Chapter 2

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.

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!

"RESTLAND."

WRITTEN IN THE DANVILLE (KY.) CEMETERY.

I.

Within thy hallowed precincts on this sweet autumnal day, 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.

II.

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, beamed 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 Which 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 lowly dead-- The silent monitors that tell us all must die.

V.

Here 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! A solace to the living 'tis to know That when at last--life's fitful fever o'er-- The cortege sad, with solemn step and slow, Shall bear us here, to rest forever more,--

VII.

'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!

MY VALENTINE.

I.

I passed her on the crowded street-- This winsome maid, demure and sweet-- And envious saw the silken tresses That seemed to give her cheeks caresses, And rapture felt that thrilled me through When on me glanced those eyes of blue From underneath the drooping lashes That could not hide their azure flashes! And oh, I dreampt of bliss divine If she would be--my Valentine!

II.

And visions of as fair a face As painter's pencil e'er did trace Would haunt the mind each waking hour, And slumber owned its magic power-- Until I found by merest chance That belladonna made the glance, And borrowed hair had lent its aid For silken tresses of this maid-- And padding--paint--did all combine To make for me--my Valentine!

A SMOKE.

I.

O 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 snow, 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 down, With papers and books, and his feet near the fire, Encircled with ringlets that curl high and higher?

III.

O 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 while 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!

PERRYVILLE.

FOUGHT OCTOBER 8th, 1862.

Here on this spot, where Nature now, with chilling, icy breath, Has mantled in a robe of white the field of strife and death, We view in memory once again the awful scenes where met In serried ranks the Blue and Gray--and tears the lashes wet; For those who fell that dreadful day are mingled with the dust, And 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 yonder 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, We 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-- His blue eyes close--his bosom heave--his pulse forever still, A sacrifice to cause held dear, on the field of Perryville!

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

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.

December 26, 1895.

LONGINGS.

I.

Gim me back my stone-bruised heel, And them tow-linen pants, An' that old pole an' line an' reel, An' all them boyhood ha'nts, An' that old hat I used to wear, That didn't hav' no crown, An' that same crop uv yeller hair-- Sun-burnt on top ter brown-- An' them playmates I used ter know, An' loved like very brothers-- An' you kin let the old world go An' giv' its wealth ter others!

II.

Gim me back one gallus, too, That buttoned with a peg, An' them blamed ticks that burrowed through The skin uv either leg, An' that old single-barrel gun, As crooked as a rail, An' that same dog that used ter run The molly cotton-tail, An' lem me hav' the tops I spun-- The kites that I hav' sailed-- An' then at last, when life is done, Who'd keer if it had failed?

DOWN ABOUT OLD SHAKERTOWN.

You may boast about the landscapes fair so far across the sea Of castled Rhine, and southern France, and favored Italy-- But have you seen, when Springtime flings the scented blossoms down, The forests and the meadows green around old Shakertown?

You may boast of some that bask beneath perpetual Summer's smiles-- Those "Eden's of the eastern wave"--the sunny Grecian isles-- And others that perhaps you've seen, of beauty and renown, But come and view the country spread around old Shakertown!

O come and boast that you have been where Nature's lavish hand Bestowed the gifts of wood and field that vie with any land-- Where valleys wear a velvet robe--the hills an emerald crown Of bluegrass shimmering in the sun, around old Shakertown!

O come to old Kentucky then, and to her garden spot, Then wander wheresoe'er you will, it ne'er will be forgot-- For Nature's face is wreathed in smiles nor wears a single frown To mar the beauty she has spread around old Shakertown!

MEMORIA IN AETERNA.

Sweet Memory! thou faculty divine-- Triumphant o'er the cruel hand of Time! On thy tablets we may trace The lines his fingers ne'er efface, And take with us till latest day The images that light our way, And picture thus in a shadowy form The loved and lost he's from us torn-- Their lids by Death so early sealed-- Life's crimson tide by him congealed-- The tyrant has not all concealed-- They in thy mirror still revealed!

