Its sway of all classes has ever held fast,
And its patron saint Raleigh forever will live
In remembrance as sweet as affection can give,
And the incense we burn is an offering seen
In wreaths of blue smoke from a twist of long green!
Now some may advise you and others may swear
That nicotine poison your nerves will impair,
And if from the weed you'd just kept aloof
From heartburn and palsy you'd surely been proof--
For a man who had died at a hundred fifteen
Was hastened away by smoking long green!
But a cigar, a pipe, or a good juicy chew
Will yield you more comfort than harm they will do,
And murder the microbes that float in the air,
And make magical dreams in the old arm-chair,
If you will remember, and never forget,
To just draw the line at a vile cigarette!
GEORGE W. CHILDS.
FEBRUARY 4TH, 1894.
"Gone to his exceeding great reward,"
The friend of rich and poor alike;
And there'll rest not beneath the sward
More shining mark that death could strike.
The benefactor of his race--
His noble soul from avarice free;
By heaven lent the sordid earth to grace--
A nation's tears sincerely shed for thee!
Thrice blest the one, in lowly lot,
Contented with an humble place,
Who by thy noble heart was ne'er forgot
And knew thy smiling, loving face!
Oh, thus too early snatched away
From generous act and loving deed;
Thousands will now deplore the day--
Thousands now whose hearts will bleed!
The heaven-pointing shaft for thee
Its stately head might never raise;
But thy sweet memory would ever be
Hymned by thy fellow-mortals' praise!
Oh, thanks to Him who in His image made
And to the world this beacon gave;
With tears we'll water flowers that never fade
And gently drop upon his new-made grave!
THE OLD SPRING-HOUSE.
With its rude walls of stone and its moss-covered roof--
('Tis a picture inwoven with memory's woof)--
It stands there to-day, as it stood in the years
When we knew naught of sorrow--nor anguish--nor tears;
And though far from it now, I can see it at will--
The old spring-house at the foot of the hill!
O flights of fond fancy that deeply inurn
Sweet scenes of our childhood, no more to return!
Which carry us back in visions and dreams
And illumine life's pathway with memory's gleams--
Till we see once again, though with tears the eyes fill,
The old spring-house at the foot of the hill!
There we children, bare-footed, would wander to play,
And wade in the branch that flowed on its way
Through the meadows and fields with current so fleet,
And a gurgle and ripple that sounded so sweet!
And the water that helped turn the wheel at the mill
Was from the spring-house at the foot of the hill!
And, oh! I remember a pair of blue eyes,
With glances as tender and soft as the skies,
And a little brown head that was covered with curls,
And the laughter that rippled between rows of pearls,
Which was changed to a cry of despair and of woe
When the craw-fish was clinging to a little pink toe!
Distilled by the heart into memory's wine,
'Tis thus that we drink a draught that's divine,
And lighten the burdens which after years bear,
And banish with dreaming the demon of Care!
O in fond recollection I linger there still,
By the old spring-house at the foot of the hill!
Though vanished forever the faces that smiled,
And hushed is the laughter I heard when a child--
Yet often when musing they float back to me,
And I see them and hear it as clear as can be!
And I'm playing again, while the heart strings all thrill,
By the old spring house at the foot of the hill!
CAMPING ON THE CUMBERLAND.
Where the Cumberland flows on its way to the South,
From its source in the hills half-way to its mouth--
When Autumn has come and tempered the rays
Of the hot blazing sun with its soft mellow haze,
Is an Eden of bliss and a place of delight,
When the minnows are good and the "jumpers" will bite,
And a fellow's well fixed with a reel and a pole,
And other "equipments"--(of which I've been told)!
To camp there and fish for a week at a time,
And have the four-pounders just tug at your line,
Is a feeling akin to sweet visions we see
When we dream of that home where we all hope to be;
And no king in the world who sits on a throne
E'er felt the rare joy that thrills to the bone
When you throw out your line and it whizzes away,
Just cutting the water to foamy white spray!
He darts here and there, dead game to the last,
When he feels the barbed hook and finds that he's fast,
And plunges and struggles, disdaining to yield,
Till exhausted at last to the bank he is reeled,
And carefully lifted from out the old stream,
While he flounders and gasps and his scaly sides gleam,
And you measure his length and guess at his weight--
(Five inches too long and a pound too great)!
And when shadows of evening are gathering around,
And the sun with pure gold each hill-top has crowned,
Then pick up your trappings and leisurely wend
Your way back to camp, above the long bend,
Where the cook has prepared a supper, I trow,
Ne'er dreamt of in thoughts of Delmonico!
And you'll sit there and eat for an hour or more
With an appetite keen--and unheard of before!
