 | The select poems of Dr. Thomas Dunn English (exclusive of the "Battle lyrics") |  |
THE ROADSIDE SPRING.
Tall houses crowd the rising ground, where stood the woods before,
But still unchanged the crystal spring and as it was of yore—
The yellow log through which it wells, its bottom strewn with sand,
The gourd hung on the alder bough, so ready to the hand,
The lush grass growing on the edge, the bushes drooping low—
It is the same old roadside spring of fifty years ago.
But still unchanged the crystal spring and as it was of yore—
The yellow log through which it wells, its bottom strewn with sand,
The gourd hung on the alder bough, so ready to the hand,
The lush grass growing on the edge, the bushes drooping low—
It is the same old roadside spring of fifty years ago.
Here one time was the grazing farm where I was born and bred;
There stood the farm-house—they have built a mansion there instead;
This street was once the turnpike road, o'er which in drought or rain
There used to pass, on creaking wheels, the Conestoga wain;
And here, however given was he a stronger draught to take,
The driver always stopped awhile his ceaseless thirst to slake.
There stood the farm-house—they have built a mansion there instead;
This street was once the turnpike road, o'er which in drought or rain
There used to pass, on creaking wheels, the Conestoga wain;
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The driver always stopped awhile his ceaseless thirst to slake.
How frequent, on my way to school, I tarried at the brink,
And looked within its crystal depth before I bent to drink.
There is no change—the water still the purest and the best;
That gourd—it seems the very same my lips so often pressed;
The grass around is quite as green; the log as mossy seems;
How vividly the past comes back, like figures seen in dreams!
And looked within its crystal depth before I bent to drink.
There is no change—the water still the purest and the best;
That gourd—it seems the very same my lips so often pressed;
The grass around is quite as green; the log as mossy seems;
How vividly the past comes back, like figures seen in dreams!
Out yonder stands a church, whose spire is piercing through the air,
Where stood the schoolhouse in a field of grass and bushes bare;
A little wooden house it was, one-storied, narrow, low—
Old Griffin was the teacher then; he died here long ago;
Hard-featured, stern—the neighbors said he was a learned man:
One thing he knew beyond all doubt—the use of his rattan.
Where stood the schoolhouse in a field of grass and bushes bare;
A little wooden house it was, one-storied, narrow, low—
Old Griffin was the teacher then; he died here long ago;
Hard-featured, stern—the neighbors said he was a learned man:
One thing he knew beyond all doubt—the use of his rattan.
Down that side street, so thickly built, the path lay to the glen—
The short road to the village mill; they've arched the stream since then.
That dusty, dun, three-storied mill, with ever open door;
The champing brutes that bore the grist ranged in a row before;
The black wheel turning slowly round, the water falling free;
The clatter and the whir within—how plain they are to me.
The short road to the village mill; they've arched the stream since then.
That dusty, dun, three-storied mill, with ever open door;
The champing brutes that bore the grist ranged in a row before;
The black wheel turning slowly round, the water falling free;
The clatter and the whir within—how plain they are to me.
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Mill, woodland, schoolhouse, field and farm—they all have passed away;
This is a strange and alien land wherein I stand to-day;
The scenes of youth I longed to see, at my approach have fled;
Here is the burial place of dreams, and here the past lies dead;
And yet one verdant spot remains within the desert drear,
One oasis within the waste—the roadside spring is here.
This is a strange and alien land wherein I stand to-day;
The scenes of youth I longed to see, at my approach have fled;
Here is the burial place of dreams, and here the past lies dead;
And yet one verdant spot remains within the desert drear,
One oasis within the waste—the roadside spring is here.
| The select poems of Dr. Thomas Dunn English (exclusive of the "Battle lyrics") | |