Tales of the Chesapeake

Excerpt

MOTHERNOOK.

THE EASTERN SHORE OF MARYLAND.

One day, worn out with head and pen,
And the debate of public men,
I said aloud, "Oh! if there were
Some place to make me young awhile,
I would go there, I would go there,
And if it were a many a mile!"
Then something cried—perhaps my map,
That not in vain I oft invoke—
"Go seek again your mother's lap,
The dear old soil that gave you sap,
And see the land of Pocomoke!"
A sense of shame that never yet
My foot on that old shore was set,
Though prodigal in wandering,
Arose; and with a tingled cheek,
Like some late wild duck on the wing,
I started down the Chesapeake.
The morning sunlight, silvery calm,
From basking shores of woodland broke,
And capes and inlets breathing balm,
And lovely islands clothed in palm,
Closed round the sound of Pocomoke.
The pungy boats at anchor swing,
The long canoes were oystering,
And moving barges played the seine
Along the beaches of Tangiers;
I heard the British drums again
As in their predatory years,
When Kedge's Straits the Tories swept,
And Ross's camp-fires hid in smoke.
They plundered all the coasts except
The camp the Island Parson kept
For praying men of Pocomoke.
And when we thread in quaint intrigue
Onancock Creek and Pungoteague,
The world and wars behind us stop.
On God's frontiers we seem to be
As at Rehoboth wharf we drop,
And see the Kirk of Mackemie:
The first he was to teach the creed
The rugged Scotch will ne'er revoke;
His slaves he made to work and read,
Nor powers Episcopal to heed,
That held the glebes on Pocomoke.
But quiet nooks like these unman
The grim predestinarian,
Whose soul expands to mountain views;
And Wesley's tenets, like a tide,
These level shores with love suffuse,
Where'er his patient preachers ride.
The landscape quivered with the swells
And felt the steamer's paddle stroke,
That tossed the hollow gum-tree shells,
As if some puffing craft of hell's
The fisher chased in Pocomoke.
Anon the river spreads to coves,
And in the tides grow giant groves.
The water shines like ebony,
And odors resinous ascend
From many an old balsamic tree,
Whose roots the terrapin befriend;
The great ball cypress, fringed with beard,
Presides above the water oak,
As doth its shingles, well revered,
O'er many a happy home endeared
To thousands far from Pocomoke.
And solemn hemlocks drink the dew,
Like that old Socrates they slew;
The piny forests moan and moan,
And in the marshy splutter docks,
As if they grazed on sky alone,
Rove airily the herds of ox.
Then, like a narrow strait of light,
The banks draw close, the long trees yoke,
And strong old manses on the height
Stand overhead, as to invite
To good old cheer on Pocomoke.
And cunning baskets midstream lie
To trap the perch that gambol by;
In coves of creek the saw-mills sing,
And trim the spar and hew the mast;
And the gaunt loons dart on the wing,
To see the steamer looming past.
Now timber shores and massive piles
Repel our hull with friendly stroke,
And guide us up the long defiles,
Till after many fairy miles
We reach the head of Pocomoke....