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diff --git a/26505-8.txt b/26505-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..f95d8a1 --- /dev/null +++ b/26505-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,3557 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Old Hanging Fork and Other Poems, by +George W. Doneghy + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Old Hanging Fork and Other Poems + +Author: George W. Doneghy + +Release Date: September 1, 2008 [EBook #26505] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE OLD HANGING FORK *** + + + + +Produced by David Garcia, Diane Monico, and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This +file was produced from images generously made available +by The Kentuckiana Digital Library) + + + + + + + + + +THE + +OLD HANGING FORK + +and + +OTHER POEMS. + + +BY + +GEORGE W. DONEGHY. + + +FRANKLIN, OHIO: +The Editor Publishing Co. +1897. + + + + +Copyright, 1897, +By +George W. Doneghy. + + + + +CONTENTS. + + + PAGE +THE OLD HANGING FORK, 9 + +SWEET SEPTEMBER DAYS, 11 + +YER OLD COB PIPE, 13 + +TIM BLUSTER'S DREAM, 15 + +APPLE BLOSSOMS, 18 + +CHICKAMAUGA, 20 + +GEN. JOHN B. GORDON, 22 + +UP AND DOWN OLD CLARK'S RUN, 23 + +ROBERT BURNS (A Paraphrase) 25 + +WISHING--FISHING, 27 + +POE, 28 + +A BARREN "IDEALTY," 29 + +A CHERISHED RELIC, 31 + +"RESTLAND," 33 + +MY VALENTINE, 35 + +A SMOKE, 36 + +PERRYVILLE, 37 + +LONGINGS, 39 + +DOWN ABOUT OLD SHAKERTOWN, 40 + +MEMORIA IN ĘTERNA, 41 + +A MOTHER'S GRAVE, 43 + +A FRECKLE-FACED BOY, 44 + +THE DAM BELOW THE MILL, 46 + +THE SERENADE, 47 + +"IS IT HOT ENOUGH FER YOU?" 49 + +THE TOKEN, 50 + +TO SCENES I USED TO KNOW, 52 + +BEREFT, 54 + +THE "BULL SPRING," 56 + +FAMILIAR HAUNTS, 58 + +A FADED LETTER, 60 + +THE HERMIT, 61 + +THE "MEDICAL SPRING," 63 + +AN "IDYL" OF THE BALL, 64 + +DREAMS, 65 + +A TWIST OF "NATURAL LEAF," 66 + +GEORGE W. CHILDS, 68 + +THE OLD SPRING-HOUSE, 69 + +CAMPING ON THE CUMBERLAND, 71 + +AN EASTER FLOWER, 73 + +THE STAGE COACH, 74 + +DICK'S RIVER, 76 + +TO A LITTLE BOY, 78 + +WHEN THE COAL HOUSE'S FULL, 79 + +DECEMBER, 81 + +SOLACE, 82 + +FRANK L. STANTON, 84 + +THE OLD CHURCH BELL, 85 + +A SUMMER EVENING, 87 + +FATHER RYAN, 88 + +THE MEADOW PATH, 89 + +THE FOX HUNTERS, 91 + +THE CHARMING GIRL OF SOMERSET, 93 + +IN JULY, 94 + +TO J. R. M., 95 + +TWILIGHT, 96 + +OUT UV "POLITICKS," 98 + +JONES' MARE, 100 + +THAT OLD STRAW HAT OF MINE, 103 + +TOM BARBEE'S POND, 105 + +WHERE? 107 + +THE HILLS OF LINCOLN, 109 + +LOVED AND LOST, 111 + +A TRUE STORY, 112 + + + + +The + +Old Hanging Fork + +and + +Other Poems. + + + + +THE OLD HANGING FORK. + + +I. + +O don't you remember those days so divine, +Around which the heart-strings all tenderly twine, +When with sapling pole and a painted cork +We fished up and down the old Hanging Fork-- +From the railroad bridge, with its single span, +Clear down to the mill at Dawson's old dam-- +From early morn till the shades of night, +And it made no difference if fish _didn't_ bite? + + +II. + +What pleasure it gives to think and to dream +Of those long, happy days, and the old winding stream, +When we waded the creek with our pants to the knee, +And got our lines tangled in a sycamore tree, +And were most scared to death when out from the root +The long, wriggling snake through the water did shoot, +And you lost your line, your hook and your cork, +And I slipped and fell in the old Hanging Fork! + + +III. + +The years they have come, and the years they have fled, +And frosted with silver the hairs of the head, +But still in fond memory there lingers the joy +Of scenes such as these, when a bare-footed boy +I wandered away to the clear rippling stream-- +No cankering care to trouble life's dream;-- +And we spit on our bait and in whispers we'd talk, +As we threw out our lines in the old Hanging Fork! + + +IV. + +We sat there and fished with the sun beaming down +On the tops of our heads through hats minus crown, +And when I got a bite or you caught a perch +We'd just give our lines a thundering lurch, +And land him high up on the bank in the weeds, +Then string him along with the pumpkin seeds! +O don't you remember the hot, dusky walk, +Along the white pike to the old Hanging Fork? + + + + +SWEET SEPTEMBER DAYS. + + +I. + +There's a something in the atmosphere, in sweet September days, +That mantles all the landscape with its languid, dreamy haze; +And you see the leaves a-dropping, in a lazy kind of way, +Where the maple trees are standing in their Summer-time array. + + +II. + +There's a yellowish tinge a-creeping over Nature's emerald sheen, +And the cattle stand, half-sleeping, in the middle of the stream +Where the glassy pool is shaded by the overhanging limb, +And the pebbly bottom's glinting where the silvery minnows swim. + + +III. + +The tasseled corn is nodding, and the crow on drowsy wing +Is sailing o'er the orchard where the ripening apples swing, +And the fleecy clouds are floating in the azure of the sky, +And the gentle breeze is sighing as it's idly wafted by. + + +IV. + +The cantaloupes are ripening in their yellow golden rinds; +And the melons, round and juicy, are a-clinging to the vines; +And the merry, laughing children, in their happy hour of play, +Are a-romping in the meadow and a-sliding down the hay. + + +V. + +The busy bees are buzzing where the grapes with purple blush, +And the hanging bunches tempting with their weight the arbor crush, +And the blue jays are a-wrangling in the wood across the road, +Where the hickory boughs are bending 'neath an extra heavy load. + + +VI. + +Let your poets keep a-singing about the Springtime gay, +And the blossoms and the flowers in the merry month of May-- +But the early Autumn splendor, with its sweet September days, +Eclipses boasted Springtime in a thousand kind of ways! + + + + +YER OLD COB PIPE. + + +I. + +When the chilling winds of Winter come a-knocking at the door, +And the fleecy flakes are flying and the earth is covered o'er, +And you've supped on sweet potatoes and a 'possum frosted ripe, +Then glory hallelujah! Git yer + Old + Cob + Pipe! + + +II. + +When the fire is blazing brightly and the room is snug and warm, +And you've left your cares and troubles on the outside with the storm, +And your natural leaf is colored with a golden yellow stripe, +Then glory hallelujah! Git yer + Old + Cob + Pipe! + + +III. + +When the old split-bottom rocker is far better than a throne, +And the visions of the fancy are the fairest earth has known, +And you watch the mystic shapes that the dancing shadows write, +Then glory hallelujah! Git yer + Old + Cob + Pipe! + + +IV. + +When your dressing gown and slippers might be envied by a king, +And the voices of the children sound as sweet as birds' that sing, +And the feelings that possess you are all of heavenly type, +Then glory hallelujah! Git yer + Old + Cob + Pipe! + + +V. + +When the ringlets aromatic have circled round your head, +And a drowsiness o'ertakes you, and you want to go to bed, +And the bowlful that you're smoking has burned to ashes white, +Then glory hallelujah! Quit yer + Old + Cob + Pipe! + + + + +TIM BLUSTER'S DREAM. + + +'Twas a place of fifty acres, in a lonely neighborhood, +And near a grove of somber pines the shackly farm-house stood; +And all the folks, for miles around, did solemnly declare +That ghosts and goblins horrible held nightly revel there. + +They said the house was "hanted," and that not a man alive, +In all the country round about, could own the place and thrive; +That the cattle died with fever, and the hogs the cholera took-- +And every one that tried it wore a mighty troubled look. + +But they put it up at auction, and Tim Bluster bid the most, +Who always said "There want no hants nor any kind of ghost +That ever walked a graveyard in the middle of the night +Could make _his_ nerves unsteady, or could fill _him_ with affright!" + +So Tim got full possession, and he moved out to his home, +And the first night, as he sat there, within his room alone, +The door was softly opened, and a cat came walking in, +With eyes like balls of fire and a coat as black as sin. + +Then squatting on its haunches, it said, in tones polite, +"There seems to be but two of us to stay in here to-night!" +Tim muttered in a trembling voice, as for the door he run, +"Perhaps _you_ think there will be two, but darn me, there's but one!" + +Tim staid away the blessed night, but when the daylight came, +It brought him back his courage, and it filled him full of shame; +And then he said, unto himself, "There wasn't any cat +Could make him leave that room again--he'd bet his life on that!" + +So when the shades of evening fell, Tim double-barred the door, +And took precautions that, perhaps, he hadn't night before, +And felt quite sure that nothing now could gain admittance there, +And peacefully he dozed and slept, a-sitting in his chair. + +Then, all at once, he roused himself, and opening wide his eyes, +Beheld a figure standing there that made his hair arise +Like quills upon a porcupine, and froze his heart with fear, +And headless though it was, it spoke, and said in accents clear, + +"There seems to be but two of us to stay in here to-night!" +Tim made a bound, and took with him the sash and every light, +And then he jumped a nine-rail fence, and down the road he spun, +And said, "Perhaps _he_ thinks there's two, but darn _me_, there's but + one!" + +'Twas seven miles before he stopped and sat down on a log +To catch his breath and rest awhile from his nocturnal jog +And then he turned his head around, and right before his face +The figure stood, and said to him, "I think we've had a race!" + +Tim tried to speak, and not a word he found to utter then, +But as he jumped from off his seat and broke away again, +He spluttered out, "I _know_ we have, but think it's not quite done, +For you can bet right now's the time we'll have another one!" + +Away Tim flew--he left the road, and through the woods and fields +The pace he set was wonderful, the ghost right at his heels! +And that old house is tenantless, and slowly rotting down, +Since that dread night Tim had his dream, and moved right back to town! + + + + +APPLE BLOSSOMS. + + +I. + +There's the rose and the lily, the daisy and pink, +And many rare flowers which others may think +Are the fairest and best, the sweetest that blow, +With delicious perfume, and colors that glow-- +But go to the orchard and sniff the delight +Of the incense that's shed by the pink and the white, +And let the soul float away in a swoon +On the ambient air where the apple trees bloom! + + +II. + +There's the cowslip, narcissus, and sweet mignonette, +The asters, verbenas, the fuschias; and yet, +As much as I love them in Summer array, +It's the white and the pink I dream of to-day, +And I walk 'neath the branches that just interlace +And shower their blossoms right down in my face +When the breeze that is laden with rarest perfume +Is wafted along where the apple trees bloom! + + +III. + +With glad voices the birds as they flit to and fro +Are singing their songs where the pink and the snow +Of the orchard, bedecked in its garments so rare, +Is diffusing and sending its breath on the air; +And the rays of the sun sift through on the grass, +And the dew-drops that sparkle no jewels surpass! +In Springtime at evening, at morning, at