That do the negro's drone obey?
The things of childhood all come back:
The wonder tales of mother day!
The jail, the inn, the ivy vines
That yon old English churchside cloak,
Wherein we read the stately lines
Of Addison, writ in his signs,
Above the dead of Pocomoke.

The world in this old nook may peep,
And think it listless and asleep;
But I have seen the world enough
To think its grandeur something dull.
And here were men of sterling stuff,
In their own era wonderful:
Young Luther Martin's wayward race,
And William Winder's core of oak,
The lion heart of Samuel Chase,
And great Decatur's royal face,
And Henry Wise of Pocomoke.

When we have raged our little part,
And weary out of strife and art,
Oh! could we bring to these still shores
The peace they have who harbor here,
And rest upon our echoing oars,
And float adown this tranquil sphere,
Then might yon stars shine down on me,
With all the hope those lovers spoke,
Who walked these tranquil streets I see