 | Poems |  |
I.
HOME.
O times and manners! hold your way!
You're growing faster every day!
There's naught we heed, or seem to need,
Except the precious boon of speed!
There's naught we seem to care to know,
Except the faculty to go!
And go we must, and “go it blind,”
Or fold our arms, and stay behind.
On railway trains we lie and sleep,
While dragged o'er valley, plain, and steep;
(And so, pet authors we peruse,
And in a kind of mental “snooze,”
We let them drag us where they choose.)
Ah, ancient Dobbin! poor old horse!
Ill luck to thee were Watts and Morse!
Thy usefulness will soon be past;
Thy time, old horse, will come at last!
You're growing faster every day!
There's naught we heed, or seem to need,
Except the precious boon of speed!
There's naught we seem to care to know,
Except the faculty to go!
And go we must, and “go it blind,”
Or fold our arms, and stay behind.
On railway trains we lie and sleep,
While dragged o'er valley, plain, and steep;
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And in a kind of mental “snooze,”
We let them drag us where they choose.)
Ah, ancient Dobbin! poor old horse!
Ill luck to thee were Watts and Morse!
Thy usefulness will soon be past;
Thy time, old horse, will come at last!
But let bold Progress have his will!
And let the world grow faster still!
Though poets dream, let engines scream,
And push ahead, with all their steam!
Awhile I leave this noise and strife,
To sing of country scenes and life;
Awhile I sing of country air,
Scented with flowers, so sweet and fair,
Or flaked with snow, when cold winds blow,
And Winter leaves his Northern lair.
Awhile I sing of country roads,
In all their various states and modes;
Of turnpikes, belting hills and vales;
Of croaking frogs, and barking dogs,
And “thank-ye-ma'ams,” of logs and rails;
Of level miles, that husband time;
Of hills that horses hate to climb;
Of bridges, o'er ravine and flood;
Of well-made beds of mire and mud;
Of plains, whereon the wheel fast whirls;
Of sidelong slopes that scare the girls;
Who scream so piteously, withal,
And catch at you, with faces blue,
Lest they, perhaps, should catch a fall,
That you, if you have half a heart,
Your prompt assistance must impart,
And tender them your strong right arm,
To keep them safe from mud and harm;
Of guide-posts, showing you along;
Of folks who pass the time of day;
And when you ask of them the way,
They do their best, and tell you wrong!
And let the world grow faster still!
Though poets dream, let engines scream,
And push ahead, with all their steam!
Awhile I leave this noise and strife,
To sing of country scenes and life;
Awhile I sing of country air,
Scented with flowers, so sweet and fair,
Or flaked with snow, when cold winds blow,
And Winter leaves his Northern lair.
Awhile I sing of country roads,
In all their various states and modes;
Of turnpikes, belting hills and vales;
Of croaking frogs, and barking dogs,
And “thank-ye-ma'ams,” of logs and rails;
Of level miles, that husband time;
Of hills that horses hate to climb;
Of bridges, o'er ravine and flood;
Of well-made beds of mire and mud;
Of plains, whereon the wheel fast whirls;
Of sidelong slopes that scare the girls;
Who scream so piteously, withal,
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Lest they, perhaps, should catch a fall,
That you, if you have half a heart,
Your prompt assistance must impart,
And tender them your strong right arm,
To keep them safe from mud and harm;
Of guide-posts, showing you along;
Of folks who pass the time of day;
And when you ask of them the way,
They do their best, and tell you wrong!
And then, the grave-yards on the way,
With lettered head-stones, old and gray,
Telling the old, admitted tale—
We know too well the truth they tell!—
That time is short, and flesh is frail.
Telling when youth's bright day-star set;
When dark old age grew darker yet;
When housewives left the wheel and loom,
When rose-cheeked maidens lost their bloom;
When the tired farmer ceased to reap,
And when the baby went to sleep;
When the old doctor, worn and tried,
Went on his last and slowest ride;
When the quaint deacon silent lay
Where he was wont to sing and pray.
