Classic Poem

Between the Indian River, that of the ocean tastes,
And springs that seek the Nanticoke through sandy forest wastes,
And mill-ponds that in mighty swamps the buried timber soak,
And deluge all the cypress lands to gain the Pocomoke,
The court-house village cleaves a space and little has to spare—
So many miles, by statute, from each and everywhere.

The houses are of shingle, and gardens hem them round,
Lean grow the elms and maples about the court-house ground,
And in the public corner, like some old town-pump's ghost,
The Chicken thief of moonlight observes the whipping-post,—
He who has clasped it fondly knew not, I fear me, then,
It was a peaceful heirloom from gracious William Penn.

No house is so forsaken the chickens are not there,
Tax dogs, tax hogs, but mulct ye not the hens of Delaware!
They won the mains at Valley Forge, and should be quartered now
Upon the ancient arms of State beside the brindled cow.
Let mountain people eagles love and on their standards plant 'em,
The bird of Sussex fights or fries—it is the azure bantam.

Around the stores to empty carts the yokes of oxen stand,
Or drag the knees and keels of ships from saw mills close at hand;
The solemn bank is locked at noon to let the Croesus dine,
And grave old county clerks come forth to tipple apple wine.
Not unobserved their noses bloom, for at the window blinds
Old ladies sit the whole day long of criticising minds.

With sheriffs' sales and country studs the tavern walls are filled,
And, save in the election heats, all politics is stilled;
Then nature to disorder runs, society to fear,
Best Jones or Smith might get a place worth ninety pounds a year.
So old they grow by quiet lives, the graveyard fills but slow,
And only age and infancy upon the tombstones show.

Old lawyers to their students speak when evening comes apace,
Of many a mighty advocate in many a storied case—
How Robert Frame took but a dram to make himself austere,
And John M. Clayton got a fee would keep a man a year.
The church bell sounds at twilight, and shadows cross the square,
Young couples full of wedlock and widows full of prayer.

The peach trees grapple with the pines and drive the forest back,
And move to town the teams of fruit o'er many a woodland track;
Far cities stretch their hands to take the crimson harvest in,
And bribe the negro to release his haul of terrapin.
The perch in all the inlets run, the crabs unslip their shells,
And deep in sweet potato vines the heifers clink their bells.

Then, when the fodder of the corn is bundled in the stack,
And through the turning autumn leaves the mill-ponds glisten black
The hunting dogs grow restive and round their masters pant—
They sniff the odor of the quail, the flavor of the brant,
And bid adieu by half the town, some one old lady starts
By railroad to the city to see the styles and arts.

Now, chuckling low of winter nights beside his office fire,
The old Recorder reads the wills of many a family sire,
Who made his mark and left a sow to several various heirs,
And had the barrow slaughtered to pay for funeral prayers.
“Ho! ho!” he quoth, “how some proud heads would never bow to me
If ever they should know I poked about their family tree!”

And level as the sandy land is human life diffused;
To preacher turns the stricken lad a maiden has refused;
A little lawsuit with its cares the rival homesteads haunts,
And hastens to untimely graves the aged litigants;
So are the years repeated, as tell an ancient few,
Since Lewes lost the court-house, soon after Ninety-Two.

So life moves on from year to year, unstirred by fears or schisms,
And old men read their Bibles and nurse their rheumatisms;
The moss grows on some older roof, familiar signs grow dim,
Or from a venerable tree falls some decrepit limb.
So still it is, I almost hear the cry I raised, that morn,
When here, past thirty years ago, my mother's son was born.(1876.)