xt77d7957f0m https://exploreuk.uky.edu/dips/xt77d7957f0m/data/mets.xml Doneghy, George W. 1897  books b92-200-30752058 English Editor Pub. Co., : Franklin, O. : Contact the Special Collections Research Center for information regarding rights and use of this collection. Old Hanging Fork  : and other poems / by George W. Doneghy. text Old Hanging Fork  : and other poems / by George W. Doneghy. 1897 2002 true xt77d7957f0m section xt77d7957f0m 



THE



OLD HANGING FORK

            AN 1)


   OTHER POEMS.



GEORGE W. DONEGHY







    FRANKLIN, OHIO:
The Editor Flublishhing Co
      1 497,

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Copyright, 1897,
       By
George W. Doneghy.

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CONTENTS.



THE OLD HlANGIN(7 FORK,
SWEET SEPTEMBER DAYS,
YER OLD COB PIPE,
TIM BLUSTER'S DREAM,
APPLE 3BLOSSOMS,
CHLICKAMAUGA,
(FN. JOHN B. GORDON,
UPl AND) D)OWN OLD CLARK'S RUN,
ROISERT B3URNS (A Paraphrase),
WISHIINGT-FIS GINO,
POF,
A BARREN IDEALTY,"
A CHERISHED RELIC,
" RESTLAND,"
MY VALENTINE,
A SMOKE,
PERRYVILI.IF,
LONGINGS,
I)OWN ABOUT OLD SHAKERTOWN,
MEMORIA IN pound;ETERNA,
A MOTHER'S GRAVE,
A FRECKLE-FACED Boy,
THE D)AM BELOW THE MILL,
THE SERENADE,
"IS IT 1OT ENOUGTH FFR YOU"
TEIE TOKEN,
SCENES I USED TO KNOW,
BEREFT,
THE " BULL SPRING,"
FAMILIAR HAUNTS,



   PAt;E.
      9

      131



      i8
      20
      22
      2,3
      2,5
      27
      28
    29
   . 31

    ,33
    35
   36

    .17





    4.3

    2 0
    46

    2 3
    49
    5
    5 2

    54
    E;6
   58

 







                  CONTENTS.

A FADED LETTER,
THE HERMIT,
THE " MEDICAL SPRING,"
AN " IDYL" OF THE BALL,
DREAMS,
A TWIST OF " NATURAL LEAF,"
GEORGE W. CHILDS,
THE OLD SPRING-IHlOUSE,
CAMPING ON THE CUMBERLAND,
AN EASTER FLOWER,
THE STAGE COACH,
I)ICK's RIVER
TO A LITTLE BoY,
WHEN THE COAL HlOUSE 'S FULL,
DEC EMtER,
SOLACE,
FRANK L. STANTON,
THE OLD CHURCH BELL,
A SUMMER EVENING-(,
FATHER RYAN
THE MEADOW PATH,
TIIE Fox HUNTERS,
THE CHARMING GTIRL OF SOMERSET,
IN JULY,
To J. R. M.,
TWILIGHT,
OUT UV " POLITICKS,
JONES' MARE,
THAT OLD STRAW HAT OF MINE,
TOM BARREE'S POND,
WHERE
THIE HILLS OF LINCOLN,
LOVED ANI) LOST.
A TRUE STORY,



    PAGE.
      6o
      61
   . 63
      64
      6;
      66
    68
      69
    71
    73
      74
      76
     78
      79

      82
    84


      X,-
      88
      89
       91
      93
      94
    95
   96
   98
   100
     103
     105
     107
     109

   112


 






      Che

old banging Tork


  Other Poems.

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TIlE OLD) HANGIN(G FORK.



                         IT.
0 DON'T you remember those days so divine,
Around which the heart-strings all tenderly twine,
When with sapling pole and a painted cork
We fished up and down the old Hanging Fork-
From the raiload bridge, with its single span,
Clear down to the mill at Dawson's old dam-
From early morn till the shades of night,
And it made no difference if fish didIn'/ bite

                         II.
Wlhat pleasure it gives to think and to dream
Of those long, happy days, and the old winding str am,
When we waded the creek with our pants to the knee,
And got our lines tangled in a sycamore tree,
And were most scared to death when out from the root
The long, wriggling snake through the water did shoot,
And you lost your line, your hook and your cork,
And I slipped and fell in the old Hanging Fork!