When slow, from some death-chilled abode,
The wagons rattled down the road,
Came to the little church, and there
Halted for sermon, hymn, and prayer,
Then bearers, with uncovered head,
Bore the sound sleeper to his bed.
With lettered head-stones, old and gray,
Telling the old, admitted tale—
We know too well the truth they tell!—
That time is short, and flesh is frail.
Telling when youth's bright day-star set;
When dark old age grew darker yet;
When housewives left the wheel and loom,
When rose-cheeked maidens lost their bloom;
When the tired farmer ceased to reap,
And when the baby went to sleep;
When the old doctor, worn and tried,
Went on his last and slowest ride;
When the quaint deacon silent lay
Where he was wont to sing and pray.
When slow, from some death-chilled abode,
The wagons rattled down the road,
Came to the little church, and there
Halted for sermon, hymn, and prayer,
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Bore the sound sleeper to his bed.
Up such a rustic, quaint old street,
Past field of barley, corn, and wheat,
Past verdant, silver-washed ravine,
'Neath woodland arches, draped with green,
Or, if in wintry day you go,
Past stubble-land and drifting snow,
Past winter-chilled, denuded trees,
Moaning and shivering in the breeze;
Past different homes of different styles,
Ride up the road a dozen miles,
And, passing various homes and names,
You'll come where lived my Uncle James.
Past field of barley, corn, and wheat,
Past verdant, silver-washed ravine,
'Neath woodland arches, draped with green,
Or, if in wintry day you go,
Past stubble-land and drifting snow,
Past winter-chilled, denuded trees,
Moaning and shivering in the breeze;
Past different homes of different styles,
Ride up the road a dozen miles,
And, passing various homes and names,
You'll come where lived my Uncle James.
It was a sober farm-house, old,
Yet guarded well 'gainst heat and cold,
And looking, on its little knoll,
So quiet, self-possessed, and droll,
That one could almost see it grin
A kind and amiable “Come in.”
The beech and maple grew before
Its ancient, hospitable door;
The jessamine, on summer days,
Shut out the hot and piercing rays
That fain would storm the window-frame,
And set the glasses all aflame;
The morning-glory opened up,
Each day, its dainty, purple cup;
And like the hands that bade it grow,
And like the hearts that beat below,
The tender-rooted, fragile vine
Crept slowly round its stated line,
Climbing, each day, with purpose high,
A little nearer to the sky.
Yet guarded well 'gainst heat and cold,
And looking, on its little knoll,
So quiet, self-possessed, and droll,
That one could almost see it grin
A kind and amiable “Come in.”
The beech and maple grew before
Its ancient, hospitable door;
The jessamine, on summer days,
Shut out the hot and piercing rays
That fain would storm the window-frame,
And set the glasses all aflame;
The morning-glory opened up,
Each day, its dainty, purple cup;
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And like the hearts that beat below,
The tender-rooted, fragile vine
Crept slowly round its stated line,
Climbing, each day, with purpose high,
A little nearer to the sky.
Well stocked with hay, and husks, and grain,
Marking the limits of the lane
Halved by a wagon-beaten track,
The surly barn stood coldly back.
Oh, ancient barn! oh, boyhood days!
How stands that place, in homely grace,
Before my retrospective gaze!
How many a day the clover hay,
In treading, tired my boyish legs!
How many a prize my straining eyes
Have found, in hidden nests of eggs!
How well I recollect those sheep;
Each one a shy and woolly heap!
Those orphaned calves, whose nimble tongues
Proclaimed the soundness of their lungs!
The horses—steady, kind old fools;
The biting, kicking, sinful mules;
Whose ways were such, to foe or friend,
That they were safe at neither end!
The cows—especially old Brindle,
A kind of lop-horned, bovine swindle,
Whom Uncle James, one hapless day,
Was milking, and was heard to say,
While Brindle at a thistle picked,
“Now, kick not, that ye be not kicked.
For wherewithal ye kick”—just then
Old Brindle kicked, and kicked again.