Before the morning sunbeams kissed The face of Nature--veiled in mist-- And heralded with golden ray The opening of the perfect day-- Ere yet the sable shades of night At dawn's approach had winged their flight-- We've listed to the whispering breeze That's wafted o'er the trembling trees, And seemed to hear the voices sweet Of loved ones now we ne'er can meet Till earthly night shall pass away-- Supplanted by immortal day!

And thus in retrospective mood, Alone with Nature's solitude In some secluded sylvan dell, Her myriad voices float and swell And flitting shadows softly tell Of dear ones lost--yet loved so well! Then to the sunny home where dwelt-- (Ere yet the envious tyrant dealt The blow that blighted hopes have felt)-- Fond fancy wanders, and can see Once happy scenes that ne'er can be Lost in thy shades, O Memory!

But those to us so cruelly denied Are drifting now upon some fairer tide-- Their scattered ashes on Hope's pinions rise And people realms beyond the azure skies! Then may our faltering footsteps lead To where fond hearts may never bleed-- Where vanished faces, cherished forms, Are anchored safe from life's rude storms; Where strains seraphic, soft and low, The rapt ear greet, and we shall know The loved and lost we only see In visions of sweet Memory!

A MOTHER'S GRAVE.

I.

The years have passed in ceaseless round Since first they laid her here to rest In dreamless sleep beneath the silent mound, With folded hands upon her gentle breast.

II.

The ivy twines about the crumbling stone, And Springtime's scented blossoms fling Their incense o'er the peaceful home That knows no more of suffering.

III.

Full many a Summer's sun has shed Its brightest smile upon the hallowed spot, And sobered Autumn and wild Winter spread Their garments here--she heeds them not!

IV.

The feathered wildlings of the wood and field Their untaught melody around it make, But she who sleeps with eyes so softly sealed Their gladsome songs can never more awake.

V.

O restful sleep beneath the crumbling mold To dream no more of hopes unrealized! O Grave! What treasures do thy confines hold By us so dearly loved and fondly prized!

A FRECKLE-FACED BOY.

I.

I'm just in my glory when the cat I can tease, Or I'm hunting for bird nests up in the trees, And I wear out my pants in the seat and the knees; I'm the pride of my daddy, my mammy's own joy-- A frolicsome, rollicksome, freckle-faced boy!

II.

I can make a top hum, and at marbles, you bet, I'm the cock of the walk and the king of the "set;" I'm hearty and healthy--and don't you forget The dead loads of "goodies" that I can destroy-- I'm a frolicsome, rollicksome, freckle-faced boy!

III.

They send me to school with my satchel and books, And my pockets bulged out with nails and fish-hooks; And sometimes while there my teacher she looks And captures the things that provoke and annoy From a frolicsome, rollicksome, freckle-faced boy!

IV.

My mammy she says that it's quite evident Of the country some day I'll be President; But auntie, she says from the way I am bent The gold of her dream will be full of alloy From a frolicsome, rollicksome, freckle-faced boy!

V.

I'm huntin' for fun, and I don't have a care, And there's dirt on my hands, and I don't comb my hair, And off-colored patches quite often I wear; But there's no kind of sport the young heart can cloy Of a frolicsome, rollicksome, freckle-faced boy!

THE DAM BELOW THE MILL.

The Springtime am a-comin', and the dogwood soon will bloom, With the blossoms ten times thicker than the green leaves are in June, And if yer want some pleasure that I nominate divine, Just git yer minnow bucket, and yer hook and pole and line, And slip away some mornin', when the weather's bright and still, And hang a four-pound jumper at the dam below the mill!

There are lots of other pleasures in the old world here below, And a mighty heap of happiness a feller 'll never know-- But never mind about 'em--just yer slip away and feel That something so delectable that over yer will steal; For it sets the pulses beatin' with a magic kind of thrill When yer hang a four-pound jumper at the dam below the mill!

When yer 'gin to take the fever, and yer feel it comin' on, Why yer boun' ter go a-fishin', just as shore as yer born; Then ye'd better git yer trapping's in the proper kind o' fix, And go and hear the music when yer reel a-spinnin' clicks; For he rushes through the water at a pace that's fit ter kill When yer hang a four-pound jumper at the dam below the mill!

THE SERENADE.

I.

The winds were hushed, and thin and high The fleecy clouds were drifting, And through them as she sailed the sky The moon's soft light was sifting.

