The Old Hanging Fork and Other Poems Part 9

When sorrow's dark mantle the spirit doth wear, And the heart is oppressed with the demon of care, Then get out your pipe and its magic invoke And all of your troubles will vanish in smoke!

O, you who have tried it will know what I mean When the praises I sing of a hank of long green!

Since the days of King James and his old counterblast Its sway of all cla.s.ses has ever held fast, And its patron saint Raleigh forever will live In remembrance as sweet as affection can give, And the incense we burn is an offering seen In wreaths of blue smoke from a twist of long green!

Now some may advise you and others may swear That nicotine poison your nerves will impair, And if from the weed you'd just kept aloof From heartburn and palsy you'd surely been proof-- For a man who had died at a hundred fifteen Was hastened away by smoking long green!

But a cigar, a pipe, or a good juicy chew Will yield you more comfort than harm they will do, And murder the microbes that float in the air, And make magical dreams in the old arm-chair, If you will remember, and never forget, To just draw the line at a vile cigarette!

GEORGE W. CHILDS.

FEBRUARY 4TH, 1894.

"Gone to his exceeding great reward,"

The friend of rich and poor alike; And there'll rest not beneath the sward More s.h.i.+ning mark that death could strike.

The benefactor of his race-- His n.o.ble soul from avarice free; By heaven lent the sordid earth to grace-- A nation's tears sincerely shed for thee!

Thrice blest the one, in lowly lot, Contented with an humble place, Who by thy n.o.ble heart was ne'er forgot And knew thy smiling, loving face!

Oh, thus too early s.n.a.t.c.hed away From generous act and loving deed; Thousands will now deplore the day-- Thousands now whose hearts will bleed!

The heaven-pointing shaft for thee Its stately head might never raise; But thy sweet memory would ever be Hymned by thy fellow-mortals' praise!

Oh, thanks to Him who in His image made And to the world this beacon gave; With tears we'll water flowers that never fade And gently drop upon his new-made grave!

THE OLD SPRING-HOUSE.

With its rude walls of stone and its moss-covered roof-- ('Tis a picture inwoven with memory's woof)-- It stands there to-day, as it stood in the years When we knew naught of sorrow--nor anguish--nor tears; And though far from it now, I can see it at will-- The old spring-house at the foot of the hill!

O flights of fond fancy that deeply inurn Sweet scenes of our childhood, no more to return!

Which carry us back in visions and dreams And illumine life's pathway with memory's gleams-- Till we see once again, though with tears the eyes fill, The old spring-house at the foot of the hill!

There we children, bare-footed, would wander to play, And wade in the branch that flowed on its way Through the meadows and fields with current so fleet, And a gurgle and ripple that sounded so sweet!

And the water that helped turn the wheel at the mill Was from the spring-house at the foot of the hill!

And, oh! I remember a pair of blue eyes, With glances as tender and soft as the skies, And a little brown head that was covered with curls, And the laughter that rippled between rows of pearls, Which was changed to a cry of despair and of woe When the craw-fish was clinging to a little pink toe!

Distilled by the heart into memory's wine, 'Tis thus that we drink a draught that's divine, And lighten the burdens which after years bear, And banish with dreaming the demon of Care!

O in fond recollection I linger there still, By the old spring-house at the foot of the hill!

Though vanished forever the faces that smiled, And hushed is the laughter I heard when a child-- Yet often when musing they float back to me, And I see them and hear it as clear as can be!

And I'm playing again, while the heart strings all thrill, By the old spring house at the foot of the hill!

CAMPING ON THE c.u.mBERLAND.

Where the c.u.mberland flows on its way to the South, From its source in the hills half-way to its mouth-- When Autumn has come and tempered the rays Of the hot blazing sun with its soft mellow haze, Is an Eden of bliss and a place of delight, When the minnows are good and the "jumpers" will bite, And a fellow's well fixed with a reel and a pole, And other "equipments"--(of which I've been told)!

To camp there and fish for a week at a time, And have the four-pounders just tug at your line, Is a feeling akin to sweet visions we see When we dream of that home where we all hope to be; And no king in the world who sits on a throne E'er felt the rare joy that thrills to the bone When you throw out your line and it whizzes away, Just cutting the water to foamy white spray!

He darts here and there, dead game to the last, When he feels the barbed hook and finds that he's fast, And plunges and struggles, disdaining to yield, Till exhausted at last to the bank he is reeled, And carefully lifted from out the old stream, While he flounders and gasps and his scaly sides gleam, And you measure his length and guess at his weight-- (Five inches too long and a pound too great)!

And when shadows of evening are gathering around, And the sun with pure gold each hill-top has crowned, Then pick up your trappings and leisurely wend Your way back to camp, above the long bend, Where the cook has prepared a supper, I trow, Ne'er dreamt of in thoughts of Delmonico!

And you'll sit there and eat for an hour or more With an appet.i.te keen--and unheard of before!

Now bring out your pipe and fill up the bowl, And loll there and smoke till it seems that the soul Is wafted away like the ringlets that rise As blue as the dome of the star-jeweled skies!

Then roll in a blanket with your feet to the blaze, And the croak of the frogs and the ripple that plays Will lull you to sleep with music as sweet As that of the song when the angels you greet!

AN EASTER FLOWER.

I.

The flower that she gave to me Has withered now and died-- But yet with fond fidelity Its faded leaves abide.

II.

The petals that so fragrant then She wore upon her breast-- Still clinging to the lifeless stem, With miser care possessed.

III.

As when in sweetest purity It shed its perfume rare, A symbol dear 'twill ever be Of one divinely fair!

IV.

Plucked by the cruel hand of Death In beauty's youthful bloom-- She perished with his chilling breath, And withered in the tomb.

V.

But I will cherish ever thus The token that she gave When sun-lit skies were over us, Unclouded by the grave!