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 wereSome 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 yetMy 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 seineAlong the beaches of Tangiers;I heard the British drums againAs in their predatory years,When Kedge's Straits the Tories swept,And Ross's camp-fires hid in smoke.They plundered all the coasts exceptThe camp the Island Parson keptFor praying men of Pocomoke. And when we thread in quaint intrigueOnancock Creek and Pungoteague,The world and wars behind us stop.On God's frontiers we seem to beAs at Rehoboth wharf we drop,And see the Kirk of Mackemie:The first he was to teach the creedThe 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 unmanThe 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 swellsAnd felt the steamer's paddle stroke,That tossed the hollow gum-tree shells,As if some puffing craft of hell'sThe 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 ascendFrom 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 endearedTo 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 heightStand overhead, as to inviteTo good old cheer on Pocomoke. And cunning baskets midstream lieTo 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 pilesRepel our hull with friendly stroke,And guide us up the long defiles,Till after many fairy milesWe reach the head of Pocomoke....