Oh, how the pail against a rail
Went crashing on its milky track!
And, king of shames! how Uncle James
Went tumbling over on his back!
Marking the limits of the lane
Halved by a wagon-beaten track,
The surly barn stood coldly back.
Oh, ancient barn! oh, boyhood days!
How stands that place, in homely grace,
Before my retrospective gaze!
How many a day the clover hay,
In treading, tired my boyish legs!
How many a prize my straining eyes
Have found, in hidden nests of eggs!
How well I recollect those sheep;
Each one a shy and woolly heap!
Those orphaned calves, whose nimble tongues
Proclaimed the soundness of their lungs!
The horses—steady, kind old fools;
The biting, kicking, sinful mules;
Whose ways were such, to foe or friend,
That they were safe at neither end!
The cows—especially old Brindle,
A kind of lop-horned, bovine swindle,
Whom Uncle James, one hapless day,
Was milking, and was heard to say,
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“Now, kick not, that ye be not kicked.
For wherewithal ye kick”—just then
Old Brindle kicked, and kicked again.
Oh, how the pail against a rail
Went crashing on its milky track!
And, king of shames! how Uncle James
Went tumbling over on his back!
The stupid brutes, untaught by Reason's light,
And holding man in awe,
If let alone, will work life's problem right,
And follow Nature's law;
They seek out no inventions; and their skill
Is naught but honest trust;
And that which tends to poison and to kill,
They shrink from in disgust.
And holding man in awe,
If let alone, will work life's problem right,
And follow Nature's law;
They seek out no inventions; and their skill
Is naught but honest trust;
And that which tends to poison and to kill,
They shrink from in disgust.
They sip the pure, cool dews of eve and morn,
They crop the growing grass;
They feed upon the fresh, green blades of corn,
But never drain the glass!
Some, taught by Nature, live in constant strife,
And on each other prey;
But seldom do they drain each other's life
By slow degrees away!
They crop the growing grass;
They feed upon the fresh, green blades of corn,
But never drain the glass!
Some, taught by Nature, live in constant strife,
And on each other prey;
But seldom do they drain each other's life
By slow degrees away!
But man has sought to drown his cares in mirth,
And ignoble desire;
And he has changed the choicest fruits of earth,
To a consuming fire!
And some have revelled in the unholy feast,
And sunk their rank and mark,
Beneath the veriest reptile, bird, or beast,
Of good old Noah's ark!
And ignoble desire;
And he has changed the choicest fruits of earth,
To a consuming fire!
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And sunk their rank and mark,
Beneath the veriest reptile, bird, or beast,
Of good old Noah's ark!
If so be Reason hold the dumb brute back
From self-destroying greed,
If lack of reason leave him to the track
That Nature has decreed,
If Reason teaches heaven-created man
The arts to make him worse,
(Dispute the doctrine, ye who will or can!)
Then reason is a curse!
From self-destroying greed,
If lack of reason leave him to the track
That Nature has decreed,
If Reason teaches heaven-created man
The arts to make him worse,
(Dispute the doctrine, ye who will or can!)
Then reason is a curse!
Yes, 'tis a curse, (and so is Heaven's best light,)
When showing cursed goals!
Better the darkness of Egyptian night,
Than wrecked and ruined souls!
And he who bears, with sadness or with glee,
Intoxication's fruit,
Were ten times better off, if he could be
A decent, sober brute!
When showing cursed goals!
Better the darkness of Egyptian night,
Than wrecked and ruined souls!
And he who bears, with sadness or with glee,
Intoxication's fruit,
Were ten times better off, if he could be
A decent, sober brute!
But I must stop this calling names,
And hurry on to Uncle James;
(Called “Uncle Jimmy” by those wights
Who set all names to wrongs or rights,
And follow the irreverent plan,
To nick-name every one they can;)
But there he lived; a fine old man
As e'er the race of Temperance ran;
A well-preserved old man; to whom
Some sixty Junes had shown their bloom,
And sixty winters had appeared,
And frosted o'er his hair and beard.
