The Old Hanging Fork and Other Poems - LightNovelsOnl.com
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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 hors.e.m.e.n 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 brus.h.!.+
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 h.o.a.ry 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 gla.s.sy depths of a miniature main!
IV.
Where the willows dip in the edge of the stream, And sway and nod in the pa.s.sing breeze, And a feller could tranquilly rest and dream Of a howling blizzard and a good hard freeze!
TO J. R. M.
