2 Poems by P. M. Deshong
presented by Jesse Glass


P.M. Deshong is a mystery. A poet of obvious power, he hearkens back to Milton with his sometimes deft use of blank verse, and forward, in his "Mariner's Grave," to Melville and Crane. He published a handful of poems in The Carroll County Democrat (Westminster, Maryland), then disappeared. I have searched every database available to scholars of 19th century American literature for further poems or references to this poetic meteor, but have found none. Furthermore, it appears that he disappeared entirely from the Maryland area, for no amount of searching turns up his name, or the name of descendants. Perhaps he was caught up in the great Western exodus occurring at that time in the United States. Still, the small body of work he left behind shows him to have shared an almost Poesque intensity of perception, clearly placing him in the company of Maryland's poet maudit.





A Dream


It was methought before the creation long,
That from some mass of nothingness I came
To view the eternal wilds, to tread the space
Where ages, darkness there had set its seal.
Like some vast thought, existence seemed to be--
But darkness was eternal, and my eye
Could trace no object as it seemed to roam
O'er seas of space immense and measureless.
I was a part of darkness, and I felt
As if some mighty power had placed me there
To bear the tortures of a mightier chain
Than e'er befell man's mortal lot to bear;
To hug the imprisoned mind in nature's chain,
And bear the unceasing tide of stern remorse.
At times strange visions flitted o'er my mind,
As though those massive chains were wont to break;
But thickened shades poured sorrowfully in,
And all hung round one vast and dreary night.
The scene compared to earth all robed in green
Was mighty, monstrous, fearful, terrible.
Within its wing the wind could never rest,
For all was darkness, night succeeding night.
Methought my soul revolted at the sight,
When something awful seemed to press me down,
And like the breeze I sank in weary sleep,
Never to wake and see that sight again.
I woke: and lo the plume of night had fallen,
And light rolled upward like a mountain wave,
Whose form oft stretches to the fleecy clouds.
Upon a throne a dazzling image sat,
And round him myriads of eternal souls
Did chant their heavenly lays. Upon this host
My eyes were set in mute astonishment.
The chant was over; and the Creator rose,
And gazing on me, bade me near approach;
As in a tone of sweetness he did say,
'Now hear me, from the fountain of thy heart.
Millions of years have flown, since once this earth
Did find existence in the unfathomed space.
The sun shone then, but with a mightier glance
Than he now sheds upon the uplifted sky.
The flowers were studded o'er the hills and dales--
The warblers chanted in the perfumed groves;
And every thing in sweet communion bore
The perfect semblance of a paradise.
Twas then that from the chambers of the sea
A mighty monster in array came forth--
His foot was cloven, and his horrid mouth
Belched streams of fire upon the place beneath.
His host was conquered, and the smoking fiend
Was hurled to hell, down, down, forever down.
Thou too did'st aid him, in the combat fierce,
But as my enemies did bear me on,
Thy heart was turned to pity; and thy lip
Did give remonstrance, and did them rebuke.
I told thee then, that thou shouldst bear this pain;
And after ages past, nay immemorial,
Thou shouldst in peace behold my form again.
Depart; for thou must tread this path once more,
And seas of darkness will roll o'er thy head,
But ere thou'rt lost again in mute despair,
A voice will cheer thee at the gates of Heaven.'

(The Carroll County Democrat, December 9, 1847)




The Mariner's Grave


When softly the breeze on a warm summer night
Throws out a sweet balm to the weary;
The waters around thee, look cheerful and bright,
While nature grows darksome and dreary.

The tempest may darken the hue of the sky,
And call forth the mountainous billow;
But nothing can harass thy slumbering eye,
Or tarnish the fold of thy pillow.

The winds may skim lightly the breast of the wave,
And bear a sad tale to the weeping;
And oft times the sailor will sigh o'er thy grave--
'Tis there where a comrade lies sleeping!

He whispers a prayer for the form that is dead,
While tears trickle downward in numbers;
But wists not, while striving to soften his bed,
How soundly the mariner slumbers.

Far down in the sea, thou hast scooped thee a bed,
And darkness around thee is shrouded--
The tempests in murmurs howl over thy head,
While the skies in black mantle are clouded.

Thy ear listens not to its pitiless moans,
Though the sea in her bed should be quaking--
Thy ear hath grown deaf to all sorrowful tones,
And thy slumber, it knows no awaking.

(The Carroll County Democrat, January 18, 1848)