Now bring out your pipe and fill up the bowl,
And loll there and smoke till it seems that the soul
Is wafted away like the ringlets that rise
As blue as the dome of the star-jeweled skies!
Then roll in a blanket with your feet to the blaze,
And the croak of the frogs and the ripple that plays
Will lull you to sleep with music as sweet
As that of the song when the angels you greet!
AN EASTER FLOWER.
I.
The flower that she gave to me
Has withered now and died--
But yet with fond fidelity
Its faded leaves abide.
II.
The petals that so fragrant then
She wore upon her breast--
Still clinging to the lifeless stem,
With miser care possessed.
III.
As when in sweetest purity
It shed its perfume rare,
A symbol dear 'twill ever be
Of one divinely fair!
IV.
Plucked by the cruel hand of Death
In beauty's youthful bloom--
She perished with his chilling breath,
And withered in the tomb.
V.
But I will cherish ever thus
The token that she gave
When sun-lit skies were over us,
Unclouded by the grave!
THE STAGE COACH.
No matter what the weather was, in good old stage coach days,
The driver with his ruddy face and spanking team of bays
Would spin along the turnpike road, o'er level stretch and hill,
That wound away from "Idleburg" to classic Nicholasville.
The depths beneath his seat were filled with leathern sacks of mail,
And all the coach's top at times was crowded to the rail
With trunks, valises, packages, and bundles by the score,
That must have weighed, it seemed to me, five thousand pounds or more.
And strapped within the bulging boot, that hung far out behind,
Was added weight enough to make a team of oxen blind;
And counting all the passengers that filled the coach within,
The load those horses had to drag--I thought it was a sin!
How proud of them the driver was! And often he would brag
That they could pull a heavier load and never balk or flag;
If all the road was ankle-deep in miry, sticky mud,
That was the time his team would show its metal and its blood.
The "ribbons" then he'd gather up, and give his whip a crack,
And any team in front of him had better clear the track;
He seemed to own the turnpike road, and kept the right of way
Unto himself as jealously as bloomers do to-day.
By wood and field he wound along, and by the river's bank,
And when he reached the covered bridge the hoof-beats on the plank
Were echoed from the cliffs around and from the vale below;
And going up the hill beyond he'd let 'em walk and blow.
Then urged into a trot again around the curves they spun
Till hove in sight the manor-house of Camp Dick Robinson;
And on beyond where Nelson lay, the bravest of the brave,
Till Nicholasville at last was reached, to them the reins he gave.
And when the sun was hanging low and slanting shadows fell,
Along the streets of "Idleburg" that old familiar yell
Would greet the ears of villagers from small boys as they ran
With open mouths and lusty lungs a-shouting "Here comes Sam!"
Ah me! The old stage coach, abandoned now, stands in the stable lot,
A victim to the tooth of rust, and slow decay and rot;
Its whole-souled driver years ago forever passed away,
And crumbled now to dust the hand that drove each gallant bay!
DICK'S RIVER.
I.
Rock-sentineled, romantic stream!
Thy waters flow with silvery gleam
Where glassy pools and visions greet
Embosomed in some cool retreat;
Then rippling o'er a pebbly bed,
With current fleet thy course is led
To where, walled in by beetling cliffs,
It plunges o'er the hidden rifts.
II.
Past where the meadows gently sweep
The limpid waters silent creep,
Until, o'erhung with cooling shade,
They lave the shores of sylvan glade,
And many a wild-flower blooming there
Its incense flings upon the air;
And spreading o'er each sloping side
An emerald carpet stretches wide.
III.
Now gliding out, the waters gleam
And sparkle with the sun's warm beam,
Reflecting then some mirrored cloud
Like specter wrapt in filmy shroud--
Till pouring down with fretful whirl
They o'er the mill-dam rush and curl,
And foaming round in eddies deep,
The circles wide and wider creep!
IV.
Oh, by thy wave I've loved to stray
On many a balmy summer's day--
When youth, and hope, and life were sweet--
Thy wooded banks and cliffs to greet!
And often back to days of yore
My fancy strays along thy shore,
And musing thus I fondly dream
I see again thy waters gleam!
TO A LITTLE BOY.
I.
Dear little one with eyes so blue,
And silken ringlets of flaxen hair!
Oh, may life have in store for you
Something better than anguish and care!
Oh, may thy footsteps guided be
In paths of peace and pleasantness!
Oh, may those bright eyes never see
Much of the cold world's bitterness!
II.
Dear little one with innocent lips,
Tasting life's cup at the sparkling brim!
Oh, may the dregs that sorrow sips
Ever be kept aloof from him!
