Mrs. Ida McCormick was born at Cameron Park, the family homestead, one mile south of the pleasant little village of Zion, Cecil county, Maryland, December 31, 1850.  She is the daughter of William Cameron (of Robert,) and a cousin of Annie M. Biles; her mother Anna M. Oldham, being a sister of Catherine R. Oldham, the mother of Annie M. Darlington, whose biography may be found in this volume.  She was educated at the Church-side Seminary, at Zion, and at an early age engaged in teaching in the public schools of her native county.  She commenced to write poetry when quite young, and for some years occasionally contributed to the columns of the Cecil Whig.

On the 7th of August, 1873, she married James McCormick, of Woodlawn, and for about a year after her marriage resided with her husband near that place.  In 1876 the family removed to Philadelphia where they have since resided, except short intervals when traveling.

MY FANCY LAND.

I’m roaming to-day in a far-away land
  Where the roses and violets grow,
Where white waves break on a silvery strand,
  And are lost on the cliffs below. 
High up in a palace of sparkling gold
  Where voices are hushed and still,
Where lips are silent and hearts are cold,
And the days are rich with a glory untold,
  And no one disputes my will.

The walls are rich with an amber light,
  And waters in fountains fall,
There are landscapes which vie with Italy bright,
  And servants within my call;
There are sounds of music, bewitchingly sweet,
  With tender, plaintive chords,
Like the patter of tiny innocent feet,
Or the voices of joy when loved ones meet
  And their hearts speak out, their words.

All day from my turret I watch the sails
  That fleck the sweep of the tide,—­
Whose passengers all are joyous and hale,
  As into the harbor they ride. 
They enter my golden castle gate,—­
  They roam thro’ my stately halls,—­
They rest in chambers furnished in state,
Then close by my glory-throne they wait,
  Until I shall answer their call.

There are faces bright with a merry light
  And the music of long ago;
And others dark as Lethe’s night
  And as cold as the winter’s snow. 
Hands that meet mine in a trusty clasp
  With blushes that come and go,
Strangers to pain in this world so vast,
With its pleasure now and sorrow at last,
  In the land we do not know.

They are bound for this strangely mystical land
  So shadowy, lone and so dim,
And my castle’s a port on the ocean strand,
  Where they wait for the ferryman grim,
To row them away from the silvery beach
  Beyond the foam of the tide,
Where a palace looms far away from their reach,
Whose gates are closed with a clang to each
  Who have chosen the pathway wide.