Rash's Surname Index
Notes for Simon CRANSTON
"Simon Cranston" poem written by Howell Stroud England in 1899 and published in his collection "Shots at Random".
Hard by Stanton and Red Clay Creek,
Under the shade of an apple bough,
Halting his horses proud and sleek,
Simon Cranston leaned on his plow.
Well to do and as well employed,
His was a peaceful and busy life;
Yet in his heart was a weary void,
Simon Cranston wanted a wife.
And who shall say that he had no need?
The faithful wife of his youth had died;
There were little children to guard and lead,
Servants to manage and teach and chide,
And guests to welcome; so humbly here
Simon Cranston prayed, that the voice
Which speaketh alone to the inward ear,
Might guide and direct him in his choice.
And when one day in Wilmington,
At monthly meeting, I think ‘tis said,
In rousing his drowsy little son
Simon Cranston lifted his head,
And saw across on the women's side
The beautiful features of Hannah Cope,
Her sweet, ripe lips, and her dark eyes pride
Stirred his pulses and cheered his hope.
Meeting over, rejoicing much,
He spoke to Hannah in friendly wise,
He felt the thrill of her hand's soft touch,
And the wondrous spell of those proud dark eyes.
But as he rode on his homeward way,
And pondered well how the thing might be;
E’er as he harkened the voice would say,
“Simon, Hannah is not for thee.”
Thus spake the voice for a three month's space,
And Simon harkened with sad amaze;
But he yearned for Hannah's queenly grace,
Her beauty to comfort his long First days.
Till he dimmed the glow of the inward light,
Till the carnal man in his breast grew strong;
And he vowed as a strong man vows with might,
“I will wed with Hannah right or wrong!”
So they were wed in the good old way,
In Wilmington Meeting House, large and plain,
Though Hannah Shipley arose to say
Ere meeting broke, in prophetic vein,
“God is not mocked, be not deceived,
For whatsoever a man doth sow,
That shall he reap; though by pride upheaved,
The hand of the Lord shall bring him low.”
When scarce had the honey-moon passed, they tell,
Simon Cranston awoke to find,
(The voice of the Lord had warned him well)
That carnal passion is deaf and blind.
That beauty may prove but the mask of hell;
For Hannah, the queenly, the fair, the young,
Doth in his halls like a demon dwell,
With fiery temper and shrewish tongue.
Soon the gossips for miles around,
In that quiet and beautiful country-side,
Told what a termagant Simon found
In the haughty Hannah, his headstrong bride,
Who scattered his children and marred his life;
Till even in meeting a wayward youth
Carved on a bench with his ready knife,
In uncouth letters, these words uncouth.
“The children of Israel wanted bread,
And the Lord gave them manna;
Simon Cranston wanted a wife,
And the devil sent him Hannah.”
At home, in meeting, in busy mart,
By harsh tongue hounded in gain or loss,
Still with a humbled and broken heart,
Simon Cranston carried his cross.
Never the hate was returned with hate,
Patiently, meekly he bowed his head;
“Lo, I have sinned, and my woe is great,
It is the hand of the Lord,” he said.
Simon Cranston resteth him now,
In an unmarked grave in the meeting lot;
And Hannah is gone, but when, or how,
Or where they laid her it matters not.
Over a hundred years have plied,
Their merciless havoc of human life;
But still survives in the country-side,
This old-time tale of domestic strife;
Still are the fields of the same old place,
Plowed by horses as proud and sleek;
Still is the apple bough's bending grace
Glassed in the bosom of Red Clay Creek.
Stanton slumbers still as of old,
The quaint old meeting house standeth there;
And, First-days, seeking its simple fold,
Friends assemble in silent prayer.
Still the current of passion runs,
Counter to wisdom the same old way,
And fathers cautioning self willed sons,
And mothers warning their daughters, say:--
“The children of Israel wanted bread,
And the Lord gave them manna;
Simon Cranston wanted a wife,
And the devil sent him Hannah.”
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