Oh, may the smile on his dimpled face
Through the years to come still linger there!
Oh, may Time's fingers gently place
The silver strands in his flaxen hair!
WHEN THE COAL HOUSE'S FULL.
When the nights are gittin' chilly and the leaves begin to fade,
An' the mercury's down to thirty, 'stead o' ninety in the shade,
There's a happy kind o' feelin' takes possession o' the soul--
With the smoke house full o' middlin', and the coal house full o' coal!
When the wintry winds are whistlin' through the branches o' the trees,
An' the dead leaves are a-flyin' and a-rustlin' in the breeze,
You kin feel the vast contentment that over you will roll--
If the barn is full o' fodder, and the coal house full o' coal!
When the 'skeeter's ceased from troublin' and the fly is chilled to death,
An' the window-pane is written with the Frost King's icy breath,
You kin dream about the Summer-time, an' that old fishin' pole--
If the pantry's full o' victuals, an' the coal house full o' coal!
When your supper's been digested an' you're dozin' in your chair,
Or you're tucked between the blankets from the frosty, nippin' air,
Why, your dreams will be the sweeter if you've helped some sufferin' soul
Whose larder's scant o' victuals, and his coal house minus coal!
DECEMBER.
I.
White-shrouded, latest-born of all the year,
In thy cold hands no bud or floweret bearing,
Thou comest now to wail above the bier
Of thy dead sisters--on thy bosom wearing
The icy jewel and the frosted gem--
But on thy marble brow the Star of Bethlehem!
II.
Beneath thy foot-prints lie the Autumn leaves,
Mould'ring and hast'ning to decay;
And where the drifting snow its mantle weaves
The Summer songsters sang the happy hours away.
What tho' the birds have flown the blighted stem?
There's in thy jeweled crown the Star of Bethlehem!
SOLACE.
One Autumn evening, wandering, when the sun was hanging low,
Through a woodland where the music of a streamlet's gentle flow
Commingled with the rustling of the yellow golden leaves,
And the idling breeze's sighing as it floated through the trees,
I heard sweet voices whispering in accents soft and low,
That lulled to rest the troubled soul, like those of long ago.
Enchanted thus I lingered, by unseen hands fast bound,
My willing fancy captive to the magic of sweet sound,
And eagerly I listened to the whispering voices tell
Of happy days of childhood, and the tear unbidden fell,
As were pictured to the mind again the halcyon scenes of yore,
And loved ones that no more I'll meet till on the silent shore!
And as the slanting shadows fell athwart the scattered leaves
The language that the voices spoke was formed of words like these:
"You may mingle with the sordid world, in eager, restless haste,
To struggle for the golden fruit that Mammon loves to taste,
But find at last, the end attained, that there are better things
To satisfy the longing heart--that sweeter solace brings.
"Thy Springtime, thy Summer, and thy Autumn's mellowed haze,
If rightly lived and rightly spent, will bring rare, happy days,
That temper with their sunshine the frigid Winter's wrath,
When gathering storms are darkling o'er life's declining path,
And lend a ray celestial that hoarded gold ne'er gave
To lighten all thy journey, from the cradle to the grave."
FRANK L. STANTON.
I.
The sweetest music put in song since Robby Burns's time
Is that which breathes its harmony from Georgia's sunny clime,
Where the fragrant-scented odor that the climbing jasmine flings
Commingles with the melody that gifted Stanton sings!
II.
It may not suit a bookish clan that cannot understand
The rhythm and the cadences they never can command--
But what is that to him that knows and touches all the strings
Of hearts responsive to his strain when gifted Stanton sings?
III.
We read his songs and hear the notes repeated once again
His ear has caught when listening to the mocking-bird's refrain,
And interwoven with the sense a mystic something rings
That fills the soul with ecstasy when gifted Stanton sings!
IV.
O Sunny South! where blooming flowers and where the whispering pine
Attunes his harp till every string gives forth a sound divine!
We love you for the many gifts that generous Nature brings,
But best of all--we love you for the song that Stanton sings!
THE OLD CHURCH BELL.
It hangs today where it has hung for fifty years or more,
But some who loved its silver tones the church-yard covers o'er,
And many are the times since then, with deep and solemn knell,
Has tolled for dear departed ones the
Old
Church
Bell!
Within a latticed tower it swings, high up above the street,
And every Sabbath morn is heard the music clear and sweet
Which floats above the village roofs, and over hill and dell,
Upborne upon the vagrant wind, from the
Old
Church
Bell!
Full many a change the hand of Time has in the village wrought,
And passing years have often been with grief and anguish fraught,
Yet age has never changed its tones, and years cannot dispel
The magic of the music from the
Old
Church
Bell!
