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Backwoods  Poems. 


S.  NEWTON  BERRYHILL. 


"^^ 


BACKWOODS   POEMS. 


S.  NEWTON  BERRYHILL, 


'I'd    lea  re    behind 


Somethhiff    imtnortal    of    mjr    heart    and    mind." 

Mbs.  Hemanb. 


^\ 


COLUMBUS,  MISSISSIPPI: 

PRINTED    BY   CHARLES   C.    MARTIN,    EXCELSIOR   OFFICE. 

1878. 


^^ 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1878,  by 
-     S.  NEAVTON  BERRYHILL, 
In  the  office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington,  D.  C. 


TO    THE    MEMORY    OF 

MY  FATHER  AND  MOTHER, 

SAMUEL  AND  MARGARET  BERRYHILL, 

THIS    LITTLE    VOLUME    IS    DEDICATED    BY 
THE    AUTHOR. 


PREFACE 


The  little  book  here  presented  embraces  the  rhymes  and  poems  written  by  me  in  a  period 
of  thirty  years,  beginning  with  my  boyhood.  All  of  them  have  already  been  laid  before  the 
public  in  newspapers  and  periodicals ;  but,  like  autumnal  leaves  cast  on  the  rushing  stream, 
they  have  been  swept  away,  and  only  the  writer's  scrap-book  has  saved  them  from  oblivion. 

It  is  not  through  affectation  that  I  have  given  my  book  the  title  it  bears.  I  chose  this 
title  in  my  boyhood,  when  I  first  conceived  the  design  of  i^ublishing,  some  day,  a  book  of 
poems.  Nor  is  the  title  inappropriate.  While  I  was  yet  an  infant,  my  father,  with  his  family, 
settled  down  in  a  wilderness,  where  I  grew  up  with  the  population,  rarely  ever  going  out  of 
the  neighborhood  for  forty  years.  Save  what  I  learned  from  books  and  newspapers,  and  from 
the  conversation  of  those  into  whose  society  I  was  thrown — 

The  little  world  in  which  I  lived, 
Was  all  the  world  I  knew. 

The  old  log  school-house  with  a  single  window  and  a  single  door— described  in  one  of  my 
earlier  pieces — was  my  alma  tnater;  the  green  woods  were  my  campus;  and  if  I  climbed 
Parnassus,  'twas  not  with  Homer,  "  by  dint  o'  Greek,"  but  with  trusty  dogs,  chasing  the 
mottle-coated  hare  over  the  bush-eovered  hillock.  Thus  isolated  and  thus  surrounded,  both 
my  intellectual  and  my  moral  nature  could  not  fail  to  receive  a  coloring,  which,  reflected  on 
my  rhythmic  effusions,  renders  the  appellation,  "BACKWOODS  PoEMS,"  peculiarly  significant. 

I  am  well  aware,  that  there  are  many  crudities  and  imperfections  in  these  poems,  particu- 
larly in  the  earlier  pieces.  I  have  kept  all;  I  could  not  discard  the  poor  children  of  my  brain 
on  account  of  deformity. 

Such  as  they  are,  I  present  my  rhymes  to  the  public,  craving  their  indulgence  if  I  can  not 
gain  their  applause.  One  merit,  at  least,  I  claim,  for  which  I  hope  my  readers  will  give  me 
credit.  I  have  not  attempted  to  carry  them  to  lofty  heights,  nor  into  deep  waters.  Knowing 
the  weakness  of  my  arm,  I  have  kept  my  little  boat  near  the  shore ! 

In  the  years  to  come,  I  hope — what  writer  did  not  so  hope  P — that  I  will  have  many,  very 
many,  readers.  In  the  variety  presented,  I  hope  that  each  reader  will  find  something  to  please, 
something  to  while  away  a  passing  hour,  and  somewhere  in  these  pages — I  pray  God !— something 
to  incite  to  a  nobler,  better  life. 

Columbus,  Miss.  1878. 


i^LIL^A.. 


Does  the  pale-face  see  the  diamonds  bright 

Which  twinkle  on  the  brow  of  night  ? 

As  many  moons  as  these  beiore 

Your  fathers'  feet  had  trod  our  shore, 

There  lived,  close  by  Sebolee  stream, 

A  chief,  the  whisper  of  whose  name 

"Would  make  his  en'my's  cheek  grow  pale. 

And  cause  the  boldest  heart  to  quail. 

The  flow'ry  prairies  on  the  East, 

The  Father  of  Waters  on  the  West, 

The  counti'y  of  the  long  leaved  pine 

Upon  the  South,  the  "bloody  line" 

Toward  the  North,  beyond  which  dwelt 

The  Chickasaws,  who  often  felt 

This  chieftain's  ire — these  were  the  lines 

Which  bounded  Gray  Hawk's  wide  domains. 

A  thousand  hamlets  owned  him  lord ; 

Ten  thousand  warriors,  at  his  word, 

Would  grasp  the  tomahawk  and  bow. 

And  fall  upon  the  trembling  foe, 

Like  the  iierce  hurricane  whose  force 

Spreads  death  in  its  impetuous  course. 

On  many  a  field  his  tow'ring  form 

Had  stood  amid  the  battle's  storm ; 

His  sinewy  arm  had  dealt  the  blow 

Of  death  to  many  a  gallant  foe ; 

A  thousand  scalps  in  his  wigwam  hung, 

And  the  Western  world  with  his  praises  rung. 

The  moon  waned  oft,  the  chief  waxed  old ; 

His  eye  grew  dim— his  mien  less  bold ; 

His  arm  grew  weak,  his  footstep  slow, 

And  his  raven  locks  turned  white  as  snow. 

Many  moons  before,  his  aged  wife 

Had  winged  her  flight  from  the  haunts  ot  life 

To  the  spirit  land.     An  only  child— 

The  sweet  Palila— on  the  chieftain  smiled. 

O,  she  was  tair  as  th'  wild  i-ed  rose 

Which  in  the  dark  green  forest  grows. 

Her  hair  was  black  as  th'  wing  of  night ; 

Her  eyes  as  bright  as  th'  orbs  ot  light ; 

Her  step  like  that  of  the  timid  doe ; 

Her  voice  as  soft  as  the  streamlet's  flow. 

As  the  tendrils  of  the  creeping  vine 

Around  the  sapless  oak  entwine. 

And  shield  it  from  the  wintry  blast 

When  the  halcyon  days  of  Spring  are  past ; 


So  young  Palila's  tender  care 
Made  light  the  troubles  of  her  sire. 
Her  own  fair  hands  at  night  and  morn 
Prepared  his  meals — the  parched  com. 
The  smoking  venison,  the  fruits 
Herself  had  culled,  and  many  roots  ' 
Whose  sav'ry  taste  is  yet  unknown 
To  the  wise  pale  face.     The  gloomy  frown 
Which  like  a  threatening  cloud  displayed 
Itself  on  Gray  Hawk's  brow,  would  fade 
Into  a  smile,  when  she,  the  pride 
Of  his  old  age.  was  by  his  side. 

Young  braves  from  many  a  distant  land 
Had  sought  the  young  Palila's  hand. 
Many  a  costly  gift  they  bore 
And  laid  at  the  old  chieftain's  door : 
Gay  plumes  and  costly  gems  t'  adorn 
The  young  Palila's  brow ;  green  corn 
And  luscious  fruits  from  th'  southern  isles. 
Where  the  hunter  is  lured  by  fairies'  wiles ; 
The  shaggy  skins  of  grizzly  bears 
Slain  in  their  lofty  mountain  lairs ; 
And  deer-skins  soft,  dyed  many  a-hue — 
Green,  orange,  yellow,  red  and  blue. 
But  the  chief  would  send  the  braves  away, 
And  bid  them  call  some  other  day. 

The  young  Palila  never  smiled 

Upon  their  suit.     Love's  passion  wild 

Had  never  fired  her  youthful  blood. 

Content  to  wander  in  the  wood, 

And  cull  the  flowers  of  varied  hue 

Which  there  in  rich  profusion  grew ; 

Or  with  her  bow  and  arrow  slay 

The  redbird  or  the  noisy  jay. 

And  with  their  plumage  soft  and  fair 

Adorn  her  glossy  raven  hair — 

She  never  sighed  for  man's  warm  love. 

Ne'er  wished  from  her  fair  home  to  rove. 

II. 
Close  where  the  chieftain's  wigwam  stood, 
A  little  stream  flowed  through  the  wood. 
On  each  side  of  the  narrow  plain 
In  which  it  ran,  a  verdant  chain 
Of  gently  sloping  hills  arose. 
Beside  the  stream  a  fountain  flows. 


6                                              Backwoods   Poems. 

Whose  magic  waters,  bright  and  clear, 

Oft  steals,  and  paints  with  heav'nly  hues 

"Were  sought  by  red  men,  far  and  near. 

Whatever  meets  the  enraptured  eye 

To  heal  their  sickness,  and  impart 

In  earth,  the  ocean  or  the  -ky. 

New  life  and  strength  to  every  part. 

She  sat  and  gazed  with  dreamy  look 
Into  the  waters  of  the  brook, 

One  day  the  dark-eyed  Indian  maid 

Where  th'  azure  sky,  and  spreading  trees 

Into  this  lovely  valley  strayed. 

With  branches  waving  in  the  breeze 

Wearied  with  wand'ring  through  the  wood. 

Were  dimly  mirrored.     The  spirit  land, 

Slie  sat  her  down  in  pensive  mood 

With  all  its  bright,  immor.al  band. 

Beneath  a  bluff  which  overhung 

Its  verdant  plains  and  valleys  fair, 

The  little  stream.     Her  bow  unstrung 

Its  silvery  trees  and  flowers  rare, 

Lay  at  her  feet :  her  arrows  tied 

Seemed  floating  in  the  dim  twilight, 

In  a  quiver  neat,  hung  by  her  side. 

Far  down  below  the  waters  bright. 

A  wreath  of  Autumn  flowers  around 

But  soon  her  blissful  dieaui  was  broke. 

Her  broad  and  lofty  brow  was  bound. 

The  crimson  hue  her  cheeks  forsook. 

In  glossy  waves  her  raven  hair 

And  left  tliem  deadly  paie  wiLli  fear. 

Fell  on  her  nut-brown  bosom  bare. 

Reflected  in  the  water  clear, 

Her  skirt  of  doe-skin  half  concealed 

She  saw  the  hideous  outlines 

Her  rounded  limbs,  and  half  revealed. 

Of  a  panther  crouched  among  some  vines 

And  moccasins  ot  yellow  hue. 

That  gxjvv  ux)ou  tue  biiitt  o'erhead. 

Embroidered  with  green  and  blue. 

Its  an   L'v,  SL'ovlin"-  eyes  were  red 

Adorned  her  dainty  little  leet. 

As  glowing  coals  ot  fire ;   its  jaws 

Her  cheeks  were  glowing  with  the  heat 

Half  oped,  displayed  two  shining  rows 

Of  exercise,  and  her  eyes  were  bright 

Of  long  sharp  teeth ;  while  on  the  ground 

With  wild  enthusiastic  light, 

Its  tail  was  writhing  round  and  round 

As  she  witli  soul  enrapt  surveyed 

Like  a  wounded  snake.     One  moment  short 

The  seene  which  nature  here  outspread. 

Palila  gazed  with  pulseless  heart 
Upon  the  sight,  then  rose  to  flee. 

The  Indian  summer  had  just  begun. 

Fearful  that  he  would  lose  his  prey. 

The  mellow  rays  (ff  th'  Autumn  sun 

The  panther  sprang  with  piercing  scream; 

Diffused  a  light  soft  and  serene 

But  fell  midway  the  little  stream— 

O'er  Nature's  face.     The  robe  of  green 

^_     An  arrow  quivering  in  his  heart. 

AVhich  gentle  Spring  o'er  the  forest  threw. 

Soon  a  young  brave,  with  bow  and  dart,  ■ 

Was  changed  to  one  of  varied  hue. 

Leaped  from  the  blufi',  and  stood  beside 

The  luscious  grapes  and  muscadines 

The  atflrighted  girl.    His  face  was  dyed 

In  clusters  hung  upon  the  vines. 

A  sanguine  red— the  dreadful  hue 

Upon  the  huckleberry  bush, 

Which  the  Indian  maiden  too  well  knew, 

Bending  with  fruit,  the  russet  thrush 

Was  the  hated  badge  of  Gray  Hawk's  foes— 

Poured  forth  her  sweet  melodious  song. 

The  llerceaiid  warlike  Chickasaws. 

The  black-eyed  squirrel  frisked  among 

"  Fear  not,  sweet  maiden,"  spoke  the  youth. 

The  hickory  trees,  and  at  each  bound 

In  tones  that  breathed  of  love  and  truth. 

Scattered  tlio  brown  nuts  on  the  ground. 

AVhile  young  Palila,  like  a  hare 
Caught  in  the  hunter's  fatal  snare, 

The  evening  waned;  in  the  distant  west 

Stood  trembling  by.     "Shrink  not  away. 

The  sun  sank  gently  down  to  rest 

Think  you  that  Toppasha  would  slay 

Upon  a  soft,  voluptuous  bed 

Yon  cruel  beast,  only  to  wreak 

Of  rosy  clouds.    His  last  rays  shed 

His  hate  on  you  ?     Think  you  he'd  take 

A  flickering  gleam  upon  the  pines, 

The  lite  he  risked  his  own  to  save  1 

Which  stretched  their  misty,  blue  outlines 

Such  deeds  would  not  become  the  brave." 

Like  a  mighty  wall  with  towers  high. 

And  with  a  smile  of  winning  grace 

Across  the  face  of  the  western  sky. 

He  gazed  into  the  maiden's  face  ; 

Still  sat  Palila  by  tlie  stream. 

Gazed  till  her  heart  with  quick'ning  beat 

Wrapped  in  that  sweet,  poetic  dream 

Drove  the  warm  blood  in  blushes  sweet 

Which  o'er  the  soul,  like  twilight  dews, 

To  her  soft  cheeks ;  and  the  liquid  light 

Backwoods   Poems. 


Of  wild  and  rapturous  delight 
Glowed  ill  her  dark  and  Unguid  eyes, 
Like  sunbeams  in  the  morning  skies. 
Soon  did  Palila  cease  to  tear  ; 
Soon  did  her  ravished,  willing  ear 
Drink  ia  each  softly  spoken  word 
The  stranger's  el'quent  lips  outpoured. 

Ha  told  her  of  his  native  hills 

F.ir  to  the  Xcrth,  where  crystal  rills 

Now  gently  raui-mured  through  the  dell, 

Now  in  wild  cascades  headlong  fell 

O'er  jutting  rocks ;  where  all  day  long. 

The  woods  were  voeal  with  the  song 

Of  the  mocking  bird  and  timid  quail. 

Which  echo  bore  from  hill  to  vale. 

And  down  the  stream  meand'ring  by. 

Till  it  melted  in  the  distant  sky ; 

■\V  nere  i  a   herce-eyed  eagle  built  her  nest 

Mid  fleecy  clouds,  upon  the  crest 

Of  the  tow'ring  pine ;  and  the  hunted  stag 

Disdainful  leaped  from  crag  to  crag, 

Switt  as  the  equinoctial  wind. 

Leaving  the  hunter  far  behind. 

He  told  her  of  his  chieftain  sire, 

Before  whose  dreadful  eye  ot  lire 

The  loemau  quailed  with  tremblmg  heart. 

As  from  the  lightning's  forked  dart ; 

And  of  the  hosts  that  chief  could  .ead 

Against  the  foe  in  th'  hour  of  need. 

And  then  how  he  had  chanced  to  roam 

So  far  from  his  fair  mountain  home. 

One  day,  while  hunting  in  the  wood, 

He  spied  a  creature  strange  which  sf.ood 

Down  in  a  dark  and  deep  ravine, 

Which  lay  two  rooky  luil>  between. 

In  shape  'twas  like  a  little  doe ; 

But  white  and  spotless  as  the  sno  v 

Which  lines  the  earth,  when  the  Winter  King 

Spreads  o'er  the  sky  his  gloomy  wing. 

Fast  clinging  to  the  vines  which  grew 

Upon  the  pvecipice,  he  threw 

Himself  from  rock  to  rock,  until 

He  reached  the  bottom,  gazing  still 

Upon  the  creature,  where  it  stood 

Half  hidden  in  the  little  wood. 

But  even  as  he  gazed  'twas  gone ; 

And  looking  up  he  saw  it  on 

The  precipice's  topmost  rock, 

Calmly  gazing,  as  if  to  mock, 

Upon  the  hunter  far  below  ; 

While  he,  with  timid  step  and  slow, 

Climbed  up  the  bank.     But  when 


He  reached  the  top  he  found  again 

That  it  had  fled.     He  saw  it  now 

Upon  a  lofty  mountain's  brow, 

Far  to  the  south.     Swift  as  the  gale, 

He  onw-ard  sped  o'er  hill  and  dale. 

Until  he  gained  the  mountain  side. 

Then  bending  low,  so  as  to  hide 

Himself  beneath  its  grassy  bed. 

He  crept  with  soft  and  stealthy  tread 

Toward  the  lofty  summit  bare. 

When  near  the  top,  he  chose  with  care 

A  polished  arrow  straight  and  true, 

And  fixed  it  to  his  supple  bow. 

With  quick'ning  heart  he  slowly  raised 

His  head  above  the  grass.    Amazed, 

He  looked  upon  the  vacant  height — 

Tlie  doe  had  vanished  from  his  sight ! 

He  looked  toward  the  South  again, 

And  saw  it  on  a  distant  plain; 

Again  sped  on — ag  tin  drew  near. 

And  saw  it  vanish  in  the  au\ 

And  thus  he  followed  on  till  night 

Concealed  the  creature  from  his  sight ; 

When  lying  down  ii])imi  the  ground 

He  fell  into  a  sleep  profound. 

Next  morn,  refreshed  with  sweet  repose, 

At  rosy  dawn's  a  ipru  eh  he  rose. 

He  saw,  by  the  dim  twilight  gray. 

The  spirit-doe  not  far  away, 

And  followed  on.    Six  times  the  sun 

Through  his  diurnal  course  had  run ; 

Six  times  on  earth  the  stars  and  moon 

Had  smiled ;  and  still  he  wandered  on  : 

Up  many  a  mountain's  craggy  side  ; 

Through  many  a  forest  dark  and  wide ; 

Across  full  many  a  broad  deep  stream. 

Whose  dark-blue  waters  the  bright  sunbeam 

Could  never  kiss.     Like  the  witch's  light 

Which  often  in  the  dark  wet  night. 

We  see  beside  the  boggy  stream. 

Lighting  the  swamp  with  flick'ring  gleam, 

The  spirit-doe  still  lured  him  on. 

But  when  within  his  grasp— was  gone. 

The  seventh  morn,  when  he  awoke, 

He  found  him.self  beneath  an  oak. 

Whose  spreading  branches  overhung 

A  stagnant  stream  which  wound  along 

The  valley,  like  a  huge  black  snake. 

And  now  his  limbs  began  to  ache 

With  pangs  he  never  felt  before. 

And  sharped-tooth  hunger  pinched  him  sore. 

For  six  long  days  his  only  food 

Had  been  the  wild  fruits  ot  the  wood, 

Which  he  had  gathered  by  the  way. 


I 


Backwoods  Poems. 


For  he  had  never  paused  to  slay 
The  deer  which  gazed  with  wondering  eye 
On  him,  as  he  was  speeding  by. 
"While  he  was  musing  on  his  wo, 
He  saw  the  little  spirit-doe 
Standing  upon  a  mound  close  by, 
Looking  tow'rd  him  with  pitying  eye. 
With  trembling  hand,  he  seized  his  bow 
And  fixed  the  shaft.    The  little  doe 
Fled  not.     He  aimed  the  deadly  dart 
Toward  the  little  creature's  heart ; 
Drew  back  the  string,  the  string  let  fly — 
And  then  there  came  a  mournful  cry. 
Like  a  murdered  infant's  dying  wail 
Borne  on  the  midnight's  moaning  gale ; 
And  the  spirit-doe  dissolved  away, 
Like  the  morning  mist  before  the  ray 
Of  the  rising  sun.     He  turned  and  fled. 
While  every  hair  upon  his  head 
Stood  straight  with  wild  affi'ight.     The  night 
Came  on,  ere  he  had  ceased  his  flight. 
At  last  his  limbs  refused  to  bear 
Him  farther,  and  he  fainted  near 
The  bluff,  where  through  the  night  he  slept. 
At  rosy  dawn's  approach  he  ci'ept 
Into  a  grove  of  little  pines, 
Which,  interwove  with  tangled  vines, 
Concealed  him  from  the  intruder's  sight. 
He  saw  the  maid  with  footstep  light 
Trip  by ;  and  from  his  hiding  place 
He  stole  to  gaze  upon  her  face, 
As  wrapt  in  her  elysian  dream, 
She  sat  beside  the  little  stream. 
His  heart  beat  wild  with  sweet  delight, 
As  he  gazed  upon  the  vision  bright ; 
And,  O  too  soon !  his  captive  soul 
Submissive  bowed  to  love's  control. 
He  saw  the  panther  on  the  bluff 
Prepared  to  leap.    It  was  enough- 
He  sent  the  keen  unerring  dart 
Swift  to  the  horrid  monster's  heart. 

Long  ere  the  youth  had  told  his  tale, 
The  dark-browed  Night  had  thrown  her  veil 
O'er  slumbering  Nature's  face ;  and  soon 
From  o'er  the  eastern  hills,  the  moon 
With  trembling  ray  shone  through  the  wood 
Upon  the  spot  where  the  lovers  stood. 
And  warned  them  that  'twas  time  to  part. 
Young  Toppasha,  with  swelling  heart 
And  mournful  look,  now  gently  prest 
Palila  to  his  heaving  breast, 
While  she  with  blushing  upturned  face, 
Responded  to  his  warm  embrace. 


A  moment  more  he  held  her  there. 

As  if  his  soul  would  quaff  tore'er, 

Th'  intoxicating  cup  of  bliss ; 

Then,  bending  down,  a  long,  sweet  kiss 

Upon  her  half-oped  lips  he  sealed. 

Rushed  from  her  arms,  and  was  concealed 

In  the  forest's  thick  and  gloomy  shade, 

Before  the  languid,  weeping  maid 

Could  realize  that  he  was  gone. 

Or  feel  she  was  indeed  alone. 

III. 

Love  is  a  wizard ;  at  his  touch 

The  strong  man's  heart,  though  e'er  so  much 

With  pride  enfrozen  it  may  be. 

Melts  like  the  iceberg  when  the  sea 

Blushes  beneath  the  ardent  kiss 

Of  the  summer's  sun.    New  founts  of  bliss, 

Beneath  his  soft  yet  stem  control, 

Are  opened  to  the  thirsty  soul. 

The  gloom  upon  the  pensive  brow 

Is  chased  away ;  while  eyes  that  glow 

And  spai'kle  with  mischievous  mirth, 

Are  made  to  droop  all  sad  to  earth. 

A  change  came  o'er  the  chieftain's  child : 

No  more  she  roamed  in  the  forest  wild 

With  lightsome  step  and  sunny  face, 

Or  merrily  danced  with  childish  grace 

Before  her  father's  lodge.     A  shade 

Of  sadness,  like  soft  twilight,  played 

Upon  her  features ;  and  a  beam 

Of  pensive  light,  like  the  last  gleam 

Of  the  setting  sun,  shone  in  her  soft 

And  languid  eyes.     She  wandered  oft 

To  the  dear-loved  spot  beside  the  stream. 

Where  first  her  soul  was  taught  the  dream 

Of  love.     Here  she  would  sit  alone 

And  muse  upon  the  loved  one  ; 

Recall  each  gentle  word  which  fell 

Upon  her  soul  like  the  magic  spell 

Which  moonlight  weaves  around  the  grove— 

And  each  sweet,  melting  glance  of  love. 

Again  she  felt  his  burning  kiss 

Upon  her  lips ;  and  O,  the  bliss 

E'en  in  the  thought !  again  was  prest 

With  rapture  to  his  manly  breast. 

The  gentle,  brown-haired  Autumn  drew 
Her  flowing  robe  of  rainbow  hue 
Closely  around  her  shivering  form. 
And,  mounted  on  the  swift-winged  storm, 
Flew  to  the  South.     While  Nature  slept, 
Old  Winter  from  his  cavern  crept 


I 


Backwoods   Poems. 


Witli  stealthy  tread  :  and  his  icy  breath 
Spread  o'er  the  wood  the  chill  of  death. 
The  withered  leaves,  \vith  rustling  sound, 
Fell  slow  and  mournful  to  the  ground ; 
And  the  tall  trees  sighed  with  deep  despair, 
To  see  their  limbs  thus  stripped  and  bare. 
The  leprous  frost,  at  midnight  hour. 
Crept  to  the  bed  of  the  humble  flower; 
Next  morn  it  lay  upon  its  bed 
All  pale  and  cold — the  flower  was  dead ! 
Palila,  too,  the  young  and  fair. 
Seemed  drooping  'neath  the  wintry  air. 
As  if  the  frost  which  nipped  the  flower. 
Had,  in  the  self-same  evil  hour. 
Nipped  every  bud  of  youthful  hope, 
That  in  her  heart  began  to  ope. 
Her  lovely  cheek  grew  thin  and  pale. 
Like  a  tree  in  summer  which  the  gale 
Has  thrown  to  earth  ;  her  step  grew  slow. 
Like  the  mournful  tread  of  the  timid  doe 
That's  lost  her  mate ;  and  eyes  once  bright 
Lost  all  the  splendor  of  their  light. 

Old  Gray  Hawk  saw  his  lovely  flower 
Repining — withering,  every  hour, 
And  blamed  his  selfishness  and  pride. 
That  he  had  kept  her  by  his  side, 
While  she  was  pining  for  the  love 
Of  some  twin  heart,  like  mateless  dove. 
Or  flow'r  shut  out  from  the  evening  dew 
By  the  branches  of  the  spreading  yew. 

Young  White  Wolf— chieftain  of  a  band— 

Whose  home  was  in  the  lovely  land 

Of  the  long-leaved  pine,  had  often  sought 

Pallia's  hand.    His  sire  liad  fought 

By  Gray  Hawk's  side  in  days  gone  by. 

And  the  son  had  proved  a  true  ally. 

So  Gray  Hawk  sent  old  S  [jotted  Deer, 

His  faithful  messenger,  to  bear 

To  Wliite  Wolf  in  his  distant  home, 

The  pleasing  news,  that  he  might  come. 

When  spring's  soft  breeze  had  oped  the  flow'rs 

In  nature's  lovely,  verdant  bow'rs. 

And  take  his  bride,  the  chieftain's  child, 

Unto  his  home  in  the  forest  wild. 

IV. 

The  red-faced  Sun  in  flaming  ire 
Came  from  the  south.     His  darts  of  lire 
Shivered  Old  Wintei-'s  icy  shield, 
And  drove  him  howling  from  the  field. 
The  bright-eyed,  amorous  Spring  again 
Resumed  her  soft  voluptuous  reign. 


The  laughing  trees  put  on  anew 
Their  waving  robes  of  verdant  hue ; 
Again  the  violet's  drooping  head 
Reclined  upon  the  mossy  bed  ; 
And  the  brier  rose  and  fragrant  pink 
Hung  o'er  the  gurgling  streamlet's  brink. 

But  the  crimson  rose  bloomed  never  more, 

As  in  the  happy  days  of  yore, 

On  young  Pallia's  cheek.     The  sun 

Warmed  ev'ry  flower  to  life ;  that  one 

Was  far  beyond  his  healing  art. 

The  winter  of  a  broken  heart 

Ha<l  froz'n  the  fount  who.se  crimson  stream 

Its  life  sustained ;  and  not  a  gleam 

Of  hope  peered  through  the  cheerless  gloom. 

The  darkness  of  her  soul  t'  illume. 

The  nuptial  eve  aiTived  ;  the  young. 

Athletic  braves  their  bows  had  strung, 

And  gone  into  the  woods  in  quest 

Of  ven'son  for  the  nuptial  feast. 

The  morrow  was  to  be  a  day 

Of  joyous  feasts  and  pleasures  gay, 

Throughout  old  Gray  Hawk's  wide  domains. 

From  noon  to  eve  came  joyous  trains 

Of  girls,  with  flowers  to  strew  before 

The  aged  chieftain's  wigwam  door. 

But  when  they  saw  the  pale,  sad  face 

Of  the  youthful  bride,  their  joy  gave  place 

To  tears  ;  for  each  one  called  to  mind 

Some  act— some  little  token  kind— 

Which  made  them  love  their  chieftain's  child 

With  all  the  warmth  of  natures  wild. 

When  evening  came  Palila  sought, 

For  the  last  time,  the  dear-loved  spot 

Beneath  the  bluff.     While  sitting  there, 

Gazing  into  the  water  clear, 

The  witch  of  the  hills,  old  Oradore, 

Came  fi'om  the  wood  and  stood  before 

The  affrighted  girl.     Her  shrivelled  face 

Was  smeared  with  paint,  yet  one  might  trace 

Those  lines  of  hclUsh  passion  there 

Which  mark  the  witch.     Among  her  hair, 

Whose  long,  grey  tresses  swept  alie  ground. 

The  skin  ot  a  rattlesnake  was  wound, 

With  e'en  its  rattles  and  its  head, 

From  which  one  shrinks  witli  shivering  dread. 

Palila,  trembling,  rose  to  flee. 

"Ha!"  screamed  the  witch,  "you  shrink  £i-om  me! 

The  daughter  of  the  chief  is  proud  ; 

The  poor  old  witch  whose  form  is  bowed 

With  age  and  grief,  she  treats  with  scorn. 

Away  !  may  that  proud  heart  be  torn 


10 


Backwoods  Poems. 


With  grief ;  may  devils  haunt  your  path, 

And  feast  upon  your  soul  in  death !" 

"Nay,  do  not  curse  the  chieftain's  child," 

Palila  said  in  accents  mild. 

"The  poor  old  squaw  she  did  not  mean 

To  treat  with  scorn  or  proud  disdain. 

With  grief  her  heart's  already  sore : — 

O,  do  not  curse  me,  Oradore." 

"Tlie  maiden  speaks  with  a  serpent's  tongue,' 

Exclaimed  the  witch  ;  "what  has  the  young 

Pallia's  heart  to  do  with  grief .' 

You  are  the  daughter  of  a  chief — 

A  mighty  chief  whose  faithful  band 

Would  yield  their  lives  at  his  command. 

What  'tis  to  want  you  ne'er  have  known ; 

You've  but  to  will  and  it  is  done. 

And  I  have  learned  that  you're  to  wed" — 

"Alas !  'tis  this,"  Palila  said, 

"That  now  with  sorrow  wrings  my  heart. 

For  Oh !  the  soul  no  keener  dart 

E'er  felt,  than  being  forced  to  wed 

One  not  beloved.     The  nuptial  bed 

With  sharpest  thorns  is  interwove. 

Unless  'tis  spread  by  the  hands  of  love." 

"You  love  another !"  the  witch  exclaimed  ; 

"The  chieftain's  daughter  is  a,shamed 

To  let  her  proud  old  father  know. 

His  darling  child  has  stooped  so  low, 

As  to  bestow  her  hand  on  one 

Of  humble  blood."    And  the  withered  crone 

Looked  with  a  taunting,  bitter  sneer 

In  the  maiden's  face,  still  pale  with  fear. 

"The  witch  of  the  hills  has  spoken  a  lie," 

Exclaimed  the  maid,  with  flashing  eye ; 

"He  whom  I  love  is  a  chiettain's  son  ; 

Nor  would  I  be  ashamed  to  own 

My  love  for  one  of  humble  blood — 

I  know  no  ranks  but  the  bad  and  good. 

But  the  youth  I  love  is  a  hated  foe 

Of  Gray  Hawk's  tribe — a  Chickasaw." 

"A  Chickasaw !"  the  beldam  screamed. 

And  in  her  snaky  eyes  there  gleamed 

A  light  of  joyous  triumph ;  while 

Upon  her  haggard  face  a  smile 

Of  more  than  hellish  pleasure  played. 

Which  e'en  her  toothless  gums  displayed. 

Palila  turned,  and  would  have  fled. 

"Stay,  maiden,  stay,"  the  beldam  said ; 

And  the  demon  smile  upon  her  face 

Was  changed  to  one  of  winning  grace. 

"Poor,  tender  child  !  your  fate,  indeed. 

May  well  cause  your  heart  to  bleed  : — 

Doomed  by  your  cruel  sire  to  wed 

One  not  beloved ;  constrained  by  dread 


Of  a  father's  anger  to  conceal 

The  love  your  heart  would  fain  reveal. 

But,  maiden,  would  you  not  once  more 

Behold  the  one  that  you  adore  ?" 

And  the  witch  looked  in  Pallia's  eyes, 

As  if  beneath  the  bright  disguise 

She'd  read  her  very  soul.     "I  would," 

The  maiden  whispered  as  she  stood. 

With  palpitating  heart,  before 

The  .searching  gize  of  Oradore. 

"Then  take  this  vase,"  the  witch  replied; 

And  from  the  pouch  hung  by  her  side. 

She  took  a  vessel  made  of  stone. 

"The  secret's  known  to  me  alone, 

How  to  prepare  this  liquid  rare 

From  the  waters  of  yon  fountain  clear. 

Take  this ;  and  when  the  midnight  hour 

With  gloomy  frowns  begins  to  lower. 

Steal  from  the  wigwam  of  your  sire  ; 

Go  to  yon  sxM'ing  and  build  a  Are 

Close  by ;  and  then  securely  tie 

Your  moo'sin  to  a  twig  you'll  spy 

Beside  the  spring.     Six  circuits  round 

The  little  fire,  without  a  sound, 

You  then  must  make.     Then  in  the  blaze 

Pour  out  the  liquid  from  the  vase. 

And  you  will  soon  behold  once  more 

The  form  of  him  whom  you  adore." 

Thus  having  spoke,  the  wicked  crone 

Walked  on,  and  left  the  maid  alone. 

When  hidden  from  Pallia's  sight. 

The  hellish  smile  of  dark  delight. 

Played  like  a  writhing  serpent  on 

Her  lips  again ;  and  fury  shone 

In  her  fierce  eyes,  like  the  fires  of  hell 

When  the  Devil  tolls  a  witch's  knell. 

"Ha !  ha !"  she  laughed,  "the  little  hare 

Has  come  into  the  hunter's  snare. 

Ha !  ha  !  I'll  be  revenged  at  last. 

Though  many,  many  years  have  past. 

Since  Gray  Hawk  scorned  Tuscora's  love 

To  wed  her  sister.  Turtle  Dove, 

Yet  in  her  heart,  with  tender  care, 

She's  nursed  the  thorn  he  planted  there. 

He's  thought  me  dead  e'er  since  the  day, 

When  from  the  feast  1  stole  away — 

His  nuptial  feast— hut  Oh  !  to  me 

A  funeral  feast  'twas  doomed  to  be. 

He  little  dreams  old  Oradore, 

The  hag  who  begs  from  door  to  door. 

Is  the  once  proud  Tuscora.     No ! 

He  thinks  I'm  dead— ho,  ho !  ho,  ho  !  — 

She's  very  fair — that  well  may  be ; 


Backwoods   Poems. 


11 


They  say  she's  gooil — what's  that  to  me  T 
She  has  her  mother's  hated  face — 
The  same  soft  smile  of  winning  grace— 
The  same  dark  eye  and  glossy  hair — 
Yes,  so  like  her  that  I  could  tear 
Her  very  heart  from  out  her  breast, 
And  of  it  make  a  bloody  feast. 
Revenge,  though  long  delayed,  is  sweet ; 
At  midnight,  Gray  Hawk,  we  shall  meet !" 


The  midnight  hour  drew  near  :  the  moon 
Smiled  sadly,  wanly  from  her  noon, 
And  shed  a  flood  of  silvery  light 
O'er  lowly  dell  and  mountain  height. 
O'erhead  the  moaning  evening  breeze 
Swayed  to  and  fro  the  tall,  dark  trees. 
Whose  flickering  shades  would  now  grow  deep, 
Now  dim,  as  the  pale-faced  moon  would  peep 
Out  from  behind  the  fleecy  cloud, 
Or  in  its  folds  her  form  enshroud. 

Palila  rose  from  her  little  bed. 

And  stole  with  soft  and  timid  tread 

From  the  wigwam  door.     Her  lovely  face 

"Was  very  pale  ;  and  one  might  trace 

On  it  those  marks  of  deepest  gloom. 

Which  oft  foreshade  our  coming  doom. 

She  plunged  into  the  forest's  shade. 

Where  the  raccoon  and  the  wild-cat  played. 

And  the  swamp  wolf's  eyes  with  hideous  glare. 

Gazed  on  her  from  the  liidden  lair ; 

Into  the  deep  and  tangled  brake. 

Where  the  ven'mous,  sharp-toothed  rattlesnake 

Hissed  at  her  fast  retreating  form. 

As  he  rattled  loud  his  dread  alarm. 