noon, +How sweet is the scent of the apple trees' bloom! + + +IV. + +And when Summer is gone, and Autumn has shed +It's soft, dreamy haze through the trees overhead, +On each spreading branch where blossoms now cling +The red and the gold to the fruit it will bring, +And stripe with a skill and give it that blush +Only Nature can paint with her delicate brush! +O when life ebbs away, then make me a tomb +Right out in the orchard, where the apple trees bloom! + + + + +CHICKAMAUGA. + + +To Chattanooga's vale, where flows the winding Tennessee, +And rugged Lookout sentinels heroic dust of sixty-three-- +Where Chickamauga's gory field re-echoed to the cannon's roar, +And shot and shell through serried ranks a bloody pathway tore, +And mountain slope and wood and field were lumined with the blaze +Of musketry from Blue and Gray in those September days-- +They come again, the gallant few, survivors of the fray, +Their breasts with hallowed memories filled, but passion passed away! + +The fleeting years have silvered o'er the locks of those who live, +And turned to dust the sleeping ones who to their flag did give +The last drop of the crimson tide from ghastly wounds poured out +Amid the conflict's awful din and wild resounding shout; +And yet it seems but yesterday, or like a passing dream, +When marshaled on the mountain's side they saw the bayonets gleam, +As for a moment from the vale the battle's smoke was lifted, +And circling o'er the Blue and Gray in lurid clouds it drifted! + +And now upon the blood-soaked ground once more they stand, +Where the unyielding "Rock of Chickamauga" held command, +And strewed the field with heaps of the assaulting Gray +Who dauntless rushed where lines of Blue refused to give the way; +And bloody scenes crowd thick and fast upon the memory here +To fill the heart with grief and dim the eye with misty tear; +And spanning Time's chasm with the imagination's bridge, +They hear the thunder of the guns from Missionary Ridge! + +And there the pyramid of balls is reared to tell +And mark the hallowed spot where tuneful genius fell; +The vagrant winds around it now seem sighing +The requiem sad of "I am dying, Egypt, dying!" +Prophetic words by gallant LYTLE penned-- +A laurel wreath with immortelles to blend! +A halo hovers round about this gifted son, +Whose deathless name with pen and sword was nobly won! + +They come to mark with tokens of their love and pride +Each consecrated spot where bleeding heroes fell and died, +And gaze with reverence on some gently swelling mound +Which hides the dust of comrade in his sleep profound; +To picture to the mind--with melancholy pleasure trace +The unforgotten outlines of a dear, remembered face, +Which passed from loved ones and from life away, +A victim on the bloody field of fratricidal fray! + + + + +GENERAL JOHN B. GORDON. + +_Facile Princeps._ + + +I. + +O gifted one of the Sunny South, with lips so eloquent, + In whose great heart no malice e'er was found! +And now thou art a messenger of Peace, by heaven sent + On mission of fraternity, to heal the cankering wound! + + +II. + +In that dread day when fratricidal strife + Convulsed with passion--crimsoned with its blood-- +No nobler son than thou who staked his life + With veterans Gray withstood the overwhelming flood! + + +III. + +No sweeter tribute could be paid by mortal tongue-- + No nobler sentiment the human heart could fill-- +In grander strains no poet's praises e'er were sung + Of private soldier--than thy words that burn and thrill! + + +IV. + +No treasured wrong within thy noble soul + Has tainted with its slimy trail of hate-- +No broader love of country could embrace the whole, + Or bow more gracefully to iron hand of fate! + + +V. + +Speak on! And scatter broadcast healing seed + That shall a harvest of good feeling yield-- +And Peace, no less than War, shall lend her meed + And crown anew this hero of the bloody field! + + + + +UP AND DOWN OLD CLARK'S RUN. + + +Bright visions of childhood! How dear to the heart +Are the scenes which from memory can never depart! +Undimmed by the sorrows, the grief and the tears +Which have shadowed the pathway of life's later years, +They come like the rainbow which follows the storm-- +On remembrance reflected with colors as warm-- +And in dreams of delight they picture the fun +That we had long ago when we fished in Clark's Run! + +With a can full of worms and a heart full of joy, +Up and down the old stream, a bare-footed boy, +A truant from school, my footsteps would stray +To the deep-shaded pool, or where ripples at play, +As they flowed over beds of smooth-polished stones, +Sang a lullaby sweet in soft undertones! +From the dawn of the day to the set of the sun +What pleasures we've had when we fished in Clark's Run! + +Equipped with a pole, a hook and a line, +And stowed in some pocket a long piece of twine +On which you could string, if you seined for a week, +Every fish that was found up and down the old creek-- +With one "gallus" to pants that were rolled to the knee, +And holes in our hats through which you could see +Where the sunbeams had turned the light hair to dun-- +We hied us away to the banks of Clark's Run! + +There we baited the hook and threw out the line, +And watched the cork disappear with a rapture divine! +And felt just as proud as a prince or a king +When we landed high up, with a jerk and a swing, +A fish that would measure two inches or more, +Then anchored him fast with the string to the shore! +But unnumbered now are the silver strands spun +With the hair of the head since we fished in Clark's Run! + +O who can there be with a heart in his breast +Would forget the dear scenes which so lovingly rest +In the bosom when life has grown old and cold, +And feel no delight when such pictures unfold, +And would blot out forever from memory's page +The records of childhood which solace old age? +'Till time ends for me and with life I have done, +I'll dream of the days when we fished in Clark's Run! + + + + +ROBERT BURNS. + +(A PARAPHRASE.) + + +I. + +Thou lingering Star! No less'ning ray + Will e'er bedim thy natal morn, +Or usher in the unhallowed day + When we forget that thou wert born! +O Burns! Thou dear departed shade! + Where is thy place of blissful rest? +See'st thou again a Highland maid, + Who heard the groans that rent thy breast? + + +II. + +That sacred day can we forget, + Can we forget the hallowed spot +Where by the winding Ayr was set + The sparkling jewel in lowly cot? +Eternity will not efface + The record dear of time that's past; +Thy memory sweet we still embrace, + And will as long as life shall last! + + +III. + +Ayr, congealčd to its pebbled shore, + O'erhung with wild woods, shorn of green; +The leafless birch and hawthorn hoar + Were planted round the wintry scene; +No flowers sprang wanton to be pressed-- + No birds sang love on every spray-- +But brightest yet o'er all the rest + Will ever shine thy natal day! + + +IV. + +Still o'er thy songs our rapture wakes, + And memory broods with miser care! +Time but their music sweeter makes, + As streams their channels deeper wear. +O Burns! Thou dear departed shade! + Where is thy place of blissful rest? +See'st thou again a Highland maid, + Who heard the groans that rent thy breast? + + + + +WISHING--FISHING. + + +I. + +Full well I know that wishing never yet has brought + The things that seem to us would satisfy the heart, +And that anticipated pleasure, when at last 'tis caught, + Has naught but transitory solace to impart; +And yet, somehow, I've ever felt and thought + A joy there is that never can depart-- +(As long as we are capable of feeling--wishing)-- + And that's to leave dull care behind, and--go a-fishing! + + +II. + +Some dream of wealth--of place--of fame-- + And fleeting shadows vainly they pursue; +And some have sighed to win a deathless name + Where fields of carnage corpses thickly strew, +And shrieks of agony are heard 'mid smoke and flame; + But these are dizzy heights attained by few; +So, when Dame Fortune is her favors dishing, + I hope that I'll get mine in ample time to--go a-fishing! + + +III. + +Oh, was there ever any sweeter dream, + Or music with a tone that's more entrancing, +Than just to wander where some mountain stream + Is o'er the rocks and polished pebbles dancing? +And nothing short of heaven itself, I ween, + Is like the moment when, his scales all glancing, +You see the happy consummation of your wishing, + And catch the very fish for which you have been fishing! + + + + +POE. + + +I. + +Oh, melancholy child of want and woe! + A brilliant meteor in an ebon sky! +Thy soul's weird music all did flow + From heart-strings touched by destiny! + + +II. + +The Raven, perched above thy chamber door, + Responsive croaked with a prophetic word-- +For in the realm of song may "Nevermore" + Such strains as thine by mortal ear be heard! + + +III. + +Where now doth that proud spirit dwell, + Whose earthly days were clouded o'er with gloom? +In regions with the sweet-voiced "Israfel," + Where never-fading flowerets bloom? + + +IV. + +Dost rest within some "distant Aidenn, + Beyond the Night's Plutonian shore? +And clasp again a sainted maiden + Whom the angels name Lenore?" + + +V. + +Yes, "echo through the corridors of Time" + Will have a tone that ages yet will know, +And blend with all that's beautiful--sublime-- + The deathless name of Edgar Allan Poe! + + + + +A BARREN "IDEALTY." + + + This song that I sing-- + It is not of a spring, +Nor yet of a silvery stream-- + But of a vision bright + Which came last night +In the garb of a blissful dream-- + When I thought, as I lay, + It was Thanksgiving Day, +And I was invited to dine + Where a table stood + On which everything good +Spread a feast that was almost divine! + + Where the savors arose, + Right under my nose, +From turkey--and pumpkin pies; + And from jolly roast pig + Were slices as big +As some of the campaign lies! + And celery so white + 'Twas a thing of delight +To bite the crisp stalks in two. + And the cranberry sauce-- + Oh, I tell you 'twas boss-- +And flanked by an oyster stew! + + Where the bread and the cake-- + The best they can bake-- +Were cut into slices heroic. + And the amber ice cream + Melted into my dream +Like love to the heart of a 'poet'; + And they heaped up my plate, + And I sat there and ate +Till I awoke with a yell, + And a shiver and shake + And a pain and an ache +That rudely my dream did dispel! + + But dreams, as you know, + By contraries go, +And thus I fear if it will be + With the one of delight + That came last night +When I feasted so heartily; + And Thanksgiving Day + In the usual way +Will come to me, don't you see, + And the dinner I had + And the ache that was bad +Prove a----barren "idealty"! + + + + +A CHERISHED RELIC. + + +In the attic, unused, there they put it away; +The old oaken frame has begun to decay; +What iron's about it is eaten with rust, +And upon and around it are cobwebs and dust; +The dear, loving hands that on it have spun, +With labor and toil forever are done, +And long is the time since I saw them unreel +The threads, snowy white, from the old spinning-wheel! + +It stood on a porch where the Summer sunshine +Sifted down to the floor through a clambering vine, +Whose tendrils about the lattice-work clung +Like my heart-strings round her, and