The Old Hanging Fork and Other Poems Part 11

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 sh.o.r.e!

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 suns.h.i.+ne the frigid Winter's wrath, When gathering storms are darkling o'er life's declining path, And lend a ray celestial that h.o.a.rded 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 pa.s.sing 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 pa.s.sed 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.