She  climbed  the  steep  and  rugged  hill. 
Upon  whose  crest  the  wliippoorwill 
Was  uttering  her  mournful  cry, 
A  token  sure  that  death  was  uigh. 
On— on,  into  the  gloomy  dell. 
Where  the  owl  was  hooting  in  his  cell ; 
On,  with  a  footstep  like  the  deer, 
On,  though  her  heart  beat  fast  with  fear ; 
On,  though  her  limbs  could  scarce  uphold 
Her  trembling  form,  and  drops  of  cold 
And  clammy  sweat  were  gathering  now, 
Like  dew-drops,  ou  her  lovely  brow. 
At  length,  she  reached  the  fountain  clear, 
And  with  some  brushwood,  kindled  near 
Its  brink  a  blazing  fire.     She  found 
The  twig,  and  bending  down,  she  bound 
Her  moccasin  secure  and  fast 


Upon  its  stem ;  and  having  cast 
Around  a  look  of  anxious  fear- 
Like  some  poor,  timid,  frightened  deer, 
When  menaced  with  the  hunter's  ire— 
Her  circuit  round  the  crackling  fire 
She  then  began.     Six  times  she  made 
The  circuit  round,  with  noiseless  tread. 
Then  with  a  trembling  hand  she  threw 
The  liquid  from  the  vase  into 
The  ruddy  flame.     Straitway,  a  cloud 
Of  smoke— black  as  the  sable  shroud 
Of  night,  when  the  fierce  tempest's  ire 
Bursts  ou  the  earth— came  from  the  Are 
In  spiral  wreaths,  and  wound 
Itself,  like  some  huge  serpent,  round 
Pallia's  form.     A  moment  more. 
And  the  gentle  wings  of  the  zephyr  bore 
It  far  away ;  and  the  maiden  saw 
Her  long-loved,  long-lost  Toppasha 
Standing  beside  the  spring.     But  O ! 
His  look  was  cold  as  the  winter  snow ; 
His  melting  glance  of  love  was  gone ; 
The  chill  of  death,  it  seemed,  was  on 
His  lofty  brow  ;  and  his  eagle  eye 
Was  vacant— dim.     With  joyful  cry, 
That  through  the  silent  forest  rang, 
Palila  tow'rd  the  spectre  sprang. 
But  with  a  frown  upon  its  face, 
It  slowly  shrank  from  her  embrace. 
And  like  the  magic  village  seen 
By  travellers  on  the  prairie  green, 
'Twould  always  flit  away,  whene'er 
Pallia's  trembling  steps  drew  near. 
"O,  Toppasha,"  the  maiden  cried, 
"Why  shrink'st  thou  from  Pallia's  side  ? 
E'er  since  the  sweet,  yet  mournful  hour. 
When  first  we  met  in  yonder  bower. 
My  very  life,  bj'  love's  decree, 
Has  been  one  long,  long  thought  of  thee. 
O,  come,  and  let  me  once  more  rest 
This  fevered  brow  upon  your  breast. 
O,  come,  and  round  me  twine  your  arm. 
And  let  me  feel  your  kisses  warm 
Upon  my  liiis.     Then  I  could  die 
In  peace,  and  cast  no  ling'ring  sigh 
On  aught  behind."     But  the  spectre  stood 
With  folded  arms,  in  gloomy  mood. 
Cold  and  unmoved.    And  the  maiden  bowed 
Her  lovely  form,  and  wept  aloud. 

Meanwhile,  the  witch,  old  Oradore, 
Had  wound  her  way  to  Gray  Hawk's  door. 
And  roused  him  with  her  piercing  screams. 
"Who  wakes  me  fiom  my  midnight  dreams  ?" 


12 


Backwoods   Poems. 


The  chief,  in  tones  of  thunder  cried. 
"No  matter,  now,"  the  witch  replied ; 
"Let  the  chieftain  string  his  good,  sti'oag  bow, 
And  to  the  med'cine  fountain  go. 
Haste— quick— the  chieftain's  daughter  fair 
Has  met  her  Chicka-saw  lover  there." 
Old  Gray  Hawk  rose  in  frenzy  wild, 
Strode  to  the  bedside  of  his  child, 
And  found  that  she  indeed  was  gone. 
Then  his  dark  eye,  like  lightning  shone  ; 
His  brow  grew  dai-k  as  the  tempest  cloud  ; 
And  like  the  thunder,  his  voice  loud. 
"My  bow !"  he  cried,  "my  trusty  bow, 
I'll  teach  the  coward  Chickasaw, 
What  'tis  to  creep  with  catlike  tread, 
And  steal  my  daughter  from  her  bed." 
He  grasped  his  bow,  where  it  had  hung 
O'erhead  for  many  a  year,  unstrung. 
And  fixed  the  string.     Then  having  tied 
His  well-stored  quiver  by  his  side. 
He  bounded  from  the  door,  and  sped 
Into  the  forest,  with  a  tread 
As  light  as  'twas  in  days  of  yore, 
When  with  unsparing  hand  he  tore 
The  reeking  scalp  from  the  foeman's  head. 
As  from  the  battle  field  he  fled. 
At  last  he  reached  the  spring,  and  saw 
Palila  and  the  Chickasaw, 
Not  closely  looked  love's  in  embrace, 
But  gazing  in  each  other's  face. 
With  mournful  look  of  deep  despair. 
Like  a  wild-oat  wounded  in  tlie  lair. 
The  aged  chief  with  fury  raged. 
Quick  from  his  quiver  he  disengaged 
A  barbed  arrow  straight  and  true, 
And  fixed  it  to  the  bow.     He  drew 
The  string,  and  glanced  along  the  dart- 
'Twas  pointed  toward  the  stranger's  heart— 
The  bowstring  twanged— tlie  arrow  sped— 
Quick  from  his  sight  the  phantom  fled  - 
And  Oh !  the  sharp  and  murd'rous  dart 
Was  buried  in  Pallia's  heart ! 
With  piercing  scream,  upon  the  ground 
The  maiden  fell ;  while  from  the  wound 
The  warm,  red  current  bubbled  fortli. 
Like  a  spring  of  waterfrom  the  earth. 
Old  Gray  Hawk  raised  her  lifeless  form 
Upon  his  almost  nerveless  arm ; 
Drew  the  keen  arrow  from  her  side, 
And  strove  to  staunch  the  crimron  tide- 
Alas  !  he  found  that  'twas  too  late. 
Her  wounded  heart  had  ceased  to  beat , 
And  her  young  spirit  winged  its  flight, 
Beyond  the  ken  of  mortal  sight. 


To  join  the  bright  and  happy  band 

Who  range  the  woods  of  the  spirit  land. 

"My  child !  my  child  !"  the  chieftain  cried, 

"Would  that  'twas  I— not  thou— that  died  V 

And  in  the  agony  of  despair. 

He  wildly  tore  his  long,  grey  hair ; 

And  wept,  until  the  woods  around, 

Were  vocal  with  the  mournful  sound. 

Straitway,  a  peal  of  laughter  clear. 

Rang  out  upon  the  midnight  air ; 

And  Oradore  came  from  the  wood. 

And  with  a  mocking  count'nance  stood 

Before  the  chief.     "Gray  Hawk,"  she  screamed. 

And  from  her  furious  eyeballs  gleamed 

The  hellisli  fires  of  demon  hate : 

"Gray  Hawk,  revenge  is  sweet,  though  late. 

Rememb'rest  thou  Tuscora?     How, 

In  this  same  wood,  she  once  did  bow 

All  humbly  at  thy  very  feet. 

And  there,  with  streaming  eyes  entreat 

Thy  love  ?     And  thou,  with  scornful  eye, 

Did'st  turn  away,  without  a  sigh 

Of  pity  e'en  !     The  pois'nous  dart 

Rankled  in  young  Tuscora's  heart. 

Like  the  arrow  in  tlie  buffalo's  side. 

The  Turtle  Dove  became  thy  bride. 

That  day  the  fair  Tuscora  fled 

Into  the  wood.    All  thought  her  dead. 

She  did  not  die.    She  lived  to  hate 

Thee  and  thy  race.     She  lived  to  wait 

The  coming  of  the  happy  hour. 

When  she  could  have  thee  in  her  power  ; 

To  crush  thy  heart,  and  rack  thy  brain, 

And  feast  her  soul  upon  thy  pain. 

Know  then,  that  she  has  leagued  with  hell. 

And  learned  to  weave  the  witch's  spell ; 

That  the  young  stranger,  at  whose  heart, 

Thy  rashness  aimed  the  fatal  dart, 

Was  but  a  phantom,  which  her  power 

Had  conjured  up  this  very  hour, 

That  thou  might'st  slied,  in  frenzy  wild. 

The  heart-blood  of  thy  darling  child. 

Say,  has  she  not  fulfilled  her  vow  \ 

Tuscora  stands  before  thee  now !" 

This  said,  into  the  woods  she  sprang, 

With  a  laugh  that  through  the  forest  rang. 

And  from  that  day  was  nevermore 

Beheld  tlie  face  of  Oradore. 

Next  day  the  White  Wolf  found  his  bride, 
Lying  all  pale  and  cold  beside 
The  med'cine  spring.     Beside  her  lay 
Her  aged  sire ;  his  long  locks  grey 
Stained  with  the  maiden's  blood — his  arm 


Backwoods  Poems. 


13 


Clasped  round  her  stiff  and  lifeless  form. 
Gray  Hawk  was  dead  !    A  keener  dart 
Than  that  winch  pierced  Pallia's  heart, 
Had  found  its  way  to  his.     Remorse 
Had  crushed  him  with  its  iron  force. 

They  dug  a  gi'ave  in  a  little  wood 

Close  where  the  chieftain's  wigwam  stood, 

And  by  the  moonlight,  buried  there 

The  chieftain  and  his  daughter  fair — 

The  maiden,  with  her  jewels  rare 

Braided  among  her  raven  hair ; 

The  chieftain,  with  his  sturdy  bow 

And  tomahawk,  which  many  a  foe 

Had  caused  to  bleed,  when  he,  the  dread 

Of  every  foe,  the  column  led. 

A  little  mound  above  the  grave 

Was  raised,  and  many  a  brave 

Stood  round,  and  dropped  the  scalding  tear 

Upon  his  loved  chieftain's  bier. 

From  all  old  Gray  Hawk's  wide  domains, 

The  Chootaws  came  in  mournful  trains. 

To  join  the  solemn  funeral  rites ; 

And  for  a  score  of  days  aad  nights. 

The  neighb'ring  hills,  and  plains  and  vales. 

Resounded  with  their  piteous  wails. 

VI. 

The  moccasin  still  hung  beside 

The  med'cine  spring,  where  it  was  tied 


Fast  to  the  twig.    When  the  Winter  King 

Usurped  the  throne  of  gentle  Spring, 

And  nature's  face  was  wan  with  grief, 

It  fell  and  mouldered  with  the  leaf 

Upon  the  ground.    But  when  again 

Spring  spread  her  mantle  o'er  the  plain. 

And  the  tender  plants  put  forth  anew 

Their  flow'rs,  a  bud  of  yellow  hue 

Upon  the  little  twig  was  seen. 

Nestling  among  the  foliage  green. 

At  length  it  oped  its  bosom  fair 

Unto  the  wooing,  morning  air. 

A  tiny  moccasin  it  now 

Appeared,  bung  to  the  tender  bough, 

Such  as  the  one  Palila  hung 

Upon  the  twig.    From  it  haa  sprung 

The  curious,  little,  yellow  flower 

We  often  find  in  nature's  bower 

In  spring.     'Tis  called  by  the  wise  pale-face. 

In  the  polished  language  of  his  race, 

The  Lady's  Slipper.    By  red-men 

'Tis  called  Pallia's  Moccasin. 

Oft,  in  the  forest's  pleasant  shade. 
The  Choctaw  and  his  dark-eyed  maid 
Search  for  this  flow'r,  which  having  found 
They  sit  down  on  some  mossy  mound. 
And  there  the  lover  will  relate 
The  sad  tale  of  Pallia's  fate. 


u 


BaoTcwoods  Poems. 


The  Old  School  House. 

I  see  it  now — that  lude  old  hut — 

The  wooden  chimney,  low  and  wide, 

The  stage  ot  clay  before  the  door, 

And  the  bush  arbor  by  its  side : 

The  old  gray  oak,  beneath  whose  shade 

I  oft  have  played  at  noon-day  hours; 

The  little  rill  that  murmured  by. 

With  banks  o'erspread  with  moss  and  flowers. 

It  seems  it  was  but  yesterday. 
That  I,  with  slate  and  book  in  hand. 
Trudged  slowly  up  the  oft-trod  path, 
To  join  the  school-boys'  merry  band. 
In  fancy  oft  I  sit  me  down 
Within  those  smoky  walls  again ; 
See  dear  old  schoolmates  seated  round, 
And  listen  to  their  noisy  din. 

Oft  on  yon  grassy  plat  I've  sat, 
And  viewed  the  sports  of  stouter  boys ; 
And  wept,  to  feel  that  I  was  formed 
Too  weak  to  share  their  active  joys : 
Or  watched  the  school-girl's  fairy  form 
Glide  lightly  through  the  merry  play, 
Till  the  teacher's  loud  stentorian  voice 
Warned  us  from  sport  to  haste  away. 

Years — many  years— have  passed  away — 
Years  fraught  with  evil  and  with  good — 
And  tangled  briers  now  overspread 
The  spot  where  the  old  school-house  stood. 
The  oak  has  shared  the  cabin's  fate — 
The  ruthless  axe  has  laid  it  low ; 
And  a  new  school-house  now  stands  upon 
The  spot  where  once  in  jsride  it  grew. 

The  rocky  Spring  where  oft  at  noon 
We  quaft'ed  the  water  clear  and  cool. 
Is  filled  with  leaves  and  blackened  earth, 
And  naught  remains  but  a  stagnant  pool. 
And  where,  O  where,  are  those  dear  friends 
I  loved  to  meet  in  by-gone  days  ? 
Where  are  those  girlish  forms  that  woke 
The  youthful  poet's  earliest  lays  ? 

Some  have  removed  to  other  lands ; 
Some  in  the  silent  grave  are  lain ; 
And  friendship's  chain  no  longer  binds 
The  hearts  ot  those  who  still  remain. 
We  meet  no  more  with  cordial  smiles, 
As  in  the  happy  days  of  yore  ; 
But  oft  I  think  ot  schoolboy  days. 
And  sigh  that  they  return  no  more. 


The  Cuban   Maid   to   the  American 
Volunteer. 


O,  come,  soldier,  come  o'er  the  broad  rolling  wave 
To  the  island  where  dwell  the  lovely  and  brave  ; 
O,  come  where  the  flowers  bloom  throughout  the  year. 
And  the  voice  of  the  nightingale  ever  is  near. 

O,  hard  is  the  yoke,  and  galling  the  chain. 
Imposed  on  our  land  by  the  tyrants  of  Spain ;  ' 

Tlie  blood  of  our  brothers  has  crimsoned  the  earth  I 
For  daring  to  love  the  sweet  land  of  their  birth. 

But  the  power  of  the  tyrants  is  passing  away. 
Like  the  mist  on  the  hills  at  the  dawning  of  day ; 
For  brave  men  are  arming  on  mountain  and  plain, 
And  the  battle  of  fi'eedom  was  never  in  vain. 

Then  come,  soldier,  come,  and  aid  us  to  wrest 
From  the  grasp  of  the  Spaniaid  the  Gem  of  the  West ; 
Come  aid  us  to  rear,  in  our  bright,  sunny  clime 
An  empire  to  last  throughout  all  future  time. 

Then,  in  some  lonely  dell  where  the  orange  trees  grow. 
Where  nightingale's  warble,  and  soft  zephyrs  blow, 
With  no  monarch  to  serve  but  our  Father  above. 
We'll  glide  through  a  life  of  liappiness  and  lo^■e. 

1851. 


O  Come  Dear  Girl! 

O  come  dearest  girl,  O  come  with  me  now. 
And  I'll  weave  a  wreath  for  yovir  snowy  brow ; 
Come,  and  let  the  breeze  fan  your  raven  hair, 
And  blow  on  your  cheeks  so  soft  and  so  fair. 

Come  let  us  sit  on  the  banks  of  this  stream. 
And  ot  love  and  joy  we  will  sweetly  dream. 
We  will  dream  of  times  forever  gone  by— 
Of  .some  with  a  smile,  others  with  a  sigh. 

I'll  cull  thee  flowers,  the  fairest  in  the  gi'ove, 
I'll  get  thee  a  rosebud,  to  toll  thee  of  love, 
Then  come,  dearest  girl,  and  wander  with  me. 
And  I'll  be  a  kind  companion  to  thee. 

1847. 


Backiuoods  Foeins.                                           15 

Farewell  to  Erin. 

I  oft  have  sat  thy  shade  beneath, 

Farewell- -a  long  and  last  farewell— 

To  Erin's  lovely  sliore ; 
The  friends  and  scenes  to  me  so  dear, 

Beside  my  heart's  first  love ; 
W^hile  round  my  brmv  he  twined  the  wreath 
He  gathered  in  the  grove. 

Shall  meet  these  eyes  no  more. 

My  lorer  false  has  gone  away,— 

I  once  did  live  in  yonder  vale, 

Beside  yon  murm'ring-  stream ; 
My  little  Held  with  plenty  smiled— 

Forever  gone  from  me, — 
But  till  my  last,  my  dying  day 
Will  I  remember  thee. 
1848. 

How  happy  was  the  dream ! 

My  gray-haired  father  blest  his  son, 

My  mother  on  me  smiled  ; 
(1,  happy,  happy,  was  my  lot, 

The  Irish  Felon. 

Ere  want  the  scene  dispelled. 

He's  far  from  his  home  and  the  scenes  of  his  youth— 

My  cottage  now  in  ruin  lies, 

The  gallant  defender  of  freedom  and  truth : 

My  little  field  in  waste  ; 

He  dwells  on  the  crest  of  the  broad  rolling  wave— 

My  father  sleeps  beneath  the  turf. 

The  dark  felon  ship  is  the  home  of  the  brave. 

My  mother  is  at  rest. 

The  fair  fields  of  Erin— his  own  native  shore- 

The  blight  destroyed  the  poor  man's  food, 

Shall  gladden  the  eye  of  the  felon  no  more ; 

The  fields  all  barren  lie ; 

All  lonely  he  dwells  on  the  prison  ship  drear. 

The  landlord  drove  the  pig  away. 

With  not  a  kind  friend  his  condition  to  cheer. 

And  left  the  serf  to  die. 

With  loud  cries  of  anguish  his  wife  walks  the  shore. 

The  Saxon  turned  a  cold,  deaf  car 

Bewailing  the  husband  she'll  embrace  no  more. 

To  Erin's  starving  cry ; 

0  pale  is  her  cheek,  O  tearful  is  her  eye, 

He  drained  the  land  of  all  her  wealth. 

And  deep  are  the  woes  that  in  her  bosom  lie. 

And  left  her  sons  to  die. 

O,  dark  was  the  crime  that  they  laid  at  his  door : 

But  there's  a  land  beyond  the  sea— 

When  Erin  lay  bleeding  at  every  pore. 

'Tis  freedom's  liappy  home ; 

He  dared  to  condemn  the  base  tyrants  that  eruslied 

Her  fields  all  smile  with  golden  grain. 

Her  chivalric  children  so  low  in  the  dust. 

And  bid  the  exile  come. 

Aye,  he,  a  vile  subject,  did  e'en  dare  to  raise 

His  plebean  voice  in  sweet  liberty's  praise  ; 
Did  speak  of  resisting  the  dark  iron  hand 

The  Tree  Where  We  First  Met. 

That  bound  in  oppression  his  own  native  land  ! 

My  memory  fondly  clings  to  thee— 

To  thee  and  to  the  past ; 
Thou  wilt  fore'er  be  dear  to  me. 

Where'er  my  lot  is  cast. 

Yes,  this  is  the  crime  of  the  gallant  and  brave : 
For  this  he  must  lead  the  base  life  of  a  slave  — 
Deprived  of  the  dearest  enjoyments  of  life  — 
His  freedom,  his  friends,  his  dear  country  and  wife  1 

Methinks  I  see  thy  dark  form  now, 

Ye  sons  of  Hibemia,  whose  glorious  name 

Wide  towering  o'er  the  plain ; 

Has  long  filled  the  loftiest  niche  of  fame. 

Methinks  I  hear  ray  lover's  ^■ow 

By  Emmet's  fond  mem'ry,  O,  swear  you'll  he  free. 

Repeated  o'er  again. 

And  tear  from  proud  England  the  gem  of  the  soa  '. 

Beneath  thy  shade  I  once  did  rove. 

O,  rally  around  the  green  Hag  ot  the  brave ; 

My  lone  hours  to  beguile ; 

In  every  breeze  let  that  proud  banner  wave ; 

Beneath  thy  shade  I  learned  to  love. 

And  never  return  your  bright  swords  to  their  sheath. 

To  sigh,  to  weep,  to  smile. 

Until  you  have  won  Independence  or  Death. 

16 


Backwoods   Poems. 


The  Murderer's  Doom. 

The  burnished  sun's  last  gilded  ray^ 
Bright  token  of  the  close  of  day— 
Cast  a  bright  flood  of  mellow  light 
On  lowly  dell  and  mountain  height. 
The  grey  twilight  crept  slowly  on ; 
The  twinkling  stars  peered  forth ;  anon 
The  pale  moon  with  her  silv'ry  sheen, 
Cast  her  soft  rays  upon  the  scene. 

II. 

Along  a  deep  and  tangled  wood, 

Fit  only  tor  the  dark  abode 

Of  fierce  and  savage  beasts  of  pre/, 

A  lonely  horseman  wound  his  way. 

His  brow  was  dark  as  the  face  of  night, 

When  not  a  star  appears  in  sight ; 

Dark  hate  and  fear  both  lingered  there — 

A  mark  upon  the  murderer ! 

"Ho!  ho!"  he  laughed,  "  I'm  safe  at  last ; 

My  tears  are  o'er,  the  danger's  past." 

"  Safe  !"  echoed  back  the  swamp  wolf's  howl ; 

"  Safe  ?"  hooted  loud  the  midnight  o  v\ ; 

"Safe?"  croaked  the  bull-frog  in  the  lake ; 

"Safe!"  hissed  the  deadly  rattlesnake. 

A  voice  whispered  in  his  ear, 

"  Thou  art  yet  unsafe,  even  here. 

The  God  that  fixed  the  black'ning  stain 

Upon  the  brow  of  guilty  Cain, 

Saw  thee  thy  fellow-creature  slay : 

Vengeance  is  His,  He  will  repay." 

The  horseman  rode  to  an  oak  that  stood 

Like  a  grim  sentry  in  the  wood ; 

Then  tying  fast  his  jaded  beast. 

He  sank  upon  the  ground  to  rest. 

III. 

Night  wore  slowly  on ;  in  the  west 
Appeared  a  thunder-cloud's  dark  crest ; 
It  slowly  mounted  up  on  high, 
Till  its  dark  veil  o'erspread  the  sky. 
Shut  out  the  twinkling  stars  from  sight. 
And  e'en  obscured  the  Queen  of  night. 
The  winds  awoke  from  their  calm  sleep, 
Like  waves  upon  the  troubled  deep ; 
They  howled  among  the  tall,  dark  trees. 
Like  "  warlocks  sporting  on  the  braes." 
The  lightning  leaped  from  pole  to  pole ; 
Then  came  the  deaf 'ning  thunder's  roll; 
The  forest  trembled  as  with  fear — 
Heaven's  fierce  artillery  was  there. 


IV. 

Still  'neath  the  tree  the  murderer  slept : 

Dark  visions  'fore  his  fancy  crept. 

That  froze  the  life  blood  in  his  heart. 

And  made  him  writhe  with  Conscience'  dart. 

Dark  demons  flitted  swiftly  past 

His  damp  and  lowly  place  of  rest ; 

They  laughed  until  the  woods  around 

Echoed  the  loud,  unearthly  sound. 

Amid  the  blackness  of  the  storm 

He  saw  his  victim's  bloody  form : 

It  pointed  to  the  ghastly  wound, 

Then  slowly  sank  upon  the  ground. 

Amid  the  darkness  of  the  night 

A  gleam  of  lightning  quivered  bright ; 

Sped  the  bolt  to  the  dark  old  oak— 

A  thund'ring  crash  the  silence  broke — 

Beneath  the  tree  the  murderer  lay, 

A  blackened  mass  of  crisped  clay. 

1348. 


To  Miss  Mary  P r. 

Like  the  meteor  which  swiftly  shoots 
Across  the  gloomy  fields  of  night. 

Your  lovely  form  before  ma  shone, 
Then  vanished  from  my  raptured  sight. 

But  still  that  lovely  form  remains 

Imprinted  deeply  on  my  mind ; 
As,  when  the  meteor  is  lost. 

It  leaves  a  train  of  liglit  behind. 

In  fancy  yet  I  fondly  gaze 

Into  your  soft  and  dreamy  eyes ; 
Still  view  that  calm  and  beauteous  face, 

Briglit  as  a  beam  from  Paradise. 

At  eve  I  hear  your  gentle  voice 

In  every  passing  zephyr's  tone ; 
And  new-bom  rapture  swells  the  heart 

Your  charms,  sweet  girl,  have  made  your  own. 

Years  may  elapse,  and  other  arms 
May  clasp  you  in  love's  warm  embrace ; 

But  time  and  space  can  ne'er  blot  out 
The  mem'ry  of  your  lovely  face. 


Backwoods   Poems. 

17 

To  Mary  Jean. 

A  .shout  for  Pierce  and  King 
In  the  Granite  State  is  heard ; 
And  gallant  old  Connecticut 

In  clays  of  aulcl  (I  have  been  tauld, 

Has  caught  the  magic  word. 

And  sao  the  history  teaches,) 

The  sons  of  York  have  girded  on 

Owe  guid  auld  sires  bnilt  rousing  tires, 

Their  armor  for  the  fight ; 

To  raust  alive  the  witches. 

And  Seward,  with  his  "  wooly  heads," 
Is  trembling  with  atti'ight. 

It  'twere  sae  now,  tair  lass,  I  trow 

Ve'd  fa'  an  early  vietim ; 

A  shout  for  Pierce  and  King ! 

For  there's  a  score  of  lads,  or  more. 

The  brave  old  Keystone  State 

Wad  swear  tliat  ye've  bewitclied  'em. 

Has  thrown  her  banner  to  the  breeze. 
And  sealed  the  Nation's  fate. 

I  dinna  mean  that  ye  hae  been 

The  "  Jersey  Blues"  are  opening 

A  leaf?uin'  wi'  the  Devil; 

A  fire  in  Winfield's  rear. 

Or  that,  astride  the  broom,  ye  ride 

While  cheers  ascend  from  Maryland, 

To  witches'  midmght  revel. 

And  little  Delaware. 

Itut  this  I  say— as  weel  I  may— 

A  shout  for  Pierce  and  King ! 

Ye've  leagued  wi'  wicked  Cupid  ; 

Virginia's  in  the  tield. 

And  got  his  darts,  to  pierce  the  hearts 

With  the  principles  of  *Si8 

Of  us  puir  mortals  stupid. 

Inscribed  upon  her  shield. 

Old  Kip  Van  Winkle  has  awoke 

Ye  didna  know  I  saw  his  bow 

To  see  the  glorious  light. 

Beneath  your  silken  lashes. 

While  South  Carolina— bless  her  name- 

When  you  so  sly  the  darts  let  fly 

Stands  ready  for  the  fight. 

At  me,  like  lightning  flashes. 

A  shout  for  Pierce  and  King ! 

We  poets  ken  what  other  men 

Hae  not  the  gift  o'  spyin' ; 

In  every  Southern  heart 

The  spirit-laud,  wi'  all  its  band. 

Those  names  are  shrined;  and  nobly  will 
The  Soutli  perform  her  part. 

Is  open  to  our  pryin'. 

For  when  fanaticism  first 

But  still  we  rush  into  the  mesh 

Revealed  its  snaky  form. 

Wi'  which  ye  seek  to  bind  us ; 

Pierce  stood  beside  our  own  Calhoun, 

And  the  magic  liglit  o'  second  sight 

And  braved  its  howling  storm. 

But  .serves  the  mair  to  Wind  us. 

A  shout  for  Pierce  and  King  I 
Like  a  lion  from  his  lair, 
The  giant  West  has  risen  up. 

And  shook  his  locks  in  air. 

A  Shout  lor  Pierce  and  King. 

From  North  to  South,  from  East  to  West, 
The  work  goes  bravely  on  ; 

And  onward  still  the  ball  wdl  roll 

.\IR— "  A  Life,  nn  Die  Ocenv   Wave." 

Until  the  victory's  won. 

' 

A  shout  for  Pierce  and  King   . 

A  shout  tor  Pierce  and  King  I 

Is  borne  on  every  gale; 

Let  the  loud  echo  sound 

'Tis  heard  u]>on  the  mountain  top. 

From  shore  to  shore,  until  it  spreads 

And  echoed  in  the  vale. 

The  spacious  earth  around  ; 

From  the  forest  wilds  of  Maine 

Till  Europe's  millions  catch  the  ery. 

To  California's  shore. 

And  burst  the  tyrant's  chain ; 

One  long  loud  shout  of  joy  is  heard  — 

And  " fraedoin's  mirtyrs"  find  at  last 

"  The  Gulphin  reign  is  o'er. 

Tlieir  work  was  not  in  vain. 

18 


Backwoods   Poems. 


Lines  to  Miss  L.  V.  S.  of  Memphis. 

Sweet  girl,  amid  the  desert  waste 

Of  vapid  thoughts  and  jarring  rhymes, 

Called  POETET  in  modern  times, 

I've  found  an  oasis  at  last. 

I've  read  the  warblings  of  your  muse ; 

They  glow  with  that  poetic  fire 

Which  genius  can  alone  inspire. 

Tour  verse  is  soft  as  "  twilight  dews ;" 

Your  thoughts  are  clear— not  overwrouglit ; 

That  mist  of  words  you  scorn  with  pride 

Which  scribbling  fools  employ  to  hide 

The  stupid  vacuum  of  thought. 

Press  on  to  your  high  destiny ; 

On  eagle  pinions  soar  above 

The  buzzing  insect  tribes  who  rove 

Amid  the  flowers  of  poesy. 

Let  themes  sublime  your  mind  engage ; 

And  with  the  pen  of  genius  write 

Your  name  in  lines  of  living  light 

On  glory's  bright,  enduring  page. 


Day. 


O  mortal  man  !  look  up  on  high ; 
Behold  the  bright,  the  calm,  blue  sky : 
Behold  tha  sun,  in  splendor  bright, 
Disperse  the  gloomy  shades  of  night. 
Look  at  the  trees,  in  bright,  full  bloom, 
Shedding  around  their  sweet  perfume ; 
The  earth  arrayed  in  gaudy  dress ; 
The  brook  that  murmurs  happiness. 
All  these,  so  beautiful  and  grand, 
Were  mide  by  God's  Almighty  hand. 

NIGHT. 

The  moon  upon  her  nightly  march. 
The  stars  adorning  night's  blue  arch. 
Their  great  Creator's  power  display. 
And  tell  of  worlds  far,  far  away. 
Look  at  that  bright  and  golden  cloud 
That  seems  the  heavens  to  enshroud  ; 
Yon  silv'i'y  lake,  so  clear  and  bright, 
Reflecting  pale,  fair  Cynthia's  light. 
Look  thou,  O  man  !  and  tell  me  now. 
Does  not  thy  heart  before  God  bow? 
Yes,  yes,  all  things  His  power  display, 
And  praise  His  name  by  night  and  day. 


Lines  written  in  Miss  L.  W.  H.'s  Album. 

"  Write  but  a  word— a  word  or  two, 
And  make  me  love  to  think  of  you." 

Think  not  of  me  amid  the  throng 
Where  pleasure  beams  in  every  eye ; 
When  music  thrills  each  swelling  heart, 
And  th'  hours  on  rosy  pinions  fly. 
But  think  of  me,  when  twilight  throws 
Her  sombre  veil  o'er  hill  and  dell ; 
When  the  sun  has  sunk  in  th'  golden  West, 
And  speaks  to  us  a  sweet  farewell. 

Think  not  of  me,  when  prosperous  galei5 
Transport  thy  bark  o'er  life's  smooth  sea ; 
When  rippling  waves  reflect  the  beams 
Of  th'  morning  sun— think  not  of  me. 
But  think  of  me  when  frowning  clouds 
O'erspread  the  bright  cerulean  sky — 
When  lightnings  flash,  and  thunders  crash 
Beneath  the  storm  that's  hovering  nigh. 

Think  not  of  me,  when  youthful  lips 
In  trembling  tones  fond  love  reveal ; 
And  th'  timid  blush  confesses  what 
The  maiden  heart  would  fain  conceal. 
But  in  some  lonely,  pensive  hour. 
When  life  has  lost  its  charms  for  thee. 
Turn  to  these  lines  my  hand  has  traced, 
And  think,  sweet  girl,  O  think  of  me. 


Autumn  Flowers. 

Accept,  my  fi-iend,  this  sweet  bouquet 

Ot  autumn's  fairest  flowers. 
Which  I  have  culled  and  wove  for  thee 

In  Nature's  fading  bowers. 

Far  dearer  are  these  flowers  to  me 
Than  Summer's  fragrant  rose, 

Which  'neath  the  rays  ot  a  genial  sun 
In  gorgeous  sjjlendor  grows; 

But  when  the  chilling  winds  creep  on, 

Forsakes,  the  flowery  glade, 
Like  those  false  friends  who  leave  us  when 

Misfortune  needs  their  aid. 

But  these  are  like  the  friend  whose  lo\e 

Misfortune  cannot  sever— 
A  friend  in  sunshine  and  in  storm, 

A  faithful  friend  forever. 


Backwoods   Poems.                                            19 

Isola. 

Nay,  Do  Not  Pout. 

My  brain  is  throbbing  wild,  Isola, 

Nay,  do  not  pout  your  rosy  lips, 

My  aching  lieart  will  break ; 

Nor  frown  upon  the  love 

And  yet,  I  may  not  dare  to  bieathe  the  words  I  long 

Whose  subtile  web  your  countless  charms 

to  speak ; 

Around  my  heart  have  wove. 

For,  O,  I  know  too  well,  'twould  give  your  gentle 

bosom  pain. 

It  surely  is  no  crime  to  love ; 

To  know  that  you  are  loved  by  one  you  cannot  love 

And  though  my  love  were  vain, 

again. 

I  would  not  for  a  thousand  worlds. 

Tlirow  off  its  silken  chain. 

I've  striven  often,  sweet  Isola, 

To  tear  you  from  ray  breast. 

For,  0,  'tis  sweet  to  think  of  you, 

And  drive  each  burning  thought  of  you  to  a  Lethean 

And  feel  ray  bosom  thrill 

rest : 

With  wild  delight,  which  Reason's  voice 

But  wlien  your  large   blue  eyes  are   gazing  calmly 

Has  not  the  power  to  still ! 

into  mine. 

My  soul  rebels,   and   bows  again  before  the  dear- 

To  fondly  treasure  every  glance 

loved  shrine. 

Of  your  dark  liquid  eye  ; 

And  hang  upon  your  every  woi-d 

For,  0,  that  look  recalls,  Isola, 

With  burning  ecstasy. 

Dear  mem'ries  of  the  past — 

Of  hours  I  .^pent  with   you  in  childhood — hours  too 

Re.iect  the  tribute  of  my  heart- 

sweet  to  last ; 

Hate— scorn— me,  if  you  will. 

When  through  the  dark,  green  woods  we  roamed— 

Despite  the  frowns  of  cruel  fate. 

a  happy  little  pair— 

I  will  adore  you  still. 

And  culled  wild  pinks  to  braid  among  your  glossy 

raven  hair. 

But  sorrow  since  has  cast,  Isola, 

O'er  both  oui'  hearts  a  gloom, 

Look    Up. 

And  many  of  our  dearest  hopes  lie  mouldering  in  the 

tomb; 

When  first  your  trembling  feet  essay 

And  oft,  like  spring-time  violets  wet  with  morning's 

The  journey  thro'  life's  mazy  way. 

limpid  dew. 

And  a  dark  unknown,  the  future  lies 

Have   been  suffused  with  bitter  tears  your  eyes  so 

Before  your  sad,  desponding  eyes — 

softly  blue. 

Look  up ! 

I  do  not  ask  your  love,  Isola, 

When  pleasure  strews  your  path  with  flowei-s, 

That  once  dear  hope  has  flown, 

And  gently  glide  the  rose-winged  hours ; 

A.nd  I  must  tread  life's  path  unloved— uncared  for  — 

When  calm  content  brings  sweet  repose, 

and  alone : 

Remember  whence  each  blessing  flows- 

Still  you  shall  ever  be  the  star,  with  soft  and  silvery 

Look  up ! 

light. 

To  cheer  me  on  ray  dreary  way,  through  clouds  and 

When  gloomy  clouds  around  you  lower 

gloomy  night. 

In  dark  misfortune's  fearful  hour ; 

When  plunged  in  sorrow's  Stygian  deep, 

Sweet  thoughts  of  you  shall  paint,  Isola, 

Your  grief-strained  eyes  retuse  to  weep — 

With  hues  of  love  my  themes  ; 

Look  up ! 

And    you  shall    be  the  spirit  of  the    poet's  daring 

- 

dreams. 

When  Death's  cold  hand  is  on  you  laid ; 

Then,  though  the  world  may  frown,  the  whisper  of 

When  earthly  light  begins  to  fade. 

Isola's  name 

And  th'  timid  soul  shrinks  from  the  gloom 

Shall  nerve  me  boldly  to  ascend  the  rugged  steep  of 

Wliich  hangs  around  the  silent  tomb- 

fame. 

Look  up ! 

20 


Biichujoods  Poems. 


Our  Youth  is  Fast  Fleeting. 


Insprihefl  to  my  friend  and  former  playmate,  W.  L, 
Grekn  . 


The  spring-time  of  youth  is  fast  fleeting  away, 
With  all  its  rich  freightage  of  pleasures  so  gay ; 
The  clear-ringing  laughter  of  cliildhood  no  more 
Is  heard  by  the  rivulet's  pebble-bound  shore ; 
The  gambols  and  sports  of  the  gay,  romping  boy 
No  longer  can  fill  the  young  bosom  with  ,ioy  : 
The  duties  of  ■manhood — its  troubles  and  cares — 
Must  claim  the  whole  time  of  our  ripening  years. 

The  spring-time  of  youth  is  fast  fleeting  away — 
Its  rose-pinioned  moments  no  longer  will  stay ; 
The  day-dreams  are  o'er  which  our  young  spirits  fired, 
And  ads  must  achieve  what  our  fancies  aspired. 
The  high  hopes  which  budded  in  childhood's  sweet 

hours. 
By  fond,  gentle  nursing  have  bloomed  into  flowers ; 
O,  say,  shall  they  wither  and  fall  to  the  earth, 
Or  end  in  fruition  as  rich  as  their  birth  .' 

The  spring-time  of  youth  is  fast  fleeting  away. 
Old  age  will  soon  sprinkle  our  locks  o'er  with  gray. 
And  youthful  ambition  will  wither  and  die. 
Like  the  leaves  of  the  forest  wiien  winter  is  nigh. 
Then,  like  the  bold  woodsman  who  blazes  the  road 
Which  leads  through  the  wood  to  his  rural  abode, 
Mark  we  ev'ry  step  in  the  pathway  of  time, 
With  th'  noblest  of  viitues,  and  actions  sublime. 


To  Mali. 

Sweet  maiden  with  the  dreamy  eyes, 
Whose  hues  were  stolen  from  April  skies. 
Your  gentle,  artless  charms  have  wove 
Ax'ound  my  heart  the  snare  of  love. 
O  lovely  Mell !  O  sweet  enchanting  Mell ! 
I've  lov^d  before,  but  never  half  so  well. 

I've  watched  your  bosom  tall  and  rise, 

Like  th'  '  ocean  when  'twould  kiss  the  skies,' 

And  wondered  to  myself,  if  e'er 

A  thought  of  me  was  treasured  there. 

O  lovely  Mell !  O  dear,  bewitching  Mell ! 