II.

Beneath her pale and tender ray, Its silvery kiss imprinting, All dew-bedecked each flower and spray Like myriad jewels glinting.

III.

Across the lawn there floats the sound Of music sweet--entrancing-- 'Neath a latticed casement, ivy-bound, Where love-lit eyes were glancing.

IV.

The flute and harp and mandolin There dulcet notes were blending, And strains divine from a violin In harmony ascending.

V.

Enraptured by the magic spell, I lingering stood, and listening, It seemed to me that I could tell What love to her was whispering.

* * * * *

VI.

I looked above and chanced to see The man in the moon was scowling, For they had struck up "Sweet Marie," And the old watch-dog was howling!

"IS IT HOT ENOUGH FER YOU?"

I.

I wouldn't mind the weather much--I'd sizzle and I'd stew, And do the very best I could the heat to struggle through, If I could find some way, you know, the feller to eschew, Who greets you with the chestnut phrase-- "IS IT HOT ENOUGH FER YOU?"

II.

The mercury might climb the tube and spill right out the top-- The sweat might ooze from every pore and off my carcass drop-- I wouldn't mind the heat at all, and keep my temper too, If it wasn't for the cuss who says-- "IS IT HOT ENOUGH FER YOU?"

III.

The sun might shine his level best--the sky seem molten brass-- The heat might dry up every stream, and burn up all the grass-- The evening come without a breeze--the morning have no dew-- If it wasn't for the 'moke' who asks "IS IT HOT ENOUGH FER YOU?"

THE TOKEN.

I.

Only a ringlet of flaxen hair, Tied with a ribbon blue, Laid by the hand of a mother there-- Cherished with love so true!

II.

Only a soft and silken curl, Bound with a knotted bow; Worn on the head of a little girl Lost in the long-ago.

III.

Only a hallowed treasure kept From the grave's decay and mold, Over which her eyes have wept With anguish all untold!

IV.

Only a link in the golden chain, By Death's cold hand unbroken, Which leads to where she'll meet again The wearer of this token.

V.

Only a relic undefiled, Enshrined in a broken heart-- Rent in twain when a darling child And a loving mother part!

VI.

Only a ringlet of flaxen hair, Tied with a ribbon blue, Clipped from the head of an angel fair, Whose hands are beckoning you!

TO SCENES I USED TO KNOW.

I can see the back-log blazing and the sparkles take their flight Up the cavernous old chimney on a merry Christmas night; I can see the old folks smiling and the children's cheeks aglow, And a saucy maiden standing there beneath the mistletoe; I can hear the laughter mingle with the strains of music sweet As we tripped the light fantastic with the "many-twinkling feet;" I can see the moonlight gleaming through the trees upon the snow, When memory takes me back again to scenes I used to know.

I can see the candles burning bright upon the Christmas tree; I can see the presents handed round, and hear the shouts of glee, And from the buried years there comes a-stealing on the heart A something indefinable which bids the tear-drop start; I can see the blue smoke curling, through the little strip of wood Between the winding turnpike road and where the farmhouse stood; I can see the colts a-playing, I can hear the cattle low-- When memory takes me back again to scenes I used to know.

I can see it all when fancy weaves its magic with a dream, And I hear the tones from voices like the murmur of a stream; And oh, the heart seems young again and from its anguish free When I gaze upon these pictures that are ever dear to me; Then I see the darkies dancing, I can hear the fiddle ring As they gathered in the cabin and they cut the pigeon-wing; I can smell the 'possum roasting, I can see the cider flow, When memory takes me back again to scenes I used to know.

BEREFT.

I.

No more to feel the pressure warm Of dimpled arms around your neck-- No more to clasp the little form That Nature did with beauty deck.

II.

No more to hear the music sweet Of merry laugh and prattling talk-- No more to see the busy feet Come toddling down the shaded walk.

III.

No more the glint of flaxen hair That nestled 'round the lilied brow-- No more the rose's bloom will wear The cheek so cold and pallid now.

IV.

No more the light from loving eyes, Whose hue was like the violet blown Where Summer's softest, bluest skies, Had lent it coloring from their own.