                        III.
The years they have come, and the years they have fled,
And frosted with silver the hairs of the head,
But still in fond memory there lingers the joy
Of scenes such as these, when a bare-footed boy
I wandered away to the clear rippling stream-
No cankering care to trouble life's dream;-
And we spit on our bait and in whispers we'd talk,
As we threw out our lines in the old Hanging Fork!

                         9

 






IV.



We sat there and fished with the sun beaming down
On the tops of our heads through hats minus crown,
And when I got a bite or you caught a perch
We'd just give our lines a thundering lurch,
And land him high up on the bank in the weeds,
Then string him along with the pumpkin seeds!
O don't you remember the hot, dusky walk,
Along the white pike to the old Hanging Fork



I to


 












SWEET SEPTEMBER DAYS.



                         I.

THERE'S a something in the atmosphere, in sweet Sep-
      tember days,
That mantles all the landscape with its languid, dreamy
      haze;
And you see the leaves a-dropping, in a lazy kind of way,
Where the maple trees are standing in their Summer-
      time array.

                         11.

There's a yellowish tinge a-creeping over Nature's em-
      erald sheen,
And the cattle stand, half-sleeping, in the middle of the
      stream
Where the glassy pool is shaded by the overhanging
      limb,
And the pebbly bottom's glinting where the silvery min-
      nows swim.

                        III .

The tasseled corn is nodding, and the crow on drowsy
     wing
Is sailing o'er the orchard where the ripening apples
     swing,
And the fleecy clouds are floating in the azure of the sky,
And the gentle breeze is sighing as it's idly wafted by.

                         1 1

 






                         IV.

The cantaloupes are ripening in their yellow golden
      rinds;
And the melons, round and juicy, are a-clinging to the
      vines;
And the merry, laughing children, in their happy hour of
      play,
Are a-romping in the meadow and a-sliding down the hay.


                         V.

The busy bees are buzzing where the grapes with purple
      blush,
And the hanging hunches tempting with their weight the
      arbor crtush,
And the blue jays are a-wrangling in the wood across
      the road,
Where the hickory boughs are bending 'neath an extra
     heavy load.

                        VI.

Let your poets keep a-singing about the Springtime gay,
And the blossoms and the flowers in the merry month of
     May-
But the early Autumn splendor, with its sweet September
     days,
Eclipses boasted Springtime in a thousand kind of ways!



12


 













YER OLD) COB PIPE.



                            I.

WmhN- the chilling wvinds of Winter come a-knocking at
      the door,
And the fleecy flakes are flying and the earth is covered o'er,
And you've supped on sweet potatoes and a 'possum frosted
      ripe,
Then glor. hallelujah! Git Ner
                                  Old
                                            Cob
                                                    Pipe'
                           11.

When the tire is blazing brightly and the room is s9nug and
      warm,
And vou've left your cares and troubles on the outside w ith
      the storm,
And your natural leaf is colored with it golden yellow stripe,
Then glory hallelujah ! (it ver

                                          C. o0l
                                                  Pipe'


When the old split-bottom rocker is far hetter than a throne,
And the visions of the fancy are the fairest earth has known,
And you watch the mvstic shapes that the daticing shadows
      write,
Then glory hallelujah! Git yer
                                  Old
                                          Cob
                                                   Pipe!

                            13

 





                          IV,.

When your dressing gown and slippers might be envied by
      a king,
And the voices of the children sound as sweet as birds' that
      sing,
And the feelings that possess you are all of heavenly type,
Then glory hallelujah! Git yer
                                 Old
                                        Cob
                                                 Pipe!

                          v.

When the ringlets aromatic have circled round your head,
And a drowsiness o'ertakes you, and you want to go to bed,
And the bowlful that you're smoking has burned to ashes
     white,
Then glory hallelujah! Quit yer
                                 Old
                                        Cob
                                                Pipe!



14


 











TIM BLUSTER'S DREAM.



'TWAS a place of fifty acres, in a lonely neighborhood,
And near a grove of somber pines the shackly farm-house
      stood;
And all the folks, for miles around, did solemnly declare
That ghosts and goblins horrible held nightly revel there.

They said the house was " hanted," and that not a man alive,
In all the country round about, could own the place and
      thrive;
That the cattle died with fever, and the hogs the cholera
      took-
And every one that tried it wore a mighty troubled look.

