The Cecil Whig. [volume] (Elkton, Md.) 1841-current, 1885-10-17

penlngs of the times and for the
vagueness of style upon his close stud
of Emersonian literature. However, the
led to 4 most important incident in hi
life, that must be recorded in thi
chapter, and to all the tragedy tina
afterwards played at hide and see
through his nature.
He came to bid Benny and | good
bye one morning in the carly part o
our favorite month, and after few
days had passed we sat with our head:
together eagerly devouring the con
tents of his first journal. Everything
its diminutive page held had beer
written by him, and a rare treat We
found it. Glowing letters came tc
Benny and after that and ou1
poor efforts at reply seemed to
be highly appreciated by the deal
friend we were both beginning
to better understand and appre.
ciate 1t was the first time in his
life he had been parted from the ma
ternal apron strings and the paternal
eyes of chastisement, and frequently
as persue my task of culling his
papers today, l come across such
touching little appeals as this, in alb
stracts of letters and portions of dia-
ries:
AT HOME TONIGHT.
The mother, patient, spent with weary
years;
The father, weak, eyes dim with tears;
The sisters, brothers gather one by one,
Their sweet tasks done, all done,
At home tonight, at home tonight,
What holy scene it is for other eyes
To look upon. Nowhere, nowhise
In all Gods land better love is found
Than holds them all fast bound,
At home tonight, at home to night
All, me. how wild by the great ocean moan
The winds How the waves groan!
And, Oh. the thought wrings tears from
out my heart.
But tongueless voices say, ''thou'rt there in
part, in part
At home tonight, at home to night!
Christ let them be twice blest, thrice blest.
Glad hopes go to them from my breast;
Lord love the brave, sweet evening camp
Pitched round the mellow, glowing lamp
At home tonight, at home tonight.
Oh, how that nature of his must have
reveled among such scenes as were at
that time crowded around him Once
more free and privileged, among places
that compelled freedom and privilege
by their very aspect; but his human
portion craved the old associations
again, and that, believe me, is the one
great appeal Should reach our hearts
when we lead child of ours out into
the world to gain its ends and aims.
To the simple hearthstone and circle
of familiar faces, homely as the express
sion has become through the constant
usage of many long years, the eyes of
the departed are ever looking, long
ln9ly and regretfully. 1t is a bitter
world, say the pessimists, and even
the highly faithful and hopeful are IRE
quently tempted to doubt its sweet
ness, but, after all, long as there is
home mortal and immortal, both for
us all, but the latter especially for the
pale and hollow-eyed who never know
the comforts of 'local habitation" on
these windy heights, there is not much
use in grumDling and complaining, es-
pecially when there is such an enor-
nous bill of thankfuiness held against
us all by the Infinite book-keeper.
Each day after Phineas went from
us Benny would come to me with some
little thing or other about the de-
parted the last Of these interviews
was a memorable one. Benny began
with: "Phineas is in love, Dan Had
you thought oft? eyes, with his books
and his mother, maybe" I said. "Not
bit of it this time" responded Benny
emphatically. "Read these and tell
me if they don't reveal the genuine
ancestral passion we inherit from
Adam"
Benny was correct Here they are,
three out and out large-hearted love
poems, such as rising rhymster of
any generation would write to the first
bit of blue-eyed, pink checked and
slendor.ankled feminity that conde-
scended to extend him a glance from
those same eyes not altogether wither-
ing, and now and then privilege with
those same cheeks which in his esti-
nation, nobody elses, the Gods well
might envy:
THE STRANGE POWER
The bee in volume of passion
Seeks the buds and the blossoms of spring,
AS poets with the spirit of Jason
Search far for the mystical string
OF gold by the Gods made sublime
In the culver and pulsing of love;
The weaving of words into rhyme
To fit the fine ears of Jove
And man with the music of honor
Alivein the depths of his soul
Seeks one with the white wings upon her.
The angel whose melody stole
The peace and the calm of his bosom
When she glanced at his life from above
And laid on his heart the red blossom
And burning finger of love.
The bee sinks to rest in the hollow
OF the rose that fed it with sweet,
And the man fails never to follow
And bow down at the white Angels feet.
Could we hear what the bee ever mutters
We, too, might drain the full cup,
Could we know how the heart ever hutters
In the breast Of the man and look III
We, too, would bow lowly and humble,
As Gods to the higher God Jove,