the song that she sung; +And the pictures of fancy I con o'er and o'er, +Till, raptured, I see the dear features once more, +And thrill with the touch when her lips set the seal +Of her love, as she spun on the old spinning-wheel! + +Then through the shadows and mists of many long years +The old cottage home to the vision appears; +And though youth it has fled, and the hair it is gray, +I'm a bare-footed boy returned to his play-- +Forgetting the present to dream once again +That life had no anguish, no sorrow, no pain; +And sweetly the bells of the memory peal +When communing up there with the old spinning-wheel! + +And back from the past, with its grief and its joy, +Come the tones of a voice I heard when a boy, +And I see once again, as it moved to and fro, +A form that now rests where the wild roses blow, +And the sentinel stars their love vigils keep +Above the dear one in her long, dreamless sleep; +But memories sweet to a heart that can feel +Still cluster around the old spinning-wheel. + +Some spokes from the rim are broken and gone, +And it stands there forsaken, neglected, alone; +It knows naught of language, but a story can tell +With a charm that for me time cannot dispel; +And often I climb the old attic stair +The love of my childhood with it to share, +And emotions possess me I cannot conceal +When fondly I gaze on the old spinning-wheel! + +The distaff is worn and smooth with the touch +Of the now folded hands that used it so much; +And lingering there I clearly can trace +The sweet smile of love from a well-cherished face, +Which sheds round about it a halo divine +When thus I am kneeling at memory's shrine, +And hallows the thoughts which on the mind steal, +When up there alone with the old spinning-wheel! + +'Tis then that I see her in saintly guise, +Through the fast-welling tears that come to my eyes-- +A vision arrayed in raiment white +That beckons to me from the regions of light, +And illumines the way that my footsteps may tread +Unerringly where her love for me led-- +Along the straight path that she tried to reveal +As she taught me, and spun on the old spinning-wheel! + +Yes, the finger of Time has furrowed the brow, +And silvered the hair, yet I dream of her now +As when, long ago, I heard as a child +The words of her love that my sorrows beguiled; +And this relic she used but brings back anew +The morning of life, that was fresh with the dew +Distilled from the heart, as she taught me to kneel +Right down by her side, and the old spinning-wheel! + + + + +"RESTLAND." + +WRITTEN IN THE DANVILLE (KY.) CEMETERY. + + +I. + +Within thy hallowed precincts on this sweet autumnal day, + We're wandering 'neath the cedar and the pine, +Where rests the sacred dust of loved ones passed away, + And bleeding hearts a melancholy pleasure find. + + +II. + +In memory's faithful mirror here once more we trace + Familiar forms of those in life we knew, +And see again the shadowy outlines of some face + That, living, beamed with kindness--ever true. + + +III. + +Old age, and manhood's prime, and helpless infancy + Have dotted o'er with many an emerald mound, +And marked each stone with mournful tracery + Which stands within this consecrated ground. + + +IV. + +And there the marble shaft its stately head + In polished whiteness pointing to the sky, +And here the modest tribute to the lowly dead-- + The silent monitors that tell us all must die. + + +V. + +Here lavish Nature her bright smile imparts + And decks with lovely flowers in early Spring, +And here the sympathetic tear unbidden starts, + And loving hands their sweetest tributes bring. + + +VI. + +Loved spot! A solace to the living 'tis to know + That when at last--life's fitful fever o'er-- +The cortege sad, with solemn step and slow, + Shall bear us here, to rest forever more,-- + + +VII. + +'Till that bright day when ransomed spirits rise, + And loved and lost shall reunited be, +To dwell in realms beyond the star-lit skies + Throughout one circling, vast eternity! + + + + +MY VALENTINE. + + +I. + +I passed her on the crowded street-- +This winsome maid, demure and sweet-- +And envious saw the silken tresses +That seemed to give her cheeks caresses, +And rapture felt that thrilled me through +When on me glanced those eyes of blue +From underneath the drooping lashes +That could not hide their azure flashes! +And oh, I dreampt of bliss divine +If she would be--my Valentine! + + +II. + +And visions of as fair a face +As painter's pencil e'er did trace +Would haunt the mind each waking hour, +And slumber owned its magic power-- +Until I found by merest chance +That belladonna made the glance, +And borrowed hair had lent its aid +For silken tresses of this maid-- +And padding--paint--did all combine +To make for me--my Valentine! + + + + +A SMOKE. + + +I. + +O others may boast of their pleasures galore-- +The miser with rapture may count o'er his store, +And some may imagine great happiness there +In the gay shining beam of Society's glare; +But best of all comforts a feller can know, +While wintry winds whistle and fast flies the snow, +Is a pipe after supper, by a bright blazing fire, +Encircled with ringlets that curl high and higher! + + +II. + +O doctors may tell you and others declare +It'll shorten your days and your heart will impair-- +That nicotine poison will flow through your veins +And nervous distraction will rack with its pains; +But what cares a feller in slippers and gown, +When wintry winds whistle and snow's pouring down, +With papers and books, and his feet near the fire, +Encircled with ringlets that curl high and higher? + + +III. + +O rare are the fancies, contentment and bliss, +That drive away care in an hour such as this! +When the ills of this life and the things that provoke +Are lost for the while in the blue curling smoke +Of a pipe and tobacco that's yellow as gold, +And raptures supernal the senses unfold. +O give me a chair by a bright blazing fire, +And sweet-smelling ringlets that curl high and higher! + + + + +PERRYVILLE. + +FOUGHT OCTOBER 8th, 1862. + + +Here on this spot, where Nature now, with chilling, icy breath, +Has mantled in a robe of white the field of strife and death, +We view in memory once again the awful scenes where met +In serried ranks the Blue and Gray--and tears the lashes wet; +For those who fell that dreadful day are mingled with the dust, +And often here the plow upturns a bayonet red with rust: +A sad memento of the time when passion held full sway-- +Reminder to the rustic swain of fratricidal fray. + +From yonder hill the shotted guns in dreadful chorus rang-- +And on this plain was heard that day the glittering sabre's clang, +And in that vale, where wound the brook, with waters murmuring, +We stood and heard the Minie balls their deadly message sing, +And saw the life blood, gushing red, from stricken comrade near, +Whose gentle voice his loved ones then no more should ever hear-- +His blue eyes close--his bosom heave--his pulse forever still, +A sacrifice to cause held dear, on the field of Perryville! + +And the swiftly circling years can ne'er erase +From Memory's tablets or from Nature's face +One spot of all the rest we're standing near-- +By fiercely battling hosts the prize held dear; +The old spring's waters still are gurgling from the rock +Where famished soldiers knelt--grim Death himself to mock; +Here on that day in ghastly heaps they lay-- +Commingling with the Blue the men that wore the Gray! + +And now the virgin snow has covered o'er the sod +Where once in fierce array contending armies trod; +The wintry wind makes mournful music through the trees +Where then the clash of arms was floating on the breeze, +And deep-toned guns belched forth the screaming shell +Like fiendish messengers of Death let loose from hell; +Now Nature's peaceful emblem spread o'er glade and hill +Enwraps beneath its folds the bloody field of Perryville. + +December 26, 1895. + + + + +LONGINGS. + + +I. + +Gim me back my stone-bruised heel, + And them tow-linen pants, +An' that old pole an' line an' reel, + An' all them boyhood ha'nts, +An' that old hat I used to wear, + That didn't hav' no crown, +An' that same crop uv yeller hair-- + Sun-burnt on top ter brown-- +An' them playmates I used ter know, + An' loved like very brothers-- +An' you kin let the old world go + An' giv' its wealth ter others! + + +II. + +Gim me back one gallus, too, + That buttoned with a peg, +An' them blamed ticks that burrowed through + The skin uv either leg, +An' that old single-barrel gun, + As crooked as a rail, +An' that same dog that used ter run + The molly cotton-tail, +An' lem me hav' the tops I spun-- + The kites that I hav' sailed-- +An' then at last, when life is done, + Who'd keer if it had failed? + + + + +DOWN ABOUT OLD SHAKERTOWN. + + +You may boast about the landscapes fair so far across the sea +Of castled Rhine, and southern France, and favored Italy-- +But have you seen, when Springtime flings the scented blossoms down, +The forests and the meadows green around old Shakertown? + +You may boast of some that bask beneath perpetual Summer's smiles-- +Those "Eden's of the eastern wave"--the sunny Grecian isles-- +And others that perhaps you've seen, of beauty and renown, +But come and view the country spread around old Shakertown! + +O come and boast that you have been where Nature's lavish hand +Bestowed the gifts of wood and field that vie with any land-- +Where valleys wear a velvet robe--the hills an emerald crown +Of bluegrass shimmering in the sun, around old Shakertown! + +O come to old Kentucky then, and to her garden spot, +Then wander wheresoe'er you will, it ne'er will be forgot-- +For Nature's face is wreathed in smiles nor wears a single frown +To mar the beauty she has spread around old Shakertown! + + + + +MEMORIA IN ĘTERNA. + + +Sweet Memory! thou faculty divine-- +Triumphant o'er the cruel hand of Time! +On thy tablets we may trace +The lines his fingers ne'er efface, +And take with us till latest day +The images that light our way, +And picture thus in a shadowy form +The loved and lost he's from us torn-- +Their lids by Death so early sealed-- +Life's crimson tide by him congealed-- +The tyrant has not all concealed-- +They in thy mirror still revealed! + +Before the morning sunbeams kissed +The face of Nature--veiled in mist-- +And heralded with golden ray +The opening of the perfect day-- +Ere yet the sable shades of night +At dawn's approach had winged their flight-- +We've listed to the whispering breeze +That's wafted o'er the trembling trees, +And seemed to hear the voices sweet +Of loved ones now we ne'er can meet +Till earthly night shall pass away-- +Supplanted by immortal day! + +And thus in retrospective mood, +Alone with Nature's solitude +In some secluded sylvan dell, +Her myriad voices float and swell +And flitting shadows softly tell +Of dear ones lost--yet loved so well! +Then to the sunny home where dwelt-- +(Ere yet the envious tyrant dealt +The blow that blighted hopes have felt)-- +Fond fancy wanders, and can see +Once happy scenes that ne'er can be +Lost in thy shades, O Memory! + +But those to us so cruelly denied +Are drifting now upon some fairer tide-- +Their scattered ashes on Hope's pinions rise +And people realms beyond the azure skies! +Then may our faltering footsteps lead +To where fond hearts may