Riley Songs of Home Part 8

Then was the _real_ gold Spendthrift Summer flung; Then was the _real_ song Bird or Poet sung!

There was never censure then,-- Only honest praise-- And all things were worthy of it In the old days.

There bide the true friends-- The first and the best; There clings the green gra.s.s Close where they rest: Would they were here? No;-- Would _we_ were _there_!...

The old days--the lost days-- How lovely they were!

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A SPRING SONG AND A LATER

She sang a song of May for me, Wherein once more I heard The mirth of my glad infancy-- The orchard's earliest bird-- The joyous breeze among the trees New-clad in leaf and bloom, And there the happy honey-bees In dewy gleam and gloom.

So purely, sweetly on the sense Of heart and spirit fell Her song of Spring, its influence-- Still irresistible,-- Commands me here--with eyes ablur-- To mate her bright refrain.

Though I but shed a rhyme for her As dim as Autumn rain.

KNEELING WITH HERRICK

Dear Lord, to Thee my knee is bent-- Give me content-- Full-pleasured with what comes to me, Whate'er it be: An humble roof--a frugal board, And simple h.o.a.rd; The wintry f.a.got piled beside The chimney wide, While the enwreathing flames up-sprout And twine about The brazen dogs that guard my hearth And household worth: Tinge with the ember's ruddy glow The rafters low; And let the sparks snap with delight, As fingers might That mark deft measures of some tune The children croon: Then, with good friends, the rarest few Thou boldest true, Ranged round about the blaze, to share My comfort there,-- Give me to claim the service meet That makes each seat A place of honor, and each guest Loved as the rest.

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THE RAINY MORNING

The dawn of the day was dreary, And the lowering clouds o'erhead Wept in a silent sorrow Where the sweet suns.h.i.+ne lay dead; And a wind came out of the eastward Like an endless sigh of pain, And the leaves fell down in the pathway And writhed in the falling rain.

I had tried in a brave endeavor To chord my harp with the sun, But the strings would slacken ever, And the task was a weary one: And so, like a child impatient And sick of a discontent, I bowed in a shower of teardrops And mourned with the instrument.

And lo! as I bowed, the splendor Of the sun bent over me, With a touch as warm and tender As a father's hand might be: And even as I felt its presence, My clouded soul grew bright, And the tears, like the rain of morning, Melted in mists of light.

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REACH YOUR HAND TO ME

Reach your hand to me, my friend, With its heartiest caress-- Sometime there will come an end To its present faithfulness-- Sometime I may ask in vain For the touch of it again, When between us land or sea Holds it ever back from me.

Sometime I may need it so, Groping somewhere in the night, It will seem to me as though Just a touch, however light, Would make all the darkness day, And along some sunny way Lead me through an April-shower Of my tears to this fair hour.

O the present is too sweet To go on forever thus!

Round the corner of the street Who can say what waits for us?-- Meeting--greeting, night and day, Faring each the selfsame way-- Still somewhere the path must end.-- Reach your hand to me, my friend!

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TO MY OLD FRIEND, WILLIAM LEACHMAN

Fer forty year and better you have been a friend to me, Through days of sore afflictions and dire adversity, You allus had a kind word of counsul to impart, Which was like a healin' 'intment to the sorrow of my hart.

When I burried my first womern, William Leachman, it was you Had the only consolation that I could listen to-- Fer I knowed you had gone through it and had rallied from the blow, And when you said I'd do the same, I knowed you'd ort to know.

But that time I'll long remember; how I wundered here and thare-- Through the settin'-room and kitchen, and out in the open air-- And the snowflakes whirlin', whirlin', and the fields a frozen glare, And the neghbors' sleds and wagons congergatin' ev'rywhare.

I turned my eyes to'rds heaven, but the sun was hid away; I turned my eyes to'rds earth again, but all was cold and gray; And the clock, like ice a-crackin', clickt the icy hours in two-- And my eyes'd never thawed out ef it hadn't been fer you!

We set thare by the smoke-house--me and you out thare alone-- Me a-thinkin'--you a-talkin' in a soothin' undertone-- You a-talkin'--me a-thinkin' of the summers long ago, And a-writin' "Marthy--Marthy" with my finger in the snow!

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William Leachman, I can see you jest as plane as I could then; And your hand is on my shoulder, and you rouse me up again, And I see the tears a-drippin' from your own eyes, as you say: "Be rickonciled and bear it--we but linger fer a day!"

At the last Old Settlers' Meetin' we went j'intly, you and me-- Your hosses and my wagon, as you wanted it to be; And sence I can remember, from the time we've neghbored here, In all sich friendly actions you have double-done your sheer.

It was better than the meetin', too, that nine-mile talk we had Of the times when we first settled here and travel was so bad; When we had to go on hoss-back, and sometimes on "Shanks's mare,"

And "blaze" a road fer them behind that had to travel thare.

And now we was a-trottin' 'long a level gravel pike, In a big two-hoss road-wagon, jest as easy as you like-- Two of us on the front seat, and our wimmern-folks behind, A-settin' in theyr Winsor-cheers in perfect peace of mind!

And we pinted out old landmarks, nearly faded out of sight:-- Thare they ust to rob the stage-coach; thare Gash Morgan had the fight With the old stag-deer that p.r.o.nged him--how he battled fer his life, And lived to prove the story by the handle of his knife.

Thare the first griss-mill was put up in the Settlement, and we Had tuck our grindin' to it in the Fall of Forty-three-- When we tuck our rifles with us, techin' elbows all the way, And a-stickin' right together ev'ry minute, night and day.

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Thare ust to stand the tavern that they called the "Travelers' Rest,"