Something moves my pen; its former chime
I fain would drop, and gladly lose the rhyme
That lights my verse as ore lights up a mine,
If on my canvas I could curve and line
These quiet hills, and for an hour could say
I’d caught the warmth that on the landscape lay,
And that I dreamed as artists sometimes dream
Who blend their smiles with meadow, mound, and stream;
I am indeed a child worn out at play,
And weary of my game I long to stray
To other haunts, to other heights unknown,
And claim that Raphael’s brush as half my own.
Alas! forsaken by my Muse I turn
And backward glance--she beckons my return--
She floods the old familiar fields with light,
She bids me pause, take up my pen and--write.
’Tis scarce yet dawn, the leaves awake,
And in my brow the raindrops shake
The only remnant of the cloud
That pealed last night with thunder loud;
The only hint that here with flowers
Come sometimes shadows, sometimes showers.
The morning is a dream of bliss,
The breeze not unlike Love’s first kiss.
My soul expands--I drink the dew,
It gives my veins a deeper hue,
I halt where like a singing rill
The spring comes dripping o’er the hill.
I fill my cup again, again,
I drink for all--good health to men--
I hear the rising bell’s faint sound,
The porter makes his usual round.
And black-eyed Easter trips along
The kitchen porch with smile and song,
We find a poem in her churn,
An essence in her coffee urn;
We note the pale dyspeptic’s cheek
Is growing rosy, round, and sleek;
His torpid stomach forced to fast,
Here soon partakes the rich repast.
Breakfast over, ’round the springs
The guests assemble--some in swings--
And those of a romantic turn
Stroll two and two in search of fern.
For them the woods have more than speech,
A calm that to the heart doth reach,
That perfect peace of mind and soul
The sacred Book to us hath told.
I deem that morning holds more charms
Than day hides elsewhere in her arms;
But when she folds her shadowy tent,
And stars laugh in the firmament,
A newer phase doth nature take,
And in the heart new joys awake.
Some love the ball-room’s din and glare
As soft they trip some favorite air,
Some love to lounge about the spring,
Some frequent spots where hammocks swing,
And others saunter to the pool
Their tired limbs to bathe and cool.
But give me just the shady rook
That o’er the dripping spring doth look,
And let me watch the bright lamps flash,
And let me listen to the splash
Of the old spring that drips and drips,
To cool and cure the fever lips.
Who could forget the landlord’s vim
Or cottage rooms so neat and trim?
Who would not leave the city’s glare,
The heat, the dust, and stifling air--
Who would not part with all his wealth
To gain at Dripping Springs his health?
In Memoriam.
They tell me she is dead, that we no more
Upon her quiet face can rest our eyes,
Yet long we for it, as a weary bird
Longs all in vain to rest upon a cloud
That heavenward floats. And yet there’s solace still
In musing on her faith so strong and pure,
That recognized, through pain, God’s every wish,
And dreaded not to taste death’s cup if so
By Him decreed.
I was not there to hold
Her hand; it chilled within the orphan’s palm
Until by angels clasp’d. I could not twine
The flowers she so much loved about her shroud,
Or speak a word of comfort to the friends
That sobbed, and kissed the lips grown strangely cold,
That never parted but to speak in praise
When others tried to censure; but my heart
Beats sad to-day the measures of my verse,
And tear-drops fall.
So falls the autumn rain
Upon her grave, and drifting are the leaves
Upon the mound that loving friends have raised
In memory of her, whose spirit rests
To-day with God.
The Old Orchard Trees.
Why cut them away? The dear old trees,
They never did aught of harm,
But scattered their perfume out to the breeze,
And sheltered the birds from the storm.
For an age they have stood on the town’s outer meads,
The skirmish and battle have braved;
Alike they have gazed on the war’s bloody deeds,
And the white flag of peace as it waved.
But you cut them away! my pleading is vain!
In their shade moves the carpenter’s hands,
I watched him to-day as he leveled his plane,
And he spoke of the architect’s plans.
Then a wave of distress in my heart flowed anew,
For dearly I love each old tree;
Ah me! many secrets are hidden from you
That the apple trees whispered to me.
I used to go by, and the sweet morning air,
Like incense, arose from the spot,
It would crowd from my heart some pain gnawing there,
While the world with its cares was forgot.
Here, I’ve heard the first news of the blue bird and dove,
And the round, silver note of the thrush,
A concert, with sweet variations of love,
Seemed pouring from tree and from bush.
I walked there to-day; as an accent profane
That falls on the heart and the ear,
I heard the harsh echo of hammer and plane,
And the pant of a mill in the rear.
So I muffled my face with the veil that I wore--
Time, that moment of pain can’t appease;
Unless like the birds from the scene I can soar,
And like them, forget the old trees.
On the Hill-top Grow the Daisies.