V.

No more to fondly bend above The little one when slumber wrought, With sweetest dreams, the smile of love The placid features then had caught.

VI.

No more on earth--oh, nevermore! The shattered idols of the heart Can yearning love nor time restore-- But--you may meet to never part!

THE "BULL SPRING."

When the burning sun of Summer shines from out a brassy sky, And has parched and browned the meadows, and the creek's run dry, O sweet it is to wander there and hear the water sing It's rippling song of gladness from the Old "Bull Spring!"

Since Logan and the pioneers first stood upon its bank, And heard it gurgle from the rock, and of its waters drank, With ceaseless music in its flow, like silvery chimes that ring, Has been the song of gladness from the Old "Bull Spring!"

Around about the fields and woods of old "Magnolia" spread-- Indigenous to "tansy"--"mint"--and the lithe-limbed thoroughbred; And far above, on drowsy wing, the crow seems listening To the rippling song of gladness from the Old "Bull Spring!"

No music that I've ever heard seems half so soft and sweet As that in silvery tones it makes while flowing at your feet; And sometimes when I'm far away I'd give most anything To hear the song of gladness from the Old "Bull Spring!"

'Tis then that fancy wanders, and I sit and fondly dream That I'm gazing in its liquid depths and see the pebbles gleam, As when in happy childhood, and free from sorrow's sting, I heard the song of gladness from the Old "Bull Spring!"

And I sniff again the flavor of the aromatic breeze From the mint-bed and the tansy, as it floated through the trees, And hear music mingle of the birds upon the wing With the laughing song of gladness from the Old "Bull Spring!"

FAMILIAR HAUNTS.

I.

Give me the patches on my pants, the freckles on my face-- The happy heart where cankering care had never found a place-- And let my bare feet walk again that dirt road down the hill That led me to the river's brink, beyond the old Mock Mill!

II.

Give me the youthful friends I knew, now scattered far and wide-- The loved ones who have passed beyond the bounds of time and tide-- And let me see the rose's hue that mantled every cheek When we were run-aways from school, a-fishing in the creek.

III.

Give me the stone-bruise on my heel, the hat without a crown-- The unkempt suit of yellow hair the sun had burnt to brown-- And let me go and soak myself, just where we used to walk, In that old swimmin' pool we had, up on the Hanging Fork!

IV.

Give me the wealth I used to have--a wealth of vast content-- The pockets that were always full--but in them not a cent-- And let me hear the music sweet the wild birds used to sing In woods and fields I wandered o'er, beyond the Old Cove Spring!

V.

Give me--but what's the use of wishing for the days that won't return-- The vanished faces of the friends for whom we fondly yearn? And what's the use of trying to look beyond the misty screen Time's hand has hung between the eye and each familiar scene?

A FADED LETTER.

I.

O what memories sweet entwine Around each word and faded line! Yellow and dim with the touch of years, And soiled with the marks of tears-- A sacred treasure of the heart Which death alone can from him part-- A letter--cherished as no other-- And ending with the name of--Mother!

II.

Writ it was to a wayward boy, When life to him seemed full of joy-- Pleading with him so to live That he her heart no grief would give-- That after years might ne'er be fraught With sorrow that himself had wrought:-- "May guardian angels 'round you hover," She wrote--and signed the name of--Mother!

III.

The paper has the taint of must-- The hand that traced the lines is dust, And silvery hair is on the head Of that same boy since first he read This missive from the sainted one That bore her love to an erring son-- More fondly prized than any other-- 'Twas written by the hand of--Mother!

THE HERMIT.

By the waters of a river, where the rocks like giants stand, There a stranger, young and favored, built a home with his own hand.

Hewed the logs and reared the roof-tree, where for years alone he dwelt, Wanderer from the sunny Southland, and from pangs his heart had felt.

Legend says high-born and wealthy, seeking there in Nature's wilds To forget a maiden fickle, basking in a rival's smiles.

Where the music of the wild birds, echoed from the cliffs around, Blended with the voice of waters, flowing past with silvery sound;

Where in Springtime wild flowers blooming shed their incense day and night, And the rugged cliff-sides wearing robes of dogwood, snowy white;