Poetry of the Farm and Rural Life Connecticut River reeds blown by the "Peasant Bard" |
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UNADILLA BROOK. |
 | Poetry of the Farm and Rural Life |  |
UNADILLA BROOK.
Sweet stream, how memories o'er thee spring,
Like autumn morning's filmy wing,
That marks thy winding way!
For life's first light, my earliest days,
Were tethered to thy “banks and braes”
With bonds that surely stay.
Like autumn morning's filmy wing,
That marks thy winding way!
For life's first light, my earliest days,
Were tethered to thy “banks and braes”
With bonds that surely stay.
The Indian loved thee, for I trace,
Hither and yon, his dwelling place
Along thy pleasant plains;
And oft my ploughshare's cleaving way
Turns upward to the light of day
All that of him remains.
Hither and yon, his dwelling place
Along thy pleasant plains;
And oft my ploughshare's cleaving way
Turns upward to the light of day
All that of him remains.
How soft this Indian summer sun
Shines on thy waters as they run,
And shores of fading green!
The Spirit of the Past appears,
And lifts the veil that hides the years
That you and I have seen.
Shines on thy waters as they run,
And shores of fading green!
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And lifts the veil that hides the years
That you and I have seen.
And as I backward look away,
I see the barefoot child at play
Thy tuneful path beside;
Or, in his rudely fashioned boat
I see him set himself afloat
With all a sailor's pride.
I see the barefoot child at play
Thy tuneful path beside;
Or, in his rudely fashioned boat
I see him set himself afloat
With all a sailor's pride.
The sunny bank, the sandy down,
Named for some great commercial town,
His ports of entry made;—
The awe he felt in floating o'er
Thy deeps enshadowed by the shore
And black with alders' shade!
Named for some great commercial town,
His ports of entry made;—
The awe he felt in floating o'er
Thy deeps enshadowed by the shore
And black with alders' shade!
The frequent shipwreck that he met;
The slow home progress, dripping wet;
The careful mother's pain;
The birch prescription, well applied
To quell the rising seaman's pride,—
But, ah! applied in vain.
The slow home progress, dripping wet;
The careful mother's pain;
The birch prescription, well applied
To quell the rising seaman's pride,—
But, ah! applied in vain.
Do children see with larger eyes?
Or is thy volume less in size?
It seems that both must be;
For then full brimmed thy current flowed,
Thy awful pools no bottom showed!—
A river thou to me.
Or is thy volume less in size?
It seems that both must be;
For then full brimmed thy current flowed,
Thy awful pools no bottom showed!—
A river thou to me.
The fisher-boy with line and hook;
The spangled people of the brook;
The lustrous pearl so rare;
The mink, the musquash, and the duck;—
Did ever boy have braver luck,
Or more enjoyment share!
The spangled people of the brook;
The lustrous pearl so rare;
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Did ever boy have braver luck,
Or more enjoyment share!
And since,—how many days I've wrought
Along thy side, enwrapt in thought,
Communing, lone, with thee!
The happy, careless song you bore
Was babbled as in days of yore,
But sad my minstrelsy.
Along thy side, enwrapt in thought,
Communing, lone, with thee!
The happy, careless song you bore
Was babbled as in days of yore,
But sad my minstrelsy.
The fatal morn, the solemn day,
Flown, save from memory, far away,—
There it is vivid yet,—
When dead upon thy bosom fell
The honored sire I loved so well!—
Can ever I forget?
Flown, save from memory, far away,—
There it is vivid yet,—
When dead upon thy bosom fell
The honored sire I loved so well!—
Can ever I forget?
Ah, me! if offered to enjoy
The happy freedom of the boy,
And live it o'er again,
And pay the tax of ripened years,
The griefs, the troubles and the tears,—
The offer were in vain.
The happy freedom of the boy,
And live it o'er again,
And pay the tax of ripened years,
The griefs, the troubles and the tears,—
The offer were in vain.
Sweet Unadilla! when my eyes
See thee no more, thy voice will rise,
Soft murmuring along
Its liquid, gliding melody,—
Oh, could the bard awake with thee
The never-dying song!
See thee no more, thy voice will rise,
Soft murmuring along
Its liquid, gliding melody,—
Oh, could the bard awake with thee
The never-dying song!
| Poetry of the Farm and Rural Life | |