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 | The select poems of Dr. Thomas Dunn English (exclusive of the "Battle lyrics") |  |
371
THE MERCHANT'S DREAM.
There, in his cobwebbed counting-room,
The iron safe before,
Where russet volumes tell the tale
Of millions made, or more,
The merchant, seated in his chair,
O'er which the sunlight streams,
In happy slumber wrapped, goes back
To childhood in his dreams.
The iron safe before,
Where russet volumes tell the tale
Of millions made, or more,
The merchant, seated in his chair,
O'er which the sunlight streams,
In happy slumber wrapped, goes back
To childhood in his dreams.
Before his eyes the well-known farm,
The home of early years,
With fertile fields and meadows green,
As in the past, appears;
The low-roofed farm-house, painted white,
With drooping elms before,
The woodland and the running brook,
The shelving river-shore.
The home of early years,
With fertile fields and meadows green,
As in the past, appears;
The low-roofed farm-house, painted white,
With drooping elms before,
The woodland and the running brook,
The shelving river-shore.
His coming through the old farm-gate
Provokes the watch-dog's bay,
But down the elmen avenue
He briskly takes his way.
Old Chloe to the kitchen door
Comes when the bark she hears,
Puts up her hands to shade her eyes,
And curious at him peers.
Provokes the watch-dog's bay,
But down the elmen avenue
He briskly takes his way.
Old Chloe to the kitchen door
Comes when the bark she hears,
Puts up her hands to shade her eyes,
And curious at him peers.
He stays a minute at the well,
He lets the bucket drop;
He hears the plash, he sees it fall,
He draws it to the top.
How clear and cool the crystal draught!
How pleasant to the lips!
Not sweeter is the honey-dew
In Paradise that drips!
He lets the bucket drop;
He hears the plash, he sees it fall,
He draws it to the top.
372
How pleasant to the lips!
Not sweeter is the honey-dew
In Paradise that drips!
The bars let down at yonder lane,
He strides the grassy way
Until he gains the old red barn,
With mossy roof and grey.
A boy again, he enters in
The huge, wide-open door;
He sees the piles of yellow sheaves,
He treads the threshing-floor.
He strides the grassy way
Until he gains the old red barn,
With mossy roof and grey.
A boy again, he enters in
The huge, wide-open door;
He sees the piles of yellow sheaves,
He treads the threshing-floor.
There, loaded with its wheaten wealth,
Is driven the creaking wain;
There eager fowls came scurrying up
To pick the scattered grain.
He watches as the sheaves they store,
And from the stalls below
He hears the tramping of the steed,
The heifer's mournful low.
Is driven the creaking wain;
There eager fowls came scurrying up
To pick the scattered grain.
He watches as the sheaves they store,
And from the stalls below
He hears the tramping of the steed,
The heifer's mournful low.
Then, wandering to the pasture-field,
The green, lush grass to tread,
He switches off the daisy-tips,
Or plucks the clover red.
The sky above is tinged with gold,
The sun untempered shines,
The air comes fragrant from the wood,
Balmy with breath of pines.
The green, lush grass to tread,
He switches off the daisy-tips,
Or plucks the clover red.
The sky above is tinged with gold,
The sun untempered shines,
The air comes fragrant from the wood,
Balmy with breath of pines.
Hark! in the air a clang of bells!
It strikes the hour of four.
The merchant wakes to later days;
He is a boy no more.
To ships at sea and trade on shore,
To restless, grasping men,
To red brick rows and stony streets
His soul has come again.
It strikes the hour of four.
The merchant wakes to later days;
He is a boy no more.
373
To restless, grasping men,
To red brick rows and stony streets
His soul has come again.
| The select poems of Dr. Thomas Dunn English (exclusive of the "Battle lyrics") | |