I've  loved  before,  but  never  half  so  well. 


I've  gazed  upon  your  damask  cheek. 
Where  blushes  play  at  hide  and  seek ; 
And  thought  'twould  be  a  heaven  of  bliss. 
To  steal  from  it  one  burning  kiss. 
O  lovely  Mell !  U  gay,  mischievous  Mell ! 
I've  loved  before,  but  never  lialf  so  well. 

I've  gazed  upon  your  half  op'd  lips. 
Moist  with  the  nectar  Cupid  sips, 
And  wondered  if  they  breathed  a  sigh 
For  such  a  rhyming  fool  as  I. 
O  lovely  Mell !  O  fairest,  dearest  Mell ! 
I've  loved  before,  but  never  lialf  so  well. 

Alas !  you've  wove  a  spider's  snai'e : 

You  mock  the  fool  that's  entered  there. 

Until  his  heart  is  wild  with   pain. 

But  ne'er  will  let  him  out  again. 

O  lovely  Mell !,  O  cruel,  laughing  Mell ! 

I've  loved  before,  but  ne'er  one  half  so  well. 


No  One  Loves  Me. 

How  like  the  North  wind's  chilling  breath 
That  clothes  the  flow'rs  in  robes  of  death- 
How  like  the  keen  and  barbed  dart 
Which  quivers  in  the  eagle's  heart. 
This  sad — this  heart-corroding  truth — 
Presents  itself  to  th'  mind  of  youth — 
"  Nil  one  loi'K!:  me .'" 

No  gentle  heart,  with  quick'ning  beat, 
Sends  the  warm  blood  in  blushes  sweet 
Unto  the  soft  and  glowing  cheek, 
When  careless  lips  have  chanced  to  speak 
.My  name,  or  ever  busy  memory 
Kecalls  some  pleasant  tiiought  of  me  :  — 
No  one  loves  me. 

No  eyes  grow  bright  when  I  am  near, 
Nor  mark  my  absence  with  a  tear ; 
No  bosom  Jieaves  a  fragrant  sigh. 
When  hands  have  squeezed  a  fond  good-bye ; 
No  lips  confess  my  name  is  dear, 
In  whispers,  lest  the  walls  should  hear  :^ 
No  one  loves  me. 

As  roses  lose  their  crinrsou  hue, 
Wlien  sheltered  from  the  twilight  dew  ; 
As  wilt  the  waving  fields  of  grain 
When  clouds  their  precious  stores  restrain ; 
So  pines  the  heart  of  him  who  bears 
The  thought — in  silence,  though  in  tears  — 
"  No  one  loves  me." 


Bachwoods   Poems. 


21 


A  Blush. 

Inscribed  to  Miss  Sallie  E.  S. 

A  little  heart  beat  last  and  wild 

Within  a  maiden's  breast, 
As,  sitting  by  her  lover's  side. 

She  was  by  him  caressed. 
And,  ever  and  anon,  Itis  lips, 

Too  tremulous  to  speak. 
Would  print  a  warm,  impassioned  kiss 

Upon  the  maiden's  cheek. 

At  this,  the  naughty  little  heart 

Began  to  tret  and  grieve. 
That  it  shoidd  bear  love's  keenest  pangs, 

And  yet  no  kiss  receive. 
And  thus  it  bade  the  crimsop  tide. 

Which  flowed  so  warm  and  free — 
"  Speed  thou  unto  the  happy  cheek. 

And  bring  a  kiss  to  me." 

(iuick  as  the  lightning's  quiv'ring  flash. 

The  blood  obedient  flew 
Unto  the  cheek,  and  soon  sult'used 

It  with  a  rosy  hue. 
The  lover  gazed  with  raptured  eye. 

And  pressed  the  cheek  again ; — 
The  heart  received  its  longed-for  kiss. 

And  did  no  more  complain. 


Autumn. 


Let  nobler  poets  tune  their  lyres  to  sing 

The  budding  glories  of  the  early  spring;— 

Its  gay  sweet-scented  flowers,  and  verdant  trees 

That  graceful  bend  before  the  western  breeze  : 

Be  mine  the  task  to  chant  in  humble  rhyme 

The  lovely  autumn  of  our  own  bright  southern  clime. 

No  more  the  sun,  from  out  the  zenith  high, 
With  fiery  tong-ue  licks  brook  and  riv'let  dry  ; 
But  from  beyond  the  equinoctial  line — 
Where  crystal  waters  lave  the  golden  mine- 
Aslant  on  earth  he  x^ours  his  mellow  beams. 
Soft  as  the  memories  which  light  old  age's  dreams. 


The  green  and  yellow  leaves  peep  out  between 

The  forest's  foliage  so  darkly  green ; 
The  scarlet  berries  line  the  dog-wood  tree, 
AVhere  sport  the  birds,  with  songs  of  highest  glee ; 
While  o'er  the  gurgling  stream  the  clambering  vines. 
Hang  low  with  loads  of  jet  black  grapes  and  mus- 
cadines. 

The  black-eyed  squirrel  sings  his  meriy  song. 
As  he,  with  tail  erect,  reclines  among 
The  rich-lade  branches  of  the  hick'ry  tree ; 
And  on  the  lawn,  the  drowsy  bumble-bee 
Sucks  from  the  purple,  white,  and  yellow  flowers 
A  honied   store,  to  serve  through  Winter's  dreary 
hours. 

From  tree  to  tree,  the  parti-colored  jay. 
With  clam'rous  cry,  flits  through  the  livelong  day; 
With  prudent  foresight,  she  is  culling  now 
The  chinijuepins  from  oif  the  bending  bough. 
A  rich  repast  they'll  be  in  time  of  dearth. 
When  cold,  north  winds  with  snow  liave  lined  the 
frozen  earth. 

Long  ere  the  dawn  has  streaked  the  eastern  sky. 
The  little  boys  arise  from  bed  and  hie 
To  th'  well-known  chestnut  tree,  and  from  the  ground 
Pick  up  the  nuts  the  wind  has  scattered  round ; 
Just  as  the  sluggish  swine,  with  piercing  squsal, 
Rush  there  to  liunt  in  vain  a  sav'ry  morning  meal. 

And  when  the  sun  sinks  gently  down  to  rest 
Behind  the  crimson  drapery  of  the  west, 
The  happy  slaves  in  th'  distant  cotton  field 
Sing  merrily,  as  they  pick  the  snowy  yield : 
The  song  is  answered  from  the  fields  around. 
And  hill  and  dale  reverberate  the  dulcet  sound. 

And  when  night  draws  her  curtains  round  the  sky, 
And  shivering  screech-owls  shriek  their  plaintive  cry, 
We  sit  beside  the  crack'liug  fire,  and  pore 
Some  fav'rite  author's  glowing  pages  o'er  - 
I,augh  with  the  young  at  merry  jibes  and  jeers- 
Or  hear  old  age  i-elate  the  tales  of  bygone  years. 

O  lovely  Autumn  !  thou  art  bound  to  me 
By  a  thousand  ties  of  blissful  memory. 
Nor  Spring,  nor  Summer  to  my  boyish  heart 
Could  half  thy  dear,  delightful  joys  impart. 
I've  wept  to  see  thee  change  to  Winter  drear, 
And,  childlike,  wished  that  thou  wouldst  last  through 
all  the  year. 


Baclcwoods  Poems. 


Lines  to 

No,  no,  I'll  not  woo  thee  while  pleasure  is  beaming 

In  the  clear,  liquid  depths  of  thy  soft,  azure  eye ; 
"While  the  bright  smile  of  bliss  on  thy  sweet  lip  is 
gleaming. 

Like  glimpses  of  sunshine  in  morn's  rosy  sky. 
No,  no,  I'll  not  woo  thee,  while  round  thoe  concentre 

A  host  of  proud  forms,  far  more  manly  than  mine. 
Each  striving  the  gate  of  thy  young  heart  to  enter. 

And  pour  out  his  incense  upon  its  sweet  shrine. 

With  all  the  bright  hopes  that  now  cluster  around 
thee, 

'Twere  madness  to  ask  aught  but  friendship  for  me ; 
And  to  offer  a  heart  that's  so  lowly  might  wound  thee, 

E'en  though  with  deep  love  it  is  bleeding  for  thee. 
Like  the  heathen  who  kneels  in  devout  adoration, 

As  he  views  in  the  ether  his  brignt  idol  star, 
So,  fondly  I  gaze  on  thy  cheek's  rich  carnation. 

And  silently  worship  thy  beauty  afar. 

But  should  the  dark  storm  of  misfortune  o'ertake 
thee— 

The  smile  quit  thy  hp,  and  the  light,  thy  blue  eye ; 
Should  those  who  now  flatter,  ail,  basely  forsake  thee, 

Like  insects,  the  lawn  when  cold  winter  is  nigh ; 
Then  come  to  this  bosom  where  still  shall  be  pulsing, 

A  heart  that  is  fondly,  unchangeably  thine  ; 
And  every  sorrow,  thy  bosom  convulsing, 

A  deep  pang  should  waken  responsive  in  mine. 


The  Magic  Violin. 

The  sweet  harp  of  ^olus,  when  touched  by  the  breeze. 
As  it  hung  in  the  forest  of  green  orange  trees. 
Never  yielded  so  soft,  so  melodious  a  strain 
As  that  which  I  draw  from  my  old  violin. 
'Tis  more  potent  than  brandy,  to  banish  dull  care 
From  the  stern  breast  of  man,  or  the  brow  of  the  fair ; 
For  the  sullen  frown  changes  into  a  broad  grin. 
When  I  strike  the  sweet  notes  of  my  old  violin. 

I  passed  through  a  village  one  bright,  summer  day. 
And  stopped  in  the  shade  of  an  old  oak  to  play  : 
And  such  another  hubbub  was  ne'er  before  seen. 
As  that  which  took  place  on  the  smooth  village  green. 
The  boy  left  his  kite,  and  the  merchant  his  wares; 
The  black-smith  his  forge,  and  the  tailor  his  shears; 
The  matron  her  loom,  and  the  toper  his  gin ; 
And  danced  to  the  sound  of  my  old  violin. 


I  passed  where  a  man  was  haranguing  a  crowd 
About  banks  and  the  tarifl',  in  words  long  and  loud ; 
I  struck  a  few  notes— like  magic  they  flew. 
The  crowd  went  to  dancing,  and  the  orator  too. 
There  was  hopping   and  skipping,   and  crossing  of 

shanks ; 
The  tariff  wa^ forgotten,  and  so  were  the  banks; 
They  cared  not  a  penny  which  party  might  win. 
As  they  tripped  to  the  sound  of  my  old  violin. 

O,  the  power  of  music,  when  it  glows  with  the  fire 

Which  Heaven-born  genius  alone  can  inspire ! 

It  pierces  the  deepest  recess  of  the  soul. 

And  holds  the  strong  heart  in  its  magic  control. 

Old  age's  cold  fetters  encircle  me  now  ; 

His  frost's  on  my  locks,  and  his  seam's  on  my  brow ; 

But  still  the  warm  current  will  bound  through  the 

vein, 
When  I  strike  the  sweet  tones  of  my  old  violin. 


Note.— A  German  minstrel  once  carried  with  him 
in  his  wanderings  through  his  fatherland,  a  violin, 
the  sound  of  which  set  all  who  heard  it  to  danoing. 
I  have  here  changed  the  scene  of  his  wanderings  to 
the  United  States. 


Lines. 


When  shining  cherubim  with  swords  of  flame. 
Our  parents  drove  from  Eden's  bower. 
And  sfioke  the  curse  of  Heavenly  ire 
Which  scorched  their  guilty  souls  like  tire- 
In  that  same  dark  and  torturing  hour, 
A  smiling  seraph  from  Jehovah  came, 
A  nd  thus  addressed  poor  Adam  and  his  dame  : 

"  It  pleases  Him  who  sits  upon  the  Throne, 
In  pity  for  your  fallen  state. 
That  you  may  choose  the  dearest,  best 
Of  all  thing.s  which  you  once  possessed. 
Ere  cherubim  have  shut  the  gate. 
Then  speak  and  let  the  Heavenly  will  be  done— 
Which  will  you  keep  when  all  the  rest  are  gone  .'" 

Then  shades  of  thought  came  over  Adam's  brow, 

And  oft  he  heaved  the  deep-drawn  sigh  ; 

Each  was  so  dear,  he  sought  in  vain 

What  he'd  resign  and  what  retain. 

But  Eve  exclaimed  with  sparkling  eye— 
"  O  give  us  love— O  give  it,  seraph,  now. 
And  to  our  fate  we  will  submissive  bow." 


Bachwoods   Poems. 


IioUa  Tona:* 

Come,  sit  thee  down  upon  my  knee — 
Give  up  awhile  thy  childish  glee, 

For  I  have  wove  a  song  for  thee— 
A  simple,  little  childlike  verse. 
Which  I  would  in  thy  ear  rehearse, 
Lolla  Tona  ! 

Thou'rt  like  a  little  rosebud  bright. 
Just  opening  to  the  morning  light. 

Oh  !  may  no  cold  and  chilling  blight 
Upon  thee  fall,  to  blast  thy  joy. 
And  all  thy  rising  hopes  destroy— 
Lolla  Tona! 

May  tender  care  thy  mind  imbue 
With  wisdom's  sweet  ambrosial  dew  ; 

May  virtue  give  her  glorious  hue, 
To  color  thy  expanding  mind, 
And  always  in  thy  heart  be  shrined — 
Lolla  Tona  I 

And  O,  may  He  whose  tender  eye 
Melts  when  the  little  ravens  cry, 
Fore'er  unto  thy  heart  be  nigh. 
To  guide  thee  mid  the  storms  and  strife 
Which  lower  o'er  the  path  of  life — 
Lolla  Tona  ! 


*  I  have  a  little  niece  named  Laura  Newtonia, 
aged  about  two  years  and  a  half.  In  her  infant  dia- 
lect she  calls  her  name  Lolla  Tona. 


Little  brother's  in  the  grave !    It  seems 

Scarce  a  week  since  we,  with  eager  eyes. 
Stood  and  watch'd  the  sun's  last  rosy  beams 
Fade  to  twilight  in  the  western  skies. 
Visions  of  the  future 

Rose  before  us  briglit ; 
And  we  talked  of  manhood 
With  a  sweet  delight. 
Our  golden  dreams. 
E'en  as  the  beams 
We  then  did  watch,  have  fled— 
Each  bud  of  hope 
Which  then  did  ope. 
Lies   buried   with  the  dead. 

Little  brother's  in  the  cold,  cold  grave ! 
Lonely  is  the  swing— the  mossy  seat— 
And  the  streamlet,  where  we  used  to  lave. 
When  oppressed  by  summer's  heat. 
Lonely  is  the  garden 

Where  vur  flowers  grew— 
Ev'ry  thing  is  lonely 
That  I  shared  with  you. 
What  shall  I  do  ? 
Away  from  you 
Lite  loses  all  its  charms ; 
A  world  I'd  give 
To  see  you  live, 
And  clasp  you  in  my  arms. 


The  Child's  Lament. 

Little  brother's  in  the  cold,  cold  grave, 
Over  on  yon  tall  and  grassy  mound. 
Where  the  branches  of  the  willow  wave 
To  and  fro  above  the  liallow'd  ground. 
Gaily  sing  the  spring-birds 
In  the  boughs  o'erhead; 
Brightly  blooms  the  moss-rose 
O'er  his  narrow  bed. 
His  little  ear 
No  more  can  hear 
The  wild-bird's  joyous  strain ; 
His  little  eye 
Can  ne'er  espy 
Tlie  crimson  rose  again. 


Song. 

O,  smile  on  me  again,  love, 
As  in  the  days  gone  by, 
Ere  giief  your  brow  had  clouded. 
Or  tears  had  dimmed  your  eye. 
Then  hope  and  joy  were  ours,  love. 
And  life  appeared  as  bright 
As  summer's  gorgeous  rainbow. 
Or  morning's  early  light. 
But  now  our  sky  is  dark,  love. 
As  midnight  on  the  Nile ; 
And  naught  is  left  to  cheer  me 
But  your  angelic  smile. 
That  smile  is  like  the  star,  love, 
Which  guides  the  wandering  ship 
Across  the  trackless  waters 
Of  the  dark  and  mighty  deep. 
Then  smile  on  me  again,  love. 
Though  tears  are  in  your  eye. 
And  I  will  banish  sorrow. 
While  that  dear  form  is  nigh. 


\U 


Baclcwoocls   Poems. 


The  Wounded  Dove. 


The  wounded  dove  sat  in  the  wood 
With  drooping  head  and  fading  eye ; 
The  sportsman's  lead  was  in  her  breast. 
And  she  had  sought  that  spot  to  die. 
All  sad  and  lone,  she  pinod  away, 
No  loved  one's  form  was  hovering  nigh ; 
And  fainter  grew  her  low,  sweet  voice. 
As  thus  she  breathed  her  plaintive  cry — 
"  Coo-oo,  coo,  coo,  coo  !" 

No  more,  at  rosy  dawn's  axjproach. 
She'll  mount  on  pinions  soft  and  fair. 
And  with  a  light  and  joyous  heart. 
Skim  thro'  the  misty  morning  air. 
No  more  her  soft  and  silvery  notes, 
As  she  salutes  the  new-born  year, 
Shall  tell  the  fond,  exx)ectant  maid, 
Where  beats  the  heart  that  owns  her  dear — 
"  Coo-oo,  coo,  coo,  000 !" 

She  thought  of  loved  ones  waiting  then 
Her  slow  return  in  th'  mossy  nest — 
Whose  little  forms  would  know  no  more 
The  tender  warmth  of  a  mother's  breast. 
She  thought  of  them— and  oh  !  her  heart 
Beat  fast  and  wild  with  crushing  pain  : 
"  Poor  babes,"  she  mused,  "  your  mother  dear 
Can  ne'er  return  to  you  again" — 
"Coo-oo,  coo,  coo,  coo  !" 

"  Coo-oo !  coo-coo !"  what  sound  was  that 
Which  came  from  out  the  woody  dell  ? 
Why  grew  her  dying  eyes  so  bright  ? 
Why  did  her  bleeding  bosom  swell  ? 
Her  mate  had  come  !  with  trembling  wings 
He  hovered  o'er  the  dying  dove ; 
While  she,  o'erjoyed  that  he  was  near, 
Sung  low  her  last,  sweet  song  of  love — 
"  Coo-oo,  coo,  coo,  coo !" 

Her  voice  grew  still— her  wild,  bright  eye 
Was  turned  toward  her  dear-loved  mate— 
Her  head  drooped  on  her  purple  breast— 
The  poor  dove's  heart  had  ceased  to  beat. 
Sadly  around  her  Ifeless  form 
Her  mate,  heart-broken,  lingered  long : 
And  ere  he  sought  the  distant  nest. 
He  chanted  thus  her  fun'ral  song— 
"  Coo-oo,  coo,  coo,  coo  !" 


The  Three  Sisters. 

I  saw  three  sisters  bending 

Above  a  new-made  grave 
Beside  the  sandy  sea-shore, 

Where  the  dark-blue  rolling  wave 
Sent  back  a  plaintive  chorus. 

To  the  music  of  the  In-eezo, 
As  mournfvilly  it  whispered 

Among  the  leaiiess  trees. 

One  was  an  aged  matron 

With  stern,  though  tearful  eye, 
Whose  features  void  of  passion, 

And  proud  humility, 
Told  that  she  was  descended 

From  the  brave  old  pilgrim  stock 
That  landed  from  the  Mayflower 

On  Plymouth's  famous  rock. 

The  second  was  more  lovely ; 

And  on  her  queen-like  face 
Time's  unrelenting  finger 

Had  left  a  lighter  trace. 
Her  eyes,  dark,  soft,  and  liquid, 

And  sweet,  voluptuous  mouth. 
Showed  that  her  torm  had  ripened 

In  the  bright  and  genial  South. 

A  wild  flower  was  the  youngest ; 

And  though  the  heavy  yoke 
Of  grief  had  crushed  her  spirit, 

Her  azure  eyes  bespoke 
A  heart  as  free  and  gen'rous 

As  the  cool  and  limpid  rills 
Which  irrigate  the  valleys 

Between  her  western   hills. 

"  Dear  sisters,"  spoke  the  eldest, 

"  Come  let  our  tears  bedew 
The  grave  of  him  who  battled 

Through  life  for  me  and  you. 
My  son  is  lost  forever — 

His  voice  forever  stilled  ; 
And  in  his  Motlier's  bosom 

His  place  can  ne'ei'  be  filled." 

Then  spoke  the  youngest  sister- 
She  with  the  azure  eye— 

"  I  feel  your  woes,  my  sister. 
With  mournful  sympathy. 

For  th'  flowers  have  not  yet  budded 
Upon  the  silent  grave. 

Where  rests  my  noble  Henry, 
The  generous  and  bravo." 


Backwoods   Poems.                                            25 

"  I  too,"  exclaimed  the  sister 

Of  the  olden  time  that  night  might  hear. 

With  th'  dark  and  radiant  eyes, 

"  'Twas  many— many  years  ago, 

"  Can  tell  the  pain  ot  breaking- 

When  I  was  but  a  thoughtless  child ; 

The  tender,  holy  ties 

My  father  in  a  village  lived 

Which  bind  us  to  our  children ; 

'Mongst  old  Virginia's  mountains  wild. 

For  Death  has  taken  one. 

Upon  a  smooth  and  flow'ry  lawn. 

Dear  as  the  light  of  Heaven— 

One  lovely  morn  in  early  May, 

My  pride— my  darling  son. 

We  children  met  with  happy  hearts, 

To  spend  the  hours  in  merry  play. 

The  eye  is  dimmed  forever 

While  we  were  at  our  highest  glee, 

Which  burned  with  angry  fire 

And  loud  our  silv'ry  laughter  rung, 

On  th'  haughty,  Northern  foemaii 

A  stranger  came  from  out  the  wood. 

Who  woke  his  deepest  ire, 

And  stood  amid  our  little  throng. 

By  casting  e'en  a  shadow 

Her  dress,  close  fit,  of  sable  hue, 

On  Carolina's  fame; 

Displayed  a  form  of  faultless  grace ; 

For  0,  he  madly  worshipped 

And  the  huge  hat  worn  in  those  days. 

His  mother's  very  name." 

Half  hid  her  pale  but  lovely  face. 

She  stood  in  thouglitful  mood,  and  gazed 

"  Sweet  sisters,"  said  the  youngest. 

Upon  our  little  crowd  awhile, 

"  For  many,  many  years. 

And  smiled ;  but  then  I  thought  it  was 

Our  anger  tow'rd  each  other 

Not  like  my  sister's  happy  smile. 

Has  caused  me  many  tears. 

At  last,  she  begged  that  one  of  us 

O,  let  us  kneel  all  humbly. 

Would  leave  awhile  his  merry  play. 

And  with  the  lifeless  great 

And  to  the  village  pastor's  house 

Entomb  each  bitter  feeling 

Be  kind  enough  to  show  the  way. 

Of  jealousy  and  hate." 

I  was  the  boldest  of  the  boys; 

Then  knelt  the  weeping  sisters 

And  so  I  threw  my  ball  aside, 

Upon  the  landscape  bare ; 

And  bounding  to  the  little  path, 

And  soon  to  Heaven  ascended 

Told  her  that  I  would  be  her  guide. 

A  deep  and  fervent  prayer. 

When  we  had  reached  the  pastor's  house. 

The  spirits  of  their  children 

She  thanked  me  with  the  sweetest  grace  ; 

Gazed  from  the  azure  skies. 

And  I  ran  off  to  tell  at  home. 

While  tears  ot  holy  rapture 

The  strange  things  which  had  taken  place. 

Were  sparkling  in  their  eyes. 

Next  day,  when  father  came  from  work, 

18.53. 

He  took  me  on  liis  knee  to  tell 

Me,  how  the  stranger  lady  there 

*  Massachusetts,  South  Carolina  and  Kentucky, 

Had  come  to  teach  us  how  to  spell. 

This  was  the  first  school  we  had  had — 

For  scliools  were  not  so  num'rous  then  ; 
And  1  could  scarce  await  the  day, 

It  was  appointed  to  begin. 

The  Haunted  Church. 

Tlie  happy  day  at  last  arrived ; 

With  book  in  hand  and  clean-washed  faci-, 

"  'Twas  many— many  years  ago," 

I  mounted  up  the  broad  church-steps. 

In  solemn  tones  the  old  man  said. 

And  made  my  bow,  and  took  my  place. 

As  from  his  polished  hickory  statt', 

Tlie  school-ma'am  looked  so  beautiful ! 

He  slowly  raised  his  aged  head. 

It  seems,  that  I  can  see  her  now, 

'Twas  Christmas  eve ;  the  sharp  North  wind 

With  raven  tresses  parted  smooth 

With  fleecy  snow-flakes  lined  tlie  earth ; 

Upon  her  pale  and  lofty  brow  : 

And  brightly  blazed  the  crackling  fire. 

With  soft  dark  eyes— so  eloquent, 

Upon  the  clean-swept,  spacious  hearth. 

Tliey  showed  each  feeling's  light  and  shade. 

A  merry  crowd  ot  boys  and  girls 

And  half-sad  smiles  which  round  her  lips. 

Had  formed  a  circle  around  his  chair, 

Like  mellow  sunbeams,  ever  played. 

And  begged  that  they  some  thrilling  tali- 

Before  a  day  had  passed,  she  won 

26                                             Backwoods   Poems.                                                1 

Each  little  heart  of  our  young  band ; 

III. 

For  she  ne'er  spoke  an  angry  word, 

Nor  gave  a  harsh,  abrupt  command. 

May  had  the  sweetest  voice  for  song 

Time  sped  ;  each  day  the  hearts  of  all 

That  ever  was  to  mortal  given ; 

Were  drawn  more  closely  toward  sweet  May.— 

I  oft  have  thought  that  it  was  like 

(She  gave  no  other  name,  and  it 

The  music  which  they  have  in  Heaven. 

Remains  unknown  until  this  day.) 

Now  it  would  fall  upon  the  ear 

Like  the  sound  of  harp  by  zephyrs  played ; 

II. 

And  then  'twould  softly  die  away, 

Like  the  night-wind's  whispered  serenade. 

I  said  that  I  was  but  a  child ; 

One  Sabbath,  we  all  met  at  church— 

And  yet  1  saw  that  her  young  heart 

The  ground  was  covered  o'er  with  snow : 

Was  bleeding  from  a  hidden  wound. 

That  day  is  fresh  in  memory  yet. 

Inflicted  by  some  pois'nous  dart. 

Though  it  has  been  so  long  ago. 

For  when  she  thought  she  was  alone, 

The  pastor  rose— old  age  his  brow 

The  lip  compressed— the  frenzied  eye- 

Had  furrowed  o'er,  and  bleached  his  hair. 

Contracted  brow— and  heaving  breast, 

But  had  not  dimmed  his  clear  blue  eye, 

Told  of  the  soul's  deep  agony. 

Nor  quenched  the  fire  which  sisarkled  there. 

I  longed  to  throw  my  little  arms 

He  oped  his  well-worn  book,  and  read 

Around  her  neck,  and  bid  her  tell 

His  hymn  in  clear  and  thrilling  tones. 

Me  of  the  dark  and  with'ring  blight 

Its  subject  was  a  Saviour's  love 

Which  had  on  her  young  spirit  tell. 

For  us,  his  erring  little  ones. 

One  morn,  I  reached  the  church  before 

It  told  how  Jesus,  Son  of  God, 

The  time,  and  hid  me,  that  I  might 

His  holy,  precious  blood  had  given, 

The  next  one  who  arrived  at  school. 

To  loose  the  gate  which  justice  reared 

With  piteous  groans  and  screams,  affright. 

To  bar  a  sinful  world  from  Heaven  : 

It  was  not  long  before  I  heard 

That,  though  the  heavy  load  of  guilt 

A  gentle  footstep  at  the  door ; 

Might  crush  the  heart  with  tortures  wild. 

And  May  walked  slowly  up  the  aisle. 

Christ  would  not  break  the  bruised  reed- 

And  softly  knelt  upon  the  floor. 

God  would  forgive  his  erring  child. 

Her  lovely  face  was  very  pale. 

With  voices  in  sweet  harmony 

But  placid  as  the  cloudless  skies ; 

Attuned,  the  little  flock  now  sang 

And  a  bright  seraphic  lustre  shone 

The  noble  hymn  :  and  with  the  sound 

Within  her  dark  and  brilliant  eyes. 

Melodious  the  old  roof  rang. 

There  was  a  moment's  silence,  then 

Amid  the  general  melody, 

Her  trem'lous  lips  began  to  move 

Was  heard  the  low  sweet  voice  of  May, 

In  deep  and  fervent  prayer  unto 

Soft  as  the  tinkling  of  the  bell 

The  God  of  mercy  and  of  love. 

Borne  o'er  the  hills  at  close  of  day. 

Her  prayer  was  offered  in  the  name 

The  song  was  done :  the  stilly  air 

Of  a  bleeding  Saviour  crucified  ; 

Far  off  the  trembling  echo  bore- 

She  begged  that  she  through  grace  might  live. 

When  a  gentle  moan  was  heard,  and  May 

Since  He  for  her  had  groaned  and  died. 

Fell  from  her  seat  upon  the  floor. 

She  spoke  of  dear-loved  parents— then 

They  raised  her  up  with  tender  hands, 

Mould'ring  in  earth's  last  resting  place, 

But,  the  vital  spark  fore'er  had  fled— 

Whose  too  tond  hearts  were  broken  by 

Our  sweet,  beloved  May — the  joy 

Their  erring  daughter's  deep  disgrace. 

And  pride  of  every  heart — was  dead ! 

And  then  she  prayed  for  him  whose  black 

But  though  her  lovely  form  was  cold 

And  perjured  love  had  caused  her  shame:— 

Beneath  death's  dark  and  chilling  shade, 

That  he  might  leave  the  paths  of  vice, 

That  smile  of  holy  ecstasy 

And  mercy  gain  in  Jesus'  name. 

Still  o'er  her  pallid  features  played. 

Her  prayer  done,  she  calmly  rose, 

They  dug  a  grave  in  the  old  church-yard, 

And  walked  the  floor  with  gentle  pace. 

Beneath  an  oak's  wide-spreading  shade, 

While  a  smile  of  holy  rapture  played 

And  in  this  narrow  tenement. 

Upon  her  sweet,  angelic  face. 

Backwoods  Poems. 


With  tearful  eyes,  May's  form  they  laid. 

Next  Sabbath,  when  the  hymn  began, 

A  voice,  low,  tremulous,  and  sweet. 

Was  heard  proceeding  from  the  spot 

Where  May  had  always  chos'n  her  seat. 

The  hymn  was  checked  in  mute  surprise — 

Men  held  their  breath,  with  fear  oppressed; 

But  death-like  silence  reigned  arouud— 

The  unseen  singer,  too,  had  ceased. 

That  low  sweet  sound  was  often  heard 

In  after  years.   Sometimes  it  rose 

Among  the  voices  of  the  flock, 

When  that  same  hymn  the  pastor  chose  ; 

But  oftener,  when  around  the  church 

The  wintry  night-winds  shrieked  and  moaned. 

And  the  tall  old  trees  that  o'er  it  stretched 

Their  leafless  branches,  sighed  and  groaned. 

Men  often  shook  their  heads,  and  said 

The  church  was  haunted ;  and  no  more 

The  children  gamboled  on  the  green, 

On  moonlit  nights,  before  the  door. 

The  old  man's  tale  was  done.     He  leaned 
His  head  upon  his  staff  again, 
As  the  clock  upon  the  mantel-piece, 
Told  that  the  niglil  was  on  the  wane. 


A    Hymn. 

Dedicated  to  the  memory  of  my  brother,  Thomas  Jef- 
ferson Berryhill,  who  died  Nov.  5th,  IS.'JS. 

"  And  God  shall  wipe  away  all  tear's  from  theii-  eyes : 
and  there  shall  be  no  more  death,  neither  sorrow,  nor 
crying,  neither  shall  there  be  any  more  pain  :  for  the 
former  things  are  passed  away."— llev.  xxi-4. 

Beyond  the  troubled  sea  of  life. 

Where  sorrow's  billows  roll. 
And  raging  winds  ne'er  cease  their  strife 

Around  the  trembling  soul, 
Wliat  glorious  scenes  in  splendor  rise 

Before  tlie  i.ager  sight — 
What  verdant  plains,  what  aziire  skies, 

AVhat  rivers  of  delight  1 

There,  clouds  no  more  the  sky  enshroud. 

Nor  lightnings  play  their  dart ; 
No  tempest  raves,  no  thunders  loud 

Appal  the  timid  heart. 
The  lights  which  ruled  the  night  and  day, 

No  more  their  course  pursue— 
"  The  former  things  have  passed  away," 

Behold,  all  things  are  new  I 


A  purer  light— of  sovereign  grace — 

Than  sun  and  moon  affoi-d. 
Beams  trom  the  sweet  and  smiling  face 

Of  our  redeeming  Lord. 
With  holy  joy,  the  ransomed  soul 

Basks  in  the  glorious  beams, 
And  "drinks"  the  sacred  "  waters  cool'' 

Which  flow  in  "crystal  streams." 

There,  friends  long-severed  meet  again, 

AVhere  death  no  more  can  part. 
And  sorrow's  deep  and  racking  pain 

No  more  can  crush  the  heart : 
And  "  God  shall  wipe  away  all  tears" 

From  every  weeping  eye. 
With  gentle  words  remove  our  fears. 

And  hush  the  mourner's  cry. 


Lines. 


Dedicated  to  the  memory  of  my  little  Nephew,  John 
Mitchell  Sturdivant,  who  died  Dec.  24th,  1853— 
aged  one  year  and  tour  months. 


The  fairest,  sweetest  flowers  will  fade 

Before  the  sunny  Spring  is  past ; 
And,  oh,  too  soon  the  clouds'  dark  shade 

The  fairest  mom  will  overcast. 

Death  found  thee  in  thy  early  youth, 
Sweet  child !  ere  yet  the  cares  of  time 

Had  come,  to  soil  thy  spotless  truth. 
Or  stain  thy  gentle  soul  with  crime. 

He  came ;  thine  eyes  gi-ew  dim,  and  pale 
The  cheeks  where  health  was  wont  to  bloom : 

Thy  mother's  love  could  not  avail 
To  sa%e  her  loved  one  from  the  tomb. 

They  laid  thee  in  thy  place  of  rest. 

With  all  the  hopes  that  round  thee  clung ; 

And  on  thy  cold  and  lifeless  breast. 
With  trembling  hands  the  dust  they  flung. 

But  though  that  little  form  now  lies 
All  pale  and  cold  beneath  the  sod, 

Tliy  ransomed  soul  beyond  the  skies, 
Rests  in  the  bosom  of  his  God. 


28                                            Backwoods   Poems. 

The  Christian's  Rest. 

And,  reading  there  her  spirit, 

(/'ould  never  —never  see 

InKwibecl  to  my  friend,  Dr.  W.  G.  Bttlker, 

A  single  sign  or  token 

That  told  of  love  for  me. 

"There  remaineth,  therefore,  a  rest  to  the  People  of 
God."— Heh.  iv-9. 

I'd  tell  her  that  I  love  her. 

But  if  I  try,  I  know 

I  shall  begin  to  stammer— 

"  There  remaineth  a  rest  to  the  people  of  God," 

My  heart  will  flutter  so. 

When  life's  fleeting  moments  are  o'er. 

I'd  tell  her  that  I  love  her. 

When  their  frail  mortal  forms  are  consigned  to  the  sod, 

If  I  but  only  knew— 

And  sorrow  and  pain  are  no  more. 

But  then  I  don't— oh  tell  me. 

On  the  pinions  of  mercy  their  spirits  arise. 

Wliat  can  I— shall  I— do  .' 

And  mount  to  the  bright,  shining  plains. 

Where  their  God  wipes  away  all  the  tears  from  their 
eyes, 
And  Jesus  eternally  reigns. 

"  There  remaineth  a  rest  to  the  people  of  God  !" 

He  is  Dying! 

What  though  the  fierce  tempest  may  roar, 

And  to  wild  fury  lash  the  Tartarean  flood 

He  is  dying !  big,  cold  drops  are  gathering 

Which  beateth  'gainst  life's  desert  sliore  ! 

On  his  forehead,  smooth  and  higli  ; 

The  deep  sorrow  and  pain  which  we  suffer  below, 

And  a  more  than  earthly  light  is  beaming 

Can  never — no  never — compare 

In  his  wild  and  brilliant  eye. 

With  the  noontide  of  rapture  which  God  shall  bestow 

'Neath  the  linger,  beats  his  pulse  as  lightly 

On  those  who  shall  enter  in  there. 

As  a  feather  swayed  by  air ; 

And  as  cold  as  winter's  snowy  shrouding, 

"There  remaineth  a  rest  to  the  people  of  God !" 

Ai-e  his  hands,  so  thin  and  fair. 

Oh !  then  let  us  patiently  bear. 

Thro'  our  life's  lurid  morning,  His  chastening  rod, 

He  is  dying !  ope  the  \Vestern  window 

Nor  murmur  at  sorrow  and  care. 

Wide,  and  let  the  sunset  ray 

Let  us  walk  in  the    path   which  our   Saviour    has 

Greet  once  more  on  earth  his  fading  vision. 

blessed— 

Ere  his  spirit  pass  away. 

The  path  all  the  ransomed  have  trod ; 

Let  him  breathe  the  pure  sweet  air  of  lieaven; 

Let  us  struggle  to  enter  the  Heavenly  rest 

Let  him  hear  the  wild  bird's  song— 

Prepared  for  the  people  of  God. 

Quickly  bring  some  water  cool  and  limpid- 

Moist  his  parched  lips  and  tongue. 

He  is  dying  !  loved  ones  are  bending 

I'd  Tell  Her  That  I  Love  Her. 

O'er  liis  pale  and  wasted  form ; 
One  his  icy  hand  is  fondly  pressing ; 

Tears  of  grief  are  gushing  warm. 

I'd  tell  her  that  I  love  her, 

Now  his  bloodless  lips  are  trem'lous  moving- 

But,  oh !  I  sadly  fear 

Brighter  grows  his  brilliant  eye — 

She'd  listen  to  my  story 

Ears  are  bent  to  catch  the  broken  whisper 

With  an  unwilling  ear. 

Of  his  long  and  last  good  bye. 

There  might  a  shade  of  anger 

Come  o'er  her  snowy  brow, 

He  is  dying  I  see  the  smile  of  rapturi' 

And  a  naughty  pout  might  hover 

Playing  on  his  pallid  face ; 

Where  smiles  are  playing  no^\ . 

