If not, good G.o.d! The temple shakes; It totters! What am I?

A wreck of hope!--An aimless thing!

A helmless ship at sea To whose last spar love still must cling, And sigh:--Alas!--for thee.

MRS. ANNIE McCARER DARLINGTON.

Annie McCarer Darlington, the daughter of Charles Biles and Catharine Ross Biles, was born July 20th, 1836, at Willow Grove, in Cecil county, about four miles east of the village of Brick Meeting House, and near the old Blue Ball Tavern. She is a cousin of Mrs. Ida McCormick, whose poetry may be found in this book, their mothers being sisters. Miss Biles was married November 20th, 1860, to Francis James Darlington, of West Chester, Pa., and spent the next five years of her life on a farm near Unionville, formerly the property of the sculptor, Marshall Swayne.

The family then removed to their present residence near Westtown Friends' Boarding School, where they spend the Summer season. The Winters are spent with their seven children, in a quiet little home in the town of Melrose, on the banks of the beautiful Lake Santa Fe, in Florida. Miss Biles began to write poetry when about eighteen years of age, and for the ensuing five years was a frequent contributor to _The Cecil Democrat_, under the _nom de plume_ of "Gertrude St. Orme."

A BIRTHDAY GREETING

TO MY LITTLE NEPHEW.

[JULY 4TH, 1886.]

I know a happy little boy, They call him Charlie Gray, Whose face is bright, because you know, He's six years old to-day.

I scarce can think six years have pa.s.sed Since Charlie really came, I well remember long ago, We never heard his name.

But here he is, almost a man, With knickerbockers on, And baby dresses packed away, You'll find them, every one.

And every year as time rolls on, And Charlie's birthdays come, The world goes out to celebrate With banner, fife, and drum.

At sunrise on those happy days The cannon's deaf'ning roar, Reminded us that Charlie Gray Was two, or three, or four.

But now those landmarks all are pa.s.sed, He's getting fast away, The boy's a man, no baby now, He's six years old to-day.

Just think of it, ye many friends Who wish him worlds of joy, That Charlie Gray is six to-day, A patriotic boy.

And if he sometimes noisy grows, What matter, if he's right?

Give me the boys that make a noise And play with all their might.

I know 'tis whispered far and near, That Charlie loves his way, But I can tell of grown up men, Who do the same to-day.

Who never yield or quit the field, Can you blame Charlie then?

For most small boys will imitate What's seen in grown up men.

And now good friends, I give you leave To find him if you can, Another boy, more glad with joy, Than this brave little man.

Heigh ho! I still am in a maze, To think he's six to-day, Some other time I'll tell you more, If--Charlie says I may.

MURMURINGS.

Falling, falling--gently falling, Pattering on the window pane, Like a weird spirit calling Come the heavy drops of rain.

Sweeping by the crazy cas.e.m.e.nt, Where the creeping ivy clings, Sounds the wind in gustful musings Loudly speaking bitter things.

Hush! the tones are sinking lower, Sweetest strains of music roll; Like Aeolian harps in Heaven, Pouring incense o'er the soul.

But 'tis gone! a wilder wailing Fills the air where music reigned, Hoa.r.s.ely groans the wild storm-demon, Drowning all those sweeter strains.

And the tall pines shake and quiver As the monarch rideth by; Onward where the troubled river Dashes spray-drops towards the sky.

But he pauses not to listen, Onward with demoniac will; Till Aeolian harps in Heaven Softly whisper, "Peace, be still."

THE OLD OAK TREE.

Woodman, spare that tree!

Touch not a single bough: In youth it sheltered me, And I'd protect it now.

--George P. Morris.

'Tis living yet! Time has not dared To mark it, as his own, Nor claimed one bough, but kindly spared This giant, firm and lone.

It stands, as stood in years gone by, The chieftain in its shade, And breathed the warning, ere the cry Of war went through the glade.

The Council tires then brightly burned Beneath its spreading bough, But oh, alas! the scene has turned, Where burn those fires now?

The old oak stands where it did then, The same fresh violets bloom, But far down in the narrow glen, They deck the Indian's tomb.

Life then seemed bright and free from care; When this old tree was young The Indian maiden twined her hair, And to her chieftain sung A song, low, gentle, and sincere, In pathos rich and rare; The warrior-lover brushed a tear, For thought was busy there.

Yes, busy was the fertile brain, That bid him onward flee, The Indian moon was on the wane And drooped the hawthorne tree.

The light canoe of rounded bark Scarce dared to skim the flood, For they had come with meaning dark To ravage lake and wood.

The conflict ended! but the bow Which tw.a.n.ged across the plain.

Dealt its proud owner death's cold blow, And laid him with the slain.

But to a better, happier home, Have gone the Indian braves; Where cruel white men cannot come, To call their brothers--slaves.

Then let it stand, that aged oak, Among its kindred trees; Tho' now, no more the wigwam smoke Will curl upon the breeze.

'Tis left alone--the last sad thing That marks a nation vast, Then spare it, that its boughs may sing A requiem to the Past.

SWEET FLORIDA.

Beautiful Florida! land of the flowers, Home of the mocking bird, saucy and bold, Sweet are the roses that perfume thy bowers, And brilliant thy sunshine like burnished gold.