But they put it up at auction, and Tim Bluster bid the most,
Who always said "There want no hants nor any kind of
      ghost
That ever walked a graveyard in the middle of the night
Could make his nerves unsteady, or could fill him with
     affright !"

So Tim got full possession, and he moved out to his home,
And the first night, as he sat there, within his room alone,
The door was softly opened, and a cat came walking in,
With eyes like balls of fire and a coat as black as sin.

Then squatting on its haunches, it said, in tones polite,
"There seems to be but two of us to stay in here to-night!"
Tim muttered in a trembling voice, as for the door he run,
"Perhaps you think there will be two, but darn me, there's
     but one! "
                          I5

 




Tim staid away the blessed night, but when the daylight
      came,
It brought him back his courage, and it filled him full of
      shame;
And then he said, unto himself, " There wasn't any cat
Could make him leave that room again-he'd bet his life
      on that! "

So when the shades of evening fell, Tim double-barred the
      door,
And took precautions that, perhaps, he hadn't night before,
And felt quite sure that nothing now could gain admittance
      there,
And peacefully he dozed and slept, a-sitting in his chair.

Then, all at once, he roused himself, and opening wide his
      eyes,
Beheld a figure standing there that made his hair arise
Like quills upon a porcupine, and froze his heart with fear,
And headless though it was, it spoke, and said in accents
      clear,

" There seems to be but two of us to stay in here to-night !"
Tim made a hound, and took with him the sash and every
      light,
And then he jumped a nine-rail fence, and down the road he
      spun,
And said, " Perhaps he thinks there's two, but darn me,
      there's but one! "

'Tivas seven miles before be stopped and sat down on a log
To catch his breath and rest awhile from his nocturnal jog
And then he turned his head around, and right before his face
The figure stood, and said to him, "I think we've had a
      race! "

 





Tim tried to speak, and not a word he found to utter then,
But as he jumped from off his seat and broke away again,
He spluttered out, " I know we have, but think it's not quite
     done,
Foryou can bet right now's the time we'll have another one !"

Away Tim flew-he left the road, and through the woods
     and fields
The pace he set was wonderful, the ghost right at his heels!
And that old house is tenantless, and slowly rotting down,
Since that dread night Tim had his dream, and moved right
     back to town!



I7


 












APPLE BLOSSOMS.



                       I.
THERE'S the rose and the lily, the daisy and pink,
And many rare flowers which others may think
Are the fairest and best, the sweetest that blow,
With delicious perfume, and colors that glow-
But go to the orchard and sniff the delight
Of the incense that's shed by the pink and the white,
And let the soul float away in a swoon
On the ambient air where the apple trees bloom!

                       II.
There's the cowslip, narcissus, and sweet mignonette,
The asters, verbenas, the fuschias; and yet,
As much as I love them in Summer array,
It's the white and the-pink I dream of to-day,
And I walk 'neath the branches that just interlace
And shower their blossoms right down in my face
When the breeze that is laden with rarest perfume
Is wafted along where the apple trees bloom!

                      III.
With glad voices the birds as they flit to and fro
Are singing their songs where the pink and the snow
Of the orchard, bedecked in its garments so rare,
Is diffusing and sending its breath on the air;
And the rays of the sun sift through on the grass,
And the dew-drops that sparkle no jewels surpass!
In Springtime at evening, at morning, at noon,
How sweet is the scent of the apple trees' bloom!

                       18

 






IV.



And when Summer is gone, and Autumn has shed
It's soft, dreamy haze through the trees overhead,
On each spreading branch where blossoms now cling
The red and the gold to the fruit it will bring,
And stripe with a skill and give it that blush
Only Nature can paint with her delicate brush!
O when life ebbs away, then make me a tomb
Right out in the orchard, where the apple trees bloom!



19


 










CHICKAMAUGA.



To CHATTANOOGA'S vale,where flows the winding Tennessee,
And rugged Lookout sentinels heroic dust of sixty-three-
Where Chickamauga's gory field re-echoed to the cannon's
      roar,
And shot and shell through serried ranks a bloody pathway
      tore,
And mountain slope and wood and field were lumined with
      the blaze
Of musketry from Blue and Gray in those September days-
They come again, the gallant few, survivors of the fray,
Their breasts with hallowed memories filled, but passion
      passed away!

