The Old Hanging Fork and Other Poems Part 7

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 s.h.i.+nes from out a bra.s.sy 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 pa.s.sed 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-fis.h.i.+ng 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 wis.h.i.+ng 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.