His high, full brow was creased by care,
And bronzed by Summer heat and air:
His well-set eyes, of deepest hue,
Were clear, and bright, and shrewd, and true;
His beard, with patriarchal grace,
Decked a fair portion of his face;
And his great hands, ne'er known to shirk,
Were hardened o'er with manly work.
Though grief is deep, and years are long,
His gait was upright, straight and strong;
His active mind was balanced, still,
And iron-bound his massive will.
He laid his views of right and sense,
Precisely as he laid a fence:
Marking with care the proper course,
Then building with his utmost force;
And when 'twas done, howe'er it proved,
The fence (or view) was never moved.
For, mind you, when he drove a stake,
The wind might blow, the earth might quake,
He hung steadfastly to his plan,
And never pulled it up again.
Whenever lightning-rods came round,
The glib tongued, well-taught salesman found
In Uncle James, the keenest pill
Of candor, sophistry, and will,
With well-laid grooves for it to follow,
It e'er had been his lot to swallow.
“Why, man alive,” he'd say, “the fact is,
Your tall machines won't work, in practice.
There's heaps of lightnin' high in air;
God manufactur's it up there;
And when it comes, the Lord will fetch it,
And then, of course, we'll have to ketch it.
So do you think to frighten God,
Pointin' at Him your lightnin'-rod?
'Twill scare Him just as much, if I
Point my old whip-stock at the sky.”
And hurry on to Uncle James;
(Called “Uncle Jimmy” by those wights
Who set all names to wrongs or rights,
And follow the irreverent plan,
To nick-name every one they can;)
But there he lived; a fine old man
52
A well-preserved old man; to whom
Some sixty Junes had shown their bloom,
And sixty winters had appeared,
And frosted o'er his hair and beard.
His high, full brow was creased by care,
And bronzed by Summer heat and air:
His well-set eyes, of deepest hue,
Were clear, and bright, and shrewd, and true;
His beard, with patriarchal grace,
Decked a fair portion of his face;
And his great hands, ne'er known to shirk,
Were hardened o'er with manly work.
Though grief is deep, and years are long,
His gait was upright, straight and strong;
His active mind was balanced, still,
And iron-bound his massive will.
He laid his views of right and sense,
Precisely as he laid a fence:
Marking with care the proper course,
Then building with his utmost force;
And when 'twas done, howe'er it proved,
The fence (or view) was never moved.
For, mind you, when he drove a stake,
The wind might blow, the earth might quake,
He hung steadfastly to his plan,
And never pulled it up again.
Whenever lightning-rods came round,
The glib tongued, well-taught salesman found
In Uncle James, the keenest pill
53
With well-laid grooves for it to follow,
It e'er had been his lot to swallow.
“Why, man alive,” he'd say, “the fact is,
Your tall machines won't work, in practice.
There's heaps of lightnin' high in air;
God manufactur's it up there;
And when it comes, the Lord will fetch it,
And then, of course, we'll have to ketch it.
So do you think to frighten God,
Pointin' at Him your lightnin'-rod?
'Twill scare Him just as much, if I
Point my old whip-stock at the sky.”
But oh, I wish, some lucky day,
You could have only heard him pray!
I criticise not oft in prayer,
The word, the attitude, or air;
I hold no feud with church or creed;
I blame not those who shout, or read;
But, oh, I wish, some lucky day,
You could have only heard him pray!
His speech was ancient, thick, and slow;
Tinged with the phrase of long ago;
His periods were not free from blame,
His grammar was a little lame;
But oh, his honest, earnest face!
His simple, unaffected grace!
His fervent tone, that seemed to say,
“I'll have the blessing, any way!”
And every word, it seemed to rise
Straight through the ceiling to the skies!
You could have only heard him pray!
I criticise not oft in prayer,
The word, the attitude, or air;
I hold no feud with church or creed;
I blame not those who shout, or read;
But, oh, I wish, some lucky day,
You could have only heard him pray!