The fleeting years have silvered o'er the locks of those who
      live,
And turned to dust the sleeping ones who to their flag did
      give
The last drop of the crimson tide from ghastly wounds
      poured out
Amid the conflict's awful din and wild resounding shout;
And yet it seems but yesterday, or like a passing dream,
When marshaled on the mountain's side they saw the bayo-
      nets gleam,
As for a moment from the vale the battle's smoke was lifted,
And circling o'er the Blue and Gray in lurid clouds it drifted!


And now upon the blood-soaked ground once more they stand,
Where the unyielding " Rock of Chickamauga" held com-
     mand,
                          20

 





And strewed the field with heaps of the assaulting Gray
Who dauntless rushed where lines of Blue refused to give
      the way;
And bloody scenes crowd thick and fast upon the memory
      here
To fill the heart with grief and dim the eye with misty tear;
And spanning Time's chasm with the imagination's bridge,
They hear the thunder of the guns from Missionary Ridge!

And there the pyramid of balls is reared to tell
And mark the hallowed spot where tuneful genius fell;
The vagrant winds around it now seem sighing
The requiem sad of " I am dying, Egypt, dying!
Prophetic words by gallant LYTLE penned-
A laurel wreath with immortelles to blend!
A halo hovers round about this gifted son,
Whose deathless name with pen and sword wvas nobly won!

They come to mark with tokens of their love and pride
Each consecrated spot where bleeding heroes fell and died,
And gaze with reverence on some gently swelling mound
Which hides the dust of comrade in his sleep profound;
To picture to the mind-with melancholy pleasure trace
The unforgotten outlines of a dear, remembered face,
Which passed from loved ones and from life away,
A victim on the bloody field of fratricidal fray!



21


 












           GENERAL JOHN B. GORDON.

                    Facile Princeps.

                           T.
0 GIFTED one of the Sunny South, with lips so eloquent,
  In whose great heart no malice e'er was found!
And now thou art a messenger of. Peace, by heaven sent
  On mission of fraternity, to heal the cankering wound!

                           II.
In that dread day when fratricidal strife
  Convulsed with passion-crimsoned with its blood-
No nobler son than thou who staked his life
  With veterans Gray withstood the overwhelming flood!

                          III.
No sweeter tribute could be paid by mortal tongue-
  No nobler sentiment the human heart could fill-
In grander strains no poet's praises e'er were sung
  Of private soldier-than thy words that burn and thrill!

                          IV.
No treasured wrong within thy noble soul
  Has tainted with its slimy trail of hate-
No broader love of country could embrace the whole,
Or bow more gracefully to iron hand of fate!

                           V.
Speak on! And scatter broadcast healing seed
That shall a harvest of good feeling yield-
And Peace, no less than War, shall lend her meed
And crown anew this hero of the bloody field!

                          22


 











UP AND DOWN OLD CLARK'S RUN.



BRIGHT visions of childhood! How dear to the heart
Are the scenes which from memory can never depart!
Undimmed by the sorrows, the grief and the tears
Which have shadowed the pathway of life's lateryears,
They come like the rainbow which follows the storm-
On remembrance reflected with colors as warm-
And in dreams of delight they picture the fun
That we had long ago when we fished in Clark's Run I


With a can full of worms and a heart full of joy,
Up and down the old stream, a bare-footed boy,
A truant from school, my footsteps would stray
To the deep-shaded pool, or where ripples at play,
As they flowed over beds of smooth-polished stones,
Sang a lullaby sweet in soft undertones!
From the dawn of the day to the set of the sun
What pleasures wve've had when we fished in Clark's Run!


Equipped with a pole, a hook and a line,
And stowed in some pocket a long piece of twine
On which you could string, if you seined for a week,
Every fish that was found up and down the old creek-
With one " gallus " to pants that were rolled to the knee,
And holes in our hats through which you could see
Where the sunbeams had turned the light hair to dun-
We hied us away to the banks of Clark's Run!



23

 





There we baited the hook and threw out the line,
And watched the cork disappear with a rapture divine!
And felt just as proud as a prince or a king
When we landed high up, with a jerk and a swing,
A fish that would measure two inches or more,
Then anchored him fast with the string to the shore!
But unnumbered now are the silver strands spun
With the hair of the head since we fished in Clark's Run !