never bleed-- +Where vanished faces, cherished forms, +Are anchored safe from life's rude storms; +Where strains seraphic, soft and low, +The rapt ear greet, and we shall know +The loved and lost we only see +In visions of sweet Memory! + + + + +A MOTHER'S GRAVE. + + +I. + +The years have passed in ceaseless round + Since first they laid her here to rest +In dreamless sleep beneath the silent mound, + With folded hands upon her gentle breast. + + +II. + +The ivy twines about the crumbling stone, + And Springtime's scented blossoms fling +Their incense o'er the peaceful home + That knows no more of suffering. + + +III. + +Full many a Summer's sun has shed + Its brightest smile upon the hallowed spot, +And sobered Autumn and wild Winter spread + Their garments here--she heeds them not! + + +IV. + +The feathered wildlings of the wood and field + Their untaught melody around it make, +But she who sleeps with eyes so softly sealed + Their gladsome songs can never more awake. + + +V. + +O restful sleep beneath the crumbling mold + To dream no more of hopes unrealized! +O Grave! What treasures do thy confines hold + By us so dearly loved and fondly prized! + + + + +A FRECKLE-FACED BOY. + + +I. + +I'm just in my glory when the cat I can tease, +Or I'm hunting for bird nests up in the trees, +And I wear out my pants in the seat and the knees; +I'm the pride of my daddy, my mammy's own joy-- +A frolicsome, rollicksome, freckle-faced boy! + + +II. + +I can make a top hum, and at marbles, you bet, +I'm the cock of the walk and the king of the "set;" +I'm hearty and healthy--and don't you forget +The dead loads of "goodies" that I can destroy-- +I'm a frolicsome, rollicksome, freckle-faced boy! + + +III. + +They send me to school with my satchel and books, +And my pockets bulged out with nails and fish-hooks; +And sometimes while there my teacher she looks +And captures the things that provoke and annoy +From a frolicsome, rollicksome, freckle-faced boy! + + +IV. + +My mammy she says that it's quite evident +Of the country some day I'll be President; +But auntie, she says from the way I am bent +The gold of her dream will be full of alloy +From a frolicsome, rollicksome, freckle-faced boy! + + +V. + +I'm huntin' for fun, and I don't have a care, +And there's dirt on my hands, and I don't comb my hair, +And off-colored patches quite often I wear; +But there's no kind of sport the young heart can cloy +Of a frolicsome, rollicksome, freckle-faced boy! + + + + +THE DAM BELOW THE MILL. + + +The Springtime am a-comin', and the dogwood soon will bloom, +With the blossoms ten times thicker than the green leaves are in June, +And if yer want some pleasure that I nominate divine, +Just git yer minnow bucket, and yer hook and pole and line, +And slip away some mornin', when the weather's bright and still, +And hang a four-pound jumper at the dam below the mill! + +There are lots of other pleasures in the old world here below, +And a mighty heap of happiness a feller 'll never know-- +But never mind about 'em--just yer slip away and feel +That something so delectable that over yer will steal; +For it sets the pulses beatin' with a magic kind of thrill +When yer hang a four-pound jumper at the dam below the mill! + +When yer 'gin to take the fever, and yer feel it comin' on, +Why yer boun' ter go a-fishin', just as shore as yer born; +Then ye'd better git yer trapping's in the proper kind o' fix, +And go and hear the music when yer reel a-spinnin' clicks; +For he rushes through the water at a pace that's fit ter kill +When yer hang a four-pound jumper at the dam below the mill! + + + + +THE SERENADE. + + +I. + +The winds were hushed, and thin and high + The fleecy clouds were drifting, +And through them as she sailed the sky + The moon's soft light was sifting. + + +II. + +Beneath her pale and tender ray, + Its silvery kiss imprinting, +All dew-bedecked each flower and spray + Like myriad jewels glinting. + + +III. + +Across the lawn there floats the sound + Of music sweet--entrancing-- +'Neath a latticed casement, ivy-bound, + Where love-lit eyes were glancing. + + +IV. + +The flute and harp and mandolin + There dulcet notes were blending, +And strains divine from a violin + In harmony ascending. + + +V. + +Enraptured by the magic spell, + I lingering stood, and listening, +It seemed to me that I could tell + What love to her was whispering. + + * * * * * + + +VI. + +I looked above and chanced to see + The man in the moon was scowling, +For they had struck up "Sweet Marie," + And the old watch-dog was howling! + + + + +"IS IT HOT ENOUGH FER YOU?" + + +I. + +I wouldn't mind the weather much--I'd sizzle and I'd stew, +And do the very best I could the heat to struggle through, +If I could find some way, you know, the feller to eschew, +Who greets you with the chestnut phrase-- + "IS IT HOT ENOUGH FER YOU?" + + +II. + +The mercury might climb the tube and spill right out the top-- +The sweat might ooze from every pore and off my carcass drop-- +I wouldn't mind the heat at all, and keep my temper too, +If it wasn't for the cuss who says-- + "IS IT HOT ENOUGH FER YOU?" + + +III. + +The sun might shine his level best--the sky seem molten brass-- +The heat might dry up every stream, and burn up all the grass-- +The evening come without a breeze--the morning have no dew-- +If it wasn't for the 'moke' who asks + "IS IT HOT ENOUGH FER YOU?" + + + + +THE TOKEN. + + +I. + +Only a ringlet of flaxen hair, + Tied with a ribbon blue, +Laid by the hand of a mother there-- + Cherished with love so true! + + +II. + +Only a soft and silken curl, + Bound with a knotted bow; +Worn on the head of a little girl + Lost in the long-ago. + + +III. + +Only a hallowed treasure kept + From the grave's decay and mold, +Over which her eyes have wept + With anguish all untold! + + +IV. + +Only a link in the golden chain, + By Death's cold hand unbroken, +Which leads to where she'll meet again + The wearer of this token. + + +V. + +Only a relic undefiled, + Enshrined in a broken heart-- +Rent in twain when a darling child + And a loving mother part! + + +VI. + +Only a ringlet of flaxen hair, + Tied with a ribbon blue, +Clipped from the head of an angel fair, + Whose hands are beckoning you! + + + + +TO SCENES I USED TO KNOW. + + +I can see the back-log blazing and the sparkles take their flight +Up the cavernous old chimney on a merry Christmas night; +I can see the old folks smiling and the children's cheeks aglow, +And a saucy maiden standing there beneath the mistletoe; +I can hear the laughter mingle with the strains of music sweet +As we tripped the light fantastic with the "many-twinkling feet;" +I can see the moonlight gleaming through the trees upon the snow, +When memory takes me back again to scenes I used to know. + +I can see the candles burning bright upon the Christmas tree; +I can see the presents handed round, and hear the shouts of glee, +And from the buried years there comes a-stealing on the heart +A something indefinable which bids the tear-drop start; +I can see the blue smoke curling, through the little strip of wood +Between the winding turnpike road and where the farmhouse stood; +I can see the colts a-playing, I can hear the cattle low-- +When memory takes me back again to scenes I used to know. + +I can see it all when fancy weaves its magic with a dream, +And I hear the tones from voices like the murmur of a stream; +And oh, the heart seems young again and from its anguish free +When I gaze upon these pictures that are ever dear to me; +Then I see the darkies dancing, I can hear the fiddle ring +As they gathered in the cabin and they cut the pigeon-wing; +I can smell the 'possum roasting, I can see the cider flow, +When memory takes me back again to scenes I used to know. + + + + +BEREFT. + + +I. + +No more to feel the pressure warm + Of dimpled arms around your neck-- +No more to clasp the little form + That Nature did with beauty deck. + + +II. + +No more to hear the music sweet + Of merry laugh and prattling talk-- +No more to see the busy feet + Come toddling down the shaded walk. + + +III. + +No more the glint of flaxen hair + That nestled 'round the lilied brow-- +No more the rose's bloom will wear + The cheek so cold and pallid now. + + +IV. + +No more the light from loving eyes, + Whose hue was like the violet blown +Where Summer's softest, bluest skies, + Had lent it coloring from their own. + + +V. + +No more to fondly bend above + The little one when slumber wrought, +With sweetest dreams, the smile of love + The placid features then had caught. + + +VI. + +No more on earth--oh, nevermore! + The shattered idols of the heart +Can yearning love nor time restore-- + But--you may meet to never part! + + + + +THE "BULL SPRING." + + +When the burning sun of Summer shines from out a brassy sky, +And has parched and browned the meadows, and the creek's run dry, +O sweet it is to wander there and hear the water sing +It's rippling song of gladness from the + Old + "Bull + Spring!" + +Since Logan and the pioneers first stood upon its bank, +And heard it gurgle from the rock, and of its waters drank, +With ceaseless music in its flow, like silvery chimes that ring, +Has been the song of gladness from the + Old + "Bull + Spring!" + +Around about the fields and woods of old "Magnolia" spread-- +Indigenous to "tansy"--"mint"--and the lithe-limbed thoroughbred; +And far above, on drowsy wing, the crow seems listening +To the rippling song of gladness from the + Old + "Bull + Spring!" + +No music that I've ever heard seems half so soft and sweet +As that in silvery tones it makes while flowing at your feet; +And sometimes when I'm far away I'd give most anything +To hear the song of gladness from the + Old + "Bull + Spring!" + +'Tis then that fancy wanders, and I sit and fondly dream +That I'm gazing in its liquid depths and see the pebbles gleam, +As when in happy childhood, and free from sorrow's sting, +I heard the song of gladness from the + Old + "Bull + Spring!" + +And I sniff again the flavor of the aromatic breeze +From the mint-bed and the tansy, as it floated through the trees, +And hear music mingle of the birds upon the wing +With the laughing song of gladness from the + Old + "Bull + Spring!" + + + + +FAMILIAR HAUNTS. + + +I. + +Give me the patches on my pants, the freckles on my face-- +The happy heart where cankering care had never found a place-- +And let my bare feet walk again that dirt road down the hill +That led me to the river's brink, beyond the old Mock Mill! + + +II. + +Give me the youthful friends I knew, now scattered far and wide-- +The loved ones who have passed beyond the bounds of time and tide-- +And let me see the rose's hue that mantled every cheek +When we were run-aways from school, a-fishing in the creek. + + +III. + +Give me the stone-bruise on my heel, the hat without a crown-- +The unkempt suit of yellow hair the sun had burnt to brown-- +And let me go and soak myself, just where we used to walk, +In that old swimmin' pool we had, up on the Hanging Fork! + + +IV. + +Give me the wealth I used to have--a wealth of vast content-- +The pockets that were always full--but in them not a cent-- +And let me hear the music sweet the wild birds used to sing +In woods and fields I wandered o'er, beyond the Old Cove Spring! + + +V. + +Give me--but what's the use of wishing