The Poets and Poetry of Cecil County, Maryland. Various
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Has been the theme of many a song,
And it is mine to-day.
I stand where in my childhood’s days,
I often stood before,
But nothing meets my altered gaze
As in the days of yore.
The trees I climbed in youthful glee,
Or slept beneath their shade.
Have disappeared—no trace I see
Of them upon the glade.
The school house, too, which stood near by,
Has long since ceased to be;
To find its site I often try,
No trace of it I see.
The road I traveled to and fro,
With nimble feet and spry,
I cannot find, but well I know
It must have been hard by.
The pond where skating once I fell
Upon the ice so hard—
I lost my senses for a spell,
And hence became a bard—
Is dry land now where grain or grass
Is growing year by year;
I see the spot, as oft I pass,
No ice nor pond is there.
A barn is standing on the spot
Where once the school house stood;
A dwelling on the playground lot,
A cornfield in the wood.
I mourn not for these altered scenes,
Although it seems so strange
That all are changed; I know it means
That everything must change.
I mourn the loss of early friends,
My schoolboy friends so dear;
I count upon my fingers’ ends
The few remaining here.
In early youth some found their graves,
With friends and kindred by;
While some beneath the ocean’s waves
In dreamless slumbers lie;
While many more, in distant lands,
No friends nor kindred near,
Are laid to rest by strangers’ hands,
Without one friendly tear.
A few survive, both far and near,
But O! how changed are they!
Like the small band assembled here,
Enfeebled, old, and gray.
Strange feelings rise within my soul,
My eyes o’erflow with tears,
As backward I attempt to roll
The flood of by-gone years.
This honored pair we come to greet,
For five-and-forty years
Through winter’s cold and summer’s heat,
Have worn the nuptial gears.
The heat and burden of the day
They honestly have borne,
Until their heads are growing gray,
Their limbs with toil are worn.
In all the ups and downs of life—
Of which they’ve had their share—
They never knew domestic strife,
Or, if at all, ’twas rare.
They now seem standing on the verge
Of that unfathomed sea,
Just waiting for the final surge
That opes eternity.
When comes that surge, or soon or late,
May they in peace depart;
And meet within the shining gate,
No more to grieve or part.
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