Since it was placed within the tower, in days of long ago,
The tempests wild have round it raved, and many a driven snow
Has sifted through the slats up there, and mantled as it fell
In robes of white its dwelling place, and the
Old
Church
Bell!
Though gone from earth and earthly things--forever passed away--
The faithful ones who loved while here its summons to obey
Now rest beyond the tide of Time, with rapture long to dwell,
For there their footsteps guided were by the
Old
Church
Bell!
A SUMMER EVENING.
I.
The sun has sunk in the crimson west,
And "around the languid eyes of day"
The Twilight's dreamy shadows rest
And light and shade alternate play;
The winds are hushed, nor leaf nor flower
Is swayed with motion by their power.
II.
The fireflies with meteor lamps
Arise from out the dewy lawn,
And there the elfin cricket chants
His vespers when the day is gone,
And far above, the sky's coquette
With all her starry train is met.
FATHER RYAN.
I.
In Southern sunny clime there is a hallowed tomb,
Where rest the ashes of a minstrel priest;
And soft winds that are laden with a sweet perfume
Their requiems for him have never ceased.
II.
We read his songs, and hear again the tread
Of armed battalions, marching to the fray,
Or see once more the features of beloved dead
Whose life blood crimsoned uniforms of gray!
III.
We see the tattered banner that he loved so well
Again unfurled and fluttering in the breeze,
And once again we hear the "rebel yell"
Triumphant wafted o'er the riven trees!
IV.
O, may thy minstrel spirit find eternal rest
In some fair clime where nothing can be lost!
Where anguish never more can rend thy breast,
And fondest hope can ne'er be tempest tost!
THE MEADOW PATH.
I.
It led adown the sloping hill, and through the valley wound,
And where the blooming clover shed its fragrance all around,
And then between the maple trees, across the little brook,
To where the old fence bars let down, a tortuous course it took;
And often are the times I've heard the merry, ringing laugh,
From rosy-ankled children there, along the meadow path.
II.
Three boys--and a little girl whose hair was chestnut gold--
(She's resting now in dreamless sleep beneath the crumbling mold;)--
But I remember her as when, with innocence and glee,
Her laughing eyes looked into mine--for she was dear to me;
And thus it is I love to let the fancy photograph
The merry group that idled there, along the meadow path.
III.
Adown it oft we used to go at twilight for the cows,
Or wander from the beaten track a rabbit to arouse,
And watch him as he scampered off, with frightened leap and bound,
The while we made the welkin ring and with our shouts resound.
The sweetest flowers that bloom for me--a fragrant aftermath--
Are those that in the memory blow, along the meadow path!
THE FOX HUNTERS.
I.
With fleet-limbed steeds and baying pack
They follow close on Reynard's track,
And wake the slumbering echoes round
With music of the horn and hound;
Through wood and field, o'er hill and dale,
They course him in the moonlight pale,
And sport they find which brings delight--
These reckless riders of the night!
II.
The game is up! away, away!
Nor hedge nor fence their course can stay;
They clear them at a single leap,
And like the wind they onward sweep!
O'er fallen trunk and hidden ditch
The fearless horsemen plunge and pitch,
And heedless all they follow on
With ringing shout and winding horn!
III.
Thy wondrous ride, oh Tam O'Shanter,
To speed like theirs was but a canter;
Had you bestrode that night instead
Of gray mare Meg a thoroughbred
(Such as Kentuckians only breed--
To Scotia then an unknown steed),
No carline could have caught his rump
And left your brute with scarce a stump!
IV.
His foaming horse with throbbing sides
Unslackened yet his pace he rides,
Till in among the yelping hounds
The foremost huntsman proudly bounds,
And sees the leaders of the chase
(Two matchless dogs that set the pace)
O'ertake the game and win the race!
And then dismounts and feels the flush
Of victory as he takes the brush!
V.
O royal sport, befitting kings!
It bids the demon Care take wings,
And the rose's hue to the cheek it brings!
And sweeter music none can hear
Than that which greets the list'ning ear--
By distance mellowed to a key
That breathes divinest harmony--
And wakes the slumbering echoes round--
The winding horn and baying hound!
THE CHARMING GIRL OF SOMERSET.
By magic spell was I entranced
When on me first thy brown eyes glanced,
And sunbeams played at hide and seek
Thro' silken ringlets on thy dimpling cheek,
And like some glorious halo shed
Their radiance o'er thy shapely head--
And seemed as if they loved to dwell
Where'er thy airy footsteps fell!