O who can there be with a heart in his breast
Would forget the dear scenes which so lovingly rest
In the bosom when life has grown old and cold,
And feel no delight when such pictures unfold,
And would blot out forever from memory's page
The records of childhood which solace old age
'Till time ends for me and with life I have done,
I'll dream of the days when we fished in Clark's Run!



24


 












              ROBERT BURNS.

              (A PARAPHRASE.)

                       I.
THOU lingering Star! No less'ning ray
  Will e'er bedim thy natal morn,
Or usher in the unhallowed day
  When we forget that thou wert born!
O Burns! Thou dear departed shade!
  Where is thy place of blissful rest
See'st thou again a Highland maid,
Who heard the groans that rent thy breast

                      II .
 That sacred day can we forget,
   Can we forget the hallowed spot
 Where by the winding Ayr was set
   The sparkling jewel in lowly cot
 Eternity will not efface
   The record dear of time that's past;
 Thy memory sweet wve still embrace,
   And will as long as life shall last!

                     III .
 Ayr, congealed to its pebbled shore,
   O'erhung with wild woods, shorn of green;
 The leafless birch and hawthorn hoar
   Were planted round the wintry scene;
 No flowers sprang wanton to be pressed-
   No birds sang love on every spray-
 But brightest yet o'er all the rest
   Will ever shine thy natal day!

 






                   IV.

Still o'er thy songs our rapture wakes,
And memory broods with miser care!
Time but their music sweeter makes,
As streams their channels deeper wear.
o Burns! Thou dear departed shade!
Where is thy place of blissful rest
See'st thou again a Highland maid,
Who heard the groans that rent thy breast



26


 












WISHING-FISHING.



                          I.
FULL well I know that wishing never yet has brought
  The things that seem to us would satisfy the heart,
And that anticipated pleasure, when at last 'tis caught,
  Has naught but transitory solace to impart;
And yet, somehow, I've ever felt and thought
  A joy there is that never can depart-
(As long as we are capable of feeling-wishing)-
  And that's to leave dull care behind, and-go a-fishing!

                          II.
Some dream of wealth-of place-of fame-
  And fleeting shadows vainly they pursue;
And some have sighed to win a deathless name
  Where fields of carnage corpses thickly strew,
And shrieks of agony are heard 'mid smoke and flame;
  But these are dizzy heights attained by few;
So, when Dame Fortune is her favors dishing,
  I hope that I'll get mine in ample time to-go a-fishing !

                          III.
Oh, was there ever any sweeter dream,
  Or music with a tone that's more entrancing,
Than just to wander where some mountain stream
  Is o'er the rocks and polished pebbles dancing
And nothing short of heaven itself, I ween,
  Is like the moment when, his scales all glancing,
You see the happy consummation of your wishing,
And catch the very fish for which you have been fishing!

                          27


 












POE.



                     I.
OH, melancholy child of want and woe!
  A brilliant meteor in an ebon sky!
Thy soul's weird music all did flow
  From heart-strings touched by dest:ny!

                    II.
The Raven, perched above thy chamber door,
  Responsive croaked with a prophetic word-
For in the realm of song may " Nevermore "
  Such strains as thine by mortal ear he heard!

                    III .
Where now doth that proud spirit dwell,
  Whose earthly days were clouded o'er with gloom
In regions with the sweet-voiced " Israfel,"
  Where never-fading flowerets bloom

                    IV.
Dost rest within some " distant Aidenn,
  Beyond the Night's Plutonian shore
And clasp again a sainted maiden
  Whom the angels name Lenore"

                    V.
Yes, "echo through the corridors of Time"
  Will have a tone that ages yet will know,
And blend with all that's beautiful-sublime-
The deathless name of Edgar Allan Poe!

                    28


 










A BARREN " IDEALTY."



    THis song that I sing-
    It is not of a spring,
Nor yet of a silvery stream-
    But of a vision bright
    Which came last night
In the garb of a blissful dream-
    When I thought, as I lay,
    It was Thanksgiving Day,
And I was invited to dine
    Where a table stood
    On which everything good
Spread a feast that was almost divine!

    Where the savors arose,
    Right under mny nose,
From turkey-and pumpkin pies;
    And from jolly roast pig
    Were slices as big
As some of the campaign lies!
    And celery so white
    'Twas a thing of delight
To bite the crisp stalks in two,
   And the cranberry sauce-
   Oh, I tell you 'twas boss-
And flanked by an oyster stew!