Bright,  seraphic  forms  are  waiting- 

Soon  he'll  feel  their  sweet  embrace. 

I'd  tell  her  that  I  love  her. 

It  is  finished  !  death's  dread  struggle's  over; 

But  I  have  gazed  into 

Homeward  has  the  spirit  fled ; 

Tlie  depths,  so  calm  and  liquid, 

Cold  and  lifeless  as  its  dust  primordial, 

Of  her  sweet  eyes  of  blue. 

Lies  the  body  on  the  bed. 

Bachwoods   Poems. 


29 


An  Allegory. 

The  Mind  called  hei'  servants  tog'ethev,  and  said :  "  I 
will  build  a  temple  to  Wisdom  —  a  temple  so  vast  and 
magnificent,  that  the  whole  worlu  shall  wonder  at  its 
greatness  and  splendor — one  on  whose  burnished  spire 
the  reflection  of  the  sunbeams  shall  never  cease  to  play. 
Go,  therefore,  and  begin  the  work." 

So  the  servants  went  forth  to  do  their  mistress'  bid- 
ding-. Genius  and  Perception  went  to  the  quarry  ot 
knowledge,  and  brought  thence  tine  marble,  and  jioi-- 
plijry,  and  massive  blocks  of  granite.  Some  went  to 
the  hill  of  science,  and  felled  the  tall  cedars  and  wide- 
spreading  oaks  which  grew  there.  Some  went  to  old 
Ocean's  deepest  recesses,  and  gathered  diamonds,  rubies, 
amethysts,  and  corals.  Others  collected  the  finest  sculp- 
ture and  painting  which  ever  came  from  the  artist's 
plastic  hand,  and  the  most  gorgeous  fabrics  which  human 
ingenuity  had  been  able  to  weave.  And  as  they  brouglit 
the  materials.  Memory  stowed  them  cart  fully  away,  so 
tliat  nothing  wa.s  misplaced  or  lost.  Reflection  and 
Judgment  came  with  their  trowels,  their  squares,  their 
hammers,  and  their  axes,  and  squared  the  timbers  and 
stones ;  rttting  each  lor  its  place,  according  to  the  plan 
which  Reason  had  made  of  the  building.  After  the  ma- 
terials were  squared.  Wit,  with  his  pumice-stone,  pol- 
ished them,  until  they  shone  like  molten  silver.  Reason 
laid  the  corner-stone  deep  and  firm ;  and  as  the  work 
went  on,  he  stood  always  by,  to  try  it  with  plummet  and 
level.  Taste,  Fancy,  and  Imagination,  superintended 
the  lighter  work  of  the  interior — the  arrangement  of  the 
tapestry,  the  precious  stones,  the  sculpture  and  the 
paintings.  At  length,  the  temple  was  finished.  In 
sooth,  it  was  a  noble  structure.  Its  spire  rose  higher 
than  the  eagle  soars  in  his  wildest  flight.  Its  fame  went 
throughout  the  world :  all  wondered  at  its  greatness  and 
splendor,  and  admired  its  symmetrical  beauty.  But  the 
Mind  gazed  on  the  splendid  edifice,  and  sighed.  Though 
the  temple  was  grand,  it  was  cold,  cheerless  and  gloomy. 
The  light  of  the  presence  of  the  Father— the  divine 
shechinah— was  not  there,  to  radiate, and  illuminate. 
When  the  Father  saw  that  the  Mind  wept,  he  sent  the 
Holy  Spirit  to  the  temple.  And  when  the  Spirit  stood 
between  the  vail  and  the  altar,  the  glory  of  the  Father 
shone  around ;  and  dome,  and  pillar,  and  column,  glowed 
and  corruscated  with  celestial  light.  Then  tlie  Mind 
shouted  and  sang  praises  to  the  Father—"  glory  to  God 
in  the  highest!"  And  the  Fatlier  sent  three  seraphs, 
to  keep  the  light  always  burning  in  the  temple.  And  the 
names  of  thes(>  thrive  were  Faith,  Hope,  .\nd  Ch.\rity. 


Iiines 

To  a  Poet  whose  Themes  are  unworthy  of  his  Genius. 

Your  genius  is  a  bright  and  limpid  stream 

Where  fancy,  wit,  and  taste,  like  diamonds  gleam  ; 

Pure  gush  its  waters  from  th'  ambrosial  spring ; 

And  there  the  Muse  might  bathe  her  wearied  wing, 

And  gain  fresh  vigor  for  her  upward  flight. 

The  silver  moon  and  twinkling  stai-s  delight 

To  see  their  image  mirrored  in  its  wave. 

The  trees  their  gi-aceful  branches  bend,  and  lave 

Them  in  its  crystal  brim.     Its  verdant  shore 

Is  lined  with  flowers— a  rich  and  varied  store. 

Yes,  it  is  all  that  mortal  could  desire, 

When  touched  by  poesy's  promethean  Arc. 

What  pity,  then,  so  pure,  so  fair  a  rill 

Sliould  only  turn  a  childisli  Untler-miU! 


A  Hymn. 

(ireat  God !  to  Thee  I  hiunbly  raise 
My  feeble  voice  in  notes  of  praise ; 
Thee,  I  would  honor  and  adore. 
To  Thee  be  glory  evermore. 

My  sins  are  like  the  scarlet,  red ; 
I  only  plead  that  Jesus  bled 
On  Calvary,  and  in  His  name. 
Some  drops  ot  Thy  free  mercy  claim. 

( )  cleanse  my  heart— my  wicked  heart— 
From  sin,  and  fill  its  every  part 
With  love  for  Thee,  Thy  righteous  laws, 
Thy  saints  on  earth,  and  holy  cause. 

Sustain  me  with  Thy  spirit's  power 
In  dark  temptation's  fearful  hour ; 
And  guide  my  steps  along  the  road—   ■ 
The  narrow  road— that  leads  to  God. 

Such  temp'ral  blessings.  Lord,  I  crave. 
As  Thou  dost  know  wiU  tend  to  save 
My  soul  from  death,  and  to  proclaim 
The  glory  of  Thy  matchless  name. 

-Vnd,  when  the  sands  of  life  are  run. 
And  Thou  with  me  on  earth  art  done, 
O,  take  the  spirit  Thou  hast  given, 
To  praise  Thee  evermore  in  Heaven. 


Democracy,  Defeated  Not  Conquered. 

We  are  not  conquered !  Tliough  our  tiag'  no  more 
Floats  in  proud  triumph,  as  in  days  of  yore; 
Tliough  dire  defeat  has  scattered  all  our  host, 
Like  ship-wrecked  vessels  on  the  rock-bound  coast ; 
Though  foes,  exulting,  boast  of  viot'ries  gained, 
And  wield  the  pow'r  their  stealt/i,  not  strengtli  ob- 
tained ; 
We  have  a  spirit  which  no  ijow'r  can  tame ; 
Undaunted  by  defeat,  we  still  proclaim 
Our  deep  devotion  to  the  holy  cause 
Of  union— sovereign  States- -and  equal  laws. 

We  are  not  conquered  1  When  the  sun  at  noon 
Veils  his  bright  form  beliind  the  opaque  moon, 
Think  you  that  he  has  lost  his  golden  light. 
And  left  the  world  in  everlasting  night  1 
Though  gloomy  clouds  around  our  fortunes  low'r. 
There  yet  shall  dawn  for  us  a  brighter  hour. 
The  sacred  flame  still  in  our  bosoms  glows. 
Bright  as  it  burned  when  !Monticello  rose 
To  crush  the  chiefs  who  torged  a  hea^'ier  chain 
Than  that  our  fathers'  arms  had  broke  in  twain. 
Aye,  yet  it  burns— a  bright— a  holy  fire — 
And  yet  shall  light,  proud  foes,  your  fuu'ral  pyre ; 
When  'gainst  your  treason  freemen  shall  arise. 
Thick  as  the  stars  which  gem  the  azure  skies ; 
When  the  bold  legions  of  our  host  combine, 
Rush  to  the  field  in  an  unbroken  line. 
And  crush  to  ruin,  v.ith  one  miglity  blow. 
The  masked  batt'ry  of  our  hidden  toe. 

We  are  not  conquered  !     Raise  our  banners  high. 
And  let  them  flash  defiant  'gainst  the  sky  : — 
All  is  not  lost  while  life  and  hope  remain, 
And  high  resolves  within  our  bosoms  reign. 
Face  tvith  bold  hearts  whatever  may  oppose. 
Nor  basely  "  stoop  to  conquer"  like  our  foes  ; 
Then,  though  the  fags  and  factions  all  may  stand 
United  in  one  dark,  unbroken  band. 
The  light  of  vict'ry  on  our  arms  shall  glow. 
And  truth  shall  triumph  over  ev'ry  foe. 


Little  Anna's  Dream. 

"  Mother,  I've  been  dreaming," 

Said  a  pale,  fair  child. 
In  whose  large,  dark  eyes  was  iileam 

Lustre  strange  and  wild; 
While  a  holy  light  was  beaming 

On  her  features  mild. 


"  I  was  sweetly  sleeping — 

All  my  pain  had  fled, 
You  had  ceased  your  sobbing,  weeping 

When,  with  gentle  tread, 
Bright,  angelic  forms  eame  creeping 

Round  my  little  bed. 

Tliey  had  brought  me  fl((Wers, 

Little  violets  blue. 
Wild  pinks  from  the  woodland  bowers, 

Roses  wet  with  dew— 
Which  around  the  room  in  show  ers, 

Richest  fragrance  threw. 

One  had  brought  a  garland. 

Evergreen  and  snow — 
Gathered  in  the  fields  of  star  land, 

Where  bright  waters  flow 
Smoothly  o'er  the  glfst'ning  pearl— and 

Twined  it  round  my  brow. 

And  they  told  me,  motlier, 

I  must  say  '  good-bye,' 
To  you  and  my  little  brother. 

And  on  pinions  fly 
From  my  home  unto  another 

Far  beyond  the  sky. 

AVIiere  'tis  spring  forever ; 

Flowers  never  die ; 
Gloomy  clouds  and  tempests  never 

Shade  the  azure  sky ; 
Wliere  friends  meet,  no  more  to  sever— 

Tear-drops  dim  no  eye. 

Gently  they  caressed  me 

With  their  arms  so  white; 
Breathed  a  fervent  prayer,  and  blessed  i 

Spread  their  pinions  bright, 
Bending  o'er  me  softly,  kissed  me, 

Vanished  from  my  sight." 

,Ynd  the  little  lisper 

Closed  her  large  briglit  eyes; 
And  her  voice  sank  to  a  whisper 

Soft  as  zephyr  sighs, 
When  the  placid  face  of  Hesper 

Smiles  through  autumn  skies. 


Ere  Time's  wheel  diurnal 

Brought  another  day. 
The  spirit  winged  its  flight  eternal 

From  its  house  of  clay — 
To  the  world  whose  .ioys  supernal 

Never  fade  away. 


Backwoods  Poems. 


31 


Sheba — A  Hebrew  Tale. 


"Thy  sons  and  thy  daughters  sliall  be  given  to  an- 
otlior  people,  and  thine  eyes  shall  look,  and  fail  with 
lons'ins?  for  them,  all  the  dav  lon^."— Dent,  xxviii-32. 


Old  Slieba  sat  in  thousjlitful  mood  before  liis  cottape 

door ; 
A  mournful  look  ot  settled    prief  his  aged  features 

wore ; 
t'pon  his  smoothly  polished  statl',  his  hands  and  ehin 

did  rest, 
And,  like  a  snow  drift,  lay  his  luui;-,  white  beard  upon 

liis  breast. 

It  was  an  autumn  evening  in  the  land  of  Palestine ; 
The  setting  sun  o'er  russet  forest  threw  a  mellow 

sheen : 
I'lie  vesijer  hymn  of  gay-])lumcd  bu'ds   flowed  softly 

from  the  trees, 
And  mingled  with  the  low,  sweet  whispering  of  tlie 

evening  breeze ; 
I'lie   luscious  purple   grapes  hung   thick   upon    the 

clambering  vine ; 
Atar  were  heard   the  tinkling  bells  ot  home-return- 
ing kine. 
And  the  bleating  of  the  snowy  flocks  which  fed  upon 

the  hills, 
Adown  whose   verdant    slopes   the  fountains  jjoured 

their  crystal  rills. 

<  »ld  Sheba's  soul  felt  not  the   >)eauty  of  all   tilings 

around  ; 
His  eye  was  lost  to  torni  and  line,  his  ear  was  deal  to 

sound. 
Sadly  his  grief-strained  eyes  were  turned  toward  the 

darkening  east, 
Where,  as  the  twilight  grew,   tlie  shadows  of  the 

palms  inci-eased. 
And  oft  in  deep  drawn    sighs    his    heaving   bosom 

sought  relief. 
As  if  it  bore  the  crushing  weight  of  half  his  nation's 

grief. 

Two  children— Tubal  and  Salome— once  his  lot  had 
blessed : 

Torn  from  their  mother's  arms— the  doting  father  who 
caressed— 

These  two  had  gone  to  swell  the  throng  of  haughty 
Babel's  slaves, 

Where  great  Euphrates  thunders  down  his  dark,  tu- 
multuous waves. 

Long,  weary  years  had  passed  away,  and  yet  there 
came,  to  cheer 


Old  Sheba's  heart,  no  tidings  of  his  absent  children 
dear. 

He  melancholy  grew  with  grief  long-nursed  and  hope 
deferred, 

And  yet  his  trem'lous  lip.-s  ne'«r  uttered  a  complain- 
ing word. 

But  always,  at  the  close  of  eve,  he  sat  before  the  door, 

And  sought,  with  eager  eyes,  the  foiTns  of  those  who 
came  no  more. 

He  sat  and  gazed.    A  sudden  light  of  .ioy  played  on 

his  face, 
Like  sunbeams  on  a  gloomy  cloud.     Up  ti-om  its  rest- 
ing place 
He  quickly  raised  his  chin,  and  softly  called  Rebecca's 

name. 
With  bustling  steps,  the  dark-eyed  matron  from  the 

cottage  came. 
"What  wants  my  Sheba,"  she  exclaimed  in  gentle 

tones,  and  laid 
Her  hand  on  his,  as  fondly  as  a  newly  plighted  maid. 
The  old  man  slowly  raised  his  hand  and  pointed  to 

the  East: 
"  My  eyes  are  dim,"  said  he    "  look  well,  and  tell  me 

what  thou  seest." 
"Nothing,"  siie  said,  "but  shadows,  waving,  as  the 

evening  breeze 
Sways  gently  to  and  fro  the  teathery  foliage  of  the 

trees." 
Old  Sheba  sighed:    "  I  dreamed  last  niglit  the  cap- 
tives had  returned, 
No  more  by  Israel's  foes  to  be  opi^rossed,  and  crushed, 

and  spurned. 
Our  children  sat  with  us  beside  the  blazing  tire  once 

more. 
While  Tubal  told,  with  flashing  eye,  the  wrongs  the 

captives  bore, 
Salome  sat  —  her  dark    hair  falling  on    her  snowy 

breast  — 
And  fi-om  the  grape  the  crimson  juice  into  a  cup  ex- 
pressed. 
Until  it  mounted  to  the  brim ;  when,  with  a  smile, 

she  rose, 
And  bade  me  drink  the  emblem  of  deliverance  from 

our  foes. 
I  thought  the  dream  foreboded  good,"  he  said  with 

tearful  eye, 
"  And  I  my  children  should  embrace  once  more  before 

I  die." 
Rebecca  went   into  tlie  house,  the  frugal  board  to 

spread, 
Old  Sheba  on  his   polislied  statf  again  reclined  his 

head. 


32 


Backwoods   Poems. 


The  meal  prepared,  Rebecca  came  and  softly  called 

her  lord; 
But-  motionless  old  Sheba  sat,  and   answered   not  a 

word. 
She  came  and  laid  her  withered  hand  upon  his  hoary 

head — 
And  started   back !  — her  all  of   earth — her  dearest 

lord— was  dead ! 
His  heart  was  broke— his  spirit  from  its  house  of  clay 

had  flown, 
To  join  the  patriarchs  wlio  stand  around  .lehovah's 

throne. 


A  Dream. 

I  dreamed  of  thee  at  the  midnight  hour,  when  every 
thing  was  still, 

Except  the  mournful  warbling  of  the  lonely  whippoor- 
will; 

When  on  the  peerless  brow  of  night,  the  gems  were 
sparkling  bright. 

And  the  moon  baptized  the  foi'est  witli  a  flood  of  sil- 
ver light. 

Methought  I  sat   lieside  thee  in  a  deep  and  lonely 

wood. 
Where  the  gnarled  oaks  and  towering  pines  like  giant 

sentries  stood ; 
Where  every  shrub  was  bending  witli  it.«  load  of  dewy 

blooms. 
And  the  morning  air  was  fragrant  with  a  thousaml 

rich  perfumes. 

I  took  thy  soft  warm  hand  in  mine,  and  told  thee  all 

my  life — 
My  joys  and  griefs— my  crushed  hopes — ambition's 

daring  strife  ; 
And  how  all  these— the  strife  of  what  I  am  with  what 

I'd  be— 
Had  been  concentred— changed— and  lost— in  one  long 

thought  of  thee. 

And  then  methought  that  thou  didst  smile,  as  angels 

smiled  when  tirst 
Sweet  mercy  bore  the  l)oon  of  liope  to  sinful  man  ac- 

cursad ; 
And  then,  all  blushing  as  thou  wast,  tliose  azure  eyes 

ot  thine 
Gazed  from  beneath  tlieir  trembling  lashes  fondly 

into  mine. 


I  could  not  boar  the  weight  of  bliss— the  dream-god's 
spell  was  broke ; 

The  wood,  the  flowers,  and   Ihnu^  quick  passed  away, 
and  I  awoke — 

Awoke  to  dream  again  ambition's  dream— my  dread- 
ful doom— 

And  nurse  the  liopes — the  burning  liopes — which  now 
my  soul  consume. 


Ode  to  Love. 

Thou  bright,  electric  spark  from  Heaven,  scut 
To  tame  the  savage,  human  breast  I 
In  every  age  and  clime  have  mankind  bent 
Unto  tliy  soft  yet  stern  behest. 

Ages  roll  bv ;  earth's  kingdoms  pass  away ; 
Perish  the  proudest  w'orks  of  art ; 
But  thy  sweet  empire  knoweth  no  decay — 
Thy  empire  o'er  the  human  heart. 

Wlien  sinful  man,  i^rovoking  heavenly  wrath. 
From  Eden's  lovely  bower  was  driven, 
God  sent  thy  light  to  cheer  his  gloomy  path. 
And  raise  Ins  thouglits  from  eartli  to  Heaven  I 
ISJO. 


The  Beautiful. 

I  love  whate'er  is  beautiful  and  bright — 
The  landscape  blushing  in  tlie  morning  light  - 
The  dew-drop  clinging  to  the  half-oped  flower- 
The  crimson  glories  of  the  sunset  hour — 
The  spangled  radiance  of  the  midnight  sky — 
The  languid  sweetness  of  dear  woman's  eye. 

The  little  flower  which  in  some  mossy  bed 
All  bashful  bends  to  earth  its  lowly  head. 
Wakes  in  my  mind  an  admiration  warm. 
And  throws  around  my  soul  a  gentle  charm  : 
For  in  each  petal,  azure  bright,  I  And 
The  graceful  beauty  of  a  Master-mind. 

The  star  wliich  twinkles  on  the  brow  ot  night, 
Pours  in  my  soul  a  flood  of  deep  delight ; 
There's  a  glorious  beauty  in  its  calm  sweet  faci 
As  it  moves  onward  in  its  destined  race. 
Meek  and  obedient  to  the  unchanging  laws 
Fixed  in  Creation  bv  the  Great  First  Cause. 


Bachivoods   Poems. 

33 

Bard  and  Bacchus. 

VI. 

Dear  goodness  knows 

I. 

Such  thoughts  in  prose 

The  tunefvil  Nine 

Might  "  make  a  sorry  show ;" 

At  Bacchus'  shrine 

But  tinkling  rhyme — 

Too  oft  have   bowerl  tlie  knee  : 

Like  sleigh-bells'  chime 

And  many  a  fine 

In  Northern  clime — 

Smooth-flowing'  line- 

Keeps  merry  time, 

Esteemed  divine  — 

As  dashing  on  we  go. 

Old  God  of  Wine, 

Is  caught,  I  ween,  from  tlicc 

IT. 

The  bard  tills  up 

The  silver  cup 

With  wine  of  reddest  hue  ; 

Twilight  Hours. 

The  nectar  flows— 

His  fancy  glows- 

When  twilight's  veil  is  closing 

All  nature  gi-ows 

Around  the  evening  sky, 

Coletir  de  rose — 

And  thro'  the  tall  old  chinas 

The  bard  is  getting  "  blue." 

The  gentle  zephyrs  sigh ; 
When  to  their  airy  couches 

III. 

The  bright-plumed  birds  are  fled. 

Now^  thro'  his  brain 
A  merry  train 

And  the  '  Katy-did'  is  chirruping 
In  the  l)ranches  overhead: 

Of  bright  ideas  swim— 

"  Cerulean  skies" — 

"Soft,  languid  eyes"— 

"  Love's  silken  ties"— 

"  Low-murmufed  sighs" — 

"  Bright  stars"— and  "  moonbeams  dim." 

Then  thro'  my  brain  come  trooping 
The  thoughts  of  by-gone  yeare, 
And  my  eyes,  unused  to  weeping, 
Are  filled  with  bitter  tears. 
I  think  of  joys  departed  — 
Of  triendsliips  long  decayed — 

IV. 

Of  hopes  once  fondly  cherished, 
Wliich  budded  but  to  fade. 

His  "  gray  goose  quill" 

Obeys  his  will. 

And  then,  there  comes  before  me 

And  o'er  the  foolscap  moves  : 

Many  a  dear  loved  face 

It  skips  in  glee 

Which  long  has  been  reposing 

O'er  each  trochee, 

In  earth's  last  resting-place. 

While  ink  flows  free 

A  smile  of  friendly  welcome 

As  simile— 

L^pou  their  lips  is  seen — 

Or  the  wine  the  poet  loves. 

I  stretch  my  hands  to  greet  them— 

V. 

But  .Ionian  rolls  between  ! 

At  every  pause 

A  star— clear,  bright  and  glorious- 

The  Medean  laws 

Looks  on  me  from  the  sky; 

Of  metre  may  require, 

And  then  its  low,  sweet  whisper 

He  sips  the  wine, 

Is  heard  in  the  zephyr's  sigh : 

That  eveiy  line 

"  Vain  mortal,  cease  thy  weeping. 

May  glow  and  shine 

And  fix  thy  hopes  above, 

With  light  divine 

Where  friends  no  more  shall  sever, 

From  Bacchus'  sacred  fire. 

And  all   is  joy  and  love." 

3J^ 

Bachwoods   Poems. 

The  Maniac  Girl. 

With  waters  so  blue. 
Like  the  heart  of  the  maiden 

The  round,  full  moon 

That  weepeth  for  you. 

Was  at  her  noon 

In  the  starry  arch  of  night, 

The  leaves  and  the  flowers 

And  poured  her  beams 

Are  withered  and  dead. 

In  silvery  streams 

Like  the  hopes  which  we  cherished 

TTpon  the  landscape  white. 

Ere  all  hope  had  fled. 
In  the  chill  air  of  Autumn, 

The  storm-borne  cloud 

They  grew  wan  and  pale 

A  pure  white  shroud 

As  thy  cheek  where  it  resteth 

Had  o'er  the  forest  flun^' ; 

'Neath  the  sod  of  the  vale ; 

And  the  frozen  trees 

And  then  they  were  scattered 

In  the  midnight  breeze 

By  the  breath  of  tlie  gale. 

Like  knightly  armor  rung. 

In  a  drear,  cold  wood 

The  cold,  cheerless  winter 

A  maiden  stood, 

Will  soon  pass  away  ; 

Whose  wildly  heaving  breast. 

The  spring-time  is  coming. 

And  frenzied  eye 

When  soft  zephyrs  play,                      ^^^b 

Turned  tow'rd  the  sky. 

When  the  mocking  bird  carols               ^^^H 

Told  of  the  soul's  unrest. 

In  the  green  maple  tree,                      ^M 
And  the  bright  flowers  carpet 

In  the  moon's  pale  light. 

The  smooth  grassy  lea — 

Her  face  looked  white 

But  oh  !  it  will  never 

As  winter's  snowy  shroiid ; 

Be  spring-time  with  me  1 

And  the  robe  which  round 

Her  form  was  wound, 

The  soft,  balmy  zephyr 

Was  like  a  fleecy  cloud. 

Sad  mem'ries  will  bring: 

On  her  bosom  bare, 

The  bird  in  the  maple 

Her  coal-black  hair 

A  requiem  sing; 

In  wild  disorder  hung, 

The  fresh  April  shower 

As  she  wove  a  crown 

Your  bosom  will  lave ; 

Of  leaflets  brown, 

The  oaks  their  green  branches 

And  this  sad  ditty  sung  : 

Will  mournfully  wave. 
And  the  dewy-eyed  violet 

SONft. 

Bloom— over  your  grave  ! 

No  more  on  the  mountain 
I'll  wander  with  you. 

Nor  sit  by  the  fountain 

With  waters  so  blue. 

A  Sabbath  Evening  in  Autumn. 

No  more  will  you  gather 



The  violets  fair. 

Behind  the  gold-fringed,  crimson  clouds 

Wild  pinks  and  red  roses. 

Which  skirt  the  glowing  West, 

And  crocuses  rare. 

The  round,  red  sun  sinks  slo^vly  down 

To  lu-aid  'mong  the  tresses 

To  his  accustomed  rest ; 

Of  my  black  glossy  hair. 

And  his  beams  with  flaming  glory  tip 
The  distant  forest's  crest. 

The  moss-covered  mountain 

Is  cheerless  and  bare. 

Tlie  gentle  Autumn's  sun-browned  hands 

Like  the  life  of  the  mournei- 

A  thousand  hues  have  dyed 

Who  oft  wanders  there. 

The  leaves  upon  the  stately  trees 

The  snow  lines  the  valley 

In  all  the  forest  wide ; 

Where  violets  grew. 

These  look  more  lovely  in  their  deatli 

And  froze  is  the  fountain 

Than  in  their  Spring-time  pride. 

Backwoods  Poems. 


35 


The  feathered  songsters  in  the  grove 

Their  notes  no  longer  trill ; 

The  tinkling  bell  alone  is  heard 

Upon  the  distant   Iiill. 

The  breeze  scarce  sways  the  clambering 

All  is  so  calm  and  still. 

The  busy  scenes  of  active  life 

No  longer  meet  the  eye ; 

The  spirit,  left  alone  with  God, 

Bursts  every  sensual  tie 

Tliat  binds  it  to  the  earth,  aud  liolils 

( 'ommunion  with  the  sky. 

Not  in  the  stately,  crowded  church 
Where  loud  the  anthems  roll, 
And  human  forms  and  gaudy  dress 
Distract  the  wearied  soul. 
May  sinful  man  expect  to  find 
Tlie  sweetest  Sabbath  goal. 

But  in  a  calm,  sweet  hour  like  this, 

Alone  in  the  fading  grove, 

The  Spirit  of  the  living  God, 

liike  Noah's  meek-eyed  dove. 

Bears  to  him  from  the  Heavenly  fields 

Tlie  olive-branch  of  love. 

And  if  the  souls  of  loved  ones  lost 
Their  blissful  home  e'er  leave. 
To  whisper  words  of  comfort  to 
The  souls  ot  those  who  grieve— 
'Tis  at  the  holy  sunset  hour 
Of  an  Autiimn  Sabbath  e\e. 


Mary  Ann. — A  Song. 

Jet  black  eyes,  and  dark  brown  hair- 
Brunette  cheeks,  and  forehead  fair- 
Coral  lips,  and  teeth  like  pearls- 
Loveliest,  sweetest  of  all  girls 
Is  my  Mary  Ann. 
Mary  Ann  '.  sweet  Mary  Ann  ! 
Loveliest,  sweetest  ot  all  girls 
Is  my  Mary  Ann  1 

Voice  as  soft  as  the  streamlet's  ilow- 
Bosom  white  as  the  drifted  snow  — 
Soft  white  hands  and  round  plump  arms 
Who  can  paint  thy  thousand  chai-ms. 


Dearest  Mary  Ann .' 

Mary  Ann  !  sweet  Mary  Ann  ! 

Who  can  paint  thy  thousand  charms. 

Dearest  Mary  Ann  ? 

Skipping  o'er  the  dewy  lawn 
Lightly  as  the  spotted  lawn. 
Silvery  laughter  ringing  clear- 
Nought  on  earth  is  half  so  dear 
As  my  Mary  Ann. 
Mary  Ann  !  sweet  Mary  Ann  I 
Nought  on  earth  is  half  so  dear 
As  mv  Mary  Ann  .' 


Mudder  Chloe, 

Come  all  ye  little  darkey  boys. 
And  little  massas  too, 

And  listen  to  de  bran  new  song 
I'm  gwine  to  sing  to  you — 

About  a  kind  old  darkey  dame 
I  knowed  long  time  ago — 

She  libbed  in  old  Firginny  State- 
lier name  was  Mudder  Chloe. 

CHOKUS. 

Dear  old  Mudder  Chloe  1 
Dat  form  is  lying  low, 
Wha  de  weeping  willows  grow 
]  )own  in  the  dell. 

Old  Time's  big  bar-shear  plow  had  made 

Deep  furrows  in  her  brow, 
Aud  neaf  de  load  of  many  years 

Her  poor  old  form  did  bow. 
Her  face  was  black  as  de  chimney-back. 

Her  hair  was  white  as  snow; 
But  a  heart  so  kind  'twas  hard  to  find 

As  dat  of  Mudder  t'hloe ! 

Dear  old  Mudder  Chloe,  &c. 

( »ld  massa  was  a  clebber  man — 

His  heart  was  warm  and  mild  ; 
He  lubbed  old  Mudder  Chloe  bekase 

She  nuss  him  when  a  child. 
And  now  she  was  too  old  to  work. 

He  built  a  little  house 
Wid  a  littls  garden— wha  she  lib 

As  snugly  as  a  mouse. 

Dear  old  Mudder  Chloe  !  &c. 


36 


Bachwoods   Poems. 


We  used  to  go  and   hoe  her  patch — 

Me  and  young  massa  Joe ; 
And  when  we'd  done  our  little  task, 

De  dear  old  M  udder  Chloe 
Would  get  us  somethin'  good  to  eat, 

And  tell  us  stories  strange, 
'Bout  witches'  spells,  and  blear-eyed  ghosts 

Dat  in  de  night-time  range. 

Dear  old  Mudder  Chloe !    &'c. 

One  day  we  went  down  to  her  house. 

And  found  her  on  de  bed ; 
Her  limbs  were  stiff,  lier  hands  were  cold  — 

Old  Mudder  Chloe  was  dead. 
Dey  dug  a  grave  down  in  de  dell, 

Wlia  de  weeping  willows  grow  ; 
Old  massa  prayed,  de  black  folks  sung, 

And  dey  buried  Mudder  Chloe. 
Dear  o)d  Mudder  Chloe  !  &e. 

Each  spring,  me  and  young  massa  .Toe 

Went  down  into  de  dell, 
And  planted  pinks  upon  her  grave — 

De  pinks  she  loved  so  well. 
At  last,  old  massa  move  away, 

And  now  de  briers  grow 
In  wild  luxuriance  o'er  de  grave 

Of  poor  old  Mudder  Chloe. 

Dear  old  Mudder  Clilne  1  &r. 


Will  You  Come  to  the  Bar? 

Air — "  W ill  you  come  to  tlm  bower  >' 

Will  you  come  to  tlie  doggery  I've  shedded  for  you  .' 
Your  drink   shall   he  bust-hmd  of  bright,  sparkling 

hue. 
Will  you,  will  you,  will  you,  will  you  come  to  the  bar  .' 

Here,  under  the  shed,  on  clean  straw  you  shall  lie, 
With  a  pimple  on  your  nose,  and  the  rheum  in  your 

eye. 
Will  you,  &e.,  come  in,  dear  sir  .' 

Tor  our  wives  and  our  homes  we  will  care  not  a  tip. 
As  our  whiskey  and  sugar  we  lazily  sip. 
Will  you,  &c.,  take  a  drink,  my  dear  sir  ' 

And,  O,  for  the  joys,  when  the  "  keeper"  and  you 
Both  fall  under  the  counter,  most  gloriously  blue ! 
Will  you,  &c.,  liiccough,  my  de;ir  .'  ' 


A  Valentine. 


Inscribed  to  Miss 


--  of  Choctaw  countv. 


Once  more  from  out  the  etlier  blue. 

The  sun  shines  forth  with  genial  ray, 

Shedding  on  earth  a  golden  hue. 

To  usher  in  the  luvrr's  day. 

The  North  wind  sleeps ;  the  gentle  breezi 

Is  wooing  'mong  the  leafless  trees  ; 

They  feel  his  warm,  impassioned  kiss. 

And  as  they  sig-h  for  very  bliss, 

The  frozen  current  warms  again. 

And  courses  through  their  every  vein. 

Ere  long,  through  all  the  stately  grove. 

The  swelling  buds  shall  crown  their  love. 

Hark  !  in  the  torest  bare,  again 

The  bright-plumed  birds  pour  forth  their  strain 

Sweet  and  melodious— clear  and  wild 

As  the  laughter  of  a  happy  child ; 

Yet  mournful— tender— soft— as  thougli 

A  broken  heart  poured  out  its  woe. 

Know'st  thou,  sweet  girl,  why  in  this  tone 

Such  strange  extremes  should  blend  in  one  '. 

It  is  the  tender  tone  which  tells 

The  love  which  from  the  heart  up-\vells: 

Free  from  articulate  control, 

It  is  the  language  of  the  soul. 

See  yonder  bird  with  vest  of  red. 
And  scarlet  plume  mion  liis  head  ! 
He's  breathing  in  his  sweet-heart's  ear 
His  joys  and  griefs,  his  hope  and  fear. 
How  thrills  with  joy  her  little  breast, 
As  he  begs  her  share  liis  mossy  nest  I 
With  trembling  wings  she  hovers  near 
Her  lover's  airy  swinging  chair : 
And  human  voice  could  ne'er  express 
Such  raptui-e  as  her  twittered  "  yes  ?" 

All  nature's  works — the  whispering  breeze— 
The  warbling  birds— the  waving  trees— 
The  sun's  soft,  warm,  prolific  beam— 
The  gurgling  waters  of  the  stream — 
The  earth  below— the  sky  above — 
Breathe  but  one  voice—  the  voice  of  love. 
And  is  thy  ear  deaf  to  the  voice 
That  makes  all  earthlj-  things  rejoice .' 
Shall  icy  winter  still  maintain 
Within  thy  breast  his  cheerless  reign. 
And  thou,  alone,  of  all  below. 
Be  cold  as  winter's  drifted  snow  .' 
Can  mellow  sunbeams  nevei'  bring 
Into  thy  heart  tlie  reign  of  spring- .' 


^ 


Backwoods   Poems. 


37 


Nor  warm-breathed  zephyi-s  from  the  west 
Melt  off  the  snow  that  chills  thy  breast .' 
O,  let  the  sunshine  in  thy  heart- 
Throw  oil'  the  chain  that  winter  wove— 
And  learn  a  sweeter,  better  part— 
Tliat  Lfix'e  is  Life,  and  Life  is  Love: 


Lines  to  Fanny. 

'Tis  long,  sweet  Fanny,  since  we  met, 

And  in  my  memory 

The  lapse  of  years  had  scarcely  left 

A  single  trace  of  thee. 

Still  thoughts  of  thee  would  sometimes  come 

Like  glimpses  from  the  land 

Of  dreams,  or  music  from  the  harp 

That's  played  by  zephyr's  hand. 

This  morn— I  know  not  why  'tis  so-- 

The  thoughts  of  by-gone  years 

Come  gliding  slowly  through  my  mind, 

And  till  my  eyes  with  tears. 

I  see  a  graceful,  child-like  form, 

A  face  serene  and  fair, 

A  pair  of  dove-like,  hazel  eyes. 

And  a  wealth  of  dark-brown  hair. 

I  see  thee  as  in  by-gone  years: 

Time,  in  his  ceaseless  flight, 

Though  shedding  mildew  all  around. 

Has  left  tliy  image  bright. 

'Tis  strange  my  mind  retains  so  well 

Thy  picture  in  the  hours 

We  spent  in  chasing  butterflies. 

And  culling  woodland  flowers. 

I  see  the  beech  whereon  I  carved 

Thy  name  beside  my  own : 

'Twas  foolisli,  but  it  pleased  me  well 

To  see  them  joined  in  one. 

Long  time  ago,  the  old  beech  fell 

Before  the  wintry  gust, 

And  the  bark  whereon  our  names  were  carved 

Has  mouldered  in  the  dust. 

I  loved  thee,  Fanny,  three  long  years. 
And  though  my  years  were  few. 
No  knight  in  olden  time  was  e'er 
To  lady-love  so  true. 
But  time  flew  by,  and  cruel  fate 
Ordained  that  we  must  part; 


And  another's  form  usurped  thy  niche 
Within  my  boyish  heart. 

A  happy  youth  in  the  far-off  West 

Obtained  thy  heart  and  hand ; 

And  now  sweet  children  round  thee  smile- 

A  happy,  rosy  band. 

Perhaps,  some  one  of  these  is  like 

The  Fanny  whom  I  knew— 

With  the  same  soft  eyes  and  smiling  lips. 

And  hair  of  dark-brown  hue. 

And  I  am  still  a  lonely  oak. 

Around  whose  branches  cling 

No  vines  to  shield  from  wintry  blast, 

And  beautify  in  spring. 

But  I'm  wedded  to  the  pictures  briglit 

Which  the  book  of  memory  bears; 

And  as  I  turn  the  pages  o'er 

They  oft  are  wet  with  tears. 


Mary. 

Who  does  not  love  this  little  name. 
So  simple,  short,  and  neat. 
So  full  of  poetry  and  love. 
And  all  that's  fair  and  sweet. 
No  other  name  I  wot  doth  fall 
So  sweetly  on  my  ear ; 
No  other  name  in  memory  shrined, 
Is  to  my  heart  so  dear. 

A  Mary  bore  our  Saviour  Lord, 
And  watched  His  early  years  ; 
A  Mary  humbly  kissed  His  feet. 
And  washed  them  with  lier  tears. 
Two  Marys  ministered  to  Him, 
In  s\inshine  and  in  gloom ; 
They  lingered  longest  at  the  cross, 
And  earliest  sought  His  tomb. 