for the days that won't return-- +The vanished faces of the friends for whom we fondly yearn? +And what's the use of trying to look beyond the misty screen +Time's hand has hung between the eye and each familiar scene? + + + + +A FADED LETTER. + + +I. + +O what memories sweet entwine +Around each word and faded line! +Yellow and dim with the touch of years, +And soiled with the marks of tears-- +A sacred treasure of the heart +Which death alone can from him part-- +A letter--cherished as no other-- +And ending with the name of--Mother! + + +II. + +Writ it was to a wayward boy, +When life to him seemed full of joy-- +Pleading with him so to live +That he her heart no grief would give-- +That after years might ne'er be fraught +With sorrow that himself had wrought:-- +"May guardian angels 'round you hover," +She wrote--and signed the name of--Mother! + + +III. + +The paper has the taint of must-- +The hand that traced the lines is dust, +And silvery hair is on the head +Of that same boy since first he read +This missive from the sainted one +That bore her love to an erring son-- +More fondly prized than any other-- +'Twas written by the hand of--Mother! + + + + +THE HERMIT. + + +By the waters of a river, where the rocks like giants stand, +There a stranger, young and favored, built a home with his own hand. + +Hewed the logs and reared the roof-tree, where for years alone he dwelt, +Wanderer from the sunny Southland, and from pangs his heart had felt. + +Legend says high-born and wealthy, seeking there in Nature's wilds +To forget a maiden fickle, basking in a rival's smiles. + +Where the music of the wild birds, echoed from the cliffs around, +Blended with the voice of waters, flowing past with silvery sound; + +Where in Springtime wild flowers blooming shed their incense day and night, +And the rugged cliff-sides wearing robes of dogwood, snowy white; + +Where in Summer old trees spreading overhead a leafy roof +Flung their shadows, deep and cooling, 'gainst the burning sunbeams proof; + +Where in Winter wild winds raving whistled 'round his lonely home, +And the swollen torrent rushing struck the rocks with sullen tone-- + +He a sunnier clime forsaking for the "dark and bloody ground," +Where the forest stretched unbroken--there the wanderer rest had found. + +All of human-kind deserting, where no din of toil and strife +Ever came to break the stillness--there he spent a hermit's life. + +All his frugal wants supplying from the storehouse Nature gave, +Nevermore his footsteps bending toward where Hope had found its grave. + +Striving to forget the false one, dwelling 'neath her sunny skies, +Who had left the arrow rankling in his heart with honied lies. + +Long ago she was forgotten, and at last surcease had come-- +For his heart was stilled forever, and his lips were sealed and dumb. + +Long he lay beside the river, flowing sweetly there to-day, +Where was found a bleaching skeleton, and a rude hut in decay. + +There where briars in tangled network sway above a little mound, +Rest the bones of Southern stranger, in the "dark and bloody ground!" + + + + +THE "MEDICAL SPRING." + + +I. + +Let tipplers all boast of the pleasure divine +That is found in old whisky, in beer and in wine-- +But what are all those to a feller who knows +Where the "Medical Spring" in its purity flows, +And has knelt at its brink and just drank his fill +Of the clear, sparkling fluid, from Nature's own still? + + +II. + +How often I've strayed on a hot Summer's day +Where it gurgles and gushes, then flows on its way +With a ripple as sweet as the music that died +When the tones of loved voices are to us denied, +And mirrored my face in the "Medical Spring," +Where the beetling old cliffs their cool shadows fling! + + +III. + +Not riches, nor honors, nor place do I crave, +Ere they lay me at last to rest in the grave, +But oh, let me hear its music once more, +And drink from its depths while I kneel on its shore-- +Then bear me away on the Death Angel's wing +While my lips are yet moist from the "Medical Spring!" + + + + +AN "IDYL" OF THE BALL. + + +I. + +In reel, in waltz, in lancer's maze, + She moved with pretty air of grace, +And all the ball-room's brilliant blaze + Seemed borrowed brightness from her face! +O, winsome maid, demure and sweet! + I'll ne'er forget when first I met her, +And saw the dainty slippered feet + Glide o'er the floor at Linnietta! + + +II. + +O, dreams of youth and beauty rare, + What rose-hued visions thou canst paint! +But none in loveliness compare + With her who seemed Love's patron saint! +Her pictured image haunts the mind, + And, oh, I never can forget her, +Nor rarer pleasure hope to find + Than dance with her at Linnietta! + + +III. + +Arrayed in softly flowing gown, + The love-light flashing from her eyes-- +With cheeks aglow like roses blown + Beneath the ardent summer skies-- +No artist hand could fitly trace + The wondrous charm that did beset her, +When tripping with a fairy's grace + O'er the waxen floor at Linnietta! + + + + +DREAMS. + + +I. + +The sweetest dreams, it seems to me, that we can ever know, +Are those the fancy brings to us of days of long-ago, +When rainbow-tinted pictures all are like a mirage flung +Upon the canvas memory weaves--of days when we were young. + + +II. + +The step may falter, eye be dim--the brow may wrinkles wear, +And underneath the crumbling mould our friends be sleeping there-- +But oh, these visions come to us as to the rose the dew, +And while with raptured gaze we look the heart seems ever new. + + +III. + +Oh, when perhaps at last we're left a laggard on life's stage, +This is the mellowed draught we quaff our longings to assuage-- +As sweet as that from Paradise the smiling Houris hand +The Prophet's faithful followers when at its gates they stand! + + +IV. + +If one last prayer were left to me for my declining days, +Its form should be that I might hear the chimes that memory plays, +And when at last upon my grave the wavy grass had sprung, +Some passer-by could truly say "His heart was ever young!" + + + + +A TWIST OF "NATURAL LEAF." + + +Some sing of the lily, some sing of the rose, +Some sing of each flower in beauty that blows; +But sing me a song that shall render its meed +To the fragrance and aroma found in a weed, +Which banishes care and mitigates grief-- +I mean a big twist of old "natural leaf!" + +When sorrow's dark mantle the spirit doth wear, +And the heart is oppressed with the demon of care, +Then get out your pipe and its magic invoke +And all of your troubles will vanish in smoke! +O, you who have tried it will know what I mean +When the praises I sing of a hank of long green! + +Since the days of King James and his old counterblast +Its sway of all classes has ever held fast, +And its patron saint Raleigh forever will live +In remembrance as sweet as affection can give, +And the incense we burn is an offering seen +In wreaths of blue smoke from a twist of long green! + +Now some may advise you and others may swear +That nicotine poison your nerves will impair, +And if from the weed you'd just kept aloof +From heartburn and palsy you'd surely been proof-- +For a man who had died at a hundred fifteen +Was hastened away by smoking long green! + +But a cigar, a pipe, or a good juicy chew +Will yield you more comfort than harm they will do, +And murder the microbes that float in the air, +And make magical dreams in the old arm-chair, +If you will remember, and never forget, +To just draw the line at a vile cigarette! + + + + +GEORGE W. CHILDS. + +FEBRUARY 4TH, 1894. + + +"Gone to his exceeding great reward," + The friend of rich and poor alike; +And there'll rest not beneath the sward + More shining mark that death could strike. + +The benefactor of his race-- + His noble soul from avarice free; +By heaven lent the sordid earth to grace-- + A nation's tears sincerely shed for thee! + +Thrice blest the one, in lowly lot, + Contented with an humble place, +Who by thy noble heart was ne'er forgot + And knew thy smiling, loving face! + +Oh, thus too early snatched away + From generous act and loving deed; +Thousands will now deplore the day-- + Thousands now whose hearts will bleed! + +The heaven-pointing shaft for thee + Its stately head might never raise; +But thy sweet memory would ever be + Hymned by thy fellow-mortals' praise! + +Oh, thanks to Him who in His image made + And to the world this beacon gave; +With tears we'll water flowers that never fade + And gently drop upon his new-made grave! + + + + +THE OLD SPRING-HOUSE. + + +With its rude walls of stone and its moss-covered roof-- +('Tis a picture inwoven with memory's woof)-- +It stands there to-day, as it stood in the years +When we knew naught of sorrow--nor anguish--nor tears; +And though far from it now, I can see it at will-- +The old spring-house at the foot of the hill! + +O flights of fond fancy that deeply inurn +Sweet scenes of our childhood, no more to return! +Which carry us back in visions and dreams +And illumine life's pathway with memory's gleams-- +Till we see once again, though with tears the eyes fill, +The old spring-house at the foot of the hill! + +There we children, bare-footed, would wander to play, +And wade in the branch that flowed on its way +Through the meadows and fields with current so fleet, +And a gurgle and ripple that sounded so sweet! +And the water that helped turn the wheel at the mill +Was from the spring-house at the foot of the hill! + +And, oh! I remember a pair of blue eyes, +With glances as tender and soft as the skies, +And a little brown head that was covered with curls, +And the laughter that rippled between rows of pearls, +Which was changed to a cry of despair and of woe +When the craw-fish was clinging to a little pink toe! + +Distilled by the heart into memory's wine, +'Tis thus that we drink a draught that's divine, +And lighten the burdens which after years bear, +And banish with dreaming the demon of Care! +O in fond recollection I linger there still, +By the old spring-house at the foot of the hill! + +Though vanished forever the faces that smiled, +And hushed is the laughter I heard when a child-- +Yet often when musing they float back to me, +And I see them and hear it as clear as can be! +And I'm playing again, while the heart strings all thrill, +By the old spring house at the foot of the hill! + + + + +CAMPING ON THE CUMBERLAND. + + +Where the Cumberland flows on its way to the South, +From its source in the hills half-way to its mouth-- +When Autumn has come and tempered the rays +Of the hot blazing sun with its soft mellow haze, +Is an Eden of bliss and a place of delight, +When the minnows are good and the "jumpers" will bite, +And a fellow's well fixed with a reel and a pole, +And other "equipments"--(of which I've been told)! + +To camp there and fish for a week at a time, +And have the four-pounders just tug at your line, +Is a feeling akin to sweet visions we see +When we dream of that home where we all hope to be; +And no king in the world who sits on a throne +E'er felt the rare joy that thrills to the bone +When you throw out your line and it whizzes away, +Just cutting the water to foamy white spray! + +He darts here and there, dead game to the last, +When he feels the barbed hook and finds that he's fast, +And plunges and struggles, disdaining to yield, +Till