And in my dreams I see thee now--
The pearly teeth--the arching brow--
The form that mocks the sculptor's art
To add one curve that could impart
More beauty and more witching grace,
Or chisel out a sweeter face!
Blest be the hour when first I met
This charming girl of Somerset!
IN JULY.
I.
Oh, for a deep-shaded spot where the shadows cool
Are hid from the rays of the glaring sun,
And the sparkling waters from a limped pool
O'er the gleaming pebbles in ripples run!
II.
Where the sloping banks are with verdure clad,
And the hoary cliffs with moss o'ergrown,
And the tangled vine and the wildflowers pad
The fallen trunk and the hidden stone!
III.
Where the song that wells from a feathered throat
The echoes repeat again and again,
And the drifted sedge and the bubbles float
O'er the glassy depths of a miniature main!
IV.
Where the willows dip in the edge of the stream,
And sway and nod in the passing breeze,
And a feller could tranquilly rest and dream
Of a howling blizzard and a good hard freeze!
TO J. R. M.
I walked within the silent city of the dead,
Which then with Autumn leaves was carpeted,
And where the faded flower and withered wreath
Bespoke the love for those who slept beneath,
And, weeping, stood beside a new-made grave
Which held the sacred dust that friendship gave.
That heart with milk of human kindness overflowed--
That sympathetic hand its generous aid bestowed
To lighten others' burdens on life's weary road!
And there no polished shaft need lift its head
In lettered eulogy above the sainted dead--
His deeds are monuments above the dust whereon we tread!
When from its fragile tenement of clay
To fairer realms his spirit winged its way,
With poignant grief we stood around the bier
Which held the lifeless form of one held dear,
And broken hearts that knew no comfort then
Still mourn the loss of one of Nature's noblemen!
TWILIGHT.
The sun is sinking where the western hills
The vision bounds with rugged summits old,
And with his latest beam he brightly gilds
And crowns with amethyst and gold.
The distant music of a tinkling bell
Is floating o'er the meadow's gentle sweep--
No discords mar the magic of the spell,
And stealthily the twilight shadows creep.
And gently falls upon the listening ear--
Like tones from voices of the long-ago--
The cadence of the murmuring waters near--
With rhythmic ripplings soft and low.
Now grow apace the shadows' slanting shapes
And fade the rugged hills to misty gray,
As dying day its calm departure takes
And yields to coming night her sable sway.
The vaulted dome above now glows afar
With many a soft and tender light,
Each sparkling gem it wears a jeweled star,
With sweet effulgence purely bright.
Sweet scene! Sweet hour! If to the heart
No quick'ning pulses they can lend,
And to the soul no rapture thus impart--
Vain were our lives--and vainer still the end!
O, such the time when he who will may feel
Release from care, vexation, toil, and strife--
And musing then will gently o'er him steal
The sweetest moments of the turmoil--life!
OUT UV "POLITICKS."
I.
"I'll tell yer what," said Uncle Zeke, down at the country store,
"I'd been a farmer all my life--fur twenty year or more--
Until one day my noddle here, it got plumb out o' fix,
Er-swellin' with the idy that I's made fur politicks.
II.
"I'd been ter hear them fellers speak, an' rip an' rant an' rave,
When 'lection time's er-comin' on, who tell yer how ter save
Ther kentry frum tarnation ruin, by sendin' only men
That's fit ter draw ther salaries, an' honest--jest like them.
III.
"So listen, boys--yer'll profit by ther story that I tell--
I left ther farm ter 'lectioneer an' run fur constable;
I wouldn't hearken ter my wife--she said I'd lost my wit,
An' as fur holdin' offices--_she_ knowed _I_ wusn't fit.
IV.
"But ennyhow, I sold er steer, an' then er heifer calf,
An' bought er bran' new suit o' clothes fur twenty an' er half,
An' 'fore ther 'lection day cum roun' I'd sold my wheat an' oats,
An' spent ther proceeds that I got in purchasin' uv votes.
V.
"I knowed 'twus wrong--agin ther law--ter do er thing like that--
But then ther boys all said, yer know, 'twould take er little 'fat,'
Fur ther feller that I run agin could have no earthly hope
Uv beatin' me if I'd use ther right amount uv 'soap.'
VI.
"I jocks I did--I won ther fight--I sarved er single term--
(But fur ther salary that I got I wouldn't give er durn);
An' right up here I wear ther scar that shows whar I wus hit
Ther day I rid fur forty miles ter sarve that cussed 'writ!'"
JONES' MARE.
I.
Now Farmer Jones was noted for fast horses on his place,
And also as the father of a son with freckled face,
And hair so red it looked as if it had been dyed in blood,
And Ephraim was the "masher" of the country neighborhood.
II.