And  THOU,  sweet  idol  of  my  youth, 

The  spirit  of  each  dream, 

Tliat  flashed  across  my  early  yeai-s. 

Like  a  meteoric  dream. 

What  wonder  if  this  sacred  name, 

Should  be  entwined  by  me, 

With  all  that's  fair,  and  pure  and  bright. 

When  it  was  bounf.  bt  thee. 


Lula — A  Song. 

Sweet  little  Lula  was  my  love, 
In  the  days  of  long  ago, 
Ere  age  had  furrowed  o'er  my  brow, 
Or  turned  my  locks  to  snow. 
Before  I  had  to  manhood  grown — 
Before  I  learned  to  rove  — 
Before  I  trod  ambition's  path- 
Sweet  Lnla  was  my  love. 

Ah  !  she  was  fair  ! —  her  golden  hair 

Was  like  the  sunset  gleam  ; 

And  her  eyes  were  blue  as  the  violet's  hue, 

Beside  the  gurgling  stream. 

Her  brow  was  white  as  the  chaste  clear  light 

The  moon  pours  on  the  lawn  ; 

And  her  motions  gay  as  the  gentle  play 

Of  the  graceful  spotted  fawn. 

The  earliest  flowers  that  bloomed  in  spring 

I  culled  for  Lula  dear. 

And  the  scattered  few  that  lingered  last 

When  winter's  frost  drew  near. 

To  win  a  smile  from  her  moss-rose  lips 

Was  all  my  pride  and  joy; 

For  she  alone  spoke  soft  kind  words 

To  the  wild  and  wayward  boy. 

But  an  angel  band  from  the  spirit-land 

Took  my  darling  Lula  home. 

And  left  me  here  in  a  desert  drear 

For  weary  years  to  roam. 

All  pure  and  bright  as  the  snow-flake  white— 

Beyond  the  bounds  of  time  — 

She  winged  her  flight  to  the  realms  of  light 

In  the  trans-Jordanic  clime. 


"Let  There  Be  Light," 

In  chaos  wild  and  gloomy  niglit 

The  embryo  creation  lay : 
Jehovah  said,  "Let  there  be  light!" 

And  all  was  bright  and  glorious  day. 
The  sea  recedes,  the  mountains  rise, 

The  isles  and  continents  apxJear; 
And  all  the  star  worlds  of  the  skies 

Move,  each  to  its  predestined  sphere. 

Defiled  by  sin,  the  Gentile  race 

Groped  in  the  death-vale's  gloomy  shade ; 
And  in  the  holy,  chosen  place 

Shekinah's  beams  no  longer  played. 


"Let  there  be  light!"  the  Father  said— 

The  Star  of  Bethlehem  appears. 
On  every  land  His  beams  to  shed, 

Till  Time  shall  cease  to  count  the  years. 

"  Lord,  that  I  might  receive  my  sight," 

In  melting  tones  Bartimeus  cried, 
Whose  eyes  were  longing  for  the  light 

Which  to  them  long  had  been  denied. 
"  Go,"  speaks  the  Saviour — "go  thy  way. 

Thy  faith  in  me  hath  made  tliee  whole." 
His  eyes  behold  the  light  of  day  - 

The  light  of  grace  beams  on  his  soul. 

Along  death's  dark  and  dangerous  way 

The  soul  is  staggering  to  its  doom; 
But  stops  to  pray  one  heavenly  ray 

May  pierce  the  deep  and  awful  gloom. 
The  Spirit  says,  "  Let  there  be  light!" 

The  dark,  cold  shadow  flees  away. 
And  the  soul's  redeem'd  from  sin's  dread  bliglit. 

To  bask  in  pure  celestial  day. 

The  heathen  nations  dwell  in  night- 
No  Word  of  Life  illumes  their  way ; 

Our  Master  bids  us  spread  the  light. 
And  how  shall  we  dare  disobey  ? 

Go,  ope  to  them  the  Word  of  God— 
The  source  of  light,  and  life,  and  love— 

And  point  them  to  the  blest  abode 
In  the  radiant  courts  of  light  above. 


O,  Let  Me   Die  at  Home. 

( )  let  me  die  at  home ! 

Death  loses  half  its  sting 

When  'mid  the  hallowed  scenes  of  youtli 

The  spirit  plumes  its  wing. 

O  let  me  die  at  home — 
In  the  old  and  dear  loved  hall. 
Where  the  pictures  I  in  childhood  saw 
Hang  on  the  papered  wall: 

Where  the  setting  sun's  last  rays 
Through  the  western  windows  pour. 
And  balmy  breezes  from  the  south 
Rush  through  the  half-ope'd  door. 


Baolcwoods  Poeryis. 


39 


O  let  me  die  at  home, 

Where  those  I  love  the  best 

May  watch  the  last  ooDvulsive  heave 

Of  my  expiring  breast: 

Where  my  mother's  hands  may  smootli 
The  pillow  'neath  my  head, 
And  a  brothel's  fingers  gently  close 
My  eyes,  wlien  I  am  dead. 

O  let  me  die  at  home, 
Where  my  father's  trembling  voice 
May  tell  me  of  a  Saviour's  love, 
And  bid  my  soul  rejoice: 

Where  around  my  dying  bed 

My  sisters  dear  may  stand, 

And  whisper  in  my  ear  "  good-bye  !" 

As  they  press  my  icy  hand  : 

Where  the  neighbors  that  I  knew 
Long  time  ago,  may  come. 
And  sing  tlie  songs  I  loved  to  hear, 
To  waft  my  spirit  home. 

O  let  me  die  at  home, 

And  let  my  grave  be  made 

In  the  old  church-yard  on  the  hill. 

Where  loved  ones'  forms  are  laid. 

Where  my  mother's  hands  may  plant 
The  ailanthus  at  my  head, 
And  fragrant  pinks  and  the  red  moss-rose 
To  bloom  upon  my  bed. 

O  let  me  die  at  home  1 

Death  loses  half  its  sting. 

When  'mid  the  hallowed  scenes  of  youth 

The  spirit  plumes  its  wing. 


Lines  to  Jim. 

Don't  you  remember,  Jim,  when  we  were  young  and 

gay. 
And  how  wc  spent  the  live-long  days  in  merry  play ; 
How  with  our  pop-guns  to  the  dog-wood  tree  we'd  go. 
And  there  bombard  the  web-fort  of  the  spider  toe  ; 

Then  thirsting  for  more  conquest— grown  bolder  with 

success,  , 

We  stormed  the  yellow-jackets'  fortified  recess  .' 


Ah  !  those  were  happy  moments,  Jim,  warriors  bold 
were  we. 

The  scourge  and  dread  of  hornet,  wasp,  and  bumble- 
bee ! 

When  tired  of  winning  victories  from  the  insect  foe. 
We'd  find  two  mounds  whereon  the  velvet  moss  did 

grow: 
On  these  we'd  build  two  forts,  fuU  twenty  inches  high. 
And  each  would  turn  his  arms  against  his  late  ally. 

And  then  we'd  hunt  the  big-eared  rabbit :     O  what 

fun 
To  slay  the  mottle-coated  rogue  without  a  gun ; 
To  chase  him  through  the  woods  into  a  hollow  tree, 
And  twist  him  out  with  switches— wasn't  it  a  spree  .' 

The  fishing,  too,  was  glorious  in  the  little  brooks. 
With  stolen  yarn  for  lines,  and  crooked  pins  for  hooks: 
When  minnows  nibbled,  how  we  trembled  with  de- 
light. 
And  O,  what  rapture  hung  upon  a  full  grown  bite  ! 

We  had  our  sweet-heart,  too,  a  bright-eyed  little 
belle. 

For  whom  we  gathered  brier-roses  in  the  dell ; 

You  won  her  sweetest  smiles,  you  had  no  cripple 
limb. 

And  in  my  wrath  I  larruped  you,  don't  you  remem- 
ber, Jim  ? 


Lines. 


In  the  morning's  dewy  dawn, 

When  the  Eastern  sky  was  streaked  with  red. 

And  tlie  rising  sun  his  first  rays  shed, 

Through  purple  mists  in  golden  showers, 

Upon  the  landscape  robed  in  flowers, 

I  saw  two  children,  blithe  and  fair. 

With  violet  eyes  and  golden  hair, 

A  sporting  on  the  lawn. 

As  they  watched    the  reddening  sky, 
They  planned  new  gambols  for  the  day. 
And  e'en  next  week's  delightful  play. 
Then  following  out  the  golden  thread 
Which  hope  had  spun,  their  fancies  sped 
Along  the  track  of  fviure  years, 
Where  manhood's  pleasures  knew  no  tears, 
And  life,  no  bitter  sigh. 


When  from  his  clear-blue  noon 

The  round,  white  sun  poured  down  his  beams 

On  bills  and  dells,  and  plains  and  streams, 

I  saw  a  mower  mowing  hay. 

In  sooth,  his  was  no  idle  play; 

And  as  be  swung  his  sickle  round, 

The  grass  fell  thicker  on  the  ground 

Than  trees  by  tempest  strewn. 

He  stopped,  and  wiped  bis  brow ; 

And,  leaning  on  his  sickle,  stood 

A  moment  in  a  thoughtful  mood. 

Then,  swinging  wide  his  keen  edged  blade 

Among  the  grass,  be  sternly  said  : 

"  No  tiilae  to  muse  on  the  future  bright! 

While  manhood's  noon  affords  its  light, 

I  must  improve  the  nniv." 

When  Nature  was  arrayed 
In  the  mantle  bright  of  varied  hue 
Which  Autumn  o'er  her  shoulders  threw. 
And  the  setting  sun  his  last  rays  shed 
In  a  rosy  halo  round  her  head, 
I  saw  a  man  with  snow-white  hair 
A  rocking  in  liis  big  arm-chair, 
Beneath  a  spreading  shade. 

He  talked  in  whispers  low- 
About  the  times  long  pas.sed  away. 
When  he  was  young,  and  strong,  and  gay. 
Now  he  would  smile,  and  now  he'd  sigh, 
And  now  the  tear-drop  dimmed  his  eye, 
As  he  conned  the  book  of  memory  o'er, 
And  viewed  the  forms  its  pages  bore, 
And  the  scenes  of  long  ago  .' 


The  South  to  the  North. 

Give  us  the  Union  that  our  fathers  made 

In  the  purer  days  of  long  ago, 
When  revolution's  red,  right  arm  bad  laid 

Old  England's  rampant  lion  low. 

Ah  !  "  there  were  giants  in  those  days"  of  old- 
Giants  in  nerve,  and  mind,  and  heart- 
Men  who  would  scorn  for  fame  or  gold 
To  play  the  demagogue's  base  part. 

They  stood  together  in  the  bloody  light; 

And  when  their  noble  work  was  done. 
None  did  dispute  his  brother's  equal  right 

In  all  their  common  toil  had  won. 


The  humblest  and  the  greatest  in  the  land 
Were  of  the  self-same  rights  possessed; 

And  the  feeblest  member  in  the  shining  band 
Of  States,  was  peer  unto  the  rest. 

How,  then,  shall  we  be  asked  to  yield 
The  equal  rights  our  sires  possessed  — 

The  rights  they  earned  upon  the  battle-field. 
And  left  to  us — a  rich  bequest '. 

Give  us  our  cherished  fathers'  Union,  then — 
'Tis  all  we  ask  when  you  oppress  ; 

And  by  the  memory  of  those  noble  men 
We  never  will  submit  with  less ! 


Lines 

In  memory  of  mv  aunt,  Lucinda  L.  Portman,  wlio 
diikl  August  10th,  IS.iG. 

Hushed  fore'er  is  the  voice  that  in  infancy  soothed 
My  sorrow,  and  sickness,  and  pain; 
And  the  hands  that  so  often  my  pillow  have  smoothed, 
In  mine  shall  be  clasped  ne'er  again. 

The  dear,  cherished  hours  of  the  long  winter  night, 
No  more  in  sweet  converse  we'll  spend; 
Nor  read  by  the  light  of  the  fire  blazing  bright 
What  our  favorite  authors  have  penned. 

Thy  dear-loved  form  lieth  cold  in  tlie  ground  — 
No  more  will  it  gladden  our  eyes, 
Till  the  archangel's  trumpet  from  heaven  shall  .■^ound. 
And  bid  the  pale  sleepers  arise. 

Though  we  sorrow  lor  tliee,  hallelujah  to  God  ! 
For  the  blessed  assurance  He's  given, 
That  though  thy  cold  body  lies  under  tlip  sod. 
Thy  spirit  is  living  in  Heaven. 

For  we  know  thou  art  gone  to  the  land  of  delight, 
Beyond  the  blue  ether  above. 

Where  the  seraphim  robed  in  their  garments  of  white 
Are  chanting  their  anthems  of  love. 

No  fierce  tempest  raves  in  that  bright  sunny  clime; 
The  skies  are  forever  serene; 

The  amaranth  trees  are  in  bloom  through  all  time. 
And  the  valleys  eternally  green. 

Pain,  sorrow,  and  death  are  unknown  to  tlie  band 
Who  dwell  ill  that  bright  world  above; 
For  Jesus,  the  Saviour,  is  king  of  the  land, 
And  the  law  of  His  kingdom  is  love. 


Bachwoods   Poems. 


41 


Billy  Boles,  or  the  Shoemaker's  Court- 
ship. 

Some  years  ago  in  Chiselville 
There  lived  a  man  called  Billy  Boles  ; 

His  calling  was  the  heeling  art— 
Besides  he  had  the  cure  ot  soles. 

For  years  he  sat  in  liis  little  shop, 
And  cut  aud  stitclied,  and  pegged  away, 

Till  his  hair,  once  glossy  as  his  hoots, 
Began  to  turn  a  grizzly  gray. 

Poor  Billy  heeded  not  the  flight 

Of  time,  in  his  pui-suit  of  gold ; 
He  sat  and  waxed  his  flaxen  thread, 

Xor  dt-emed  that  he  was  waxbitj  old. 

He  stitched  and  stitched  from  morn  till  night, 
Poor  luckless  wiglit,  nor  seemed  to  know 

While  he  was  sewing  on  the  seams 
Old  age  was  seamin<j  o'er  his  brow. 

Bill  was  a  mateless  s/ioe— some  said 

A  soulless ;  riches  was  his  goal ; 
Though  he  touched  the  sole  of  many  a  girl, 

His  soul  bowed  not  to  love's  control. 


Would  fit  the  measure  of  my  heai-t 
Until  I  east  my  eyes  on  yon. 

"  O,  tie  with  me  the  holy  knot 

Naught  but  the  knife  of  death  can  sever, 
Aud  I'll  devote  my  life — my  ail 

To  you,  my  lovely  wife,  forever." 

She  heai'd  him  thi-ough  with  curling  lip. 
Then  putting  on  her  haughtiest  airs : 

"Tom,  shew  this  man  the  door,"  she  said, 
"  Or  pa  will  boot  him  down  the  stairs." 

Bill  stood  with  wide  dilated  eyes, 
And  wildly  tore  his  grizzly  hair ; 

He  who  had  lived  by  driving  pegs. 
By  Peg  was  driven  to  despair. 

"  O,  cruel  Peg,  you've  pierced  my  soul," 

In  tones  of  agony  he  cried; 
"  In  losing  you  I  lose  my  all — 

What  boot  all  earthly  things  beside!" 

The  brittle  tlu-ead  of  life  was  broke — 
On  Peg  oue  mournful  look  he  cast. 

And,  falling  flat  upon  the  floor, 
He  groaned  aloud  and  breathed  his  Inst. 


At  last  the  eyes  of  Peggy  Jones 
The  subtle  snare  around  him  wove; 

l-"or  while  he  shoed  her  tiny  feet, 
She  shewed  him  what  it  was  to  love. 

Poor  Bill  was  caught;  the  live-long  day 
His  bosom  heaved  with  deep-drawn  sighs 

He  could  not  /«</,  for  Peg's  sweet  form 
Forever  stood  before  his  eyes. 

He  mused  upon  his  feelings  long, 
And  then  resolved  to  mend  his  life, 

( "onvinced  that  nothing  on  the  earth 
Could  heal  liis  troubles  but  a  wife. 

So  he  brushed  his  hair  with  greater  care 
Than  e'er  he  brushed  a  shoe  or  boot. 

And  having  donned  his  suit  of  cloth. 
He  went  to  press  his  amorous  suit. 

Peg,  smiling,  bade  liim  take  a  seat. 
Not  dreaming  of  his  errand  there ; 

He  crossed  his  legs  and  cleared  his  throat. 
And  thus  addressed  the  lady  fair: 

"Sweet  girl,  I  long  have  longed  to  wuil. 
But  could  not  And  a  maiden,  wlio 


Ijines. 


Inscribed  to  tlie  Know  Nothings  and  Freesoilers  of 
Massachusetts. 

When  cruslied  in  spirit  Europe's  exile  poor 
Seeks  a  green  spot  on  freedom's  dear-loved  shore. 
Whereon  to  cast  with  grateful  heart  his  lot. 
And  plant  his  vine,  and  build  his  humble  cot- 
Thrust  not  the  stranger  forth  with  ruthless  hand— 
your  /others  once  "  were  strangers  in  the  land." 

AVhen  cunning  priests  forsake  the  word  of  (iod. 
And  bid  you  scourge  and  goad  with  iron  rod 
Vour  neighbors  for  the  faith  they  hold  and  love— 
Heraember  'twas  the  self-same  spirit  drove 
Vour  sires  fi'om  all  on  earth  they  held  most  dear, 
To  seek  a  forest  home  in  winter  drear. 

When  demagogues,  with  sanctimonious  faee, 
Bewail  the  wrongs  of  Afi-ic's  ebon  race- 
Then  tliink  whose  were  the  ships  that  bore 
The  savage  negro  from  hLs  native  shore; 
Think  who  maintain  their  stately  pomp  and  pride 
With  th' caprivc's  price— n/irf  lei  the  subject  slide. : 


w 


Backwoods   Poeins. 


A  Kiss  in  the  Corner. 


Let  epicures  boast  of  their  dolieate  dislies, 

And  wine  like  tlie  nectar  tliat  Jupiter  sips ; 
They're  sweet  to  the  taste,  but  not  half  so  delicious 

As  a  kiss  in  tlie  corner  from  woman's  sweet  lips. 
A  kiss  in  the  corner !  O,  joj'  without  measure  ! 

It  fills  to  overflowing'  the  cup  of  delight ; 
The  world  hath  no  treasure  tliat  yieldetli  such  pleas- 
ure 

As  a  kiss  in  the  corner  a  Saturday  niglit. 

Old  woman  nods  over  the  stocking-  slie's  knitting-; 

Old  man's  busy  reading  the  last  "  Southkrn  Sun  ;" 
The  shadows  grow  deep  in  the  nook  where  you're  sit- 
ting 

In  low  tele  a  Me  with  the  dear-loved  one. 
Around  her  waist  slender  your  arm  you  pass  slyly, 

And  close  to  your  bosom  you  press  her  fair  form  ; 
She,  blushing  and  sighing,  looks  up  at  you  shyly, 

And  you  steal  a  sweet  kiss  from  her  lips  rich  and 
warm. 

"  O  quit,"  says  slie,  pouting,  "  the  old  folks  will  catch 
us," 

Ton  press  her  more  closely  and  smack  her  again  ; 
Old  man  wipes  his  glasses,  and  wishes  the.  wretches 

Would  print,  in  the  future,  his  paper  more  plain; 
Old  woman  discovers  she  can't  see  the  stitches. 

And  tosses  a  chunk  of  fat  pine  in  the  Are ; 
The  sweet  little  vixen  her  chair  slyly  hitches 

Three  feet  further  from  you— ,';/c!  nere.r  sat  niii/ier : 


The  Land  of  Rest. 

Beyond  the  reach  ot  solar  light. 
Beyond  the  wandering  comet's  flight, 
Beyond  the  circle  in  whose  bounds 
Ten  thousand  systems  roll  their  rounds 
Without  a  discord  or  a  jar 
Around  their  central  axis  star  ; 
Beyond  the  shining  milky  way, 
Where  stellar  systems,  great  as  ours, 
Are  scattered  thick  as  vernal  flowers 
Upon  the  lawn  in  early  May — 
Away — away— away— so  far 
Beyond  creation's  outmost  star. 
That  human  thought  itself,  can  scarce 
The  intervening-  space  traverse 
Without  a  pause  to  rest  its  wing — 
There  is  a  land  of  endless  spring. 


No  blaek-winged  tempest  rages  there ; 
No  thunders  rend  the  stilly  air ; 
No  summer  scorches  with  its  heat, 
No  winter  drives  its  freezing  sleet. 
In  living  green  the  fields  appear. 
And  flowers  bloom  thro'  all  the  year. 
Nor  dazzling  noon,  nor  murky  night 
Is  known  within  tliose  pre(!incts  briglit : 
For  there  the  Great  White  Throne  ot  God 
Sheds  its  pure,  silvery  rays  abroad, 
And  the  evening  and  the  morn  appear 
As  in  Creation's  natal  year. 
Death  reigns  not  o'er  the  happy  band 
Wliose  home  is  in  that  glorious  land. 
Tlic  coffin  black— the  snowy  shroud. 
The  mourner's  form  in  sorrow  bowed, 
Tlie  yawning  grave,  the  funeral  bier, 
T)ie  aching  heart— the  scalding  tear, 
Are  all  unknown  ;  God  wipes  the  tear 
From  every  eye ;  and  grief  and  fear. 
And  anguish  deep,  and  racking  pains, 
Are  never  felt  where  Jesus  reigns. 


The  Forg:otten  Picture. 

In  the  dark  old  chamber  of  my  mind. 

Up  many  a  winding  stair, 
I  have  a  little  room  that's  full 

Of  pictures  old  and  rare. 

I'\-e  portraits  there  of  gray-haired  men. 
And  maidens  young-  and  fair. 

Sweet  matrons  with  their  angel  smiles, 
And  babes  with  golden  hair. 

Dear  kindred  that  have  left  the  earth 

To  join  the  angel  band. 
And  friends  I  loved  in  early  years— 

(xone  to  the  spirit  land. 

And  I  have  me  there  fair  landscapes,  to 
Witli  verdure  fresh  and  green — 

Houses,  and  fields,  and  gurgling  streams, 
AVith  clumps  of  trees  between  ; 

And  many  a  scene  of  joy  or  grief 

I  knew  in  by-gone  years : 
Death-beds  ot  those  I  loved— but  these 

Are  sadly  soiled  witli  tears. 


Backivoods    Poems. 


4S 


Yest're'en  I  was  aweary  srown 
Of  tlie  toils,  and  cares,  and  slrit'e, 

That  ever  have  beset  the  patli 
Which  I  have  trod  through  life; 

And  I  shut  me  up  in  this  little  room. 

Where  sunbeams  rarely  fall. 
And  watched  the  pictures  as  they  liunt; 

Upon  the  dark-V)rown  wall. 

In  the  darkest  corner  of  the  room, 

I  found  uiMU  the  floor, 
A  picture  moldei-ed  o'er  with  age, 

r  had  not  seen  betore. 

I  bore  it  to  the  feeble  lig'ht, 

But  1  could  scarcely  trace — 
The  mildew  was  so  thick  on  it— 

Tlie  outlines  of  the  face. 

I  brushed  away  the  cruel  dust. 
And  saw  my  Nancy  there  ! 

Just  as  she  looked  long  time  ago, 
AVhen  she  was  youn^  and  fair. 

Her  dark-brown  hair  was  parted  smooth 

Upon  her  pale,  sweet  brow, 
And  fell  in  rich  profusion  o'er 

Her  shoulders  white  as  suow. 

Her  lips  halt-parted,  still  were  wi't 
With  the  kiss  I  left  on  them ; 

And  purity  sat  on  her  brow, 
Like  4  queenly  diadem. 

Her  hazel  eyes  gazed  into  mine 
With  a  look  that  seemed  to  say, 

"  Couldst  thou  not  give  one  thought  to  lu 
While  I  was  tar  away  ;" 

Oh  I  how  my  spirit  trembled  then, 

As  pictures  of  the  jjast, 
Along  the  wall  in  the  shadowy  gloom, 

Came  thronging  thick  and  fast. 

The  drama  of  our  early  love, 

Glided  before  my  view 
Tnke  a  panorama,  and  I  lived 

Those  blissful  liours  anew. 

But  the  ghosts  of  all  my  withered  liopcs 
Came  gibbering  round  me  then. 

And  mocked  me  with  a  bitter  taunt 
Of  whal   1  might  liave.  bePii. 


And  1  liuug  the  picture  on  the  wall 
AVhere  the  deep'ning  shadows  lay. 

And  walked  with  sad,  dejected  steps 
Flora  the  gloomy  room  away. 


The  Ideal, 

You  ne'er  have  seen  my  love :  no  mortal  eye, 
Save  mine,  hath  ever  gazed  upon  her  charms  ; 
For  she  is  not  a  dweller  on  this  earth, 
And  ne'er  has  been.     She  lives  for  me  alone. 
I  would  I  had  the  painter's  kingly  art — 
Tliat  it  would  thrill  ray  tingers'  ends,  as  erst 
It  tlirilled  the  grand  old  Raphael's,  when  he 
Would  picture  Heavenly  things.    Then  I  would  i)aint 
A  picture  of  my  love,  and  it  should  be 
Mdi-e  beautiful  than  aught  the  world  hath  seen. 
I  oft  have  thought,  that  in  this  wondrous  age 
Some  cunning  genius  might  invent  a  plan— 
A  union  of  Daguerre's  and  Mesmer's  arts — 
B/  which  the  pictui'es  that  the  mind  conceives 
Might  be  transferred  to  canvas,  unimpaired 
P.y  the  bungling  touches  of  unskilful  hands. 
If  this  were  done,  I'd  draw  my  love,  that  all 
Might  see  the  beauties  I  have  worshipped  long. 
Her  eyes  are  large  and  blue — blue  as  the  dome 
( )f  Heaven  when  no  cloud  nor  murky  mist 
Obscures  its  splendor  in  the  early  spring- 
Blue  as  the  violets  which  hang  their  heads 
Over  the  gurgling  atreamlet's  mossy  brink — 
Blue  as  old  ocean  when  the  tides  have  ceased, 
Atid  not  a  wind  disturbs  his  deep  repose. 
Dark  silken  lashes  fringe  those  azure  eyes. 
And  half  conceal — e'en  as  the  bending  trees 
Half  hide  from  view  the  deep-blue  mountain  lake. 
Her  brow  is  broad  and  wliite— white  a.s  the  snow 
Which  robes  tlie  earth  wlien  winter  reigns  supreme. 
Her  hair  is  golden— brighter  than  the  beam 
Which  plays  at  sunset  on  the  western  cloud- 
And,  in  rich  curls  ot  silken  fineness,  falls 
O'er  a  neck  and  shoulders  whiter  than  her  brow. 
The  rose  and  lily  for  the  mastery  strive 
Upon  her  cheeks— save  when  her  large  blue  eyes 
Meet  mine  in  tender  gaze ;  for  then  the  rose 
Doth  triumph,  and  the  lily  disappears. 
On  cheeks  and  rounded  chin,  sweet  dimples  play. 
And  come  and  go,  and  chase  each  other  round, 
Like  tiny  ripples  on  a  placid  stream. 
And  then  her  mouth  -ah  I  who  can  paint  that  mouth! 
Those  lips  so  full,  and  ripe,  and  coral-hued— 
Tho'o  teeth  far  whiter  than  old  ocean's  pearls— 


u 


Backwoods  Poems. 


And  the  tender  smile  which  plays  forever  there  .' 
Methinks,  one  kiss  from  such  a  mouth  as  liers 
Were  far  more  worth  than  kingly  diadem. 
Her  form,  not  tall,  nor  large,  is  round  and  full 
With  buoyant  health;  her  motions  light  and  free 
As  the  merry  gambols  of  the  spotted  fawn 
That  nips  the  grass  in  the  forest's  cool  retreats. 
Her  voice  is  full  of  music — soft  and  low 
As  the  breathing  ot  a  zejihyr  on  a  liari^, 
But  sweet  and  full  of  gladness  as  the  song 
With  which  the  mocking-bird  doth  cheer  the  grove, 
lu  the  silent  hour  of  night,  when  every  eye, 
Save  mine,  is  closed  in  gentle  balmy  sleep. 
That  voice  doth  speak  to  me  from  out  the  breeze — 
Doth  speak  of  love,  and  happiness  and  hope. 
And  all  that's  pure,  and  beautiful  and  briglit. 
And  then  she  bcudeth  o'er  me,  and  her  eyes 
Gaze  with  a  tender  love-look  into  mine 
That  doth  my  spirit  gladden  ;  and  her  lips 
Press  kisses  sweet  upon  my  cheeks  and  brow,       , 
Until  1  fall  iisleen— and  dream  of  liden  ! 


In  a  Horn. 

Now,  Tom,  I  wisli  you'<l  leave  nn 
I  hate  you  in  my  sight ; 
I  always  thought  you  ugly— 
Indeed  a  jjerfect  frigiit. 
You'd  do  in  papa's  cornfield 
To  scare  away  the  crow — 
But  it  is  in  a  horn,  Tom — 
It's  in  a  horn,  yon  know. 

What !  kiss  those  horrid  lips,  sir. 
That  I  can  not  see  for  liair  ! 
I'd  rather  kiss  a  monkey, 
Or  hug  a  grizzly  bear. 
I  wish  you'd  take  your  hat,  Tom, 
I  wisii  that  you  would  go- 
But  it  is  in  a  horn,  Tom- 
Just  in  a  horn,  you  know. 


Don't  put  your  arm  around  me — 
I  will  not  have  it  there ; 
And  four  and  twenty  kisses 
Are  more  than  I  can  bear. 

0  dear !  the  clock  has  struck  eleven  - 

1  wish  that  you  would  go — 
But  then  it's  in  a  horn,  Tom— 
All  in  a  horn,  you  know. 


Petticoats. 


A  POETIC  PLAGIARY. 


I  dreamed  a  dream  the  other  night. 

When  everything  was  dark  and  still ; 
Wliich  made  eacli  hair  stand  straight  with  fright 

Stiff  as  the  porcupine's  sharp  quill ; 
^Methought  that  petticoats  liad  grown 

To  such  a  vast  and  monstrous  size. 
That  there  was  room  for  them  alone — 

And  none  for  man — beneath  the  skies. 

That  beasts  and  every  creeping  tiling 

Had  died.     The  flowers  blooraed.no  more. 
The  grass  and  tender  herbs  of  Spring 

Were  witliered  on  the  desert  shon\ 
Ten  million  leagues  of  crinoline 

Stretched  over  all  like  a  funeral  pall : 
And  on  the  cold  and  cheerless  scene,  * 

The  sun's  warm  rays  could  never  fall. 

On  Ararat's  cloud-curtained  peak, 

Tlie  last  Ttian  stood  witli  pallid  face, 
Si(^k,  trembling,  weary,  worn  and  weak — 

Sad  remnant  of  a  smothered  race. 
In  vain — alas !  poor  man ! — in  vain, 

His  footsteps  sought  that  hallowed  place ; 
For  clouds  of  skirts  soon  lilled  the  plain. 

And  rolled  around  the  mountain's  base. 


m 


Pick  np  your  gloves  and  vamose; 
It  is  no  use  to  woo ; 
For  I  will  never  marry 
So  plain  a  man  as  you. 
I'm  sure  I  wouldn't  have  ki.s,sed  you, 
But  I  thought  'twould  make  you  go- 
I'm  talking  in  a  horn,  Tom — 
.Just  in  a  horn,  you  know. 


Still  bigger  grew  those  spheres  of  white, 

Until  they  reached  the  summit  high. 
And  streamed  above  the  wretched  wiglit. 

Like  snowy  banners  in  the  sky. 
The  man  looked  o'er  a  precipice, 

"  Make  way  for  petticoats !"  he  cried,  • 
And  plunging  down  tlie  dark  abyss, 

Made  way  for  petticoats — and  died  ! 


Backwoods   Poems. 


45 


The   South's  Response. 

Kespectfully  dedicated  to  the  White  Men  of  the  Nortli. 

The  South  yet  lives !  the  black  fanatic  horde 

Tlieir  wrath,  in  vain,  upon  our  heads  have  poured. 

A  venal  press  tluit  shrinks  from  no  disgrace. 

And  demagogues  who'd  sell  their  souls  for  place ; 

SHE-politicians  lusting  for  renown, 

And  hoary  tricksters  in  the  priestly  gown  ! 

Th'  ambitious  beardless  youth  just  tree  from  school, 

Th'  enthusiast  run  mad,  the  knave  and,  fool. 

Find  in  the  South  a  fruitful  theme  for  all 

Tiieir  eloquence  and  wit,  their  slime  and  gall. 

The  poets,  too,  have  joined  the  motley  thi'ong, 

And  tuned  their  lyres  to  curse  the  South  in  song  : 

liONGFELLOW,  Bbyant,  Whittiee  have  sought 

To  blacken  us,  as  British  copyists  out/Id. 

But,  spite  of  all,  our  institutions  stand. 

Green  as  the  bay-trees  of  our  native  land. 

The  house  our  fathers  built  has  braved  the  shock, 

For  it  is  founded  on  a  granite  rock  : 

That  rock  is  Nature's  own  unchanging  laws. 

Fixed  in  creation  by  the  Great  First  Cause. 

But,  now  alas !  dire  fear  has  seized  our  hearts  ; 
And  we,  who  smiled  at  treason's  puny  darts 
And  laughed  to  see  its  mimic  lightnings  play, 
Are  trembling  in  our  boots,  in  pale  dismay ; 
For  Kalamazoo's  bard— illustrious  Hill— 
For  "  nigger  rights"  has  blown  his  whistle  shrill  I 

'  This  Babd  has  put  us  under  Heaven's  ban— 
"  Defiers  of  the  laws  of  God  and  man"— 
"  Oppressors  of  a  poor,  unlucky  race," 
Whom  he  would  have  to  "  know  our  proper  place," 
And  "  keep  down  South"  to  'scape  the  scorolung  tire 
Of  his— the  Kalamazoo  Poet's — ire  ! 

We  of  the  South  are  much  beliind  the  age  : 
We  read  God's  laws  on  iuspiration's  page, 
And,  thoughtless  mortals,  little  care  to  know 
What  Wayland  wi-ites,  or  Granny  Harriet  Stowe. 
The  Saviour,  Paul,  and  Moses  are  our  teachers  — 
Not  saintly  Kalloch  nor  the  Rifle  Beechers  1 
The  laws  of  God  approve,  and  in  no  place 
Condemn  th'  enslavement  of  th'  inferior  race. 
But  these,  perhaps,  though  wholesome  in  their  days. 
Suit  not  this  age's  dazzling  noon-day  blaze  I 
Th'  Apostle  sent  th'  absconding  servant  back. 
But  then  we  do  not  know  his  skin  was  black  ; 
Paul  had  not  read  what  Wayland  since  has  shown. 
And  railroads  tmderground  were  then  unknown ! 
Had  it  but  been  in  this  enlightened  day, 


Paul  would  have  sent  the  slave  another  way, 

To  beg,  and  steal,  and  pine  away  and  die. 

Beneath  the  cold  and  bleak  Canadian  sky  ! 

Our  Poet  tells  us  plainly  what  lie'd  do— 

He'd  "  strip  us  of  our  .slaves"— perAops  our  purses  loo! 

He  "  grants  our  sires  enslaved  the  Afric  race," 
But  then  their  "  cour.se"  was  "blind" — a  "deep  dis- 
grace ;" 
And  we,  their  sons,  far  wiser  than  our  sires. 
With  hearts  more  warmed  by  freedom's  holy  fires. 
Should  straightway  rid  us  of  so  great  a  "  curse," 
"  Since  cotton  gins  (!i  have  made  the  evil  worse  !" 
"  Seest'thou  a  man  wise  in  his  own  conceit  ?  — 
There  is  more  hope"— but  I  will  not  repeat 
What  Solomon,  the  sapient  king,  did  say— 
He  was  too  much  a  fogy  for  our  day ! 

But  then,  our  bard  declares— oh  brilliant  thought  !— 

Our  gallant  sires  for  nigger  freedom  fought ! 

And  since  "our  fathers'  blood  for  freedom  ran," 

Our  claim's  "unrighteous"  to  our  "feUow-man." 

If  this  were  so,  why  did  our  sires  retain 

Their  "  fellow-man"  still  bound  by  slavery's  chain  ? 

Why  not  have  let  their  dusky  bondmen  go, 

I'o  ransom  whom  their  richest  blod  did  flow  ? 

When  Revolution's  bloody  strife  was  done, 

And  freedom's  noble  heritage  was  won. 

Was  there  one  "  slave"  the  less  of  Afric's  race '! 

Was  there  one  eftbrt  made  the  "  slave"  to  place 

In  higher  sphere,  and  with  those  riglits  invest 

Of  which  our  free-born  sires  were  then  possessed  .' 

No,  this  was  left  for  men  of  modern  days. 

Before  whose  dazzling  intellectual  blaze, 

The  feebler  lights  of  seventy-six  grow  pale. 

As  stars,  in  solar-light,  their  brightness  veil ! 

Our  noble  sires  for  while  men's  freedom  fought ; 
Tliey  broke  the  chains  with  which  tlie  Briton  sought 
To  bind  the  limbs  of  those  who  were  as  free 
By  th'  sacred  laws  of  Nature's  God,  as  he. 
And  when  they  formed  a  union  to  secure 
Tlie  rights  of  man  "  immutable  and  sure," 
The  fi'anchises  of  freemen  they  bestowed 
On  those  who  thus  were  made  by  Nature's  God. 
To  th'  negro,  on  whose  dusky,  sensual  face 
Is  stamped  the  brand  of  an  inferior  race, 
Whose  liistory,  from  the  earliest  date  of  time- 
In  foreign  lands  or  his  own  native  clime  — 
Presents  no  mark  of  mind— no  brilliant  light 
Of  great  event  t'  illume  its  gloomy  night ; 
Who,  'mid  the  ch-vngos  of  all  earthly  things— 
The  rise  and  full  of  empires,  kingdoms,  kings— 
In  science'  dawn,  and  in  its  noonday  blaze, 


46 


Bachwoods  Po  'ms. 


