 | Thoughts in Verse |  |
RETROSPECT.
As shadows of twilight are falling,
And hushed is the voice of the sea,—
The chirp of the blue-bird is calling
His mate to the airy home tree;
When nature seems resting from labor,
Then joyous, sweet memories come:
My mind wanders back to my childhood,
I think of the loved ones at home.
And hushed is the voice of the sea,—
The chirp of the blue-bird is calling
His mate to the airy home tree;
When nature seems resting from labor,
Then joyous, sweet memories come:
My mind wanders back to my childhood,
I think of the loved ones at home.
I think of those days full of brightness,—
The fields and the meadows so green;
The brook with its ripple of gladness,
Where minnows and trout could be seen
Darting blithely from cover to cover
Of the banks, where the lazy cows come
To drink 'ere the long day is over,
And the cow-boy should hurry them home.
The fields and the meadows so green;
The brook with its ripple of gladness,
Where minnows and trout could be seen
Darting blithely from cover to cover
Of the banks, where the lazy cows come
To drink 'ere the long day is over,
And the cow-boy should hurry them home.
Of picnics enjoyed in the wildwood,
By the side of the “Big” Bantam Lake;
The glad, happy voices of childhood
Which ever such sweet music make.
I think of the rides on the hay-load,
From the meadow down through the big gate,
The shrill, piping note of the tree-toad
That warned us 'twas growing quite late.
By the side of the “Big” Bantam Lake;
The glad, happy voices of childhood
Which ever such sweet music make.
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From the meadow down through the big gate,
The shrill, piping note of the tree-toad
That warned us 'twas growing quite late.
I think of the nightingale singing
In the apple-tree over the way,
At evening, with notes clear and ringing;
And how he was frightened away
By Tabby, the solemn old mouser,
Who always was ready to dine,
(Except when he caught sight of Towser,)
On a bird be he ever so fine.
In the apple-tree over the way,
At evening, with notes clear and ringing;
And how he was frightened away
By Tabby, the solemn old mouser,
Who always was ready to dine,
(Except when he caught sight of Towser,)
On a bird be he ever so fine.
I think of the slow-footed turtle
That lived by the brook in the vale,
Where delicate violets and myrtle,
And arbutus their fragrance exhale.
How he clumsily fell in the water,
As the feet of the school-boy approach,
Fright'ning the chub and the sucker,
And startling the shy little roach.
That lived by the brook in the vale,
Where delicate violets and myrtle,
And arbutus their fragrance exhale.
How he clumsily fell in the water,
As the feet of the school-boy approach,
Fright'ning the chub and the sucker,
And startling the shy little roach.
I think of the hole of the ground hog,
By the tree on the side of the hill,
And how it was watched by old “Spring-dog,”
Who ever was ready to kill.
He never considered it sinful
To take life of a poor fellow beast,
But always was ready and waiting,
And did not repent in the least.
By the tree on the side of the hill,
And how it was watched by old “Spring-dog,”
Who ever was ready to kill.
He never considered it sinful
To take life of a poor fellow beast,
But always was ready and waiting,
And did not repent in the least.
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I think of the home of the wood-thrush.
By the side of the Indian cave—
Old “Benvenough,” where the firebush,
Like a beacon its fiery leaves wave.
The shelter and haunt of the robin,
The woodpecker's nest in the tree,
The song of the cat-bird at evening—
All life seemed so happy and free!
By the side of the Indian cave—
Old “Benvenough,” where the firebush,
Like a beacon its fiery leaves wave.
The shelter and haunt of the robin,
The woodpecker's nest in the tree,
The song of the cat-bird at evening—
All life seemed so happy and free!
I think of the hills and the mountains,
Where many glad hours have been passed
In hunting, and reading, and thinking,
And watching the dark clouds, that cast
A gloom over beautiful nature,
Oft filling our bosoms with dread;
The thunder that pealed forth in grandeur
The gleam of the lightning so red.
Where many glad hours have been passed
In hunting, and reading, and thinking,
And watching the dark clouds, that cast
A gloom over beautiful nature,
Oft filling our bosoms with dread;
The thunder that pealed forth in grandeur
The gleam of the lightning so red.
And then, too, I think of the sunset,
As seen from the old Prospect Hill,
How he gradually sunk in the far West,
With his light other countries to fill.
And thoughts that are brought by the sunset
And fleece-clouds by gentle winds driven;
Oh! the glory and beauty resplendent!
It seemed like a vision of Heaven!
As seen from the old Prospect Hill,
How he gradually sunk in the far West,
With his light other countries to fill.
And thoughts that are brought by the sunset
And fleece-clouds by gentle winds driven;
Oh! the glory and beauty resplendent!
It seemed like a vision of Heaven!
I think of those days without shadow,
Each one was a separate gem;
Those walks to the brook in the meadow,
Conversing with dear Cousin Em,
Who long since has gone from earth's shadow,
To the land where the weary may rest,—
No fear of the coming to-morrow
Disturbs the repose of the blest.
Each one was a separate gem;
Those walks to the brook in the meadow,
Conversing with dear Cousin Em,
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To the land where the weary may rest,—
No fear of the coming to-morrow
Disturbs the repose of the blest.
I think of the faces of playmates,
Which long ago vanished away
From earth, now with many a loved one,
In the land of continual day.
Of teachers who taught on the Sabbath
The truths which by Jesus were given,—
To come, thou must suffer the children,
For of such is the Kingdom of Heaven.
Which long ago vanished away
From earth, now with many a loved one,
In the land of continual day.
Of teachers who taught on the Sabbath
The truths which by Jesus were given,—
To come, thou must suffer the children,
For of such is the Kingdom of Heaven.
I think of the rides on the railroad,
The slow-going, winding Shepang,
Running down through the hills and the valleys,
The snow, and the rain and the fog,—
To hear the great speeches of Phillips,
Of Boudinot, Holland and Gough,—
Which filled us with longings for greatness,
In the science of letters and thought.
The slow-going, winding Shepang,
Running down through the hills and the valleys,
The snow, and the rain and the fog,—
To hear the great speeches of Phillips,
Of Boudinot, Holland and Gough,—
Which filled us with longings for greatness,
In the science of letters and thought.
And, as my mind wanders this evening,
To the far-away scenes of the past—
The hopes and the fears and repinings,
And pleasures too intense to last,
My heart is cast down, full of sadness,
As I think of the hours yet to come,
Of trial, and struggle,—once gladness,—
So changed from the old days at home.
To the far-away scenes of the past—
The hopes and the fears and repinings,
And pleasures too intense to last,
My heart is cast down, full of sadness,
As I think of the hours yet to come,
Of trial, and struggle,—once gladness,—
So changed from the old days at home.
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The bright days of childhood have vanished,
And with them, full many a dream,
Of wealth, and of greatness have perished—
This old world is not what it seems.
And, as I arouse from my rev'rie,
Confronting the cares which have come,
With manhood's full day to perplex me,—
I long for the old days at home.
And with them, full many a dream,
Of wealth, and of greatness have perished—
This old world is not what it seems.
And, as I arouse from my rev'rie,
Confronting the cares which have come,
With manhood's full day to perplex me,—
I long for the old days at home.
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