Green Fields and Running Brooks, and Other Poems Part 7

And we were married half a year Ago,--and he is--waiting here, Heedless of that--or anything, But just that he is lingering To say good-bye to her, and bow-- As you may see him doing now,-- For there's her footstep in the hall; G.o.d bless her!--help him!--save us all!

RIGHT HERE AT HOME.

Right here at home, boys, in old Hoosierdom, Where strangers allus joke us when they come, And brag o' _their_ old States and interprize-- Yit _settle_ here; and 'fore they realize, They're "hoosier" as the rest of us, and live Right here at home, boys, with their past fergive!

Right here at home, boys, is the place, I guess, Fer me and you and plain old happiness: We hear the World's lots grander--likely so,-- We'll take the World's word fer it and not go.-- We know _its_ ways aint _our_ ways--so we'll stay Right here at home, boys, where we know the way.

Right here at home, boys, where a well-to-do Man's plenty rich enough--and knows it, too, And's got a' extry dollar, any time, To boost a feller up 'at _wants_ to climb And 's got the git-up in him to go in And _git there_, like he purt'-nigh allus kin!

Right here at home, boys, is the place fer us!-- Where folks' heart's bigger 'n their money-pu's'; And where a _common_ feller's jes as good As ary other in the neighborhood: The World at large don't worry you and me Right here at home, boys, where we ort to be!

Right here at home, boys--jes right where we air!-- Birds don't sing any sweeter anywhere: Gra.s.s don't grow any greener'n she grows Acrost the pastur' where the old path goes,-- All things in ear-shot's purty, er in sight, Right here at home, boys, ef we _size_ 'em right.

Right here at home, boys, where the old home-place Is sacerd to us as our mother's face, Jes as we rickollect her, last she smiled And kissed us--dyin' so and rickonciled, Seein' us all at home here--none astray-- Right here at home, boys, where she sleeps to-day.

THE LITTLE FAT DOCTOR.

He seemed so strange to me, every way-- In manner, and form, and size, From the boy I knew but yesterday,-- I could hardly believe my eyes!

To hear his name called over there, My memory thrilled with glee And leaped to picture him young and fair In youth, as he used to be.

But looking, only as glad eyes can, For the boy I knew of yore, I smiled on a portly little man I had never seen before!--

Grave as a judge in courtliness-- Professor-like and bland-- A little fat doctor and nothing less, With his hat in his kimboed hand.

But how we talked old times, and "chaffed"

Each other with "Minnie" and "Jim"--- And how the little fat doctor laughed, And how I laughed with him!

"And it's pleasant," I thought, "though I yearn to see The face of the youth that was, To know no boy could smile on me As the little fat doctor does!"

THE SHOEMAKER.

Thou Poet, who, like any lark, Dost whet thy beak and trill From misty morn till murky dark, Nor ever pipe thy fill: Hast thou not, in thy cheery note, One poor chirp to confer-- One verseful twitter to devote Unto the Shoe-ma-ker?

At early dawn he doth peg in His n.o.ble work and brave; And eke from cark and wordly sin He seeketh soles to save; And all day long, with quip and song, Thus st.i.tcheth he the way Our feet may know the right from wrong, Nor ever go a stray.

Soak kip in mind the Shoe-ma-ker, Nor slight his lasting fame: Alway he waxeth tenderer In warmth of our acclaim;-- Aye, more than any artisan We glory in his art Who ne'er, to help the under man, Neglects the upper part.

But toe the mark for him, and heel Respond to thee in kine-- Or kid--or calf, shouldst thou reveal A taste so superfine: Thus let him jest--join in his laugh-- Draw on his stock, and be A sh.o.e.r'd there's no rival half Sole liberal as he.

Then, Poet, hail the Shoe-ma-ker For all his goodly deeds,-- Yea, bless him free for booting thee-- The first of all thy needs!

And when at last his eyes grow dim, And nerveless drops his clamp, In golden shoon pray think of him Upon his latest tramp.

THE OLD RETIRED SEA CAPTAIN.

The old sea captain has sailed the seas So long, that the waves at mirth, Or the waves gone wild, and the crests of these, Were as near playmates from birth: He has loved both the storm and the calm, because They seemed as his brothers twain,-- The flapping sail was his soul's applause, And his rapture, the roaring main.

But now--like a battered hulk seems he, Cast high on a foreign strand, Though he feels "in port," as it need must be, And the stay of a daughter's hand-- Yet ever the round of the listless hours,-- His pipe, in the languid air-- The gra.s.s, the trees, and the garden flowers, And the strange earth everywhere!

And so betimes he is restless here In this little inland town, With never a wing in the atmosphere But the wind-mill's, up and down; His daughter's home in this peaceful vale, And his grandchild 'twixt his knees-- But never the hail of a pa.s.sing sail, Nor the surge of the angry seas!

He quits his pipe, and he snaps its neck-- Would speak, though he coughs instead, Then paces the porch like a quarter-deck With a reeling mast o'erhead!

Ho! the old sea captain's cheeks glow warm, And his eyes gleam grim and weird, As he mutters about, like a thunder-storm, In the cloud of his beetling beard.

ROBERT BURNS WILSON.

What intuition named thee?--Through what thrill Of the awed soul came the command divine Into the mother-heart, foretelling thine Should palpitate with his whose raptures will Sing on while daisies bloom and lavrocks trill Their undulating ways up through the fine Fair mists of heavenly reaches? Thy pure line Falls as the dew of anthems, quiring still The sweeter since the Scottish singer raised His voice therein, and, quit of every stress Of earthly ache and longing and despair, Knew certainly each simple thing he praised Was no less worthy, for its lowliness, Than any joy of all the glory There.

TO THE SERENADER.

Tinkle on, O sweet guitar, Let the dancing fingers Loiter where the low notes are Blended with the singer's: Let the midnight pour the moon's Mellow wine of glory Down upon him through the tune's Old romantic story!

I am listening, my love, Through the cautious lattice, Wondering why the stars above All are blinking at us; Wondering if his eyes from there Catch the moonbeam's s.h.i.+mmer As it lights the robe I wear With a ghostly glimmer.

Lilt thy song, and lute away In the wildest fas.h.i.+on:-- Pour thy rippling roundelay O'er the heights of pa.s.sion!-- Flash it down the fretted strings Till thy mad lips, missing All but smothered whisperings, Press this rose I'm kissing.

THE WIFE-BLESSeD.

I.

In youth he wrought, with eyes ablur, Lorn-faced and long of hair-- In youth--in youth he painted her A sister of the air-- Could clasp her not, but felt the stir Of pinions everywhere.

II.

She lured his gaze, in braver days, And tranced him sirenwise; And he did paint her, through a haze Of sullen paradise, With scars of kisses on her face And embers in her eyes.