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This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 252 pages of information about Tales of the Chesapeake.

GEO. ALFRED TOWNSEND

Gath.”

A fruity smell is in the school-house lane;
The clover bees are sick with evening heats;
A few old houses from the window-pane
Fling back the flame of sunset, and there beats
The throb of oars from basking oyster fleets,
And clangorous music of the oyster tongs
Plunged down in deep bivalvulous retreats,
And sound of seine drawn home with negro songs.

New York: 
American News Company,
39 and 41 Chambers Street.
1880. 
Copyright, 1880,
Geo. Alfred Townsend.

TO MY FATHER,

RevStephen Townsend, M.D., Ph.D.,

Whose ancestors explored the Chesapeake bay in 1623,
and were settled on the Pocomoke river almost
two hundred years, near his birthplace;

WITH

THE AFFECTION OF

HIS ONLY SURVIVING SON.

Of the following pieces, two, “Kidnapped,” and “Dominion over the Fish,” have been published in Chambers’s Journal, London.  The poem “Herman of Bohemia Manor” is new.  All the compositions illustrate the same general locality.

INTRODUCTION.

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.

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