 | The select poems of Dr. Thomas Dunn English (exclusive of the "Battle lyrics") |  |
339
UNDER THE TREES.
Barnaby Barnet, a dealer in leather,
Who daily is scraping more dollars together,
Sat in his Ferry Street store one morn,
Sick of the smell of the hides and the horn,
When a barefooted girl in a calico gown,
A bit of the country brought into the town
In the shape of a nosegay—of roses alone—
Some of them budding, and others were blown.
As the perfume he drank with a relishing thirst,
The bar from the door of his memory burst,
And his senses, away to the days that had fled,
By the scent of the roses a moment were led.
No longer he sits in his counting-room heated,
No longer his desk and his ledger he sees;
He has left the close town, and is pleasantly seated,
Happily, dreamily,
Under the trees.
Who daily is scraping more dollars together,
Sat in his Ferry Street store one morn,
Sick of the smell of the hides and the horn,
When a barefooted girl in a calico gown,
A bit of the country brought into the town
In the shape of a nosegay—of roses alone—
Some of them budding, and others were blown.
As the perfume he drank with a relishing thirst,
The bar from the door of his memory burst,
And his senses, away to the days that had fled,
By the scent of the roses a moment were led.
No longer he sits in his counting-room heated,
No longer his desk and his ledger he sees;
He has left the close town, and is pleasantly seated,
Happily, dreamily,
Under the trees.
Glitters before him the swift-flowing river;
The heat in the air has a visible quiver;
The sheep dot the hill-side with patches of snow;
The kine in the pasture are grazing below;
He sees where the sunlight, in middle-day blaze,
With gold tints the leaves of the emerald maize,
Lights the low yellow wheat, and the tall russet rye,
With a quivering brilliance that dazzles the eye;
Sees, perched on cut underbrush, heaped for a pyre,
The hue of the oriole deepen to fire;
While, stretched in the distance, dissolving from view,
Are hill-tops that melt into lilac and blue:
A picture surpassing all art and its touches,
Where the hand of the Master with purpose agrees.
How his glance, in a rapture, its loveliness clutches,
Happily, dreamily,
Under the trees!
The heat in the air has a visible quiver;
The sheep dot the hill-side with patches of snow;
The kine in the pasture are grazing below;
He sees where the sunlight, in middle-day blaze,
With gold tints the leaves of the emerald maize,
Lights the low yellow wheat, and the tall russet rye,
With a quivering brilliance that dazzles the eye;
Sees, perched on cut underbrush, heaped for a pyre,
The hue of the oriole deepen to fire;
While, stretched in the distance, dissolving from view,
Are hill-tops that melt into lilac and blue:
340
Where the hand of the Master with purpose agrees.
How his glance, in a rapture, its loveliness clutches,
Happily, dreamily,
Under the trees!
Pleasant the hum of the bees in the clover,
The rustle of branches his form bending over,
The cat-bird, loud telling her pitiful tine,
The neighing of horses, the lowing of kine.
The shout of the mowers afield he can lithe,
And the clink of the blade as they sharpen the scythe;
The cry of the jacketless boy who pursues,
Hat in hand, the gay butterfly, varied in hues;
The bark of the dog who at dragon-flies springs,
And, aloft in the air, the hawk's flapping of wings,
The grasshopper's chirrup, the katydid's cries—
All come to his ear as he listlessly lies.
Sweet sounds that, in music all others excelling,
Float, struggle, or suddenly pierce through the breeze—
His ear takes them in where his body is dwelling
Happily, dreamily,
Under the trees.
The rustle of branches his form bending over,
The cat-bird, loud telling her pitiful tine,
The neighing of horses, the lowing of kine.
The shout of the mowers afield he can lithe,
And the clink of the blade as they sharpen the scythe;
The cry of the jacketless boy who pursues,
Hat in hand, the gay butterfly, varied in hues;
The bark of the dog who at dragon-flies springs,
And, aloft in the air, the hawk's flapping of wings,
The grasshopper's chirrup, the katydid's cries—
All come to his ear as he listlessly lies.
Sweet sounds that, in music all others excelling,
Float, struggle, or suddenly pierce through the breeze—
His ear takes them in where his body is dwelling
Happily, dreamily,
Under the trees.
That was a day of delight and of wonder,
While lying the shade of the maple-trees under—
He felt the soft breeze at its frolicsome play;
He smelled the sweet odor of newly mown hay,
Of wilding blossoms in meadow and wood,
And flowers in the garden that orderly stood;
He drank of the milk foaming fresh from the cow;
He ate the ripe apple just pulled from the bough;
And lifted his hand to where hung in his reach,
All laden with honey, the ruddy-checked peach;
Beside him the blackberries juicy and fresh;
Before him the melon with odorous flesh.
There he had all for his use or his vision,
All that the wishes of mortal could seize—
There where he lay in a country Elysian,
Happily, dreamily,
Under the trees.
While lying the shade of the maple-trees under—
He felt the soft breeze at its frolicsome play;
He smelled the sweet odor of newly mown hay,
Of wilding blossoms in meadow and wood,
And flowers in the garden that orderly stood;
He drank of the milk foaming fresh from the cow;
He ate the ripe apple just pulled from the bough;
And lifted his hand to where hung in his reach,
All laden with honey, the ruddy-checked peach;
Beside him the blackberries juicy and fresh;
Before him the melon with odorous flesh.
341
All that the wishes of mortal could seize—
There where he lay in a country Elysian,
Happily, dreamily,
Under the trees.
What, ere his thirst for the country he slakens,
Too rudely from dreaming the dreamer awakens?
The voice of the girl in the calico gown
Who brought that small bit of the country to town,
Is heard asking pay for the roses. The pay!
The wretch who had chased all that vision away?
Here were no meadows, no trees overhead;
A narrow brick street, with its stenches instead;
And Barnaby Barnet, with gesture grotesque,
Goes back to the fetters of ledger and desk.
No country for him; here no green things are grown;
His hides and his leather grow greenbacks alone;
And only when heirs, with forced weeping convey him—
Kind Death from all wearisome work giving ease—
Will his form find green fields: it will be when they lay him,
Helplessly, dreamlessly,
Under the trees.
Too rudely from dreaming the dreamer awakens?
The voice of the girl in the calico gown
Who brought that small bit of the country to town,
Is heard asking pay for the roses. The pay!
The wretch who had chased all that vision away?
Here were no meadows, no trees overhead;
A narrow brick street, with its stenches instead;
And Barnaby Barnet, with gesture grotesque,
Goes back to the fetters of ledger and desk.
No country for him; here no green things are grown;
His hides and his leather grow greenbacks alone;
And only when heirs, with forced weeping convey him—
Kind Death from all wearisome work giving ease—
Will his form find green fields: it will be when they lay him,
Helplessly, dreamlessly,
Under the trees.
| The select poems of Dr. Thomas Dunn English (exclusive of the "Battle lyrics") | |