In  heathen  night  and  evangelic  days. 
Has  always  been,  in  every  laud,  the  same— 
A  brutal  savage  or  a  bondman  tame ; 
To  him,  I  say,  they  deemed  it  was  unwise 
T'  intrust  so  rich  a  boon— so  dear  a  prize. 
It  was  not  meet  to  "  cast  bsfoi-e  the  swine" 
This  pearl  of  priceless  worth— this  gift  divine. 
His  former  station  was  to  him  assigned, 
Wliich  suited  well  his  low  and  groveling  mind; 
A  station  low,  indeed,  but  one  wherein 
His  nature  rude,  by  wholesome  discipline 
Might  be  restrained  from  those  revolting  crimes 
Which  mark  liim  in  all  ages  and  all  climes ; 
A  station  that  would  win  for  him  the  grace, 
And  not  the  hate,  of  the  superior  race; 
And  one  wherein  the  labor  of  his  hands, 
Directed  by  a  master's  wise  commands. 
Would  for  his  creature  comforts  all  provide, 
And  good  confer  on  all  mankind  beside. 

Experience  hath  shown  us  that  the  place 
We  of  the  South  assign  the  negro  race. 
Is  that  which  suits  their  rugged  natures  best- 
That  they  are  blest  by  "slavery,"  not  oppi-essed. 
Their  rapid  increase  and  their  lengthened  years — 
Despite  the  awful  groans,  and  shrieks,  and  tears. 
With  which  fanatics  have  the  public  plied— 
Show  that  their  creature  wants  are  well  supplied. 
In  knowledge,  too,  the  negro  has  improved 
Since  he,  a  savage,  in  the  jungle  roved  ; 
And  many  arts  of  civilized  mankind 
Are  now  familiar  to  his  feeble  mind. 
Wholesome  restraints  have  checked  his  black  desires, 
Which  erst  did  burn  like  hell's  sulphurous  fires ; 
And  the  negro,  famed  for  passions  fierce  and  wild. 
Is  here  as  docile  as  a  little  child. 
The  negroes'  hands  have  cleared  our  forests  deep, 
And  drained  tlie  swamps  where  reptiles  erst  did  creep  ; 
They  till  our  fields  which  smile  with  golden  grain. 
With  cotton  white,  or  thrifty  sugar  cane. 
The  useful  products  of  their  toiling  hands, 
Freight  yearly  fleets  of  ships  to  other  lands, 
And  furnish  toiling  millions  there  a  way 
Whereby  to  earn  their  bread  from  day  to  day. 
Let  mad  fanatics  wrangle  as  they  may. 
The  negro's  labor  clothes  the  world  to-day. 
But  for  this  labor  and  the  master's  skill, 
The  spindles  of  the  world  would  now  stand  still ; 
Ten  million  hungry  throats  would  shriek  for  bread, 
And  dire  rebellion  hoist  its  banners  red. 

And  yet,  our  sapient  Poet  views  "  with  shame" 
The  dear-loved  Union  which  our  sires  did  frame, 
Because  in  it  the  nei/ro  is  denied 


The  rights  for  which  the  white  man  fought  and  died. 
//  has  no  charms  for  hAm—he  longs  to  see 
A  better  "  union  where  all  men  are  free  \"— 
A  union  that  would  blot  out  every  trace 
Dividing-  us  from  the  inferior  race  ; 
And  negro  "slaves"  with  all  those  rights  invest. 
Of  which  it  is  our  pride  to  be  possessed. 
Then  might  the  negro  cast  his  vote  with  ours, 
And  exercise  the  judge  and  juror's  powers  ; 
Sit  with  our  statesmen  in  the  Congress  hall, 
Gallant  our  daughters  to  the  church  and  ball, 
4.nd  mix  with  ours— O  damning,  deep  disgrace ' — 
The  brutish  blood  of  his  degraded  race ! 

Such  is  the  union  which  our  bard  would  have 

Instead  of  that  our  fathei-s  to  us  gave. 

And  though  not  now,  "  with  shame  he  does  confess," 

Yet,  "  at  some  future  day  he'll  have  no  less." 

When  this  will  be  is  past  our  poet's  ken. 

But  brothers  of  the  North,  we'll  tell  you  when : 

When  ydu  forget  the  worth  of  your  descent. 

And  in  the  blindness  of  your  zeal  consent 

Your  sacred  rights  and  species  to  degrade ; 

When  by  "blind  leaders  of  the  blind"  betrayed, 

You  join  the  negro  horde  a  war  to  wage 

'Gainst  your  own  blood  which  spares  no  sex  nor  age  ; 

When  every  Southern  stream  with  blood  shall  flow. 

And  th'  midnight  sky  is  lurid  with  the  glow 

Of  cities,  towns  and  villages  on  fire ; 

When,  in  despair,  each  heart-broke  Southern  sire, 

Virginius-like,  has  stabbed  his  maiden  child. 

To  save  her  from  the  negro's  passion  wild ; 

Wlien  cold  in  death  is  every  Southron's  hand. 

And  desolation  reigns  o'er  all  our  land ; 

Then,  not  till  then,  this  horrid  thing  shall  be— 

This  motley  "  union  where  all  men  are  free"— 

A  bloody  saturnalia  which  might  well 

Call  shrieks  of  laughter  from  the  depths  of  hell ! 


Mr.  Browja: 

OR  CIRCUMSTANCES  ALTER  CASES. 

"  O  tell  me,  Mary,  have  you  seen 

That  ugly  Mr.  Brown, 

With  the  pumpkin  head,  and  brimstone  hair. 

And  manners  like  a  clown  .' 

What  could  have  made  young  Cliarley  Smith 

Bring  such  a  gawk  to  town  ? 


Backwoods   Poems. 


47 


He  has  no  breeding,  I  am  sure— 

He  stares  at  ladies  so 

With  those  great  dumpling  eyes  of  liis- 

And  I  would  like  to  know 

How  Betty  Jones  can  condescend 

To  take  him  for  a  beau  " 

Quoth  ilary,  "  What  you  say  is  true ; 
He's  awkward  and  he's  plain ; 
But  then,  you  know,  he's  very  rich. 
And  wealth  witli  some  will  gain"  — 
"  Indeed,  I  never  heard  of  that," 
Said  pretty  Martha  Jane ; 

"  I  only  got  a  glance  at  him 

At  Mrs.  Jenkins'  ball ; 

And  on  acquaintance  he  may  not  look 

So  ugly  after  all. 

I  wonder  if  young  Charley  Smith 

Will  ask  his  friend  to  call  V 


A  Lover's  Lament. 

The  word  is  spoken ; 

The  spell  is  broken 

Which  bound  my  heart  to  thee ; 

From  the  snares  which  love 

Around  it  wove. 

My  spirit  now  is  free. 

With  passion  wild 

As  e'er  despoiled 

Man  of  his  peace  and  rest, 

I  loved  thee,  girl, 

But  now  I  hurl 

Thine  image  from  my  breast. 

I  thought  thy  face 

Had  every  grace 

That  could  a  bosom  melt ; 

But  now  no  more 

Do  I  adore 

The  charms  to  which  I  knelt. 

The  time  is  gone. 
Thou  haughty  one. 
Of  my  blind  love  tor  thee ; 
Thy  lips  have  said 
Thou  would'st  not  wed 
So  green  a  chap  as  me .' 


The  Old  Red  Piddle. 

The  Old  Red  Fiddle's  on  the  shelf 

Above  the  kitchen  door ; 

The  dust  has  gathered  thick  on  it, 

And  we'll  hear  its  sound  no  more. 
C lim-HS— The  old  red  fiddle 

Is  broke  in  the  middle- 
Alas  !  alack-a-day ! 
When  the  dancers  meet 
With  shuffling  feet. 
What  shall  old  Pompey  play  I 

The  screws  are  gone,  the  neck  is  broke, 
And  hairless  is  the  bow 
Old  Pompey  flourished  with  such  g^ace 
At  the  frolics  long  ago. 

Chorus— Tho  old  red  fiddle,  &o. 

'  The  old  red  fiddle  !  how  sweet  the  tunes 
Old  Pompey  from  it  drew. 
As  round  the  room  in  a  giddy  whirl 
The  merry  dancers  flew. 

Chorus—The  old  red  fiddle,  &c. 

But  now  above  the  kitchen  door 
It  lieth— broke  in  twain  ; 
And  poor  old  Pompey  ne'er  can  coax 
From  it  a  tune  again. 

Chorus— The  old  red  fiddle,  &c. 


The  Deserted  Home. 

Beside  the  road  upon  a  hillock's  brow. 

There  stands  a  little  house  with  whitewashed  walls; 
'Twas  once  the  dwelling  place  of  man,  but  now 

Grim  solitude  dwells  in  its  darkened  halls. 

From  th'  chimney  top  no  curling  smoke  ascends; 

No  noisy  fowls  make  music  at  the  door; 
The  faithful  watch-dog,  truest,  best  of  friends. 

Barks  by  the  gate  at  passers-by  no  more. 

The  clambering  vines  which  cling  around  the  eaves, 
Hang  dry  and  withered  in  the  Autumn  wind ; 

The  rose-bush  now  has  lost  its  blooms  and  leaves. 
But  all  its  thorns,  alas !  are  left  behind'. 


Jf8 


Backwoods   Poems. 


The  early  frost  has  nipped  the  trees  which  therw 
Their  lengthened  shadows  on  the  whitewashed  wall: 

Their  leaves  have  lost  their  deep-green  summer  hue, 
And  pale  and  yellow  wait  their  coming  fall. 

Thick  o'er  the  yard  the  withered  grass  doth  stand; 

The  stunted  shrubs  a  mournful  aspect  wear; 
And  sickly  flowers  deprived  of  tending  hand, 

Droop  pale  and  languid  in  the  chilly  air. 

No  smiling  faces  meet  you  at  the  door; 

No  rustic  chair  awaits  you  in  the  room; 
No  rosy  children  gambol  on  the  floor; 

But  all  is  silent — silent  as  the  tomb. 

The  clock  above  the  fire-place  in  the  hall 
No  longer  tells  how  swift  the  moments  fly; 

But  th'  death-watch  ticks  behind  the  papered  wall, 
And  warns  the  list'ner  death  is  always  nigh. 

All  cold  and  dreary  is  the  hearth-stone,  where 
The  crackling  fire  blazed  cheerful  and  bright, 

When  loved  ones  gathered  in  a  circle  there, 
To  while  away  a  happy  winter  night. 

The  black-eyed  mice  frisk  where  old  Tom-cat  lay 
In  drowsy  sleep  outstretched  upon  the  floor ; 

The  cricket's  merry  song  is  hushed  for  aye; 
The  kettle  sings  upon  the  fire  no  more. 

Upon  the  wall,  above  the  mantle-piece 
The  cunning  si^ider  weaves  kis  silken  snare ; 

Securely  he  enjoys  a  life-time  lease. 
Nor  brush  nor  broom  can  e'er  disturb  him  there. 

The  walls  are  bare,  no  pictures  hang  around ; 

Chairs,  tables,  beds  and  bureaus,  all  are  gone ; 
Your  foot-falls  through  the  emjity  rooms  resound, 

And  make  you  start  to  find  yourself  alone. 

For  it  is  haunted — this  deserted  home — 
Haunted  by  treasured  mem'ries  of  the  past, 

"Which  in  the  stillness  of  the  gloaming  come, 
Like  wand'ring  gobUus  thronging  thick  and  fast. 

Faces  long  resting  in  the  silent  tomb- 
Faces  of  loved  ones  living  far  away— 

Peer  from  the  darkened  comers  of  the  room. 
Then  glide  and  vanish  in  the  twilight  gray. 

And  old  familiar  voices  whisper  low 

In  th'  breeze  that  rattles  'gainst  the  window  pane, 
As  the  faces  in  the  corner  come  and  go — 

Then  all  is  silent  as  the  grave  again. 


The  Old  and  the  New  Year. 

'Twas  new  year's  eve,  and  the  wintry  blast. 
As  it  southward  swept  from  the  frozen  zone, 

By  the  chimney  paused,  as  it  hun-ied  past, 
To  tell  that  the  year  was  breathing  his  last. 
And  shriek  and  moan. 

An  old  man  sat  in  his  big  arm-chair, 

In  a  cosy  nook  by  the  crackling  flre  ; 
Old  age  had  silvered  his  silken  hair. 

And  furrowed  the  brow,  once  smooth  and  fair, 
Of  the  village  sire. 

He  watched,  through  the  pane,  in  the  twilight  gray. 
The  snow  as  it  fell  on  the  frozen  pave ; 

And  he  thought  of  the  year  which  died  that  day. 
And  now  in  its  cold  white  shrouding  lay. 
Prepared  for  the  grave. 

He  thought  of  the  friends  who  had  died  that  year— 
Who  had  left  the  world  for  the  spirit  land ; 

And  as  he  recalled  their  features  dear,  ' 

He  brushed  from  his  eye  the  starting  tear 
With  trembling  hand. 

His  rnind  traveled  back  to  his  childhood  bright. 
To  his  boyhood's  bloom,  and  his  manhood's  prime; 

And  he  tracked  the  years  by  memory's  light. 
By  the  footprints  left  in  their  rapid  flight 
In  the  sands  of  Time. 

"  Another"— whispered  the  aged  sire, 

'■Another  year  of  my  lite  has  fled;" 
And  he  shivering  drew  his  arm-chair  nigher 

The  clean-swept  hearth,  where  the  hickory  flre 
Blazed  warm  and  red. 

A  fair  young  girl  in  her  youthful  bloom. 
With  a  rich  red  lip  and  a  soft  dark  eye. 

Sat  by  the  bed  in  her  lami>lit  room, 
While  the  snow-clouds  gathered  in  thicker  gloom 
Across  the  sky. 

The  glossy  curls  of  lier  raven  hair 
Fell  over  her  neck  and  shoulders  white, 

And  nestled  upon  the  bosom  fair 
That  her  snowy  nigh^-robe,  with  all  her  care. 
Scarce  hid  from  sight. 

The  earth  in  her  bridal  robes  ot  white 
She  looked  through  the  frosted  pane  and  spied, 

And  bride's-maid  trees  in  their  jewels  bright ; 
For  the  Earth  was  to  be,  that  very  night, 
The  Young  Year's  bride. 


I 


Backwoods   Poems.                                            ^9 

In  the  hazy  light  of  the  rising  moon, 

Returns  a  seven  times  bigger  fool 

The  skittish  snow-iiakes  whirled  and  danced  ; 

Unto  her  home  parental. 

And  the  North-wind  whistled  a  merry  tune, 

She,  too,  must  write— it  is  the  rule — 

As  over  the  hills  in  his  silver  shoon 

Sonnettas  transcendental. 

He  madly  pranced. 

Toots  "  saw  the  sun  in  Autumn  set," 

And  the  maiden  thought  of  the  pleasures  gay 

And  he  must  write  some  lines  upon  it ; 

Which  the  coming  year  to  her  would  bring ; 

Miss  Carrie  Snucks  "  can  ne'er  forget," 

And  she  longed  for  the  dawn  of  New- Year's  day, 

And  she  must  write  a  sonnet ; 

And  wished  that  the  hours  would  lly  away 

Dick  Noodle  "  doth  remember  yet," 

With  swifter  wing. 

And  Dick  in  rhyme  has  done  it ! 

The  friends  she  loved  she  would  meet  again : 

Ye  muses  fair !  whose  home  was  ei-st 

Sweet  ti'iendship  their  hearts  should  closer  bind. 

Amid  the  clouds  of  Mount  Parnassus ! 

And  add  new  links  to  her  golden  chain ; 

Say,  say,  how  long  shall  we  be  cursed 

And  the  hopes  she  had  cherished  for  years  in  vain 

With  such  a  set  of  asses ! 

Would  fruition  find. 

When  shall  a  bard  by  Genius  nursed 

Again  mount  old  Pegasus  ? 

And  she  smiled,  and  a  blush  suffused  her  cheek. 

As  she  thought  of  the  hearts  that  would  own  her 

dear. 

Of  the  gallant  youths  that  her  hand  should  seek, 

Lines. 

And  the  trembling  lip.s  that  of  love  should  speak, 

In  the  coming  year. 

In  the  stillness  of  the  star-lit  night 

The  limpid  dew  by  heaven  distilled, 
Falls  on  the  landscape  parched  with  thirst, 

And  every  tiny  cup  is  filled. 

Rhymes  and  Rhymesters. 

There  is  no  sound  to  mark  its  fall, 

Sympathetically  inscribed  to  bored  Editors  and  cross- 

So  soft  and  light  in  its  descent ; 

grained  Printers. 

But  the  flowers  refreshed  the  coming  morn, 

Attest  the  life  and  strength  it  lent. 

Writing  in  rhyme  is  all  the  rage. 

The  muses  have  us  in  subjection ; 

Even  so  the  good  man's  daily  walk 

People  of  every  sex  and  age 
Have  caught  a  strange  infection. 

(Tho'  humble  be  the  path  he  treads ; 
And  his  life-time  pass  unknown  to  fame) 

And  itch  to  blot  a  foolscap  page 

A  genial  influence  round  him  spreads. 

With  rhymes  without  connection. 

Sim  Simpkin's  wife  has  had  a  child. 

And  Sim  wants  all  the  world  to  know  it ; 

So  in  his  happy  frenzy  wild 

Work  for  All. 

Sim  Simpkin  turns  a  poet. 

And  the  village  paper  is  defiled 

There's  work  for  every  hand  to  do ; 

With  wretched  rhymes  to  show  it. 

The  Earth's  a  mighty  field. 

Which,  if  we  do  not  tend  it  well,                 " 

Young  Jemmy  Jenkins  falls  in  love 

Its  fruits  will  never  yield. 

With  a  Miss  just  out  of  short-tailed  dresses, 

There  are  farms  to  clear,  and  towns  to  rear, 

And  he  must  needs  call  her  his  "  dove," 

And  roads  to  make,  and  lands  to  drain. 

And  praise  her  "  auburn  tresses," 

And  soils  to  plow,  and  seeds  to  sow, 

And  call  upon  the  "  powers  above" 

And  ships  to  steer  across  the  main. 

To  witness  his  "  distresses." 

There's  work  for  every  hand  to  do ; 

Matildie  Jane,  from  the  "  female  school," 

The  gold  of  knowledge  lies 

Grown  green-sick,  sad  and  sentimental. 

Deep  in  tho  ground,  and  he  must  dig 

50 


Backwoods   Poems. 


Who  would  obtain  the  prize. 
There  are  tasks  to  do  for  those  who'd  woo 

Fair  Science  in  her  regal  home : 
And  for  those  who'd  write,  in  lines  of  light, 

Their  names  on  Fame's  proud  temple  dome. 

There's  work  for  every  hand  to  do : 

Not  work  for  self  alone, 
For  man  may  not  a  hermit  live, 

Nor  call  himself  his  own. 
There  are  books  to  write,  to  spread  the  light 

Of  useful  knowledge  among  our  race  ; 
The  poor  to  feed  in  time  of  need. 

And  tears  to  wipe  from  sorrow's  face . 


Uncle  Sam  is  very  Bich, 

A  SONG  FOR  THE  TIMES. 


Me.  Editor.  —From  the  beginning  of  the  present 
great  convulsion  in  the  financial  ali'airs  of  the  country, 
the  eyes  of  many — merchants,  manufacturers,  plant- 
ers, artisans  and  stockholders — have  been  turned  to  the 
General  Government  for  relief.  Incapable  of  pruden- 
tially  taking  care  of  our  own  aifairs,  "  Uncle  Sam"  is 
invoked  to  take  out  letters  of  administration  on  our 
estates.  To  promote  these  efforts  I  have  composed  the 
following  song,  to  which  you  will  please  give  a  place  in 
the  columns  of  your  widely  circulated  journal.  I 
hope  that  some  musical  gentleman  ot  your  great  city 
will  give  it  an  appropriate  air,  in  order  that  a  com- 
pany of  minstrels  may  go  on  to  Washington  and  sing 
it,  with  banjo  accompaniment,  in  the  ears  of  the 
President  and  Congress,  until  they  grant  the  desired 
relief. 


The  ten-horned  panic's  been  along. 
And  caused  great  consternation  ; 
And  young  and  old,  and  rich  and  poor, 

Are  in  much  tribulation. 
No  line  of  business  prospers  now 

Under  our  own  direction  ; 
Old  Uncle  Sam  must  kindly  take 
Us  under  his  protection. 
Chorus— O,  Uncle  Sam  is  very  rich — 
¥  Why  don't  the  old  man  aid  us  ' 

The  ten-homed  panic's  been  along, 
And  on  the  shelf  has  laid  us. 

From  Pumpkinville  to  Injun  Creek 

A  railroad  was  projected ; 
The  bonds  were  sold,  the  route  surveyed. 

And  officers  elected. 
But  the  thing  smashed  up,  the  stock  went  down, 

And  not  a  foot  completed ; 


And  "bulls"  who  bought  to  cheat  the  "bears," 
Found  they,  themselves,  were  cheated. 
O,  Uncle  Sam  is  very  rich,  &e. 

Legrand  imported  goods  enough 

To  stock  a  half  a  nation. 
And  laid  out  all  his  ready  cash 

In  lands,  on  speculation. 
And  now  he's  broke ;  the  last  I  saw 

Of  him  he  was  a  lying, 
With  a  Cuba  six  between  his  lips. 

In  mournful  accents  crying  : 
"O,  Uncle  Sam  is  very  rich,  &c. 

Smith  got  a  special  act  to  make. 

Said  Smith  a  corporation ; 
With  pictured  promises  to  pay 

He  flooded  all  creation. 
But  Smith  at  last  was  called  to  fork— 

A  thing  he  ne'er  intended— 
And  having  "nary  red"  in  bank. 

The  thing,  of  course,  suspended. 
O,  Uncle  Sam  is  very  rich,  &c. 

Sid  Snider  drove  a  pair  of  bays 

Which  cost,  on  tifck,  nine  hundred. 
And  lived  in  such  a  splendid  style 

That  everybody  wondered. 
But  brass,  alas  !  in  these  hard  times, 

Is  not  a  lawful  tender ; 
And  Snider's  broke— alack  !  poor  man  !  — 

And  gone  upon  a  bender. 
O,  Uncle  Sam  is  very  rich,  &c. 

The  Yankee  looms  are  standing  still  - 

Supply  exceeds  consumption ; 
And  operatives  are  discharged 

Until  the  bank  resumption. 
The  carpenter  won't  shove  his  plane — 

The  smith  throws  down  his  hammer— 
They  will  not  work  at  panic  price. 

And  with  the  rest  they  clamor  : 
"O,  Uncle  Sam  is  very  rich,  &c. 

The  banks  for  traders  won't  discount, 

Nor  will  they  grant  extensions ; 
And  petticoats  to  thirty  yards 

Must  lessen  their  dimensions. 
The  merdiants'  clerks  no  more  can  live 

Like  princes  oriental — 
O,  why  don't  Uncle  Sam  extend 

To  us,  his  care  parental. 
O,  Uncle  Sam  is  very  rich,  &c. 


Backwoods   Poems. 


51 


The  farmers  will  not  sell  their  grain, 

Except  at  famine  prices  : 
And  planters  hold  their  cotton  back 

Till  they  have  passed  the  crisis. 
The  wheels  of  commerce  will  not  move — 

The  axles  need  a  greasing — 
If  Uncle  Sam  would  lend  a  lift, 

We  all  would  stop  our  teasing. 
O,  Uncle  Sam  is  very  rich,  &o. 
Dec.  14,  1857. 


Quitman. 

Long  years  ago,  with  buoyant  hope  elate, 

A  friendless  youth  came  to  our  noble  State, 

To  cast  his  lot  with  ours,  and  car\e  a  name. 

Fit  to  adorn  the  deathless  page  of  fame. 

His  gen'rous  breast  no  mean  ambition  tired  ; 

A  purpose  high  his  noble  soul  inspired. 

His  was  a  wish  to  wm  himselt  a  place 

Among  the  benefactors  of  his  race— 

A  place  among  the  wise,  the  good,  the  great — 

And  honor  shed  on  his  adopted  State. 

The  people  called  him  to  their  councils  ;  there. 

His  Roman  firmness  and  his  judgment  clear. 

Their  impress  made,  e'en  at  that  early  age. 

Upon  our  infant  State's  historic  page. 

When,  in  the  bright  meridian  of  his  life. 

His  country  called  him  to  the  field  of  strife, 

"He  grasped  the  sword  and  tlu'ew  away  the  shield," 

And  on  full  many  a  hard-contested  field 

His  gallant  soldiers  unto  vict'ry  led, 

Where  valor's  self  might  well  have  quaked  to  tread. 

Scarce  had  he  rested  from  the  field  of  strife. 

When  he  again  was  called  to  public  life^ 

CaUed  to  the  helm  of  State  by  those  who  knew 

The  South  had  not  a  friend  more  warm  and  true. 

His  acts  as  Governor  what  need  to  tell  1 

Enough  to  say,  he  did  his  duty  well. 

And  foremost  stood  among  the  ranks  of  those 

Who  Federal  usurpation  dared  oppose. 

Again  the  people's  voice  the  patriot  calls 

To  represent  them  in  the  Congress  halls. 

He  swerves  not  from  the  faith  to  which  his  life 

Has  been  devoted.     And  mid  the  angry  strife 

Which  o'er  the  Congress  of  our  nation  threw 

A  shade  of  infamy,  he  yet  was  true 

To  gentlemanly  instinct— yet  maintained 

That  calm  yet  firm  demeanor  which  has  gained 

The  high  respect  of  even  those  who  hate 

The  institutions  of  our  noble  State. 

But  death,  alas  !  had  marked  him  for  his  spoil, 


Long  ere  he  ceased  from  busy  public  toil. 
And  now,  with  sunken  eye,  and  shattered  frame. 
And  tottering  step,  the  brave  old  hero  came 
Back  to  his  home  beneath  the  southern  sky. 
To  rest  him  from  life's  busy  work  -and  die. 

Too  late,  alas !  too  late !  the  nation  learned 
Our  Quitman's  worth.    Too  late  their  eyes  were  turned 
To  him,  as  unto  one  whose  hand  could  guide 
The  bark  of  State  safe  o'er  the  troubled  tide. 
While  yet  upon  the  bed  of  death  he  lay. 
And,  inch  by  inch,  his  life  slow  ebbed  away, 
E'en  then,  from  far  otf  sister  States  there  came 
Applauding  murmurs  of  his  dear-loved  name ; 
And  words  prophetic  of  a  futui'e  bright, 
When  he,  our  chief,  should  guide  the  helm  aright. 
O  came  there  not,  while  millions  spoke  his  praise, 
Some  cheriiihed  vision  of  his  early  days — 
Some  high-born  hope  that  fired  his  youthful  soul 
To  scale  Fame's  rugged  steep,  and  reach  her  highest 
goal  1 

Alas !  methinks  that  it  were  hard  to  die 

With  life's  fruition  full,  so  bright  and  nigh ! 

The  wounded  eagle  turns  his  burning  eye 

Toward  the  craggy  cloud-capped  summit  high. 

Whereon  his  nest  is  buUt.     He  longs  to  soar 

Among  those  fields  of  rolling  clouds  once  more, 

And  breath  the  air  of  that  empyreal  height— 

But,  ah  !  his  broken  wing  forbids  his  flight ! 

E'en  so,  methinks,  'twould  be  with  one,  if  death 

Should  come  with  stealthy  tread  to  steal  the  breath, 

Just  as  there  rises  to  his  fading  sight 

A  future  full  of  glory,  grand  and  bright— 

A  future  pregnant  with  his  country's  fate. 

That  bids  him  lead  the  way,  but  bids  alas !  too  late ! 

But  though  the  hero  died  in  manhood's  prime. 

Ere  yet  was  finished  half  his  task  sublime ; 

Though  his  loved  form  went  down  into  the  tomb 

While  honor's  buds  were  bursting  into  bloom  ; 

Yet,  yet,  there  came  to  cheer  his  dying  hour 

A  thought  more  sweet  than  worldly  fame  and  power— 

The  consciousness  of  duty  nobly  done — 

Of  life's  gi-cat  battle  brively  fought  and  won— 

Of  honest  purpose  unto  which  his  soul 

Had  ever  pointed,  like  the  needle  to  the  pole. 

In  ancient  times,  when  mighty  heroes  died, 

yhey  were  by  priest  and  poet  deified. 

The  proudest  works  of  art  commemorate 

The  deeds  and  virtues  of  the  buried  great ; 

And  poetry  and  eloquence  have  shed 

Their  brightest  radiance  o'er  the  mighty  dead. 

But  (iuiTMAN  needs  no  high- wrought  sounding  phrase 


62                                        Backwoods 

PoeTTis. 

To  tell  his  noble  deeds  in  future  days. 

Thank  the  Lord  !  his  strife  is  done. 

Tliis  short  and  simple  epitaph  will  tell 

And  a  brighter  crown  he's  won 

The  glorious  history  oi  his  life  full  well  :— 

Than  the  world  bestows. 

"  His  chosen  place  was  in  progression's  van- 
He  lived  and  died  a  patriot  and  an  honest  man  !" 

Let  his  memory  be  forgot ; 
Let  no  tears  bedew  the  spot 

Where  his  relics  lie ; 
With  no  one  to  love  him  here  - 

None  his  hopes  and  griefs  to  share,             ji^H. 

The  Poet's  Grave. 

It  was  best  to  die.                                     ■J^H 

On  the  hill-top  cold  and  bleak, 

Let  the  pines  their  vigils  keep,                     ^^B 

Where  the  North  winds  liowl  and  shriek. 

Let  the  North-winds  moan  and  weep                 1 

Let  his  grave  be  made  ; 

O'er  that  grave-spot  wild  ;                                 * 

There  among  the  tangled  vines- 

Nature,  whom  he  loved  so  well. 

There  beneath  the  stunted  pines. 

Will  his  funeral  anthem  swell, 

Let  his  form  be  laid. 

And  bewail  her  child. 

Cold  and  dreary  is  the  sx>ot, 

But  the  world  which  knew  him  not 

It  was  colder  still ; 

Isabel. 

And  the  poor  short  life  he  led 

Bare  of  flowers  as  his  bed 

Gather  flowers— violets  blue, 

On  the  rocky  hill. 

Brier-roses  wet  with  dew. 

Ah  !  ye  knew  not— could  not  know 
What  he  sufl'ered  here  below ; 

Honey-suckles,  eglantines, 

Woodland  pinks  and  jessamines  ; 
Bring  them  hither  to  the  dell— 

How  his  spirit  yearned 

Strew  the  grave  of  Isabel. 

For  one  kindly  spoken  word— 

For  one  look  that  might  have  cheered 

Oft  with  us  she  wandered  here ; 

The  poor  heart  ye  spumed. 

Ott  her  ringing  laughter  clear 
Filled  the  wood  with  music  sweet 

Ye  knew  not,  dull  sons  of  earth, 

As  the  sound  where  waters  meet. 

There  were  gems  of  priceless  worth 

Ah  !  I  do  remember  well 

In  that  poor  boy's  mind- 

Days  we  spent  with  Isabel. 

Gems  of  beauty  that  might  now 

Crown  his  pale  and  lofty  brow. 

Here  we  gathered  flowers  fair. 

Had  ye  been  more  kind. 

Wove  bright  garlands  for  our  hair. 

Then  in  yonder  quiet  nook 

Never  throbbed  in  human  breast 

Viewed  our  faces  in  the  brook. 

Nobler  heart  than  he  jwssessed— 

None  in  beauty  could  excel 

Heart  more  warm  and  true; 

Brown-haired  blue-eyed  Isabel. 

But  alas  \  ye  never  strove 

To  awake  its  latent  love 

Often  in  yon  mossy  seat 

For  mankind  and  you. 

We  have  sat  in  converse  sweet, 

Painting  all  the  future  bright 

Ever  longing  but  in  vain 

As  the  morning's  rosy  light. 

For  the  love  it  sought  to  gain- 

Ah  !   no  mortal  then  could  tell. 

Love  ye  would  not  give. 

We  should  lose  our  Isabel. 

It  had  withered,  like  a  flower 

Shut  out  from  the  summer  shower, 

She  is  gone !  Ah— never  more 

Ere  he  ceased  to  Uve. 

On  this  side  of  Canaan's  shore, 

Shall  our  darling's  silvery  voice 

What  he  might  have  been  had  you 

Make  our  mourning  hearts  rejoice. 

Been  to  manhood's  duties  tnie, 

She  has  left  us— It  is  well — 

Heaven  only  knows : 

Angels  keep  our  Isabel ! 

Backwoods   Poems.                                            53 

Blue-eyed  Jenny. 

Chorus— O  Betty  Bell ! 

No  words  can  tell 

Respectfully  inscribed  to  Miss  R.  Vii-ginia  M . 

IIow  dear  thou  art  to  me : 

When  stars  shme  bright 

Let  city  bards  from  silver  goblets  quatf  their  ruby 

On  the  brow  of  night, 

wine, 

I  sit  and  think  of  thee. 

Ami  then,  with  fancy  warmed  to  life  at  Bacchus' 

rosy  shrine, 

How  sweet  she  looked  in  home-spun  frock, 

Sing  city   life  "a  heaven  on  earth,"  and  city  girls 

Witli  arms  and  shoulders  bare, 

"divine." 

And  yellow  flowers  and  scarlet  leaves 

Enough  for  me  my  backwoods  home,  where  peace 

Twined  in  her  auburn  hair ; 

and  plenty  are. 

With  saucy  lips  and  fingers  plump 

The  deep  blue  sky,  the  singing  birds,  the  woods  so 

Stained  by  the  ben-ies  wild  ; 

green  and  fair. 

And  hazel  eyes,  whose  drooping  lids 

And,  best  of  all,  my  blue-eyed  Jenny  with  the  golden 

Half  hid  them  svhen  she  smiled. 

hair  ! 

O  Betty  Bell,  &c. 

Jly  Jenny  is  no  angol  yet— I'm  glad  she  is  not  so  ; 

I  could  have  kissed  the  little  tracks 

The  angels  are  created  tor  a  different  sphere  I  trow ; 

Her  brown  bare  feet  had  made; 

A  woman  true  best  suits  the  life  we  mortals  lead 

There  was  no  hucklebeny  pond 

*              below. 

Too  deep  for  me  to  wade— 

And  I  would  not  exchange  one  glance  of  Jenny's  soft 

There  was  no  rough  persimmon  tree 

blue  eye. 

Too  tall  for  me  to  scale— 

One  little  smile  from  Jenny's  lips  where  nestling 

If  Be'ty  Bell  was  standing  by 

kisses  lie, 

With  the  little  wooden  pail. 

For  all  the  silk-and-whalebone  angels    'neath    the 

0  Betty  Bell,  &c. 

starry  sky  ! 

■ 

But  the  pine  trees  died— the  tar  crop  failed— 

I  would  not  tread  ambition's  path — too  rugged  is  the 

And  it  nearly  broke  my  heart. 

way; 

When  Betty  Bell  moved  to  the  West 

To-morrow  fades  the  laurel  wreath  we  proudly  wear 

In  her  father's  two-wheeled  cart. 

to-day ; 

O  Betty  Bell !  where'er  thou  art- 

Nor  would  I  spend  my  life  on  earth  in  idle  pleasures 

On  mountain  or  in  vale- 

gay. 

May  huckleberries  stiew  thy  path. 

Give  me  a  cottage  in  the  woods  with  Jenny  for  my 

Persimmons  never  fail ! 

bride. 

0  Betty  Bell,  &c. 

And  I  will  ask  of  earthly  things  no  other  gift  beside. 

But  be  contented  with  my  lot,  whatever  may  betide. 

Hymn  for  the  Fourth  of  July. 

Betty  Bell. 

Am—"  Pnrtugese  Ili/mn." 

SON(i. 

While  millions  join  in  Freedom's  grand  ovation. 

It  was  in  huckle-beny  time — 

And  brighter  the  ttres  upon  her  altars  bum. 

I  do  remember  well- 

All  hail  unto  the  birth-dity  of  our  nation ! 

When  first  I  saw  the  smiling  face 

Let  songs  of  gladness  welcome  its  return. 

Of  my  sweet  Betty  Bell. 

Thick  o'er  the  earth  the  autumn  blast 

To-day,  let  peace  be  on  the  troubled  waters : 

The  russet  leaves  had  flung ; 

Let  party  and  section  veil  their  raging  tires ; 

And  pliunp  and  bright  on  the  bending  trees 

And  let  Columbia's  noble  sons  and  daughters 

The  ripe  persimmons  hung. 

Keep  green  the  sacred  mem'ry  of  their  sires. 

54 


Bachwoods  Poems. 


God  save  the  Union  as  our  fathers  made  it, 
When  the  Revolution's  bloody  strife  was  o'er ! 

Keep  the  foundation  as  our  fathers  laid  it, 
And  we'll  maintain  the  Union  evermore. 

Now,  to  our  God,  who  hath  preserved  our  nation, 
Who  keepeth  us  in  the  hollow  of  His  hand. 

Be  honor,  glory,  praise  and  adoration. 
For  all  His  wondrous  mercies  to  our  land ! 


Song. 

O  think  of  me  dearest,  when  in  the  red  west 
The  sun  sinketh  down,  like  a  child  to  its  rest ; 
When  shadows  are  stealing  thro'  valley  and  glen, 
O  think  of  me  dearest,  O  think  of  me  tlien. 

O  think  of  me  when  on  the  forest-clad  hill 
Is  heard  the  sad  wail  of  the  lone  whippoorwill ; 
When  stars  twinkle  bright  on  the  brow  of  the  night, 
And  the  moon  bathes  the  earth  in  her  soft  silver 
light. 

O  think  of  me,  dearest,  when  Spring's  sunny  skies 
Are  blue  as  the  deptlis  of  thy  own  azure  eyes ; 
When  in  the  green  woods  the  wild  roses  bloom  fair, 
And  freight  with  their  fragrance  the  fresh  morning 
air. 

O  think  of  me,  love;  when  my  spirit  is  sad. 
And  the  present  and  future  in  sorrow  are  clad, 
How  sweet  to  me  then  will  the  consciousness  be, 
That  Lula,  dear  Lula,  is  thinking  of  me. 


To  mark  the  half-averted  face 

When  I  am  standing  near, 
And  see  the  smile  I  love  so  well 

Turn  to  a  bitter  sneer ! 

Oh,  bring  my  harp  !  I'll  pour  my  soul 

In  a  wild,  impassioned  strain  ; 
The  agony  I'm  sutfering  now 

Shall  not  be  all  in  vain— 
For  it  shall  bring  from  quivering  strings 

A  melody  divine  I 
'Tis  only  when  the  grapes  are  crushed 

That  we  obtain  the  wine ! 


i 


Song. 

Oh,  bring  my  harp — my  dear-loved  harp — 

My  soul  is  sad  to-day  ; 
Oh,  bring  my  harp !  I'll  sing  awhile 

To  diive  my  gloom  away  : 
For  the  smile  has  quit  my  Lucy's  lip, 

A  shade  is  on  her  brow ; 
She  greets  me  coldly  when  we  meet— 

I  know  she  hates  me  now. 

