Sheet containing a handwritten poem by Mrs. F. P. Ormsby of Fayette, Maine, on her 85th birthday. The person who received this poem indicated it had been sent by cousin C. E. Fales.
There was a Zeriah Powers who married Daniel Ormsby on 18 May 1815 at Wilton, Maine; they settled at Fayette. From what I could find online, she lived to be at least 85. Perhaps she went by F. P. rather than Z. P.?
I found a reference of the marriage of Lemira C. Ormsby and Francis Pennell on 10 December 1843 in Kennebec County, Maine.
Makes one wonder if Francis Pennell's last name was perhaps also Ormsby, or if one of Lemira's male relatives had a child named after Francis.
At first I had thought this poem might have been written by Fidelia Phelps, who married James Ormsby or Ormsbee, but I found a date of death for her that indicated she lived only into her 40s, if that reference is correct.
I'm hoping that a member of the Ormsby family or Fayette, Maine, historian will solve the mystery of the poem's author by leaving a comment in the comments box or contacting me directly.
My Old House
I hail once more my natal day
Still in the tenement of clay
With many favors blest
And he who planned this structure here
Can keep it up another year
If he should think it best.
Long has it stood through snows and rains
And braced life's fearful hurricanes
While many stronger fell
The reason why we cannot tell
But what may seem a mystery
The Builder knows full well
But it is rather worn and old
The summer's heat and winter's cold
Pierce through the walls and roof
'Tis like a garment so worn out
To mend there seems no where about
So gone is warp and woof
The tottering pillars all are weak
The poor old rusty hinges creak
The windows too are dim
These slight discomforts we'll let pass
For looking darkly through a glass
We catch a hopeful gleam.
Nature and reason tell us all
This shattered frame ere long must fall
When, Where, or how is all unknown
We'll leave that to the Architects
And trust his wisdom to direct
The taking of it down.
And when you see it prostrate lie
Let not a tear bedew the eye
The tenant is not here
But just beyond Time's little space
She finds some quiet resting place
No more to date her year.
And though she dwells with you no more
The world will move just as before
This must - it should be so
Let each her house in order set
That she may leave without regret
Whenever called to go.
Written by Mrs. F. P. Ormsby, Fayette, Maine, on her 85th Birthday. This was sent to me by cousin C. E. Fales.
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