exhausted at last to the bank he is reeled, +And carefully lifted from out the old stream, +While he flounders and gasps and his scaly sides gleam, +And you measure his length and guess at his weight-- +(Five inches too long and a pound too great)! + +And when shadows of evening are gathering around, +And the sun with pure gold each hill-top has crowned, +Then pick up your trappings and leisurely wend +Your way back to camp, above the long bend, +Where the cook has prepared a supper, I trow, +Ne'er dreamt of in thoughts of Delmonico! +And you'll sit there and eat for an hour or more +With an appetite keen--and unheard of before! + +Now bring out your pipe and fill up the bowl, +And loll there and smoke till it seems that the soul +Is wafted away like the ringlets that rise +As blue as the dome of the star-jeweled skies! +Then roll in a blanket with your feet to the blaze, +And the croak of the frogs and the ripple that plays +Will lull you to sleep with music as sweet +As that of the song when the angels you greet! + + + + +AN EASTER FLOWER. + + +I. + +The flower that she gave to me + Has withered now and died-- +But yet with fond fidelity + Its faded leaves abide. + + +II. + +The petals that so fragrant then + She wore upon her breast-- +Still clinging to the lifeless stem, + With miser care possessed. + + +III. + +As when in sweetest purity + It shed its perfume rare, +A symbol dear 'twill ever be + Of one divinely fair! + + +IV. + +Plucked by the cruel hand of Death + In beauty's youthful bloom-- +She perished with his chilling breath, + And withered in the tomb. + + +V. + +But I will cherish ever thus + The token that she gave +When sun-lit skies were over us, + Unclouded by the grave! + + + + +THE STAGE COACH. + + +No matter what the weather was, in good old stage coach days, +The driver with his ruddy face and spanking team of bays +Would spin along the turnpike road, o'er level stretch and hill, +That wound away from "Idleburg" to classic Nicholasville. + +The depths beneath his seat were filled with leathern sacks of mail, +And all the coach's top at times was crowded to the rail +With trunks, valises, packages, and bundles by the score, +That must have weighed, it seemed to me, five thousand pounds or more. + +And strapped within the bulging boot, that hung far out behind, +Was added weight enough to make a team of oxen blind; +And counting all the passengers that filled the coach within, +The load those horses had to drag--I thought it was a sin! + +How proud of them the driver was! And often he would brag +That they could pull a heavier load and never balk or flag; +If all the road was ankle-deep in miry, sticky mud, +That was the time his team would show its metal and its blood. + +The "ribbons" then he'd gather up, and give his whip a crack, +And any team in front of him had better clear the track; +He seemed to own the turnpike road, and kept the right of way +Unto himself as jealously as bloomers do to-day. + +By wood and field he wound along, and by the river's bank, +And when he reached the covered bridge the hoof-beats on the plank +Were echoed from the cliffs around and from the vale below; +And going up the hill beyond he'd let 'em walk and blow. + +Then urged into a trot again around the curves they spun +Till hove in sight the manor-house of Camp Dick Robinson; +And on beyond where Nelson lay, the bravest of the brave, +Till Nicholasville at last was reached, to them the reins he gave. + +And when the sun was hanging low and slanting shadows fell, +Along the streets of "Idleburg" that old familiar yell +Would greet the ears of villagers from small boys as they ran +With open mouths and lusty lungs a-shouting "Here comes Sam!" + +Ah me! The old stage coach, abandoned now, stands in the stable lot, +A victim to the tooth of rust, and slow decay and rot; +Its whole-souled driver years ago forever passed away, +And crumbled now to dust the hand that drove each gallant bay! + + + + +DICK'S RIVER. + + +I. + +Rock-sentineled, romantic stream! +Thy waters flow with silvery gleam +Where glassy pools and visions greet +Embosomed in some cool retreat; +Then rippling o'er a pebbly bed, +With current fleet thy course is led +To where, walled in by beetling cliffs, +It plunges o'er the hidden rifts. + + +II. + +Past where the meadows gently sweep +The limpid waters silent creep, +Until, o'erhung with cooling shade, +They lave the shores of sylvan glade, +And many a wild-flower blooming there +Its incense flings upon the air; +And spreading o'er each sloping side +An emerald carpet stretches wide. + + +III. + +Now gliding out, the waters gleam +And sparkle with the sun's warm beam, +Reflecting then some mirrored cloud +Like specter wrapt in filmy shroud-- +Till pouring down with fretful whirl +They o'er the mill-dam rush and curl, +And foaming round in eddies deep, +The circles wide and wider creep! + + +IV. + +Oh, by thy wave I've loved to stray +On many a balmy summer's day-- +When youth, and hope, and life were sweet-- +Thy wooded banks and cliffs to greet! +And often back to days of yore +My fancy strays along thy shore, +And musing thus I fondly dream +I see again thy waters gleam! + + + + +TO A LITTLE BOY. + + +I. + +Dear little one with eyes so blue, + And silken ringlets of flaxen hair! +Oh, may life have in store for you + Something better than anguish and care! + Oh, may thy footsteps guided be + In paths of peace and pleasantness! + Oh, may those bright eyes never see + Much of the cold world's bitterness! + + +II. + +Dear little one with innocent lips, + Tasting life's cup at the sparkling brim! +Oh, may the dregs that sorrow sips + Ever be kept aloof from him! + Oh, may the smile on his dimpled face + Through the years to come still linger there! + Oh, may Time's fingers gently place + The silver strands in his flaxen hair! + + + + +WHEN THE COAL HOUSE'S FULL. + + +When the nights are gittin' chilly and the leaves begin to fade, +An' the mercury's down to thirty, 'stead o' ninety in the shade, +There's a happy kind o' feelin' takes possession o' the soul-- +With the smoke house full o' middlin', and the coal house full o' coal! + +When the wintry winds are whistlin' through the branches o' the trees, +An' the dead leaves are a-flyin' and a-rustlin' in the breeze, +You kin feel the vast contentment that over you will roll-- +If the barn is full o' fodder, and the coal house full o' coal! + +When the 'skeeter's ceased from troublin' and the fly is chilled to death, +An' the window-pane is written with the Frost King's icy breath, +You kin dream about the Summer-time, an' that old fishin' pole-- +If the pantry's full o' victuals, an' the coal house full o' coal! + +When your supper's been digested an' you're dozin' in your chair, +Or you're tucked between the blankets from the frosty, nippin' air, +Why, your dreams will be the sweeter if you've helped some sufferin' soul +Whose larder's scant o' victuals, and his coal house minus coal! + + + + +DECEMBER. + + +I. + +White-shrouded, latest-born of all the year, + In thy cold hands no bud or floweret bearing, +Thou comest now to wail above the bier + Of thy dead sisters--on thy bosom wearing +The icy jewel and the frosted gem-- +But on thy marble brow the Star of Bethlehem! + + +II. + +Beneath thy foot-prints lie the Autumn leaves, + Mould'ring and hast'ning to decay; +And where the drifting snow its mantle weaves + The Summer songsters sang the happy hours away. +What tho' the birds have flown the blighted stem? +There's in thy jeweled crown the Star of Bethlehem! + + + + +SOLACE. + + +One Autumn evening, wandering, when the sun was hanging low, +Through a woodland where the music of a streamlet's gentle flow +Commingled with the rustling of the yellow golden leaves, +And the idling breeze's sighing as it floated through the trees, +I heard sweet voices whispering in accents soft and low, +That lulled to rest the troubled soul, like those of long ago. + +Enchanted thus I lingered, by unseen hands fast bound, +My willing fancy captive to the magic of sweet sound, +And eagerly I listened to the whispering voices tell +Of happy days of childhood, and the tear unbidden fell, +As were pictured to the mind again the halcyon scenes of yore, +And loved ones that no more I'll meet till on the silent shore! + +And as the slanting shadows fell athwart the scattered leaves +The language that the voices spoke was formed of words like these: +"You may mingle with the sordid world, in eager, restless haste, +To struggle for the golden fruit that Mammon loves to taste, +But find at last, the end attained, that there are better things +To satisfy the longing heart--that sweeter solace brings. + +"Thy Springtime, thy Summer, and thy Autumn's mellowed haze, +If rightly lived and rightly spent, will bring rare, happy days, +That temper with their sunshine the frigid Winter's wrath, +When gathering storms are darkling o'er life's declining path, +And lend a ray celestial that hoarded gold ne'er gave +To lighten all thy journey, from the cradle to the grave." + + + + +FRANK L. STANTON. + + +I. + +The sweetest music put in song since Robby Burns's time +Is that which breathes its harmony from Georgia's sunny clime, +Where the fragrant-scented odor that the climbing jasmine flings +Commingles with the melody that gifted Stanton sings! + + +II. + +It may not suit a bookish clan that cannot understand +The rhythm and the cadences they never can command-- +But what is that to him that knows and touches all the strings +Of hearts responsive to his strain when gifted Stanton sings? + + +III. + +We read his songs and hear the notes repeated once again +His ear has caught when listening to the mocking-bird's refrain, +And interwoven with the sense a mystic something rings +That fills the soul with ecstasy when gifted Stanton sings! + + +IV. + +O Sunny South! where blooming flowers and where the whispering pine +Attunes his harp till every string gives forth a sound divine! +We love you for the many gifts that generous Nature brings, +But best of all--we love you for the song that Stanton sings! + + + + +THE OLD CHURCH BELL. + + +It hangs today where it has hung for fifty years or more, +But some who loved its silver tones the church-yard covers o'er, +And many are the times since then, with deep and solemn knell, +Has tolled for dear departed ones the + Old + Church + Bell! + +Within a latticed tower it swings, high up above the street, +And every Sabbath morn is heard the music clear and sweet +Which floats above the village roofs, and over hill and dell, +Upborne upon the vagrant wind, from the + Old + Church + Bell! + +Full many a change the hand of Time has in the village wrought, +And passing years have often been with grief and anguish fraught, +Yet age has never changed its tones, and years cannot dispel +The magic of the music from the + Old + Church + Bell! + +Since it was placed within the tower, in days of long ago, +The tempests wild have round it raved, and many a driven snow +Has sifted through the slats up there, and mantled as it fell +In robes of white its dwelling place, and the + Old + Church + Bell! + +Though gone from earth and earthly things--forever passed away-- +The faithful ones who loved while here its summons to obey +Now rest beyond the tide of Time, with rapture long to dwell, +For there