Oh  !  'tis  enough  to  break  the  heart 

And  rack  the  fevered  brain. 
To  love  with  all  the, spirit's  strength, 

And  nought  but  hatred  gain ! 


Bid  Me  Not  Cease  to  Love  Thee. 

Bid  me  not  cease  to  love  thee, 

I  could  not  if  I  would  ; 
Bid  me  not  cease  to  love  thee, 

I  would  not  if  I  could. 
For,  O,  what  would  my  life  be. 

If  love  were  ta'en  away  ? 
A  flower  without  an  odor, 

A  star  without  a  raj'. 

My  life  is  spent  in  dreaming ; 

Full  many  a  castle  fair 
I've  reared  by  dint  of  fancy 

In  the  regions  of  the  air. 
And  I've  installed  thee  mistress 

Within  those  precincts  bright. 
Where  every  hall's  illumined 

By  love's  own  silvery  light. 

What,  though  there's  nothing  real 

In  all  the  visions  bright 
Which  cheer  me  in  the  day-time. 

And  haunt  my  dreams  at  night  ? 
My  castle  and  its  mistress 

Are  dearer  far  to  me 
Than  queen,  and  crown,  and  palace, 

Unto  a  king  can  be. 

And  though  my  heart's  deep  passion 

May  cause  no  throb  in  thine, 
In  the  realms  of  the  ideal 

Thou  art  forever  mine. 
In  spite  of  all  thy  coldness — 

O  pleasure,  sweet  and  deep  ! — 
I  clasp  thee  in  my  day-dreams. 

And  kiss  thee  in  my  sleep ! 


Backwoods   Poems.                                             55 

The  Old  Song. 

Then,  take  your  hai-p,  dear  lady. 

And  sing  it  once  again— 

0  take  your  liarp,  sweet  lady, 

This  sweetest  of  earth's  music — 

And  sing  that  song  again ; 

This  dear,  old,  tender  strain. 

Earth  hath  no  sweeter  music 

-Vnd,  lady,  do  not  bla.me  me. 

Than  that  old  tender  strain. 

If  tears  like  childhood's  flow. 

For  oh !  it  doth  remind  me 

As  mem'ry  calls  before  me 

Of  happy  moments  fled, 

The  scenes  of  long  ago. 

Of  those  I  loved  in  childhood, 

Now  numbered  with  the  dead. 

The  little  white-washed  cottage 

Song. 

"Where  first  I  saw  the  light. 

In  all  its  old-time  beauty. 
Rushes  before  my  sight. 

I  DREAMED  THOU  WAST  ANOTHER'S  BRIDE. 

The  deep  blue  morning-glories 

Are  blooming  o'er  the  door, 

I  dreamed  thou  wast  another's  bride. 

And  the  moss  box  sits  beside  it 

And,  O,  methought  I  ne'er 

Just  as  it  sat  of  yore. 

Until  that  moment  knew  thou  wast 

To  me  one  half  so  dear. 

Oleomas,  pinks,  and  roses, 

Beside  the  gateway  grow  ; 

As  traveler's  in  the  desert  see 

The  grim  old  oaks  their  shadows 

The  green  oasis  rise. 

Across  the  greensward  throw ; 
And  in  the  golden  sunlight 

With  shady  trees  and  crystal  springs, 
Before  their  longing  eyes; 

The  ruddy  peaches  glow ; 
Just  as  I  used  to  see  them, 

But  find,  as  they  approach  the  spot. 

The  mirage  floats  away  ; 

Full  forty  years  ago. 

E'en  so  I  felt  when  first  I  learned 

Close  whtre  the  cool,  clear  waters 

That  thou  wast  lost  for  aye. 

Gush  from  the  mossy  spring, 

My  s6ul  gi-ew  bitter  at  the  thought 

The  little  ones  are  gathered 

As  wormwood  mixed  with  gall ; 

Around  the  giape-vine  swing. 

I  hear  their  ringing  laughter. 

And  life  grew  dark  as  though  'twere  hid 

I  see  their  faces  fair, 

Beneath  a  funeral  pall. 

And  roguish  eyes  half  hidden 

O,  it  an  evanescent  dream 

By  their  curly  golden  hair. 

Can  bring  such  pain  to  me. 

My  sun-browned  father  sitteth 

How  can  I  bear  thy  actual  loss— 

Beneath  the  old  oak  tree. 

What  will  the  real  be? 

With  blue-eyed  baby  sister 

Asleep  upon  his  knee. 

His  hands  with  toil  are  hardened, 

But,  ah !  he  deems  him  blest. 

The  Girl  that's  Grot  the  Cash. 

For  a  kingdom  could  not  purchase 

The  jewels  he  possessed. 

SOKG. 

My  mother,  on  her  loom-benoh, 

Let  fools  and  poets  tune  their  harps 

The  "  battem"  swiftly  plies, 

Oi  woman's  charms  to  sing,  sir. 

While  through  the  opened  webbing 

Of  queenly  forms  and  brilliant  eyes, 

The  polished  shuttle  flies. 

And  all  such  foolish  things,  su- ; 

And  as  she  weaves  she  singeth. 

Give  me  the  girl  that's  got  tlie  cash. 

In  tones  soft,  sweet,  and  clear, 

The  shining  yellow  boys,  sir, 

This  same  old  song,  dear  lady, 

For  sqlid  charms  alone  Can  fill 

I  love  so  well  to  hear. 

The  measure  of  my  joys,  sir. 

56                                            Baekujoods   Poems. 

I  care  not  it  her  eyes  be  black, 

I  brood  no  more  in  the  gloomy  shade. 

Or  blue,  or  gray,  or  green,  sir. 

O'er  hopes  which  budded  but  to  fade, 

Nor  if  a  horrid  length  of  nose 

O'er  darling  schemes  to  ruin  hurl'd, 

Stick  out  a  feel  between,  sir. 

And  the  sneers  and  hate  of  a  heartless  world. 

Enough  for  me  to  know  that  she 

Thy  little  hands  have  broke  the  chain. 

Has  got  the  pile  oi  tm,  sir ; 

And  set  my  spirit  free  again —                                   j 

For  cash,  like  charity,  will  hide 

To  roam  the  fields  where  the  skies  are  blue,             1 

A  multitude  of  sins,  sir. 

And  the  fragrant  flowers  are  wet  with  dew,              1 

Where  the  birds  are  warbling  among  the  trees,       1 

Don't  talk  to  me  of  ruby  lips. 

And  the  air  is  cooled  by  the  gentle  breeze. 

Nor  cheeks  like  lilies  fair,  sir. 

Nor  snowy  brow,  nor  pearly  teeth, 

And  I  love  thee,  as  I  love  the  star 

Nor  flowing  golden  hair,  sir. 

Which  smiles  ui>on  me  from  afar ; 

The  only  ffold  that  takes  my  eye— 

As  I  love  the  spring-time  for  its  bloom ; 

For  U  my  spirit  hankers- 

As  I  love  the  flowers  which  yield  perfume  ; 

Is  that  which  jingles  in  the  purse, 

As  I  love  the  moon  for  her  silver  light. 

And  passes  at  the  bankers. 

As  I  love  whate'er  is  pure  and  bright. 

Give  me  the  girl  that's  got  the  cash, 
A  fifty  thousand  cool,  sir ; 

I  care  not  if  she.s  young  or  old. 

Lines  to  M. 

A  Portia  or  a  fool,  sir. 

Be  she  as  meek  as  any  saint, 

Blame  not  the  bard,  sweet  maiden,  if  his  lyre 

Or  as  the  devil  bold,  sir. 

Should  breathe  a  tender,  am'rous  strain ; 

I'll  shut  my  eyes  to  every  fault. 

When  soft  dark  eyes  like  thine  tlie  song  inspire, 

If  she  has  got  the  gold,  sir ! 

How  can  the  muse  fiom  love  refrain  ? 

I  could  repress  the  language  of  delight, 
WhUe  wandering  'neath  Italian  skies ; 

My  Sweetheart. 

Or  stand  upon  tlie  snowy  Alpine  height, 
And  feel  no  wild  emotion  rise. 

Thou  art  beautiful,  my  little  love, 

But  ah  !  to  look  upon  that  face  so  fair, 

As  tlie  stars  which  shine  in  the  vault  above : 

And  feel  no  throb  of  love  for  thee — 

As  beautitul  as  the  rose-bud  bright 

By  Cupid's  silver  bow,  sweet  girl,  I  swear. 

Just  opening  to  the  morning  light. 

This  is  a  task  too  hard  for  me ! 

Thou  art  beautiful,  with  thy  foreliead  fair, 

And  thy  flowing  wealth  of  chestnut  hair; 

With  thy  rounded  cheeks,  where  the  blushes  glow, 

And  the  tiny  dimples  come  and  go, 
WJien  thou  dost  smile,  as  ripples  break-- 

The  Frost  and  the  Forest. 

The  placid  face  of  the  mountain  lake. 

The  Frost  King  came  in  the  dead  of  night- 

As  the  Spring  doth  smile  from  the  April  skies. 

Came  with  .lewels  of  silver  sheen — 

Thy  soul  shines  forth  trom  thy  glorious  eyes— 

To  woo  by  the  spinster  Dian's  light, 

Thy  eyes  so  bright  that  I  never  knew 

The  pride  of  the  South— the  Forest  Queen. 

If  they  were  hazel,  gray,  or  blue. 

Thy  smile  is  like  the  beams  which  play 

He  wooed  till  morn,  and  he  went  away ; 

On  the  rosy  cloud  at  the  dawn  ot  day. 

Then  I  heard  the  Forest  faintly  sigh. 

Thy  voice  is  soft  as  the  notes  of  love 

And  she  blushed  like  a  girl  on  her  wedding  day, 

That  are  cooed  in  Spring  by  the  turtle  dove ; 

And  her  blush  grew  deeper  as  time  went  by. 

And  thy  silvery  laugh  as  clearly  rings 

As  the  gladsome  song  the  red-bird  sings. 

Alas !  for  the  forest !  the  cunning  Frost 

Her  ruin  sought,  when  he  came  to  woo ; 

Thou  hast  brought  the  spring-time  to  my  heart, 

She  moans  all  day  for  her  glory  lost, 

For  all  is  sunshine  where  thou  art. 

And  her  blush  has  changed  to  a  death-like  hue. 

f 


Backwoods   Poems. 


57 


My  Castle. 


They  do  not  know  who  sneer  at  me  because  I'm  poor 

and  lame, 
And  round   my  brow,  has  never  twined   the   laurel 

wreath  of  tame — 
They  do  not  know  that  I  possess  a  castle  old  and 

grand. 
With  many  an  acre  broad  attached  of  fair  and  fer- 
tile land ; 
With  hills  and  dales,  and  lakes  and  streams,  and  fields 

of  waving  grain. 
And  snowy  flocks,  and  lowing  herds,  that  browze 

upon  the  plain. 
In  sooth,  it  is  a  good  demesne— how  would  my  scorn- 

ers  stare. 
Could  they  behold  the  splendors  of  my  Castle  in  the 

Air  ! 

The  room  in  which  I'm  sitting  now,  is  smoky,  bare, 

and  cold, 
But  I  have  gorgeous  stately  chambers  in  my  palace 

old. 
Rich  paintings,  by  the  grand  old  masters,  hang  upon    i 

the  wall,  I 

And  marble  busts  and  statues  stand  around  the  spa-    | 

cious  hall.  j 

A  chandelier  of  silver  pure,  and  golden  lamps  il- 
lume. 
With  rosy  light,  on  festal  nights,  the  great  reception    | 

room. 
When  wisdom,  genius,  beauty,  wit,  are  all  assembled    I 

there,  I 

And  strains  of  sweetest  music  till  my  Castle  in  the    ! 

AiB. 

About  the  castle  grounds,    ten  thousand  kinds  of 

flowers  bloom. 
And  freight  each  passing  zephyr  with  a  load  of  sweet 

perfume. 
Thick  clumps  of  green  umbrageous  trees  afford  a  cool 

retreat. 
Where  oft  I  steal  me,  when  the  sun  pours  down  his 

scorching  heat. 
And  there,  upon  a  mossy  bank,  recline  the  live-long 

day,  I 

And  watch  the  murmuring  fountains  in  their  marble    | 

ba-sins  play;  I 

Or  listen  to  the  song  of  birds,  with  plumage  bright    j 

and  rare. 
Which  flit  among  the  trees  around  my  Castle  in  the 

Aiu. 


Sometimes  the  mistress  of  my  ca.stle  sits  beside  me 

there. 
With  dark-blue  eyes  .so  full  of  love,  and  sunny  silken 

hair. 
With  broad,  fair,  classic  brow,  where  genius  sheds  his 

purest  ray, 
And  little  dimpled  rosy  mouth,  where  smiles  forever 

play. 
Ah  1  .she  is  very  dear  to  me;  her  maiden  heart  alone 
Heturncxi  my  soul's  deep  love,  and  beat  resjKnisive  to 

my  own ; 
And  I  cliose  her  tor  my  spirit-bride  —  this  maiden 

young  and  fair. 
And  now  she  reigns  sole  mi.stress  of  my  Castle  in 

THE  Am. 

The  hanks  may  break,  and  stocks  may  tall,  the  Croe- 
sus of  to-day 

May  see,  t«-moiTow,  all  his  wealth,  like  snow,  dissolve 
away. 

And  th'  auctioneer,  at  panic  price,  to  the  highest  bid- 
der .sell 

His  marble  home,  in  which  a  king  might  well  be 
proud  to  dwell. 

But  in  my  cjistlc  in  the  air  1  have  a  siue  estate. 

No  panic,  with  its  hydra-head,  can  e'er  depreciate. 

No  hard-faced  .sheriff  dares  to  levy  execution  there. 

For  universal  law  exempts  a  CAsrLE  in  the  Aib. 


Meet  Me  in  Dreamland. 

O  meet  me  in  Dreamland,  when  night  throws  her  veil 
O'er  the  wood  and  the  tiold,  o'er  the  hill  and  the  dale ; 
When  earth's  weary  millions  arc  wrapped  in  repose, 
And  time's  deep  dark  stream  imperceptibly  flows. 

O  meet  me  in  Dreamland— the  mystical  shore 
Where  life's  gloomy  shadows  can  haunt  me  no  more ; 
Where  I  roam  through  the  forest  as  free  as  the  fawn 
That  nips  the  wild  flowers  which  carpet  the  lawn. 

O  meet  me  in  Dreamland,  aud  smile  on  mo  there 
With  the  sweet  sunny  smil.^  which  thy  lips  u.ied  to 

wear ; 
While  I  clasp  thy  white  hand,  let  those  dear  eyes  of 

thine. 
With  a  sweet  tender  love-look,  gaze  up  into  mine. 

O  meet  me  in  Dreamland,  and  list  to  th«  vow 
My  lips  are  too  trem'lons  to  breathe  to  thee  now  ; 
And  when  thou  hast  heard  it,  then  whisper  to  me 
The  three  sweetest  words  ever  spoken  by  theo ! 


58 


Backwoods   Poems. 


In  the  Shadow. 

O,  gather  me  flowers  all  dripping  with  dew, 
Fresh  roses,  and  lilacs,  and  violets  blue, 
Younfj  primroses  brig'ht  as  the  star-worlds  above. 
And  pinks  like  the  lips  of  the  maiden  1  love. 
Perhaps  their  bright   hues,  and  their  fragrant   per- 
fume, 
May  banish  a  moment  my  sadness  and  gloom ; 
For  thoughts,  maddening  thoughts,  are  now  racking 

my  brain, 
And  I  dwell  in  the  mountain's  cold  shadow  again. 

The  mountain's  cold  shadow !  the  shadow  whicti  fate 
Has  cast  o'er  the  pathway  I've  trodden  of  late  ; 
Which  shutteth  out  all  the  bright  world  from  my 

view, 
And  leaves  me  in  darkness  my  way  to  pursue. 
I  know,  as  I  walk  o'er  the  cold,  cheerless  ground. 
There's  gladness  and  light  in  the  bright  world  around; 
But,  O,  not  for  me  are  the  gladness  and  light— 
I  have  for  my  heritage  sorrow  and  night. 

O  come  with  soft  music :  perchance  its  sweet  strain 
May  lure  me  away  from  the  shadow  again ; 
Come  witli  viol  and  harp,  let  the  tunes  you  sliall  play 
Be  those  which  lend  wings  to  the  feet  of  the  gay. 
And  sing  to  me  songs  that  are  merry  and  sweet 
As  the  warbling  of  birds  in  their  forest  retreat ; 
Let  laughter  ring  clear,  and  each  lip  wear  a  smile, 
And  I'll  leave  the  dark  shade  for  the  sunshine  awhile. 


Shall  never  be  heard  from  the  pulpit  again. 
His  sorrows  are  over — his  groanings  and  cries ; 
And  Jesus  has  wiped  all  the  teai-s  from  his  eyes. 
He  rests  from  his  labors — his  labors  of  love — 
He  dwells  in  the  home  of  the  ransomed  above. 

He  rests  from  his  labors — 'twas  Jesus's  will — 
But  the  fruits  of  those  labors  are  left  to  us  still. 
The  handful  of  seed  which  he  sowed  by  the  way 
Shall  multiply  still,  till  the  great  tiuai  day, 
When  the  angels  shall  come  to  the  field  of  the  Lord, 
And  reap  the  rich  harvest— the  yield  of  the  word. 
Best,  friend  of  my  youth,  from  thy  labors  on  earth, 
In  Heaven  we'll  know  what  thy  labors  arc  worth  ! 


My  Three  Sweethearts. 

Inscribed  to  my  friend.  Dr.  Jack  M.  (iiLBERT. 

Think  not,  friend  Jack,  my  caption  strange  : 
Free  Fancy  takes  a  wider  range 
Than  blind  boy  Love,  despite  his  wing's. 
She  plays  "a  harp  of  a  thousand  strings;" 
And,  free  as  air,  roams  here  and  there. 
To  claim  whate'er  is  sweet  and  fair. 
"  Monarch  of  all  her  eyes  survey," 
There's  none  on  earth  to  tell  her,  nay. 
The  heart  can  hold  but  one  dear  treasure. 
But  earth  can't  till  the  fancy's  measure. 


He  Rests  from  His  Labors. 

Inscribed  to  the  memory  of  the  late  Eev.  A.  B.  HiCKs. 

"  Yea,  saith  the  Spirit,  that  they  may  rest  from  their 
labors,  and  their  works  do  follow  thom." 

He  rests  from  his  labors — no  more  he'll  proclaim 

Salvation  to  sinners  in  Jesus'  name ; 

No  more  will  he  beg  the  ungodly  to  fly 

From  the  storm  of  destruction  that's  hovering  nigh ; 

Nor  kneel  at  the  altar  to  wrestle  in  prayer 

For  mourners  that  quake  on  the  brink  of  despair. 

These  labors  are  over— he  rests  from  them  now, 

With  a  harp  in.  his  hand,  and  a  crown  on  his  brow. 

He  refits  from  his  labors— his  stru^les  to  keep 
From  the  snares  of  the  tempter  the  wandering  sheep. 
His  counsel  and  warnings— too  often  in  vain — 


My  tirst  is  tall,  with  queenly  air. 
And  glossy  curls  of  raven  hair, 
A  brow  where  genius'  crown  is  set. 
And  brilliant  eyes  as  black  as  jet. 
She  is— let  this  a  secret  be— 
The  fairest  fair  one  of  the  three  1 

My  number  two  has  eyes  of  blue. 
Peach  checks,  and  hair  of  golden  hue, 
And  ways  as  wild  as  the  spotted  fawn 
Which  skips  and  plays  on  the  grassy  lawn. 
She  is— but  this  'twixt  you  and  me— 
The  loveliest  love-lass  of  the  three ! 

My  number  three  is  a  little  sprite— 
A  flower  .iust  opening  to  the  light — 
Whose  sunny  smile  and  artless  ways. 
Have  won  my  heart— inspired  my  lays. 
She  is— pray  keep  this  dark  for  me— 
The  sweetest  sweetheart  of  the  three ! 


Backwoods   Poems.                                             59 

He  Kissed  Me  and  Called  Me  Darling. 

Lines. 

80N(i. 
Dear  John  was  at  our  house  last  night, 

In  memory  of  mv  sister,  Mrs.  Mautha  M.  Snow,  who 
died  August  21st,  18,W. 

And  there  till  moonset  lingered ; 

Thou  art  gone  from  us,  sister. 

He  gazed  into  my  azure  eyes, 

To  the  dark  silent  tomb, 

'        And  my  golden  ringlets  Angered. 

And  lett  thy  dear  homestead 

I  don't  know  how  it  came  about— 

In  sadness  and  gloom. 

My  brain  so  wild  was  whirling — 

Thy  little  ones  listen 

But  at  last  he  put  His  lips  to  mine, 

For  thy  footsteps  in  vain,                                      '. 

And  kissed  me  and  called  me  "darling!" 

And  the  love-tones  which  never                            * 

Chorus— Re  kissed  me  and  called  me  darling ! 

Shall  soothe  them  again. 

Oh !  he  kissed  me  and  called  me  darling  ! 

• 

He  pressed  his  warm  red  lips  to  mine, 

Thou  art  gone  from  us,  sister ; 

And  kissed  me  and  called  me  darling  ! 

Thou  hast  found  the  bright  shore. 

Where  saints  dwell  forever, 

I  know  not  when  the  moon  went  down. 

Nor  when  dear  John  departed; 
My  cheeks  were  wet  with  tears  of  joy, 
;        I  felt  so  happy-hearted. 

And  sorrow  no  more : 

Where  in  anthems  of  rapture                               ' 

Their  voices  they  raise, 

And  strike  the  bright  haTi>-8trings 

The  fountains  of  my  spiiit's  bliss 

In  Jesus'  praise. 

Were  by  his  kiss  up-broken; 
As  flowers  the  dew,  my  soul  drank  in 
The  word  which  he  had  spoken. 
He  kissed  me,  &c. 

Thou  art  gone  from  us,  sister ;                              [ 
Wc  shall  miss  thee  through  life— 
The  sister,  the  daughter,                                         ' 
The  mother,  the  wife. 

I  fear  I  love  dear  John  too  well— 

We  shall  long  for  thy  presence, 
But  always  in  vain  ; 
For  we  never— oh !  never  — 
Shall  meet  thee  again. 

My  thoughts  are  all  about  him— 
What  if  he's  playing  false  with  me— 
But  no,  I  cannot  doubt  him. 

^'    For  he  kissed  me,  and  the  kissing  caused 
His  tongue  to  break  its  fetter. 
And  whisper  "darling"— what  word  could  tell 
A  lover's  secret  better. 
He  kissed  me,  &c. 

Thuu  art  gone  from  us,  sister ;                              , 
Thou  art  lost  to  our  sight,                                     ' 
lint  by  faith  we  behold  thee                                ; 
In  realms  of  delight.                                              j 
Through  the  merits  of  Jesus,                                [ 

By  the  grace  of  our  God,                                       ; 

We  may  meet  thee,  dear  sister,                             j 
In  that  blissful  abode.                                           j 

The  Lily  and  the  Rose. 

' 

Will  and  his  Kate  sat  in  a  shady  nook. 

Viewing  their  faces  in  the  quiet  brook. 

"Put  not  Your  Trust  in  Princes." 

Kate's  cheeks  were  pale,  and  very,  very  fair ; 

Will  pointed  to  them  in  the  water  clear, 

Inscribed  to  "  Young  Italy." 

And  vowed  they  were  lilies  growing  there. 

Put  not  your  trust  in  Princes ;  their  embrace  is  death; 

Sweet  Katy  sighed— as  little  maidens  would ; 
Will  kissed  her  lips— as  tender  lover  should  : 
Kate  blushed,  of  course,  as  everybody  knows: 
Cried  Will,  (she  should  have  cracked  the  fellow's  pate,) 
"  See !  see !— I  am  a  wizzard,  dearest  Kate, 
For  I  have  changed  my  lily  to  a  rose!" 

Their  smile  more  fatal  than  the  Simoon's  breath. 
They'll  stab  you  to  the  heart,  while  they  caress. 
And,  Judiis-likc,  betray  you  with  a  kiss. 
Think  of  the  wooden  horse  in  days  of  old. 
Which  brought  the  Greeks  into  the  Trojan  hold. 
Drive  from  your  council-boards  the  royal  spies 

60 


Baehwoods  Poems. 


"Who  seek  your  confidence  with  flattering  lies ; 

And  promise  help  to  break  your  tyrant's  chain, 

That  they  may  guide  you  with  a  silken  rein 

To  barren  victory,  and  mar  your  plan 

To  wrest  irom  despot  clutch  the  rights  of  man. 

Trust  in  your  own  stout  arms,  and  in  the  might 

Of  Him  who  gives  the  victory  to  the  right; 

And  learn  this  truth— a  truth  all  men  should  know— 

"  Who  would  be  fbee,  themselves  must  strike 

THE  BLOW  !" 


Loved  Ones  Gone. 

The  day  has  vanished  in  the  West, 

The  twilight  shades  appear ; 

And  angels  light  the  twinkling  lamps 

In  Heaven's  chandelier. 

T)ie  birds  have  hushed  their  gladsome  songs. 

And  to  their  perches  flown ; 

No  sound  of  human  voice  is  near— 

I  sit  and  muse  alone. 

And  yet  not  all  alone,  for  now 

Fond  mem'ry  brings  again 

The  time,  ere  Death  had  broke  one  link 

In  our  dear  family  chain. 

I  see  them  all  around  me  here— 

The  loved  ones  gone  before, 

Wliose  wearied  feet  have  stemm'd  the  flood. 

And  pressed  the  radiant  shore. 

My  aged  grandsire  rests  his  chin 

Upon  his  polished  cane ; 

Repeats  the  oft-told  tale,  and  "  tights 

His  battles  o'er  again." 

The  frosts  of  ninety  winters  lay 

Upon  his  silken  hair. 

When  Death,  the  mighty  conqueror,  came 

And  snatched  him  from  our  care. 

My  cripple  brother— first  to  die. 
And  best  beloved  of  all— 
With  Bible  closed  upon  his  knee. 
Is  leaning  'gainst  the  wall. 
He  sings  the  song  he  always  sung 
When  tSuaday  night  drew  nigh— 
"  And  let  this  feeble  body  fail. 
And  let  it  faint  and  die." 

My  aunt  sits  near  him— she  whose  hands. 

When  fever  riicked  my  brain, 

Wei'c  press'd  upon  my  throbbing  brow. 


To  ease  the  raging  pain. 
How  full  of  joy  her  beaming  smile ! 
How  soft  her  mild  blue  eye ! — 
Ah !  there  was  sorrow  in  our  house 
When  she  was  called  to  die. 

The  eldest  of  my  sisters  three 
Has  just  closed  up  her  book, 
And  listens  to  my  grandsire's  tale. 
With  mild  and  thoughtful  look. 
In  spirit  mild,  she  meekly  bore 
The  cares  and  ills  of  life ; 
Fulfilling  well  her  duties  as 
A  daughter— mother— wife. 

There,  in  the  old  brown  rocking-chair, 
With  roses  in  her  hand. 
Is  sitting  mother's  best  beloved. 
The  youngest  of  our  band. 
I  hear  the  music  of  her  laugh, 
Like  the  rippling  streamlet's  flow ; 
And  see  the  face  with  smiles  lit  up. 
As  I  saw  it  long  ago. 

They  all  are  here- they  all  are  ncre— 

The  loved  ones  gone  before; 

And  though  their  spirits  long  have  dwelt 

On  the  tran.s-Jordanic  shore. 

And  earth  hath  hid  their  dear-loved  forms 

Forever  from  our  siglit. 

Yet  Love  hath  kept,  on  mem'ry's  page. 

Each  image  clear  and  bright. 


Write  to  me  soon,  Love. 

SONO. 

Write  to  me  soon,  love,  O  write  to  me  soon  ; 
For  I  am  waiting  for  tidings  from  you. 
As  the  pale  roses  which  wither  in  June, 
Wait  for  the  fall  of  tne  twilight's  fresh  dew. 

Write  to  me  soon,  love ;  I'm  longing  to  see 
Lines  that  your  sweet  little  fingers  have  penned - 
Lines  that  shall  bear  the  warm  greeting  to  me 
Heart  to  twin  heart  always  loveth  to  send. 

Write  to  me  soon,  love ;  my  spirit  is  sad. 
Far  from  my  homo  and  those  that  I  love ; 
Write  to  me  soon,  and  my  spirit  made  glad, 
Ever  shall  bless  thee,  wherever  I  rove. 


r 

Backwoods  Poems.                                           61 

Melancholy. 

Tips  with  gold  the  mountains  blv^e, 

Think  of  one,  who,  far  away, 

My  life  is  growing  weary, 

Ne'er  has  ceased  to  think  of  you  J 

Time  moves  on  leaden  wings, 

_               The  morning's  rosy  sunlight 

Do  you  miss  me,  Lily  dear. 

No  gladness  with  it  brings. 

Now  that  Spring  has  come  again  ? 

Do  you  sometimes  wish  me  near— 

The  dreams  which  fired  my  spirit 

Weep  to  find  your  wish  in  vain  ? 

Have  vanished  all  away ; 

Scent  of  pinks  that  drip  with  dew, 

To-morrow  has  no  beacon 

Song  of  bird,  and  hum  of  bee. 

To  cheer  me  on  to-day. 

Always  make  me  think  of  you— 

Do  they  make  you  think  of  me ! 

My  life  is  like  a  desert, 

With  no  oasis  green, 

Have  the  morning-glories  fair 

Nor  streams,  nor  hills,  nor  valleys. 

Oped  their  tender  eyes  of  blue 

T'  diversity  the  scene. 

O'er  the  little  window,  where 

Oft  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  you  ? 

My  harp  hangs  on  the  willow, 

And  our  rose-bush,  Lily  love,                               ( 

I  strike  its  strings  in  vain  ; 

Tell  me,  is  it  blooming  now, 

For  now  there  is  no  music 

As  it  bloomed 'the  eve  I  wove 

In  its  dull  and  dirge-like  strain. 

Garlands  for  yoiu'  snowy  brow  ? 

■ 

Vainly  now  the  bright-eyed  Spring 
Robes  in  white  the  hawthorn  tree ; 

An  Acrostical  Valentine. 

Vainly  now  the  zephyrs  bring 
Perfumes  from  the  wood  to  me. 

Inscribed  to  Miss  ****  4-  ****• 

For  my  thoughts  keep  wandering  still 

Back  toward  the  rising  sun. 

In  the  sanctuary  of  my  heart. 

To  the  cottage  on  the  hill. 

Locked  up  from  the  vulgar  pryifig  gaze 

Where  yoiu*  home  is,  dearest  one. 

Of  the  world,  a  picture  is  enshrined 

Very,  very  fair  to  look  upon. 

Think  of  me,  then  Lily  Rose, 

;             Earth  contains  no  other  lialf  so  fair ; 

In  the  morning's  rosy  dawn  ; 

'             Yet  does  she— the  sweet  original 

At  the  stilly  evening's  close. 

Of  this  lovely  picture— always  seem 

When  the  dews  fall  ou  the  lawn. 

Unaware  of  all  her  countless  charms. 

When  the  full  moon  bathes  in  light 

Hill  and  stream,  and  shrub  and  tree. 

Draw  aside  the  curtain  of  my  heart- 

Look  out  on  the  lovely  night. 

Enter  thou  its  secret  deep  recess— 

Lily  Rose,  and  think  of  me. 

And  behold  the  image  bright  of  her 

Round  whom  all  my  fond  affections  twine. 

E'en  as  in  a  polished  looking-glass. 

Shalt  thou  see,  upon  affection's  shrine. 

Thy  own  image— dear  as  life  to  me ! 

The  Rosebud  and  the  Thorn. 

One  morning  bright  in  early  May, 

Lily  Rose. 

When  dews  were  on  the  lea. 

My  sweetheart— pretty  little  minx— 

Tell  me,  darling  Lily  Rose, 

A  rosebud  sent  to  mc. 

Do  you  sometimes  think  of  me, 

In  sooth,  it  was  as  fair  a  bud 

When  the  twilight  shadows  close 

As  e'er  my  eyes  had  seen ; 

Round  your  home  in  Tennessee  I 

I  vowed  'twas  like  the  giver's  lips— 

Do  you,  when  the  sunset  ray 

For  I  was  young  and  green. 

62 


Backwoods  Poems. 


I  pressed  the  treasure  to  my  lips, 

And  in  a  transport  cried : 

"Thus  would  I  kiss  that  rosy  mouth, 

If  she  were  by  my  side  !" 

But  a  thorn  was  hid  beneath  the  leaves, 

And  pricked  my  finger  sore ; 

Which  made  me  swear  mth.  pain,  and  drop 

My  love-gift  on  the  floor. 

I  put  my  rosebud  in  a  case. 
Where  I  kept  such  treasures  rare — 
Embroidered  book-marks,  billet-doux, 
And  bits  of  braided  liair. 


And  years  have  passed ;  the  blue-eyed  girl 

I  once  esteemed  divine. 

Has  been  full  twenty  years  a  wife — 

But — thank  my  stars— noZ  mine  ! 

The  rose  has  faded  from  her  cheek  ; 

Her  smile  has  passed  away  ; 

But  her  temper,  like  Damascus  blade. 

Grows  sharper  every  day. 

I  oped  my  case  to-night  to  get 

(Such  things  afford  me  pleasure) 

A  billet-doux  to  light  my  pipe, 

And  spied  my  boyish  treasure. 

The  bud  I  kissed  had  turned  to  dust. 

The  leaves  were  dead  and  dry ; 

But  the  thorn  was  still  as  keen  and  bright 

As  a  serpent's  glittering  eye. 


My  Love-Lass  is  a  Wee-Bit  Thing. 

SONG. 

My  love-lass  is  a  wee-bit  thing. 

With  eyes  of  bonnie  blue, 

And  saucy  smiling  lips,  just  like 

Two  rosebuds  wet  with  dew. 

Her  locks  are  bright  as  western  clomls 

Tipped  by  the  sunset  beam. 

And  on  her  cheeks  the  dimples  play, 

Like  ripples  on  a  stream. 

Chorus — A  wee-bit  thing— 
A  bonnie  thing— 

A  saucy  thing  is  she, 

As  ever  broke  a  lover's  heart. 

Or  danced  upon  the  lea. 


My  love-lass  has  a  graceful  form ; 
Her  step  is  brisk  and  light. 
As  that  of  wild  gazelle  which  climbs 
The  craggy  mountain  height. 
Her  voice  is  low,  and  soft  and  sweet, 
As  turtle's  coo  in  spring  ; 
And  like  the  song  of  mocking-bird. 
Her  merry  laugh  doth  ring. 
A  wee-bit  thing,  &c. 

My  love-lass  is  a  cruel  elf ; 
She  knows  I  love  her  well. 
But  wo  is  me !  she  will  not  hear 
The  tale  I  long  to  tell. 
Whene'er  to  speak  the  secret  dread 
My  trembling  lips  essay. 
With  roguish  smile,  or  ringing  laugh. 
She's  sure  to  run  away. 
A  wee-bit  thing,  &c. 


Time. 


Thou  hast  all  regions  for  thy  realm,  O  Time '. 
Nations  of  every  kindred,  tongue  and  clime. 
Submissive  bow  unto  thy  sceptre'.s  sway. 
And  meek  obedience  to  thy  mandates  pay. 
The  haughty  Czar  upon  his  jewelled  throne, 
Whose  empire  stretches  to  the  frozen  zone, 
Before  whose  face  the  millions  bow  the  knee. 
Is  but  a  serf,  a  poor  weak  serf,  to  thee. 
The  wandering  Arab,  Nature's  rugged  child. 
Whose  home  is  in  the  eastern  deserts  wild. 
And  who,  back  to  his  father  Ishmael'a  day. 
Has  never  owned  an  earthly  monarch's  sway, 
Is  yet  thy  slave,  a  slave  as  weak  and   base 
As  ever  crouched  to  Hindoo  king's  ukase. 

Thou  art  a  conqueror,  imperial  Time  : 
Thou  crushest  nations  in  thy  march  sublime, 
And  leavest  scarce  a  mouldering  wreck  to  tell 
Their  glorious  past,  or  how  they  rose  and  fell. 

Assyria  bound  the  ancient  world  in  chains ; 
What  vestige  of  her  glory  now  remains  ? 
The  grass  grows  green  o'er  Nineveh's  buried  walls 
And  wild  goats  feed  where  stood  her  spacious  lialls 

Old  Babylon  her  bloody  conquests  spread. 
And  shook  the  East  beneath  her  iron  tread ; 
But  thou,  O  Time,  didst  pull  her  city  down. 
Her  throne  upset,  and  rob  her  of  her  crown ; 


. .  lost  from  her  grasp  the  sceptre  of  her  sway. 
And  sweep  almost  her  very  name  away. 

Tlie  Persian  kingdom  yet  retains  a  place 
T  pon  the  map  of  earth ;  but  scarce  a  trace 
lier  primeval  splendor  now  is  left 
ill  how  great  slie  was.     Thou  hast  bereft 
I  of  her  warlike  race ;  the  hosts  she  led 
.  ietory ;  the  mighty  fleets  which  spread 
L  iic  terror  of  her  name  on  every  sea, 
Till  forced  to  yield,  at  last,  to  Greece  and  thee. 

Enypt,  where  Science  drew  her  earliest  breath, 

riicni'st  left,  O  Time  !  unto  a  living  death. 

Vt  11  thou  hast  robbed  her  of  her  wealth,  her  power, 

Ilir  martial  strength,  and  left  her  fot  a  dower, 

Tlie  broken  ruins  of  her  temples  grand, 

And  massive  pyramids,  which  tow'ring  stand, 

As  if  in  mock'ry  of  the  pigmy  race 

Who  dwell  in  fllth  and  rags  around  their  base. 

When,  crushed  by  thee,  these  tottered  to  their  fall, 

Then  Greece  arose,  superior  to  them  all. 

Mighty  in  arms,  but  mightier  far  in  mind, 

Her  sons  became  the  masters  of  mankind. 

To  her,  from  all  the  world,  as  to  a  mart. 

Men  came  for  stores  of  science,  law  and  art. 

What  though  on  many  a  bloody  battle-field 

Her  hosts  to  foreign  foes  were  forced  to  yield  '. 

The  victor  was  victorious  but  in  name, 

Who  conquered  Greece  himself  a  Greek  became. 

She  fell  at  last ;  thou,  like  a  bold  corsair. 