His speech was ancient, thick, and slow;
Tinged with the phrase of long ago;
His periods were not free from blame,
His grammar was a little lame;
But oh, his honest, earnest face!
His simple, unaffected grace!
His fervent tone, that seemed to say,
“I'll have the blessing, any way!”
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Straight through the ceiling to the skies!
Aunt Rachel was as good a dame
As ever bore that Bible name.
Once glossy ringlets decked her head,
Now streaked with many a silver thread;
Once girlish mischief filled the eyes
Now sorrow-softened, mild and wise;
But never was the heart more true,
And ne'er the eyes of deeper hue,
And ne'er the touch of sharper thrill,
And ne'er the voice of sweeter trill,
That once had made such vexing flames
Within the heart of Uncle James,
Than dwelt in her he yet adored,
Who ruled his house and graced his board.
She ruled by gentle word and scheme,
And she and order reigned supreme,
While kindness governed all her ways,
And kindness lengthened out her days.
When sorrow came, and passed her by,
She pitied much, and looked on high,
And prayed for those round whom it crept,
Shedding her tears with those who wept.
And when the dark-robed ghost of death
Cut short her first-born's feeble breath,
And on the sorrow-clouded day
He wooed her first-born girl away,
And when another son—her pride—
Passed pale and trembling from her side,
She kissed for all each coffined one,
And calmly said, “Thy will be done.”
As ever bore that Bible name.
Once glossy ringlets decked her head,
Now streaked with many a silver thread;
Once girlish mischief filled the eyes
Now sorrow-softened, mild and wise;
But never was the heart more true,
And ne'er the eyes of deeper hue,
And ne'er the touch of sharper thrill,
And ne'er the voice of sweeter trill,
That once had made such vexing flames
Within the heart of Uncle James,
Than dwelt in her he yet adored,
Who ruled his house and graced his board.
She ruled by gentle word and scheme,
And she and order reigned supreme,
While kindness governed all her ways,
And kindness lengthened out her days.
When sorrow came, and passed her by,
She pitied much, and looked on high,
And prayed for those round whom it crept,
Shedding her tears with those who wept.
And when the dark-robed ghost of death
Cut short her first-born's feeble breath,
And on the sorrow-clouded day
He wooed her first-born girl away,
And when another son—her pride—
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She kissed for all each coffined one,
And calmly said, “Thy will be done.”
When a dead face lies upturned to the sky,
As ours, God help us! will;
When shadows rest upon the soulless eye,
So helpless and so still;
When the numb hands are crossed and laid away,
In unavailing sleep,
Although we know that form is only clay,
We pity, while we weep.
As ours, God help us! will;
When shadows rest upon the soulless eye,
So helpless and so still;
When the numb hands are crossed and laid away,
In unavailing sleep,
Although we know that form is only clay,
We pity, while we weep.
We pity, that the cold and flushless cheek,
With smiles will ne'er be bright;
We pity, that the tongue can never speak
The words of truth and right;
We pity, that the hand no more may clasp
A friend's, in honor true;
We pity, that it never more can grasp
The work it burned to do!
With smiles will ne'er be bright;
We pity, that the tongue can never speak
The words of truth and right;
We pity, that the hand no more may clasp
A friend's, in honor true;
We pity, that it never more can grasp
The work it burned to do!
But do we think what future mortal gain
May gather in the grave?
And do we think what throbs of weary pain
The hand of death may save?
Ay, do we think, while gazing on that cold
And marble-colored face,
That the grim monster may e'en now withhold
The red flush of disgrace?
May gather in the grave?
And do we think what throbs of weary pain
The hand of death may save?
Ay, do we think, while gazing on that cold
And marble-colored face,
That the grim monster may e'en now withhold
The red flush of disgrace?
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Better, a thousand times, we early fall,
And perish in the strife,
Than lie beneath intoxication's pall,
And live a dying life!
And the lost drunkard, shouting in his glee,
Or trembling in remorse,
Were ten times better off if he might be
An honorable corse!
