und their bright council-fires,
Will they gather, to talk
Of the feats they have done,
Or, to boast of the scalps
By their prowess they've won.

For they've gone--they have passed,
Like the dew from the spray,
And their name to remembrance
Grows fainter each day;
But for this were they forced
From their ancestors' graves;
They dared to be freemen,
They scorned to be slaves.

CHARLES H. EVANS.

Charles H. Evans was born in Philadelphia, March 17, 1851,
and was educated in the public schools of that city. In 1866 his
father David Z. Evans, purchased a farm at Town Point in Cecil
county, and removed to that place taking his son with him.

Shortly after coming to Town Point Mr. Evans began to write
poetry, much of which was published in one of the local newspapers
under the signature of _Agricola_. In 1873 Mr. Evans married
Isabell R. Southgate, since deceased, of Christiana, Delaware.

For some years Mr. Evans has been engaged in business in
Philadelphia, but occasionally finds time to cultivate his acquaintance
with the Muses.

INFLUENCES.

Drop follows drop and swells,
With rain, the sweeping river;
Word follows word, and tells
A truth that lasts forever.

Flake follows flake, like sprites,
Whose wings the winds dissever;
Thought follows thought, and lights
The realms of mind forever.

Beam follows beam, to cheer
The cloud a bolt would shiver;
Dream follows dream, and fear
Gives way to joy forever.

The drop, the flake, the beam,
Teach us a lesson ever;
The word, the thought, the dream,
Impress the heart forever.

MUSINGS.

Few the joys--oh! few and scattered--
That from fleeting life we borrow;
And we're paying, ever paying,
With an usury of sorrow!

If a bright emotion, passing,
Casts a sun-ray o'er our faces,
Plodding Time--the envious plowman--
Soon a shadowy furrow traces!

If a hope--ambition-nurtured--
Gilds our future, ere we've won it,
Vaunting Time--the hoary jailor--
Shuts his somber gates upon it!

If a heart our bosom seeking,
With a fond affection woos it,
Heartless Time--remorseless reaper--
Sweeps his ruthless sickle through it!

Things of earth, all, all, are shadows!
And while we in vain pursue them,
Time unclasps his withered fingers--
And our wasted life slips through them.

LINES.

WRITTEN ON VIEWING TURKEY POINT FROM A DISTANCE.

Thou gray old cliff, like turret raised on high,
Wit