   Where the bread and the cake-
   The best they can bake
Were cut into slices heroic,



29

 






     And the amber ice cream
     Melted into my dream
  Like love to the heart of a ' poet';
     And they heaped up my plate,
     And I sat there and ate
  Till I awoke with a yell,
     And a shiver and shake
     And a pain and an ache
  That rudely my dream did dispel!

     But dreams, as you know,
     By contraries go,
 And thus I fear if it will be
     With the one of delight
     That came last night
 When I feasted so heartily;
     And Thanksgiving Day
     In the usual way
 Will come to me, don't you see,
     And the dinner I had
     And the ache that was had
Prove a barren " idealty" !



30


 







          A CHERISHE1) RELIC.

IN the attic, unused, there they put it away;
The old oaken frame has begun to decay;
What iron's about it is eaten with rust,
And upon and around it are cobwebs and dust;
The dear, loving hands that on it have spun,
With labor and toil forever are done,
And long is the time since I saw them unreel
The threads, snowy white, from the old spinning-wheel!
It stood on a porch where the Summer sunshine
Sifted down to the floor through a clambering vine,
Whose tendrils about the lattice-work clung  [sung;
Like my heart-strings round her, and the song that she
And the pictures of fancy I con o'er and o'er,
Till, raptured, I see the dear features once more,
And thrill with the touch when her lips set the seal
Of her love, as she spun on the old spinning-wheel!
Then through the shadows and mists of many long years
The old cottage home to the vision appears;
And though youth it has fled, and the hair it is gray,
I'm a bare-footed boy returned to his play-
Forgetting the present to dream once again
That life had no anguish, no sorrow, no pain;
And sweetly the bells of the memory peal
When communing up there with the old spinning-wheel!
And back from the past, with its grief and its joy,
Come the tones of a voice I heard when a boy,
And I see once again, as it moved to and fro,
A form that now rests where the wild roses blow,
And the sentinel stars their love vigils keep
Above the dear one in her long, dreamless sleep;
But memories sweet to a heart that can feel
Still cluster around the old spinning-wheel.
                       31

 





Some spokes from the rim are broken and gone,
And it stands there forsaken, neglected, alone;
It knows naught of language, but a story can tell
With a charm that for me time cannot dispel;
And often I climb the old attic stair
The love of my childhood with it to share,
And emotions possess me I cannot conceal
When fondly I gaze on the old spinning-wheel!

The distaff is worn and smooth with the touch
Of the now folded hands that used it so much;
And lingering there I clearly can trace
The sweet smile of love from a well-cherished face,
Which sheds round about it a halo divine
When thus I am kneeling at memory's shrine,
And hallows the thoughts which on the mind steal,
When up there alone with the old spinning-wheel!

'Tis then that I see her in saintly guise,
Through the fast-welling tears that come to my eyes-
A vision arrayed in raiment white
That beckons to me from the regions of light,
And illumines the way that my footsteps may tread
Unerringly where her love for me led-
Along the straight path that she tried to reveal
As she taught me, and spun on the old spinning-wheel!

Yes, the finger of Time has furrowed the brow,
And silvered the hair, yet I dream of her now
As when, long ago, I heard as a child
The words of her love that my sorrows beguiled;
And this relic she used but brings back anew
The morning of life, that was fresh with the dew
Distilled from the heart, as she taught me to kneel
Right down by her side, and the old spinning-wheel!

                       32


 













RESTLA N D).



      WRITTFN' IN THE I)ANVILLE (KY.) CFMFTRRY.


                           1.

WITHIN- thy hallowed precincts on this sweet autumnal da!,
  We're wandering 'neath the cedar and the pine,
Where rests the sacred dust of loved ones passed away,
  And bleeding hearts a melancholy pleasure find.


                           11.

In memory's faithful mirror here once more we trace
  Familiar forms of those in life we knew,
And see again the shadowy outlines of some face
  That, living, beaned with kindness-ever true.


                           III .

Old age, and manhood's prime, and helpless infancy
  Have dotted o'er with many an emerald mound,
And marked each stone with mournful tracery
  WVhich stands within this consecrated ground.


                          IV.

And there the marble shaft its stately head
In polished whiteness pointing to the sky,
And here the modest tribute to the lowlv dead-
The silent monitors that tell us all must die.