their footsteps guided were by the + Old + Church + Bell! + + + + +A SUMMER EVENING. + + +I. + +The sun has sunk in the crimson west, + And "around the languid eyes of day" +The Twilight's dreamy shadows rest + And light and shade alternate play; +The winds are hushed, nor leaf nor flower +Is swayed with motion by their power. + + +II. + +The fireflies with meteor lamps + Arise from out the dewy lawn, +And there the elfin cricket chants + His vespers when the day is gone, +And far above, the sky's coquette +With all her starry train is met. + + + + +FATHER RYAN. + + +I. + +In Southern sunny clime there is a hallowed tomb, + Where rest the ashes of a minstrel priest; +And soft winds that are laden with a sweet perfume + Their requiems for him have never ceased. + + +II. + +We read his songs, and hear again the tread + Of armed battalions, marching to the fray, +Or see once more the features of belovčd dead + Whose life blood crimsoned uniforms of gray! + + +III. + +We see the tattered banner that he loved so well + Again unfurled and fluttering in the breeze, +And once again we hear the "rebel yell" + Triumphant wafted o'er the riven trees! + + +IV. + +O, may thy minstrel spirit find eternal rest + In some fair clime where nothing can be lost! +Where anguish never more can rend thy breast, + And fondest hope can ne'er be tempest tost! + + + + +THE MEADOW PATH. + + +I. + +It led adown the sloping hill, and through the valley wound, +And where the blooming clover shed its fragrance all around, +And then between the maple trees, across the little brook, +To where the old fence bars let down, a tortuous course it took; +And often are the times I've heard the merry, ringing laugh, +From rosy-ankled children there, along the meadow path. + + +II. + +Three boys--and a little girl whose hair was chestnut gold-- +(She's resting now in dreamless sleep beneath the crumbling mold;)-- +But I remember her as when, with innocence and glee, +Her laughing eyes looked into mine--for she was dear to me; +And thus it is I love to let the fancy photograph +The merry group that idled there, along the meadow path. + + +III. + +Adown it oft we used to go at twilight for the cows, +Or wander from the beaten track a rabbit to arouse, +And watch him as he scampered off, with frightened leap and bound, +The while we made the welkin ring and with our shouts resound. +The sweetest flowers that bloom for me--a fragrant aftermath-- +Are those that in the memory blow, along the meadow path! + + + + +THE FOX HUNTERS. + + +I. + +With fleet-limbed steeds and baying pack +They follow close on Reynard's track, +And wake the slumbering echoes round +With music of the horn and hound; +Through wood and field, o'er hill and dale, +They course him in the moonlight pale, +And sport they find which brings delight-- +These reckless riders of the night! + + +II. + +The game is up! away, away! +Nor hedge nor fence their course can stay; +They clear them at a single leap, +And like the wind they onward sweep! +O'er fallen trunk and hidden ditch +The fearless horsemen plunge and pitch, +And heedless all they follow on +With ringing shout and winding horn! + + +III. + +Thy wondrous ride, oh Tam O'Shanter, +To speed like theirs was but a canter; +Had you bestrode that night instead +Of gray mare Meg a thoroughbred +(Such as Kentuckians only breed-- +To Scotia then an unknown steed), +No carline could have caught his rump +And left your brute with scarce a stump! + + +IV. + +His foaming horse with throbbing sides +Unslackened yet his pace he rides, +Till in among the yelping hounds +The foremost huntsman proudly bounds, +And sees the leaders of the chase +(Two matchless dogs that set the pace) +O'ertake the game and win the race! +And then dismounts and feels the flush +Of victory as he takes the brush! + + +V. + +O royal sport, befitting kings! +It bids the demon Care take wings, +And the rose's hue to the cheek it brings! +And sweeter music none can hear +Than that which greets the list'ning ear-- +By distance mellowed to a key +That breathes divinest harmony-- +And wakes the slumbering echoes round-- +The winding horn and baying hound! + + + + +THE CHARMING GIRL OF SOMERSET. + + +By magic spell was I entranced +When on me first thy brown eyes glanced, +And sunbeams played at hide and seek +Thro' silken ringlets on thy dimpling cheek, +And like some glorious halo shed +Their radiance o'er thy shapely head-- +And seemed as if they loved to dwell +Where'er thy airy footsteps fell! +And in my dreams I see thee now-- +The pearly teeth--the arching brow-- +The form that mocks the sculptor's art +To add one curve that could impart +More beauty and more witching grace, +Or chisel out a sweeter face! +Blest be the hour when first I met +This charming girl of Somerset! + + + + +IN JULY. + + +I. + +Oh, for a deep-shaded spot where the shadows cool + Are hid from the rays of the glaring sun, +And the sparkling waters from a limped pool + O'er the gleaming pebbles in ripples run! + + +II. + +Where the sloping banks are with verdure clad, + And the hoary cliffs with moss o'ergrown, +And the tangled vine and the wildflowers pad + The fallen trunk and the hidden stone! + + +III. + +Where the song that wells from a feathered throat + The echoes repeat again and again, +And the drifted sedge and the bubbles float + O'er the glassy depths of a miniature main! + + +IV. + +Where the willows dip in the edge of the stream, + And sway and nod in the passing breeze, +And a feller could tranquilly rest and dream + Of a howling blizzard and a good hard freeze! + + + + +TO J. R. M. + + +I walked within the silent city of the dead, +Which then with Autumn leaves was carpeted, +And where the faded flower and withered wreath +Bespoke the love for those who slept beneath, +And, weeping, stood beside a new-made grave +Which held the sacred dust that friendship gave. +That heart with milk of human kindness overflowed-- +That sympathetic hand its generous aid bestowed +To lighten others' burdens on life's weary road! +And there no polished shaft need lift its head +In lettered eulogy above the sainted dead-- +His deeds are monuments above the dust whereon we tread! +When from its fragile tenement of clay +To fairer realms his spirit winged its way, +With poignant grief we stood around the bier +Which held the lifeless form of one held dear, +And broken hearts that knew no comfort then +Still mourn the loss of one of Nature's noblemen! + + + + +TWILIGHT. + + +The sun is sinking where the western hills + The vision bounds with rugged summits old, +And with his latest beam he brightly gilds + And crowns with amethyst and gold. + +The distant music of a tinkling bell + Is floating o'er the meadow's gentle sweep-- +No discords mar the magic of the spell, + And stealthily the twilight shadows creep. + +And gently falls upon the listening ear-- + Like tones from voices of the long-ago-- +The cadence of the murmuring waters near-- + With rhythmic ripplings soft and low. + +Now grow apace the shadows' slanting shapes + And fade the rugged hills to misty gray, +As dying day its calm departure takes + And yields to coming night her sable sway. + +The vaulted dome above now glows afar + With many a soft and tender light, +Each sparkling gem it wears a jeweled star, + With sweet effulgence purely bright. + +Sweet scene! Sweet hour! If to the heart + No quick'ning pulses they can lend, +And to the soul no rapture thus impart-- + Vain were our lives--and vainer still the end! + +O, such the time when he who will may feel + Release from care, vexation, toil, and strife-- +And musing then will gently o'er him steal + The sweetest moments of the turmoil--life! + + + + +OUT UV "POLITICKS." + + +I. + +"I'll tell yer what," said Uncle Zeke, down at the country store, +"I'd been a farmer all my life--fur twenty year or more-- +Until one day my noddle here, it got plumb out o' fix, +Er-swellin' with the idy that I's made fur politicks. + + +II. + +"I'd been ter hear them fellers speak, an' rip an' rant an' rave, +When 'lection time's er-comin' on, who tell yer how ter save +Ther kentry frum tarnation ruin, by sendin' only men +That's fit ter draw ther salaries, an' honest--jest like them. + + +III. + +"So listen, boys--yer'll profit by ther story that I tell-- +I left ther farm ter 'lectioneer an' run fur constable; +I wouldn't hearken ter my wife--she said I'd lost my wit, +An' as fur holdin' offices--_she_ knowed _I_ wusn't fit. + + +IV. + +"But ennyhow, I sold er steer, an' then er heifer calf, +An' bought er bran' new suit o' clothes fur twenty an' er half, +An' 'fore ther 'lection day cum roun' I'd sold my wheat an' oats, +An' spent ther proceeds that I got in purchasin' uv votes. + + +V. + +"I knowed 'twus wrong--agin ther law--ter do er thing like that-- +But then ther boys all said, yer know, 'twould take er little 'fat,' +Fur ther feller that I run agin could have no earthly hope +Uv beatin' me if I'd use ther right amount uv 'soap.' + + +VI. + +"I jocks I did--I won ther fight--I sarved er single term-- +(But fur ther salary that I got I wouldn't give er durn); +An' right up here I wear ther scar that shows whar I wus hit +Ther day I rid fur forty miles ter sarve that cussed 'writ!'" + + + + +JONES' MARE. + + +I. + +Now Farmer Jones was noted for fast horses on his place, +And also as the father of a son with freckled face, +And hair so red it looked as if it had been dyed in blood, +And Ephraim was the "masher" of the country neighborhood. + + +II. + +This Ephraim Jones' yellow mare, she was no nice and fleet +That all the girls for miles around on Eph. were very "sweet," +In hopes to get a ride or two behind her on the road, +With sleigh-bells jingling 'round her neck, some day when it had snowed. + + +III. + +Or else to spin along the pike, with buggy top let down, +And ribbons sailing out behind, when Eph. would drive to town, +The envy of the country boys, and many maidens fair +A-casting wistful glances at the youth with reddish hair. + + +IV. + +This thing went on till finally our Ephraim fell in love +With Tildy Ann Serepty Brown--as gentle as a dove-- +Of all the girls around about the reigning country bell, +Whose father was as rich as cream--he'd struck an oil well! + + +V. + +About three nights in every week could Ephraim's yellow mare +Be found a-standing hitched outside, while he was courting there, +And so the boys, with envy mad and jealousy aroused, +To humble Eph. hit on a plan they heartily espoused. + + +VI. + +If anything in all the world, beside sweet Tildy Ann, +Was dear to Ephraim's eye and heart, it was his claybank, Fan; +He boasted of her speed and looks, and of her pedigree-- +Said more intelligence in a brute no man would ever see. + + +VII. + +He kept her curried till her coat it shone like burnished gold-- +With silver-mounted harness on, a beauty to behold. +A brand new buggy hitched to her, a-glinting in the sun, +She "took the cake" for speed and style from every other one. + + +VIII. + +They heard that Eph. one night would call upon his Tildy Ann +To make arrangements all complete to carry out a plan: +It would be Sunday following, when all in style he'd go +With Tildy and the yellow mare to the country "bonnet-show." + + +IX. + +Supplied with brushes, cans of paint of every shade and hue, +And to furnish light by which