And perish in the strife,
Than lie beneath intoxication's pall,
And live a dying life!
And the lost drunkard, shouting in his glee,
Or trembling in remorse,
Were ten times better off if he might be
An honorable corse!
But two of all Aunt Rachel's five
Had passed their eighteenth year alive.
Both given to her in one day,
Both since allowed with her to stay.
She marked the manhood of her boy,
Her daughter's loveliness, with joy;
And, weeping thoughts she could not tell,
She thanked her God it was so well.
Had passed their eighteenth year alive.
Both given to her in one day,
Both since allowed with her to stay.
She marked the manhood of her boy,
Her daughter's loveliness, with joy;
And, weeping thoughts she could not tell,
She thanked her God it was so well.
James, Junior, was a manly lad,
With much to praise, and little bad;
With gay smiles, ever bound to win,
And well-earned whiskers on his chin.
Tall, straight and strong he daily grew,
Each year decreasing what he knew,
As 'twill with any smart young man
Who reads himself, as best he can;
And, on his parents' future page,
James was the staff of their old age.
With much to praise, and little bad;
With gay smiles, ever bound to win,
And well-earned whiskers on his chin.
Tall, straight and strong he daily grew,
Each year decreasing what he knew,
As 'twill with any smart young man
Who reads himself, as best he can;
And, on his parents' future page,
James was the staff of their old age.
Some faults, peculiar to his years,
In every growing youth appears.
Good conduct has too much of salt,
Unpeppered by a little fault;
And some few faults, of various names,
Peppered the character of James.
He had a weakness, too, for curls.
And casting sheep's-eyes at the girls;
Especially a black-eyed one,
Brim-full of frolic, sense, and fun,
Full often wild, and never tame,
Admired by all, and Kate by name;
Whom, soberly, he used to seek,
Upon an average, twice a week;
And who, as one might well suppose,
Led him at pleasure by the nose.
In every growing youth appears.
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Unpeppered by a little fault;
And some few faults, of various names,
Peppered the character of James.
He had a weakness, too, for curls.
And casting sheep's-eyes at the girls;
Especially a black-eyed one,
Brim-full of frolic, sense, and fun,
Full often wild, and never tame,
Admired by all, and Kate by name;
Whom, soberly, he used to seek,
Upon an average, twice a week;
And who, as one might well suppose,
Led him at pleasure by the nose.
But, viewing matters all around,
His traits were good as oft are found.
His country home had kept him clear
Of whisky, brandy, gin, and beer;
His heart was good and well-inclined,
And he was cordial, true, and kind.
His traits were good as oft are found.
His country home had kept him clear
Of whisky, brandy, gin, and beer;
His heart was good and well-inclined,
And he was cordial, true, and kind.
Fair Ada, with her mother's face,
Grew up in loveliness and grace.
A simple, trusting maid was she,
Of innocent and trustful glee;
Giving, with heart untouched by guile,
The boon of friendship's hand and smile;
But by grave lessons, early taught,
Knowledge that some have dearly bought,
She knew the dangers of her way,
Guarded herself by night and day,
And, gazing sharply, scanned and proved
The circle in whose bounds she moved.
Grew up in loveliness and grace.
A simple, trusting maid was she,
Of innocent and trustful glee;
Giving, with heart untouched by guile,
The boon of friendship's hand and smile;
But by grave lessons, early taught,
Knowledge that some have dearly bought,
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Guarded herself by night and day,
And, gazing sharply, scanned and proved
The circle in whose bounds she moved.
And so that happy household dwelt,
And toiled, and laughed, and sang, and knelt,
Each morn and eve, before the throne
Where all the deeds of men are known.
And, as they dwelt in that fair place,
Prosperity came down apace,
And gentle love around them twined,
And joined them all, in heart and mind.
And toiled, and laughed, and sang, and knelt,
Each morn and eve, before the throne
Where all the deeds of men are known.
And, as they dwelt in that fair place,
Prosperity came down apace,
And gentle love around them twined,
And joined them all, in heart and mind.
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