 | Nacoochee ; or, the beautiful star, with other Poems |  |
TO A CHINA TREE,
WHICH I PLANTED WHEN A BOY.
Suggested by reading the “Old Oaken Bucket,” by Woodworth.
Turn all thy dew to splendour, for from thee
The spirit thou lamentest is not gone.—
Adonais.
The spirit thou lamentest is not gone.—
Adonais.
How sweet to remember the oaks of my childhood,
Whose cool shady twilights were haunts of my youth—
The tall wavy pine-tops that hung in the wildwood,
Whose boughs, in the breeze, sang the music of truth.
And, oh! to remember the China tree growing
Beside the big road intersecting the state,
Where often I shot with my cross-bow, when snowing,
The robins that perched on the boughs near the gate.
And shot with my cross-bow—my mulberry cross-bow—
The robins that perched on the boughs near the gate.
Whose cool shady twilights were haunts of my youth—
The tall wavy pine-tops that hung in the wildwood,
Whose boughs, in the breeze, sang the music of truth.
And, oh! to remember the China tree growing
Beside the big road intersecting the state,
Where often I shot with my cross-bow, when snowing,
The robins that perched on the boughs near the gate.
And shot with my cross-bow—my mulberry cross-bow—
The robins that perched on the boughs near the gate.
When the shadows of night fled away in the morning,
And the sun robed the mountains and gilded the lands,
I dug up the sprout from the plum-trees adorning,
And planted it out with my own little hands.
And down on the hill-side—my own little mountain—
In the cove of a rock sat an old speckled goose,
That hissed when I drove her to swim in the fountain
That gushed from the spring like a charger let loose.
And shot with my cross-bow—my mulberry cross-bow—
The robins that perched on the boughs near the gate.
And the sun robed the mountains and gilded the lands,
I dug up the sprout from the plum-trees adorning,
And planted it out with my own little hands.
52
In the cove of a rock sat an old speckled goose,
That hissed when I drove her to swim in the fountain
That gushed from the spring like a charger let loose.
And shot with my cross-bow—my mulberry cross-bow—
The robins that perched on the boughs near the gate.
And, oh! how delightful the clear crystal waters
Flowed sporting along through the wood-skirted vale,
Where mother once walked with her dear little daughters,
And combed down their dark glossy locks in the gale.
How fondly I marched with my cross-bow and arrows,
That hung on my arm as I ambled along,
Where, all the day long, I have hunted the sparrows,
And listened, at eve, to the mocking-bird's song.
And shot with my cross-bow—my mulberry cross-bow—
The robins that perched on the boughs near the gate.
Flowed sporting along through the wood-skirted vale,
Where mother once walked with her dear little daughters,
And combed down their dark glossy locks in the gale.
How fondly I marched with my cross-bow and arrows,
That hung on my arm as I ambled along,
Where, all the day long, I have hunted the sparrows,
And listened, at eve, to the mocking-bird's song.
And shot with my cross-bow—my mulberry cross-bow—
The robins that perched on the boughs near the gate.
'Tis strange how I feel when this childish emotion
Recalls up the past as it were when a boy,
And pictures those features of early devotion,
As perfect as when every sunshine was joy.
The old oakey grove overshadows the China,
As mother once shaded her dear little child,
And the robins now sport with my sister Salina,
As erst with myself ere I came to this wild.
And shot with my cross-bow—my mulberry cross-bow—
The robins that perched on the boughs near the gate.
Recalls up the past as it were when a boy,
And pictures those features of early devotion,
As perfect as when every sunshine was joy.
The old oakey grove overshadows the China,
As mother once shaded her dear little child,
And the robins now sport with my sister Salina,
As erst with myself ere I came to this wild.
And shot with my cross-bow—my mulberry cross-bow—
The robins that perched on the boughs near the gate.
There are four sombre oaks o'er the well-top reclining,
That nature, in sport, planted out for a shade,
So near equidistant, with artful designing,
That strangers believed them an artful arcade.
Twas there the old scullion suspended the butter,
While I with my pop-gun, sat high in the tree,
And shot at the robins, while sister would mutter,
And wistfully look through the boughs up at me.
And shot with my cross-bow—my mulberry cross-bow—
The robins that perched on the boughs near the gate.
That nature, in sport, planted out for a shade,
So near equidistant, with artful designing,
That strangers believed them an artful arcade.
53
While I with my pop-gun, sat high in the tree,
And shot at the robins, while sister would mutter,
And wistfully look through the boughs up at me.
And shot with my cross-bow—my mulberry cross-bow—
The robins that perched on the boughs near the gate.
Ah! then I was happy—with love overflowing—
But knew not the value of pleasure by pain,
Till grief, like the frost, nipped my roses while blowing,
And tuned up my heart-strings to music again!
And, oh! to remember that day-spring of pleasure,
Unmixed with the present reflections in pain—
Methinks it were well to look back on the treasure,
And strive all my life to procure them again.
And shoot with my cross-bow—my mulberry cross-bow—
The robins that perched on the boughs near the gate.
But knew not the value of pleasure by pain,
Till grief, like the frost, nipped my roses while blowing,
And tuned up my heart-strings to music again!
And, oh! to remember that day-spring of pleasure,
Unmixed with the present reflections in pain—
Methinks it were well to look back on the treasure,
And strive all my life to procure them again.
And shoot with my cross-bow—my mulberry cross-bow—
The robins that perched on the boughs near the gate.
How gladly I looked through the suckle-gemmed valley,
The grove where the washwoman filled up her tank—
And stood by the well, in the green oakey alley,
And turned down the old cedar bucket and drank.
But farewell, ye oaks! and the trees of my childhood!
And all the bright scenes appertaining to joy!
I think of ye often, away in this wildwood,
But never shall be as I was when a boy.
Nor shoot with my cross-bow—my mulberry cross-bow—
The robins that perched on the boughs near the gate.
The grove where the washwoman filled up her tank—
And stood by the well, in the green oakey alley,
And turned down the old cedar bucket and drank.
But farewell, ye oaks! and the trees of my childhood!
And all the bright scenes appertaining to joy!
I think of ye often, away in this wildwood,
But never shall be as I was when a boy.
Nor shoot with my cross-bow—my mulberry cross-bow—
The robins that perched on the boughs near the gate.
| Nacoochee ; or, the beautiful star, with other Poems | |