Mr. Cooley was born within a few miles of the birthplace of William P. and E.E. Ewing, and Emma Alice Brown and almost within sight of the mansion in which Mrs. Hall wrote the poems which are published in this book.
Mr. Cooley was a born poet, a voluminous and beautiful writer, and the author of several poems of considerable length and great merit.
Mr. Cooley’s widow and son, Marvin L. Cooley, still survive, and at present reside in Darlington.
[A Story with a Moral.]
One ev’ning, as some children play’d
Beneath an oak tree’s summer shade,
A stranger, travel-stained and gray,
Beside them halted on his way.
As if a spell, upon them thrown,
Had changed their agile limbs to stone,
Each in the spot where it first view’d
Th’ approaching wand’rer mutely stood.
Ere silence had oppressive grown
The old man’s voice thus found a tone;
“I too was once as blithe and gay—
My days as lightly flew away
As if I counted all their hours
Upon a dial-plate of flowers;
And gentle slumber oft renew’d
The joyance of my waking mood,
As if my soul in slumber caught
The radiance of expiring thought;
As if perception’s farewell beam
Could tinge my bosom with a dream—
That twilight of the mind which throws
Such mystic splendor o’er repose.
Contrasted with a youth so bright
My manhood seems one dreary night,
A chilling, cheerless night, like those
Which over Arctic regions close.
I married one, to my fond eyes
An angel draped in human guise.
Alas! she had one failing;
No secret could she keep
In spite of all my railing,
And curses loud and deep.
No matter what the danger
Of gossiping might be,
She’d gossip with a stranger
As quickly as with me.
One can’t be always serious,
And talking just for show,
For that is deleterious
To fellowship, and so
I oft with her would chatter,
Just as I felt inclined,
Of any little matter
I chanced to call to mind.
Alas! on one ill-fated day,
I heard an angry neighbor say,
‘Don’t tell John Jones of your affairs,
Don’t tell him for your life,
Without you wish the world to know,
For he will tell his wife.’
‘For he will tell his wife’ did ring
All day through heart and brain;
In sleep a nightmare stole his voice,
And shouted it again.
I spent whole days in meditating
How I should break the spell,
Which made my wife keep prating
Of things she shouldn’t tell.
Some awful crime I’ll improvise,
Which I’ll to her confide,
Upon the instant home I rushed,
My hands in blood were dyed.
‘Now, Catharine, by your love for me,
My secret closely hide.’
Her quiet tongue, for full three days,
The secret kept so well,
I almost grew to hope that she
This secret wouldn’t tell.
Alas! upon the following day
She had revealed it, for I found
Some surly men with warrants arm’d
Were slyly lurking round.
They took me to the county jail
My tristful Kate pursuing,
And all the way she sobb’d and cried
‘Oh! what have I been doing?’
Before the judge I was arraigned,
Who sternly frowning gazed on me,
And by his clerk straightway inquired,
What was the felon’s plea.
May’t please your honor, I exclaim’d
This case you may dismiss—
Now hearken all assembled here,
My whole defence is this:
I killed a dog—a thievish wretch—
His body may be found,
Beneath an apple tree of mine,
A few feet under ground,
This simple plot I laid in hope
To cure my tattling wife;
I find, alas! that she must talk,
Though talking risk my life.
So from her presence then I fled,
In spite of all the tears she shed,
And since, a wand’ring life I’ve led,
And told the tale where’er I sped.”
[Forty Years After.]
For twenty guests the feast is laid
With luscious wines and viands rare,
And perfumes such as might persuade
The very gods to revel there.
A youthful company gathered here,
Just two score years ago to-day,
Agreed to meet once ev’ry year
Until the last one passed away.
And when the group might fewer grow
The vacant chairs should still be placed
Around the board whereon should glow
The glories of the earliest feast.
One guest was there, with sunken eye
And mem’ry busy with the past—
Could he have chosen the time to die,
Some earlier feast had been his last.