the neighborhood. He went West and died there. "The Rose" was written in March, 1823.
14 Mr. Head is the son of Joseph Head, of Lumberville, and born August 11th, 1819. He exhibited great talent for drawing in his youth, and was a pupil of Edward Hicks, at Newtown. He afterward spent several years in Italy, studying and prac- ticing art, and also in Brazil. On his return he established himself in New York, where he ranks high as an artist. He has contributed a good deal to the public press and paid some attention to poetry.
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"THE COMING OF MAY."
BY CYRUS LIVEZEY.13
" The storms of winter are over and gone, And the sun gently smiles o'er hill-top and lawn ; The bright streams are murmuring on every hand, 'And the voice of the turtle is heard in the land.'
The trees are all budding in beauty again, The wheat fields enliven the hill-slope and plain- In the meadows the violets are dripping with dew, And cloth'd in their vestments of heavenly blue.
The birds sing their lays in the forest once more, Rejoicing that winter's stern reign is o'er ; The children are merry and lustily play, While the old folks rejoice at 'The coming of May.'"
George Johnson, son of Edwin E. and Anna E. Johnson, of Upper Makefield, where he was born March 5th, 1845, was a gifted young man. He was brought up on a farm, and obtained his education at a common school, except two terms at the Carversville high-school. From birth to manhood he was surrounded by rural influences, which ministered to the contemplative in his character. He developed a taste for literature, and especially poetry, at an early age, but his modesty hid them from publication until the age of eighteen, when some of his early effusions were published in the Bucks County Intelligencer. Having a taste for journalism, he went to Philadelphia in 1871, and engaged as news editor on the North American, and was subsequently on the Saturday Evening Post and other papers. His literary labors broke down his health, and he was obliged to retire to Solebury to recuperate, where he died May 20th, 1875, at the early age of thirty. In June, 1874, he married Miss Mary Shoemaker, of Philadelphia. Since his death a volume of his poems have been issued from the press. Of Mr. Johnson's verse we have only room for one production :
"TEARS." " Long ago, long ago, Ah ! Earth remembers well, From our mourning mother's eyes, On the dews of Paradise The first tear fell-
15 Mr. Livezey, storekeeper and postmaster at Lumberville, was a member of the old literary society at that place, and patronized the " box," but "The Coming of May " was written in a young lady's album. He was a frequent worshiper at the feet of one of the Nine, and has not entirely forgotten his first love.
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HISTORY OF BUCKS COUNTY.
The first of human woe ! Since then, since then, From the eyes and hearts of men, How full has been the flow !
Tears of joy, tears of pain, Some as sad as on the leaf
Drops the dreary autumn rain, With a patient, meek despair ; Some like April showers brief, When the opening heavens again Show even more fair. O ! delicious, balmy grief,
A kind of bliss thou art ! Thy drops destroy no bloom.
Tears that never outward start,
But fall inward on the heart, These sear and consume.
Alas ! the tears we see Are not the half that fall. We hide our misery- God only knoweth all.
The face puts on a smile,
Yet all the weary while The heart tastes gall. We mask our deepest woes,
For bitterer tears are shed
For the living than the dead That no one knows.
0, Earth ! there comes a day When a sweet voice from on high Shall beam downward through the sky, Fresh from Heaven, and say : ' Weep no more ! Weep no more ! For the living nor the dead.
Sorrow's long, long night is o'er, The last tear is shed !' But how many years, But now many tears Before those words are said !"
Jerome Buck, eldest son of Samuel and Martha Buck, was born at Doylestown, in 1835. He was a pupil of George Murray, and finished his scholastic education with Reverend Samuel Aaron at Norristown. He afterward studied law, and on being admitted to the bar settled at New York. Mr. Buck finds time to tread the paths of literature, and with a natural love of poetry, his pen not infrequently wanders into that region. In 1865, he was married to
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HISTORY OF BUCKS COUNTY.
Miss Kate McGrath, of 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, 1
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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 !"
"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 stand- ing. Born in 1836, he received a good, but not a liberal education, dividing his time between work and school. Seeking a little ad- venture in the summer of 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 in 1859. During the civil war he served as a lieutenant in the One hundredth and seventy - fourth Pennsylvania regiment. Mr. Kenderdine has written several
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HISTORY OF BUCKS COUNTY.
things that have the stamp of a true poet. Among his best pro- ductions are "The Graveyard," "The Old Mill," "The Old Meet- ing-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 ever written. 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 charnal-house seems to say, 'Ho! life-wearied children, come this way !'
A grim old man is the sexton, With his well-worn mattock and spade ; He joyfully welcomes new-comers To the fresh-dug home he has made. He heareth, unmoved, the rattling clod, And deftly pats the arching sod.
Form of mold the purest, Cheeks kissed by clustering curls, Eyes that dazzle like sunbeams, Teeth out rivaling pearls ; What are they all in these halls so lone? Nothing! ah, nothing but dust and bone !
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."
16 Written for the Doylestown Democrat in 1862.
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HISTORY OF BUCKS COUNTY.
"THE OLD MILL."17
" 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 elasped 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. Dust wraps him 'round like a halo, Dented and dinged 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 chaneed 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 !
17 Published in the Doylestown Democrat in 1862.
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HISTORY OF BUCKS COUNTY.
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."
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A poetic vein runs through all the sons of John E. Kenderdine. Robert, born in 1851, and fell at Gettysburg, wrote considerable in prose and verse, probably his best production being a poem en- titled " After The Battle." His elder brother, Watson, is the author of "A Satire" on poetry, and one other production pub- lished in The Olive Branch in 1849.
Isaac Walton Spencer, the youngest son of Amos and Ann Spencer, was born in the old family homestead in Northampton, in 1815. He received his education 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 in 1860, and spent the remainder of his days on a farm in Warwick, where he died in February, 1868. He married Mrs. Louisa Michener, daughter of John Jamison, of Warwick, and widow of Doctor Charles P. Mich- ener, of Newtown. Mr. Spencer wrote and published considerable, and the selection we have made first appeared in the Bucks County Intelligencer, in 1849.
" YOUTH."
" I wish I were a youth again, a careless, happy youth, Without a thought of grief or care, all innocense 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.
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HISTORY OF BUCKS COUNTY.
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 us 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 thoughts 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' mists 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, is the son of Robert and Sarah L., and was born in Solebury township, January 11th, 1811. He developed an early attachment for books, and was fond of writing verses. On his marriage he settled in Lumberville, but afterward spent several years in Philadelphia, whence he returned to the county, and settled first at Taylorsville and then at Yardleyville, where he now resides. He has contributed many prose sketches and snatches of poetry to the county papers, etc. His verses " To Cuttalossa," a delightful retreat near Lum- berville, 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.
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