to work, a bull's-eye lantern, too, +At ten o'clock that night so dark you couldn't see a wink, +They striped his Fan with red and brown, and black and blue and pink. + + +X. + +Next morning when he went to feed, and opened wide the door, +No zebra that was ever foaled could boast the stripes she wore; +Her ears were white, her legs were green, her tail was fiery red, +And as he gazed upon her then I can't tell what he said! + + + + +THAT OLD STRAW HAT OF MINE. + +(WITH APOLOGIES TO RILEY.) + + +I. + +As one who dreams at evening o'er the new hats that he's worn, +And muses on the better times that once to him were known, +So I turn the leaves of fancy till, in shadowy design, +I see the faded ribbon on that old straw hat of mine. + + +II. + +The firelight seems to mock me as the ruddy flames arise, +And I turn about to rest me of the dazzle in my eyes; +And I ponder then in silence, save a sigh that seems to yoke +Its fate with my condition, and to vanish like the smoke. + + +III. + +With fondest recollection the loving thoughts that start +Into being are but feelings from the bottom of my heart; +And to wear the new hats over is a luxury divine-- +Till my truant fancy wanders with that old straw hat of mine. + + +IV. + +Now I hear without my chamber, like a fluttering of wings, +The rustling of the autumn wind as through the trees it sings, +And I feel no twinge of conscience to deny me any scheme +That will bring to me a hat of which I now can only dream. + + +V. + +In fact, to speak in earnest, if I could work a charm, +I'd try it on old Isaacs--'twouldn't do him much of harm-- +And I'd find an extra flavor in memory's mellow wine +When I thought of how I swapped him that old straw hat of mine. + + +VI. + +A thing of real beauty, with a shape of airy grace, +Floats out of Isaacs' storehouse, as the genii from the vase, +And, oh! I gaze upon it with a pair of loving eyes, +As glowing as the summer and as tender as the skies! + + * * * * * + + +VII. + +But, ah! my dream is broken when I gaze upon that chair, +For my eyes are now wide open and--the same old hat is there; +And reluctantly and sadly all my visions I resign +To know that I must wear again that old straw hat of mine! + + + + +TOM BARBEE'S POND. + + +I. + +O sweet are the memories when backward we gaze +Through the vista of years to our schoolboy days, +When faces now vanished to the vision appear +And the music of voices long hushed we can hear, +As together we romped where the school-house stood, +Or joyfully wended our way through the wood +Where placidly lay, in the valley beyond, +The moss-covered waters of Tom Barbee's pond! + + +II. + +Though scattered by Time o'er the face of the earth, +And sorrow and anguish have succeeded to mirth, +Still many there be whose mist-bedewed eye +Looks longingly back, while the breast heaves a sigh, +To that far-away time, when together we played +In the school-house yard, or on Saturdays strayed +Where the knots in our sleeves were tied tight as a bond, +As we splashed and we dived in Tom Barbee's pond! + + +III. + +The "pleasures of memory" by Rogers were lined, +With rhythm as sweet as in verse you will find, +But could he e'er picture one-half of the joys +We had when we wandered as barefooted boys +Through the woods and the fields and the meadows out there, +With our sun-blistered backs and the burrs in our hair, +Or recall to the mind a remembrance more fond +Than bathing and swimming in Tom Barbee's pond? + + + + +WHERE? + + +I. + +O, where are the friends that in youth we once knew, +Whose smiles were like sunshine, whose hearts were so true? +Alas! they are lost in the darkness and gloom +That veils them from sight in the cold, silent tomb! + + +II. + +O, where are the years that forever have fled, +And over Life's morning their radiance shed? +With the Past written down on the unending scroll +Where Time--grim destroyer--his victims enroll! + + +III. + +O, where are the fancies, the visions, the dreams, +That filled the young breast--with which memory teems? +They have faded away--from life they have passed-- +Like stars blotted out when the sky's overcast! + + +IV. + +O, where are the hopes that have beckoned us on +With their beacons of light, through sunshine and storm? +Like spectres--like phantoms--like vapor and mist, +They have vanished forever--a will-o'-the-wisp! + + +V. + +O, where are the harbors, the havens of rest, +That solace can give to a heart that's opprest? +They are hid from the vision beyond the blue sky, +Yet the eye of sweet Faith their portals descry! + + + + +THE HILLS OF LINCOLN. + + +I. + +O the hills of old Lincoln!--I can see them to-day +As they stretch in dim distance far, far away, +And on Fancy's swift pinions my spirit hath flown +To rest 'mid the scenes which my childhood has known-- +Where the old Hanging Fork, with its silvery gleam, +Glides away 'tween the meadows like thoughts in a dream, +And far to the south, with their outlines so blue, +The rugged knobs blend into heaven's own hue! + + +II. + +O the hills of old Lincoln!--how fondly I gaze +On their wildwoods and thickets and deep-tangled ways +When memory's mirror presents them to view, +And I dream once again that I tread them anew, +While raptured I listen to the music of love +That the song-birds are singing in the tree-tops above, +And the soul drifts away in a swoon of delight, +Unanchored from care and from sorrow's cold blight! + + +III. + +O the hills of old Lincoln!--my footsteps have trod +Up and down their green valleys, with shotgun and rod, +And it seems to me now that the years that have fled +Around their old summits a halo have shed +That guides the fond fancy unerringly there +When backward it wanders with childhood to share +Sweet scenes such as these, inurned in the heart, +And which from fond memory can never depart! + + + + +LOVED AND LOST. + + +I. + +Sweetly to sleep beneath the fresh green turf + They laid the loved and lost away; +A chair is vacant by the household hearth, + And shadow-vested Sorrow's there to-day. + + +II. + +The tender hands that guided us in youth + Are folded now upon the gentle breast, +And those dear eyes whose depths were love and truth + Are closed to open in eternal rest. + + +III. + +Through simple faith and duty well performed, + A crown of light forever shall be hers; +And though with bitter grief and anguish mourned, + A consolation gleams through blinding tears! + + + + +A TRUE STORY. + +(READ BEFORE A MEETING OF THE DANVILLE +SCRIBBLER CLUB.) + + +Dear friends, to-night the inspiration of my theme +Is not the baseless fabric of a weird, fantastic dream-- +For truth, combined with justice, doth impel, +And therefore it is fact--not fiction--that I tell. + +"Truth, crushed to earth, will rise again"-- +A maxim true as holy writ;--then it is plain, +If rudely woven by an untaught hand it be, +Sustains but transitory wrong and injury. + +And thus it is, in homely rhyme, I venture forth, +Relating nothing here but under oath; +And if, perchance, at times it sounds a little strange, +You know that truth o'er fiction hath a wider range. + +These stanzas three I hope you'll deem explanatory-- +As introductory and preliminary to the story-- +A preface simply used before I introduce +The proper characters essential for our use. + +And just one moment more attention I will claim, +And crave indulgence while I here explain, +That "character" is used in a Pickwickian sense-- +So truth and justice need not take offense. + +'Twas when the Autumn leaves, with russet hue, +Scarce quivered in the gentle wind, and when the dew +Lay sparkling on the grass, beneath the argent moon, +A tragedy took place--of which I'll tell you soon. + +And ever and anon a fleecy, drifting cloud, +Meek Dian's face would veil with filmy shroud, +And lend to wood and field that softened ray +Unmatched in beauty from the glaring god of day! + +But I will tell the story as 'twas told to me, +And vouched for by some others--two or three-- +Whose word to doubt would be a heinous sin-- +So, armed with truth, in confidence I will begin. + +Ah, memory! Thou art a fickle jade, +And oft responsible when grave mistakes are made, +And therefore 'tis with caution that I hesitate +When truthful things I undertake to state. + +This much is due to accuracy and circumspection, +As well as to a rather faulty recollection; +And so I'll trespass on your patience now no more, +But straightway tell the story--as I said before. + +All good beginnings have that natural trend +Which safely leads to a successful end, +And stories all should have their plots well laid-- +Which neither prose nor verse can do, when haste is made. + +'Tis said "procrastination is the thief of time," +And this might seem to be the object of my rhyme. +Had I not told you, as I should have done, +The reason why the story's not begun. + +'Tis my sole object, then, to give without delay, +The narrative in a direct and proper way, +For as you know some critics may be here +Whom scribbling rhymesters may, with justice, fear. + +"What shameless bards we have! And yet, 'tis true, +There are as mad, abandoned critics, too!" +This couplet, penned by Pope, is ever new-- +But then, dear friends, the second line was _not_ for you! + +I only quote that you may comprehend +How modesty in _me_ has missed its end, +And why it is I ever undertook to write +The story that I'm going to tell--sometime to-night. + +An introduction that will keep the listener in suspense +I deem derogatory to good taste and sense; +And this is also why I'll nothing put as prefatory +Before I launch right out into the story. + +I'm going to make it thrilling, crisp and short, +In purest diction drest, with gems of thought +So intermingled with the story's warp and woof, +That from beginning I can scarcely keep aloof. + +I'll put quotation marks to shrive me of the sin +Of plagiarism when such language I begin-- +That every one of you may plainly see +I tell the story as 'twas told to me. + +So calmly, coolly then, I think I will proceed +To give you now the story--taking heed +To curtail all that truth and justice will permit-- +Remembering that "brevity's the soul of wit." + +But undue haste would cause me to forget +And mar the memory of its telling with regret +If I had overlooked some startling fact, +Which on both truth and justice would re-act! + +And now, dear friends, don't think that you are "sold" +If still as yet the story's left untold-- +But paper, ink, your patience, and my time +Are all exhausted in this race with rhyme! + + + + + * * * * * + +Transcriber's Notes + +Variations in spelling, hyphenation, and punctuation have been +retained from the original book, except for the following changes: + +Page 9: raiload changed to railroad: + (From the raiload bridge, with its single span,). + +Page 49: Aud changed to And: + (Aud do the very best I could the heat to struggle through,). + +Page 56: Punctuation corrected from: + (Old "Bull "Spring?") to (Old "Bull Spring!"). + +Page 62: Their changed to There: + (There where briars in tangled network sway). + +Page 101: Ephram's changed to Ephraim's: + (Was dear to Ephram's eye and heart, it was his claybank, Fan;). + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Old Hanging Fork and Other Poems, by +George W. 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