33

 






                            V.

I lure lavish Nature her bright smile imparts
  And decks with lovely flowers in early Spring,
And here the sympathetic tear unbidden starts,
  And loving hands their sweetest tributes bring


                            VI.

Loved spot I A solace to the living 'tis to know
  That when at last-life's fitful fever o'er-
Thie cortege sad, w ith solemn step and slow,
  Shall bear Us here, to rest forever more,--


                            VIl.

'Till that bright day when ransomed spirits rise,
  And loved and lost shall reunited be,
To dwell in realms beyond the star-lit skies
Throughout one circling, vast eternity!



34


 












M Y  VA LENI:N-'1' i .



I I'ASSi: her on the crowded street-
This winsome maid, demulre and sweet-
And envious saw the silken tresses
That seemed to give her cheeks caresses,
And rapture felt that thrilled ine through
When on me glanced those eves of blue
From underneath the drooping lashes
That could not hide their azure dlashes!
And oh, I dreampt of bliss divine
If she WoUld he-mv Valentine


                  rr .

Arid visions of as fair a face
As painter's penlcil e'er did trace
Would hatint the mnild each waking hour,
AInd slumber owned its magic power-
Until I found bv merest chance
'[hat helladonna made the glance,
And b)orrowed hair had lent itsaid
For silken tresses of this maid-
And padding-paint-did all coumine
'ro make for me-in v Valentine'


 











A SMOKE.



() OTHERS may boast of their pleasures galore-
The miser with rapture may count o'er his store,
And some may imagine great happiness there
In the gay shining beam of Society's glare;
But best of all comforts a feller can know,
While wintry winds whistle and fast flies the snows,
Is a pipe after supper, by a bright blazing fire,
Encircled with ringlets that curl high and higher

                        II .
O doctors may tell you and others declare
It'll shorten your days and your heart will impair-
That nicotine poison will flow through your veins
And nervous distraction will rack with its pains;
But what cares a feller in slippers and gown,
When wintry winds whistle and snow's pouring dowvn,
With papers and books, and his feet near the fire,
Encircled with ringlets that curl high and higher

                       "TI.
) rare are the fancies, contentment and bliss,
That drive away care in an hour such as this!
When the ills of this life and the things that provoke
Are lost for the wvhile in the blue curling smoke
Of a pipe and tobacco that's yellow as gold,
And raptures supernal the senses unfold.
O give me a chair by a bright blazing fire,
And sweet-smelling ringlets that curl high and higher
                       .16


 












                     P'ERRYV1ILLE.

               FOUGHT OCTOBER 8THT, 1862.

IIERE on this spot, where Nature now, with chilling, icy
      breath,
H-las mantled in a robe of white the field of strife and death,
We view in memory once again the awful scenes nwhere met
In serried ranks the Blue and Gray-and tears the lashes wet;
For those who fell that dreadful day are mingled with the
      d tist,
Aknd often here the plow upturns a bayonet red with rust:
A sad memento of the time when passion held full sway-
Reminder to the rustic swain of fratricidal fray.


From vonder hill the shotted guns in dreadful chorus rang-
And on this plain was heard that day the glittering sabre's
    clang,
And in that vale, where wound the brook, with waters
      murmuring,
W7e stood and heard the Minie balls their deadly message
      sing,
And saw the life blood, gushing red, from stricken comrade
      near,
Whose gentle voice his loved ones then no more should ever
      hear-
Hlis blue eyes close-his bosom heave-his pulse forever still,
A sacrifice to cause held dear, on the field of Perrvville!


And the swiftly circling years can ne'er erase
From Memory's tablets or from Nature's face

                           t37

 





One spot of all the rest we're standing near-
By fiercely battling hosts the prize held dear;
The old spring's waters still are gurgling from the rock
Where famished soldiers knelt-grim Death himself to mock;
Here on that day in ghastly heaps they lay-
Commingling with the Blue the men that wore the Gra!y'


And now the virgin snow has covered o'er the sod
Where once in fierce array contending armies trod;
The wintry wind makes mournful music through the trees
Where then the clash of arms was floating on the breeze,
And deep-toned guns belched forth the screaming shell
Like fiendish messengers of Death let loose from hell;
Now Nature's peaceful emblem spread o'er glade and hill
Enwraps beneath its folds the bloody field of Perryville.

    D)ecember 26, 1895.