Didst  seek  her  shores,  in  quest  of  treasures  rare  ; 

Pull  down  her  cities,  spoil  her  temples  grand, 

Her  fields  lay  waste,  and  desolate  the  land  ; 

Bear  the  pi'oud  triumphs  of  her  art,  the  lore 

Of  all  her  sages,  to  a  distant  shore. 

And  hide  them  there  in  convent  walls,  till  light 

Began  to  break  through  Europe's  mental  night. 

'Throned  on  her  seven  hills  by  Tiber's  tide, 
Rome,  (iueen  of  Nations,  sat  in  haughty  pride ; 
Sent  her  bold  legions  forth  to  bloody  war, 
And  hitched  the  world  to  her  triumphal  car. 
But  thou  didst  work  her  fall.    Behold  lier  now  ! 
She  wears  no  crown  upon  her  wrinkled  brow; 
She  bears  no  sceptre  in  her  palsied  hand. 
To  shake,  as  erst,  the  ocean  and  the  land. 
A  ragged  beggar  crouching  by  the  road. 
She  begs  for  pennies  "in  the  name  of  God." 

But  to  destroy  is  not  thy  mission,  all. 
Triumphant  Time  I     New  nations  at  thy  call 
Spring  from  the  mouldering  ashes  of  the  past — 


Nations  more  grand  and  glorious  than  the  last. 
Upon  the  flag  thou  bearest  in  the  fight, 
"  Excelsior"  is  inscribed,  in  lines  of  light; 
And  onward,  upward,  still  thy  course  shall  be, 
Till  th'  angel,  standing  on  the  land  and  sea, 
Proclaims,  in  tones  that  shake  the  farthest  shore : 
"  Eternity  has  dawned,  and  Time  shall  be  no  more.' 


The  Dead  Hope. 


Sigh  on,  O,  plaintive  summer  breeze  ! 
Sigh  on  among  the  tall  dark  trees, 
In  whispered  cadence  soft  and  low. 
As  if  thou  bore  the  secret  wo 
Of  hearts  that  bleed  but  will  not  break. 
A  funeral  anthem,  for  my  sake. 
Play  on  thy  hai^p  of  many  strings ; 
While,  like  the  flapping  of  the  wings 
Of  death-birds  rushing  to  their  prey, 
I  hear  the  branches  as  they  sway. 
A  hope  I  cherished  died  last  night. 
To-day  I'll  hide  it  from  my  sight 
In  the  ruins  of  the  castles  grand 
Upreared  by  wizard  Fancy's  hand. 
But  which,  before  the  glittering  spires 
Could  kiss  the  sky,  by  floods,  or  flres. 
Or  whirlwinds  tierce,  were  laid  full  low. 
Now,  moss  and  creeping  ivy  glow 
Among  the  ruins,  where  I  stray, 
Wiien  twilight  robes  the  earth  in  gray, 
To  muse  alone.     I'll  lay  it  here— 
My  hope  that  died ;  I'll  drop  one  tear 
Upon  the  dark  and  lonely  spot. 
Then  pray — that  it  may  be  forgot. 

II. 

Shine  on,  O  summer  sun  !  to-day ; 

Not  with  the  bright  and  cheerful  ray 

Which  clothes  all  things  in  gladsome  light, 

And  makes  the  young  heart  laugh  outright ; 

But  shine  through  liazy  skies,  as  now, 

As  thou  hadst  twined  around  thy  brow 

A  mourning  veil.     I  cannot  bear 

The  cheerful  light.     Let  Morning  wear 

Her  drab,  and  move  with  step  as  slow 

As  mourners  in  their  weeds  of  wo. 

I  am  in  gloom :— the  Ught  had  fled 

Which  o'er  my  path  its  radiance  shed. 

An  if/nis  fatuus  of  the  brain. 

It  lured  me  on,  o'er  hill  and  plain. 


6Ji^                                          Backwoods  Poems. 

Across  full  many  a  babbling  stream, 

The  httle  brook  which  lately  wore 

Tlirough  valleys  fair  as  a  poet's  dream, 

A  glittering  icy  chain, 

And  then  expiring,  left  me  there 

Goes  babbling,  laughing  on  its  way. 

In  gloomy  darlcness  and  despair. 

For  Spring  has  come  again. 

III. 

A  golden  light  with  glory  tips 

All  sublunary  things,                                         ^^^ 

Hushed  be  your  notes,  ye  feathered  throng ! 

And  every  breeze  that  passes  by                 ^^^H 

I  would  not  hear  your  cheerful  song. 

A  load  of  fragiance  brings.                            ^^W 

For  it  recalls  departed  days 

Gone  are  the  cold  tempestuous  nights,                  ■ 

I'd  fain  forget.    I'd  hear  no  lays 

And  dreary  days  of  rain ;                                          ■ 

This  stiU  sad  summer  morn  from  you. 

Old  Winter  seeks  his  northern  cave,                      1 

Except  the  low  and  mournful  coo 

And  Spring  has  come  again.                                   ¥ 

Of  widowed  dove,  or  solemn  croak 

■ 

Of  raven  in  the  leafless  oak. 

IV. 

Withhold,  ye  fi'agrant  flowers  that  freight 

The  morning  air  with  fragrance  sweet ! 

Mississippi  Girls. 

Withhold  your  perfumes  now  from  me ; 

For  with  them  float  up  from  the  lea, 

Come  aid  my  song,  ye  tuneful  Nine, 

And  in  this  glass  of  ruby  wine. 

Old  mem'ries  which  oppress  me  now. 

Pressed  from  the  fruit  of  Southern  vine. 

Of  one,  whose  fair  and  queenly  brow- 
Sweet  vision,  down  !  thou  woo'st  in  vain  ; 

I'll  pledge  a  health  this  festal  night— 

I  will  not  dream  that  dream  again. 

The  health  of  Mississippi  girls. 

With  rosy  cheeks,  and  glossy  curls, 

V. 

Lips  ripe  and  saucy,  teeth  like  pearls. 

And  love-lit  eyes  like  diamonds  bright. 

The  hope  is  dead,  forever  lost. 

But  metn'ry  haunts  me  like  a  ghost. 

Upon  our  flag  of  azure  hue, 

0,  for  the  cool  Lethean  draught 

"  One  star  alone  appears  to  view," 

Which  spirits  in  Elysium  quaffed  ! 

To  light  the  pathway  of  the  true. 

I'd  drive  the  past,  all,  from  my  mind. 

When  o'er  the  battle-field  it  waves. 

Nor  leave  one  floSCting  rack  behind. 

But  th'  starry  eyes  of  those  we  love, 

Bright  as  the  orbs  which  shine  above. 

Shall  light  us  on,  where'er  we  rove. 
To  victory  or  bloody  graves. 

Spring  Has  Come. 

We  need  no  bugle,  drum,  nor  fife, 

To  call  us  to  the  field  of  strife. 

Inscribed  to  my  little  nieces,  Apollonia  D.  Snow  and 

L.  Newtonia  Berrthii.l. 

When  those  we  love  far  more  than  life. 

In  tender  tones,  have  bid  us  go : 

A  purple  mist  is  on  the  hills. 

Who  does  not  feel  himself  the  peer 

The  sky  is  clear  and  blue, 

Of  any  ancient  chevalier 

And  from  beneath  the  russet  leaves 

That  ever  shivered  lance  or  spear. 

The  grass  springs  up  anew. 

When  cheeks  like  theirs  around  him  glow  I 

On  budding  trees,  the  bright-plumed  birds 

Pour  forth  their  sweet  refrain. 

Come,  fill  your  glasses  round  again ; 

Singing  from  early  morn  till  night— 

While  music  pours  its  dulcet  strain. 

The  Spring  has  come  again. 

And  madly  through  each  throbbing  vein 

The  warm  red  current  leaps  and  whirls. 

The  red-bud  wears  its  purple  dress. 

We'll  pledge  our  own  beloved  State  : 

The  dog- wood  wears  its  white ; 

Triumph  shall  on  her  banner  wait ; 

From  the  gnarled  roots  of  ancient  oaks. 

Freemen  alone  are  tit  to  mate 

Peep  blue-eyed  violets  bright. 

With  Mississippi's  lovely  girls ! 

Bachwoods  Poems. 


65 


The  Maid  of  Pascagoula. 

O  come  with  me,  my  bark  canoe 
Is  floating  on  the  waters  blue, 
By  Pascagoula's  shore ; 

0  pome  and  cross  the  sleeping  tide. 
And  you  shall  be  my  dark-eyed  bride- 
Mine — mine  forevermore. 

We'll  steer  toward  the  Southern  isles, 
Where  bright-eyed  spring  forever  smiles. 

And  skies  are  always  blue ; 
Earth's  brightest  flowers  are  blooming  there. 
But,  O,  not  one  is  half  so  fair. 

Nor  half  so  sweet  as  you. 

Haste— haste  with  me,  your  warrior  sire, 
With  gleaming  knife,  and  eyes  of  fire. 
Is  on  your  lover's  track ; 

1  hear  the  war-whoops  of  his  band. 

But  blood  shall  stain  the  snow-white  strand, 
Ere  they  shall  take  you  back  ! 


The  Hunter. 

O  let  me  leave  this  noisy  town. 
It  has  no  charms  for  me  ; 
And  let  me  go  to  the  Western  wild. 
And  roam  the  prairies  free. 

There,  mounted  on  my  tiery  steed, 

I'll  chase  the  bounding  deer 

Tlirough  the  waving  grass  and  bright-hued  flowers 

That  robe  the  fading  year. 

Or  in  some  deep  and  tangled  wood 
I'll  rouse  the  grizzly  bear, 
And  with  my  trusty  rifle  slay 
The  monster  in  his  lair. 

And  when  the  noon-day  sun  pours  down 
His  flood  of  biiming  rays, 
I'll  hasten  to  some  crystal  stream 
O'erhung  by  shady  trees. 

On  its  mossy  banks  I'll  eat  my  meal, 
From  pois'nous  lux'ries  free  ; 
My  drink  shall  be  the  limpid  stream, 
More  sweet  than  wine  to  me. 


And  when  the  night  comes  on,  upon 
The  grassy  turf  I'll  lie. 
And  gaze  upon  the  thousand  stars 
That  twinkle  in  the  sky. 

There  listen  to  the  wolf's  loud  howl. 
And  panther's  shriller  screams. 
Till  balmy  sleep  has  carried  me 
To  the  blissful  land  of  dreams. 


Iiines  for  an  Album. 

Come,  write  a  line ;  the  world,  perhaps,  may  never 

see  thy  name 
Inscribed  in  lines  of  living  light,  upon  the  scroll  of 

Fame; 
But  there  is  one  to  whom  that  name  shall  be  forever 

dear — 
A  treasure  laid  on  friendship's  shrine,  if  thou  wilt 

write  it  here. 

In  after  years,  when  time  has  all  our  youthful  hopes 

erased. 
With  sad  delight  I'll  often  read  the  lines  thy  hand 

has  traced  : 
Though  long  and  weary  year's  have  flown,  and  seas 

may  roll  between. 
Those  lines  shall  wake  sweet  thoughts  of  thee,  and 

keep  thy  mem'ry  green. 

And  shouldst  thou  lie  beneath  the  sod,  how  dear 

they'd  be  to  me  ! 
In  every  line,  and  every  word,  I'd  find  a  trace  of  thee. 
Sacred  fore'er  the  page  should  be  whereon  thy  hand 

had  lain. 
And  point  my  thoughts  to  that  bright  land  where  we 

shall  meet  again. 


Epigrana. 


On  a  beautiful  young  lady,  remarkable  for  her  vora- 
cious appetite. 


Sweet  girl,  it  fills  my  soul  with  gloom, 
To  think  that  lips  so  sweet  as  thine 
Should  be  the  gateway  to  the  tomb 
Of  herds  of  beeves,  and  droves  of  swine. 


66 


Backwoods  Poems. 


Kiss  Me. 

Wilt  thou  not  give  a  kiss- 
One  little  kiss  to  me  ? 

Had  I  a  thousand,  Miss, 
I'd  give  them  all  to  thee. 

Thou  wilt  not  miss  it,  sweet, 
When  it  is  plucked  and  gone ; 

Thy  lips  with  them  replete, 
Can  surely  spare  me  one. 

Wilt  not  ?    Then  I  will  call 
Thee  iiint-heart  miser  old. 

Hoarding  thy  kisses  all- 
Kisses  instead  of  gold. 

Nay,  have  I  caused  a  tear  ? 

Forgive  my  rudeness,  pray ; 
And  hold  those  ripe  lips  near, 

I'll  kiss  their  pout  away. 

I'll  call  thee  pet  names,  love. 
Names  softer  than  the  coo 

Of  widowed  turtle-dove- 
Wilt  kiss  me  if  I  do  ? 

Was  ever  sweetheart  so 
Confounded  hard  to  woo  I 

Tnou'rt  colder  than  the  snow, 
Thou'rt  cold,  and  cruel  too. 

The  twilight  hour  is  nigh. 
And  I  must  haste  away : 

Good  bye !  my  love,  good  bye  1— 
Wilt  kiss  me  if  I'll  stay  I 


The  Storm. 

Old  Dominion. 

Watchman,  tell  us  of  the  night. 
For  our  hearts  with  gi-ief  are  bowed : 
Breaks  no  gleam  of  silver  light 
Through  the  dark  and  angi-y  cloud  .' 

Watchnuxn. 
Blacker  grows  the  midnight  sky  ; 
Lightnings  leap,  and  thunders  roll : 
Hist !  the  tempest  draweth  nigh- 
Christ,  have  mercy  on  my  soul ! 


Old  Dominion. 
Search  the  Northern  sky  with  care. 
Whence  the  tempest  issued  forth  : 
Are  the  clouds  not  breaking  there  ? 
Watchman,  tell  us  of  the  North. 

Watchman. 
I  have  searched  the  Northern  skies. 
Where  the  wicked  storm-flends  dwell ; 
From  their  seething  cildron  rise 
Clouds  as  black  as  smoke  from  hell. 

Old  Dominion. 
Turn  you  to  the  East  my  friend ; 
Can  you  see  no  rosy  streak  .' 
Will  the  long  night  never  end  ? 
Day— O,  will  it  never  break  ? 

Waichm,an. 
I  have  looked  ;  no  ray  of  light 
Streaks  the  black  horizon  there  ; 
But  the  angry  face  of  night 
Doth  its  fiercest  aspect  wear. 

Old  Dominion. 
Raven,  cease  your  dismal  croak — 
Cease  to  tear  my  bleeding  breast ! 
Turn  you  where  the  clouds  are  broke  ; 
Watchman,  tell  us  of  the  Wtst. 

Watcliman. 
Black  and  full  of  evils  dire, 
Stands  the  cloud  which  hides  the  West ; 
Storm-lights  tinge  its  base  with  fire. 
Lightnings  play  upon  its  crest. 

Old  Dominion. 
Watchman,  scan  the  Southern  sky  : 
Is  there  not  one  star  in  sight  ? 
Search  with  anxious,  careful  eye — 
Watchman,  tell  us  of  the  night. 

Watchman. 
Praise  the  Lord  !  there  yet  is  hope  ! 
Cease  your  groans  and  dry  your  tears : 
Lo  !  the  sable  cloud  doth  ope. 
And  the  clear  gray  sky  appears. 
Wider  grows  the  held  of  light, 
As  the  rent  clouds  backward  fly. 
And  a  starry  circle  bright 
Silvers  all  the  Southern  sky  ! 

April  15,  1861. 


I 


Backwoods  Poems. 


67 


Song. 

Air—"  Twilight  Dews." 

0  hang  my  harp  upon  the  wall, 
And  ask  no  song  of  me  ; 
There  is  no  music  in  my  heart— 

1  can  not  sing  for  thee. 

My  cherished  hopes,  like  morning  mists. 
Have  all  dissolved  away : 
I've  worshipped  at  an  earthly  shrine, 
And  found  my  idol  clay. 

The  drooping  mock -bird  in  its  cage 
Cannot  be  taught  to  trill 
The  gladsome  notes  it  warbled  forth 
Upon  its  native  hill. 

Then  do  not  ask  a  song  of  me. 
When  all  my  hopes  are  flown ; 
But  hang  my  harp  upon  the  wall. 
And  let  me  weep  alone. 


Go,  sleek-faced  parson,  preach  to  them 

Of  "  slavery's  galling  chain ;" 

Their  sympathy  for  Afiic's  sons 

May  banish  hunger's  pain. 

They  were  your  dupes  and  victims  once, 

And  they  may  be  again. 

They  spurn  you  now  !  they've  learned  at  last 

'Twas  all  a  wicked  lie ; 

To  all  your  honied  eloquence 

They  answer  with  the  cry  : 

"The  rich  man^s  board  with  plenty  groans, 

And  must  our  children  die  f" 

They've  all  gone  mad  -those  haggard  men 

Who  flaunt  the  banner  red  ; 

Hunger  and  cold  have  done  their  work, 

And  reason  now  is  fled. 

Wo,  wo  to  him  who  gives  a  stone 

To  those  who  ask  for  bread  ! 


"Blood  or  Bread." 

Over  the  city  hangs  a  gloom 

This  cold  midwinter  day  ; 

Through  ragged  clouds  the  round  white  sun 

Sheds  but  a  feeble  ray  ; 

And  earth,  and  sea,  and  sky  present 

A  dull  and  cheerless  gray. 

Hushed  is  the  sound  of  revelry. 
And  hum  of  busy  trade  ; 
And  fashion's  votaries  no  more 
The  sidewalk  promenade. 
A  shadow  luvks  on  every  brow, 
And  every  heart's  dismayed. 

But  hark  !  what  distant  sound  is  that 
Which  falls  upon  the  ear- 
Fierce  as  the  howl  of  famished  wolves 
In  Norway's  forests  drear. 
When  Winter  in  a  snowy  shroud 
Has  wrapped  the  dead  old  year  ? 

And  see  !  far  down  the  broad  paved  street 
There  floats  a  banner  red. 
Borne  by  a  host  of  rough-clad  men. 
Who  march  with  measured  tread; 
While  from  ten  thousand  throats  goes  up 
The  cry  of  "  BLOOD  OR  BREAD  !" 


Kally  Song. 

Hark  !  the  bugle's  loud  alarm 

Calls  us  to  the  field  of  gore. 

Freemen  rally  !    Freemen  arm. 

Ere  the  toe  is  at  our  door. 
Let  no  Northern  vandal's  tread 
•Soil  the  sod  which  rests 
On  the  hallowed  breasts 
Of  our  great  historic  dead. 
CAorws— Freemen  rally,  freemen  arm ; 

From  the  workshop  and  the  farm. 
From  the  pulpit  and  the  bar, 
Rally  for  the  bloody  war. 

By  our  great  ancestral  braves. 

Whose  strong  arms  their  fetters  broke, 
We  will  be  no  cringing  slaves. 

We  will  wear  no  Yankee  yoke  ! 
Yield  the  boon  our  fathers  won  ? 

Not  till  we  forget 

Yorktown  and  Chalmette, 
Jackson,  Sumter,  Washington ! 

Independence  !  glorious  word  ! 

Shout  it  on  the  land  and  sea ; 
Once  our  fathers'  hearts  it  stirred. 

Now  it  shall  our  slogan  be. 
Independence !  it  shall  fire 

Every  Southron's  heart 

To  perform  a  part 
That  shall  not  disgrace  his  sire. 


68                                       Bachwoods 

Poeins. 

Freemen  hear  your  Country's  call ; 

I  will  keep  my  spirit  free. 

Eally  for  your  Country's  sake ; 

Birds  cannot  be  caught  again, 

There  is  work  enough  for  all  - 

If  they  once  have  broke  the  snare ; 

Blows  to  give  and  blows  to  take. 

Smiles  and  looks  are  now  in  vain, 

Time  for  wordy  war  has  past 

Maiden  with  the  dark  brown  hair. 

In  the  Congress  hall ; 

Bayonet  and  ball 
Must  decide  the  strife  at  last. 

The  Old  Soldier. 

The  Star  Circle  Banner. 

Go,  .Johnny,  grandson,  bring  the  gUn 

I  carried  in  the  flght                                                  V 

The  star-spangled  flag  to  our  fathers  so  dear— 

When  Jackson  and  his  backwood's  boys                1 

We  think  of  it  oft  with  a  sigh  and  a  tear  ; 

Put  Packenham  to  flight.                                       1 

For  the  vandals  who  cursed  it,  have  snatched  it  away, 

I've  heard  some  news  to-day  which  makes            1 

And  it  floats  at  the  head  of  their  columns  to-day. 

My  blood  with  anger  boil —                                      ■ 

But  we've  made  us  another  our  flag-stafl:  to  gi'ace— 

The  Yankee  thieves  have  dared  to  land                1 

We've  made  us  another,  and  hung  in  its  place ; 

On  Mississippi's  soil  I                                                 " 

And  it  flaunts  in  the  face  of  Old  Abe  and  his  crew— 

But  they  shall  learn— nor  shall  they  soon  forget — 

Our  star-circle  banner— the  red,  white  and  blue. 

There's  life  and  pluck  in  Jackson's  soldiers  yet. 

The  star-circle  banner-=-the  red,  white  and  blue  ! 

Fore'er  may  it  float  o'er  the  brave  and  tlie  true  ! 

They  know  our  gallant  boys  have  gone 

To  meet  them  far  away, 

How  jaunty  it  floats  in  the  fresh  Southern  air— 

And  think  our  homes,  and  wives  and  babes 

Our  star-circle  banner,  so  simple  and  fair  ! 

Will  fall  an  easy  prey. 

Not  another  so  lovely  is  found  in  the  world  ; 

They  little  reck  that  gray-beards  may 

It  wins  every  heart  wheresoe'er  'tis  unfurled. 

Their  youth  in  age  regain : — 

When  the  heavens  are  red  with  the  battle's  fierce  glare. 

Old  Sampson  felt  his  strength  come  back. 

Our  soldiers  that  banner  to  victory  shall  bear. 

And  Gaza's  lords  were  slain. 

■  As  they  fought  for  the  old,  they  will  ttght  for  the  new, 

And  they  shall  learn,  ere  many  suns  have  set. 

The  star-circle  banner — the  red,  w  liite  and  blue. 

There's  life  and  pluck  in  Jackson's  soldiers  yet. 

The  star-circle  banner — the  red,  white  and  blue  ! 

Fore'er  may  it  float  o'er  the  brave  and  the  true  ! 

I  have  not  felt  for  thirty  years 

So  young  and  stout  as  now ; 

The  palsy  all  has  left  my  arm— 

I  can  not  tell  you  how. 

And  though  my  eyes  beheld  the  light 

Song. 

Ere  Washington  was  dead. 

They^re  keen  enough  to  draw  a  bead 

Inscribed  to  Miss . 

Upon  a  Yankee's  head. 

The  prowling  hounds  shall  learn,  when  we  have  met, 

Maiden  with  the  dark  brown  hair, 

There's  life  and  pluck  in  Jackson's  soldier's  yet. 

Smile  not,  when  I  gaze  on  thee  ; 

Let  thy  white  brow  always  wear 

Go,  Johnny,  grandson,  bring  my  gun. 

Frowns,  and  only  frowns  for  me. 

And  balls  and  powder  too ; 

For  I've  learned  —alas !  too  well — 

I'll  try  a  crack  or  two  to  see 

Danger  lurketh  in  thy  smiles  ; 

If  flint  and  sights  are  true. 

Now  I've  broke  thy  magic  spell, 

At  red  Chalmette  full  ma,ny  a  foe 

I  will  shun  thy  witching  wiles. 

She  caused  to  bite  the  dust ; 

Now  Yankee  hordes  invade  our  soil. 

Maiden  with  the  soft  gray  eyes. 

She  shall  not  hang  arid  rust. 

Cast  no  tender  look  on  me ; 

But  they  shall  learn,  and  nevermore  forget. 

Hopeless  love  hath  made  me  wise, 

There's  lite  and  pluck  in  Jackson's  soldiers  yet. 

Bachwoods  Poems. 


69 


The  Bachelor's  Petition. 

',  Pity  t)ie  sorrows  of  a  poor  old  bach, 
Whose  wan(;lerin{»  stops  ha%  e  sought  your  door : 
He's  tried,  but  tried  in  vain,  to  make  a  match, 
These  ten  long  weary  years  and  more. 

He's  wandered  thro'  the  world's  great  marriage  mart. 
Oft-times  misled  by  Cupid's  wiles ; 
And  now,  to  tliaw  his  poor  old  frozen  heart, 
He  seeks  the  sunlight  of  your  smiles. 

Full  many  a  blasted  hope  has  set  its  seal 
In  seams  and  wrinkles  on  his  brow : 
If  that  dear  heart  can  e'er  compassion  feel, 
O,  let  it  melt  to  pity  now. 

There  was  a  time  when  he  could  strut  the  street 
"With  glossy  boots  and  glossier  curls — 
Envied  by  all  the  beaux  he  chanced  to  meet— 
Adored  by  all  the  village  girls. 

Alas !  he  loved  to  flirt,  and  would  not  wed  ; 
He  coui'ted  each  fair  she  in  turn. 
Until  he  found  his  manhood's  bloom  had  fled. 
No  more  forever  to  return. 

In  haste  he  sought  his  error  to  retrieve. 
Ere  time  should  touch  his  locks  with  snow  ; 
Smiles  and  soft  looks  from  all  he  did  receive. 
But  when  he  pnpiied,  they  answered  no .' 

And  now  he  creeps  along  the  streets,  in  dread 
Of  devilish  boys  and  wicked  girls. 
Who  crack  their  jokes  upon  his  poor  bald  head. 
That  long  since  lost  its  raven  curls. 

Full  many  a  patch  his  faded  breeches  need  ; 
Buttonless  is  the  shirt  he  wears ; 
His  old  black  coat,  at  least,  has  gone  to  seed, 
But  bears  alas  !  a  crop  of  tears. 

His  lazy  laundress  forces  him  to  wear 
Dickeys  that  he  would  once  have  spumed ; 
Too  mi!d  a  mannered  man  to  curse  or  swear, 
Yet  oft  he  wants  his  stockings  darned. 

No  smiling  mate  presides  o'er  board  and  bed. 
Sweetens  his  life  and  cup  of  tea, 
Partakes  his  sorrows  and  his  loaf  of  bread. 
Nor  pulls  his  ears  in  sportive  glee. 

Pity  the  sorrows  of  a  poor  old  bach — 

()  do  not  let  him  plead  in  vain  ; 

But  while  his  trembling  hand  is  on  the  latch. 

Just  give  him  leave  to  call  again. 


The  Mother's  Iiament. 

Bring  back  my  bright-haired  darling  from  the  crimson 

battle  plain; 
These  aching  eyes  would  fain  behold  his  dear-loved 

form  again ; 
I'd  kiss  once  more  his  pale  cold   lips,  and  brow  so 

bioad  and  white. 
Before  the  grave  has  o'er  him  closed,  and  hid  him 

from  my  sight. 

'Twas  liard  to  break  the  holy  ties  which  bound  me 

to  my  boy ; 
For  oh !   he  was  my  youngest  bom,  my  pride,  my 

hope,  my  joy. 
Bu..  when  his  countrj- called,  I  felt  he  was  no  longer 

mine; 
I  plucked  my  jewel  from  my  breast,  and  laid  it  on 

her  shrine. 

Ah !  weary  were  the  long,  long  days  when  first  he 
went  away ; 

All  through  the  live  long  night  I  could  do  nought  but 
pray— 

Pray  to  the  God  who  hears  the  little  ravens  when  they 
cry. 

That  He  would  shield  my  baby-boy  when  danger  hov- 
ered nigh. 

O,  how  my  heart  would  leap  with  joy  when  tidings 

from  him  came ; 
How  oft  I  read  the  lines  he  wrote,  how  oft  I  kissed 

his  name ; 
And  when  I  learned  that  he  was  sick,  it  nearly  broke 

my  heart 
That  I  was  not  beside  his  bed  to  do  a  mother's  part. 

But  not  by  fell  disease  my  noble  boy  was  doomed  to 

die : 
When  battle  smoke  eclipsed  the  sun,  and  hid  the 

azure  sky. 
He  fell  beneath  the  stars  and  bars— the  will  of  God 

be  done ! 
Just  as  the  foe's  exultant  shout  proclaimed  a  vict'ry 

won. 

Bring  back— bring  back  my  darling  boy,  and  let  his 

grave  be  made 
Down  in  the  little  valley  where  in  childhood's  days  he 

played ; 
That  I  may  plant  bright  evergreens  upon  his  narrow 

bed. 
And  lay  my  lifeless  body  down  with  his  when  I  am 

dead. 


70 


Backwoods  Poems. 


Battle  Song  of  the  Riflemen. 

Dedicated  to  the  "Choctaw  Rebels." 

The  wide-mouthed  cannon's  booming'  sound 

Bends  the  still  air  and  shakes  the  ground  ; 

Huzza !  the  battle  draweth  nigh, 

And  we  have  sworn  to  win  or  die. 

Each  rifleman  is  at  his  post : 

Thrice  welcome  now  the  Yankee  host ! 

With  rifle  true  and  bowie-k  nite 

We'll  greet  them  in  the  bloody  strife. 

Chorus — Huzza!  huzza!  the  hour  is  at  band 

When  we  can  strike  for  our  native  land— 
For  loved  ones  round  the  distant  hearth, 
And  all  our  hearts  hold  dear  on  earth. 

What  though  the  whizzing  leaden  sleet 
May  lay  our  comrades  at  our  feet .' 
No  rifleman  will  quake  or  quail, 
No  heart  wax  faint,  no  cheek  grow  pale. 
We'll  close  our  broken  ranks,  and  stand 
A  bulwark  for  our  native  land— 
A  wall  of  Are  no  foe  can  scale. 
And  live  to  tell  the  bloody  tale. 

Fall  back  .'  from  hireling  Hessians  fly  I 

No,  not  while  there  is  left  one  eye 

To  draw  a  bead  upon  the  foe, 

Or  arm  to  deal  a  deadly  blow. 

We'll  stand  while  Heaven  affords  us  breath  ; 

Retreat — defeat — were  worse  than  death ; 

Far  better  fill  a  soldier's  grave 

Than  live  and  be  a  Yankee's  slave. 

Huzza  !  the  balls  around  us  fly  ; 
Our  rifles  true  shall  soon  reply ; 
And  wo  unto  the  luckless  band 
That  dare  before  their  volley  stand. 
Like  praii'ie-grass  before  the  fire. 
Like  trees  before  the  tempest's  ire, 
The  foemen  shall  be  swept  away 
Who  meet  us  in  the  fight  to-day. 


We  Come! 

We  come !  from  valley,  hill  and  plain- 
The  sons  of  wealth— the  sons  of  toil— 
To  avenge  our  gallant  brothers  slain, 
And  drive  the  foemen  from  our  soil. 
From  Tennessee  to  Ponchartrain, 
The  flres  are  burning  bright  again ; 


From  towns  and  country,  shops  and  farms. 
The  Mississippians  rush  to  arms ! 

We  come !  we  come  I  we've  heard  the  clash 
Of  arms  in  dear  old  Tennessee, 
And  quicker  than  the  lightning's  flash 
It  set  on  tire  our  spirits  free. 
Defeat  our  hearts  no  more  can  tame 
Than  oil  poured  on  can  quench  a  flame ; 
We  come !  and  vengeance  swift  will  wreak 
For  Donelson  and  Fishing  Creek  ! 

We  come !  we  come  !  the  post  we  ask 
Is  where  the  balls  the  thickest  fly ; 
We  crave  no  light  and  easy  task— 
We  come,  resolved  to  win  or  die. 
Where  loudest  roars  the  cannon's  peal. 
Where  fiercest  rings  the  clash  of  steel, 
The  hardy  sons  of  the  Rifle  State 
Will  viot'ry  wrench  from  the  jaws  of  fate. 


Our  Young  Nation. 

A  song  for  our  Nation— our  young  Nation  free  ! 
Let  it  ring  through  the  valleys  and  float  o'er  the  sea. 
Till  the  people  who  dwell  in  the  isles  far  away 
Of  the  Nation  shall  hear  that  was  bom  in  a  day. 

Chorus— 
Huzza !  for  our  Nation — our  young  virgin  Nation  ! 
Not  a  blemish  nor  spot  her  escutcheon  doth  bear ; 
Our  lives  we  devote  to  secure  her  salvation 
From  the  chains  which  the  tyrants  would  force  her  to 
wear. 

As  the  young  mother  loveth  the  babe  at  her  breast  — 
The  first  with  which  Heaven  her  marriage  has  blest ; 
As  the  fond  husband  loveth  his  newly-made  bride. 
So  we  love  our  young  Nation— our  hope  and  our  pride. 

We  care  not  for  danger,  privation  and  toil. 
While  the  foot  of  a  foeman  poUuteth  her  soil ; 
All  things  will  we  suffer,  all  danger  we'll  brave, 
Our  Nation  from  Yankee  dominion  to  save. 

A  cup  of  cold  water — a  morsel  of  bread — 
The  sky  for  a  cover— the  earth  for  a  bed — 
Let  these  be  our  portion— we  glory  to  be 
Counted  worthy  to  suffer— our  Country — for  thee. 

Then  rally  around  our  young  Nation,  ye  brave  ! 
And  swear  that  her  banner  triumphant  shall  wave, 
While  our  rivers  shall  flow  to  the  deep  azure  sea, 
Or  the  red  stream  of  life  through  our  veins  courses  free. 


Backwoods  Poems. 


71 


To  Arms! 

Freemen  of  the  South,  awake  ! 
Lo !  the  foe  is  at  your  door, 
For  your  bleeding  country's  sake 
Rally  now,  or  nevermore. 

Will  ye  still  more  slumber  crave  X 
Will  ye  fold  your  liands  to  sleep, 
While  your  foes,  like  a  mighty  wave, 
Down  our  fertile  valley  sweep  X 

Cast  aside  all  thoughts  of  self; 
Do  not  pause  to  count  the  cost ; 
Wliat  is  life  or  worldly  peU, 
If  your  liberty  is  lost ! 

Tui-n  each  sickle  to  a  sword ; 

Of  each  ijlough-share  make  a  pike ; 

And  relying  on  the  Lord, 

For  your  homes  and  freedom  strike  ! 


Nil  Desperandum. 

In  vain  upon  our  sunny  land 

The  North  her  legions  pours; 

In  vain  her  gunboats  ride  our  streams. 

Her  fleets  invest  our  shores. 

We  will  not  wear  her  iron  yoke. 
We  loill  not  bow  the  knee ; 
We  nail  our  banner  to  the  mast. 
And  swear  we  will  be  free  ! 

Though  one  by  one,  our  cities  tall 
Before  the  vandal  host, 
We  will  not  yield  to  weak  despair, 
Nor  count  the  battle  lost. 

There's  light  behind  the  sable  cloud 
Which  hangs  across  our  sky  ; 
When  night  grows  blackest  overhead 
The  rosy  dawn  is  nigh. 

Our  armies  may  be  driven  back. 

Our  chosen  leaders  slain  ; 

But  the  blood  poured  out  for  freedom's  cause 

Shall  not  be  shed  in  vain. 

Bequeathed  from  bleeding  sire  to  son 
The  holy  cause  shall  be ; 
And  the  gleaming  sword  shall  find  no  rest 
Until  oua  Country's  free. 


Forward ! 

Thi'ow  spade  and  shovel  in  the  ditch, 
And  lay  the  pick-axe  by ; 
The  time  is  past  for  digging  dirt, 
And  FORWARD !  is  the  cry. 
Spike  all  the  monster  iron  guns, 
And  bury  every  shell ; 
The  ball,  the  knife,  the  bayonet. 
Shall  do  the  work  full  well. 
Chorus— So  forward  !  boys,  my  gallant  boys. 

To  meet  the  Yankee  slaves, 

And  "welcome  them  with  bloody  hands 

To  hospitable  graves." 

Fierce  as  the  tempest  in  its  wrath. 
Sweep  down  upon  your  foes ; 
And  let  the  quivering  lightning  be 
No  swifter  than  your  blows. 
On — ever  on— your  brawny  arms 
Shall  hew  you  out  a  way ; 
And  wo  unto  the  toeman  rash 
Who  would  your  progress  stay. 

Strike  for  the  graves  of  loved  ones  gone— 
The  land  that  gave  you  birth— 
Your  mothers,  sisters,  daughters,  wives— 
And  all  you  love  on  earth. 
Use  well  the  gleaming  bayonet. 
Nor  cease  the  bloody  toil 
While  there  is  left  a  Yankee  foot 
Upon  our  Southern  soil. 


Prayer 

OF   THE  CHRISTIAN  SOLDIER  ON  THE  BAT- 
TLE-FIELD. 

'Mid  clang  of  arms  and  clash  of  steel, 
Help  me,  O  righteous  God,  to  feel 
That  I  am  in  Thy  presence  still. 

To  me,  this  hour,  Thy  grace  impart ; 
Help  me  to  do  a  soldier's  part, 
With  steady  hand  and  willing  heart. 

Let  not  the  fires  of  hate,  to-day, 
Impel  this  arm  of  flesh  to  slay ; 
Vengeance  is  Thine,  Thou  wilt  repay. 

My  duty  to  my  native  land, 
Affection  for  my  household  band — 
Let  these  alone  direct  my  hand. 


1 

7^                                          Backwoods  Poems.                                              1 

And  to  a  fallen,  helpless  foe 

Defenceless  woman's  sneer  alarms                        1 

May  I  that  mercy  ever  show 

And  sets  your  soul  on  fire.                                       * 

Which  I  to  all  Thy  creatures  owe. 

Let  Jove  his  sceptre  yield  to  you. 

When  the  mighty  deed  is  sung ; 

Thou  who  dost  hear  with  melting  eye 

You've  done  what  Ite.  could  never  do— 

The  little  ravens  when  they  cry. 

You've  hampered  woman's  tongue ! 

Be  Thou  unto  my  loved  ones  nigh. 

Go  home,  O  Picayune  the  great ! 

The  wife  at  home  that  weeps  for  me. 

Go  home  and  play  the  whale ; 

The  smiling  babe  upon  her  knee — 

Through  all  the  virtuous  Codfish  State, 

0  give  them  grace  to  trust  in  Thee. 

Eehearse  the  wondrous  tale. 

And  they  whose  sires  in  olden  time 

Kind  Father,  hear  my  pleading  call ; 

Burnt  women  at  the  stake. 

And  if,  by  bayonet  or  ball. 

To  recompense  the  deed  sublime. 

Upon  the  crimson  field  I  fall — 

Of  you  a  god  will  make  ! 

0  let  Thy  tender  mercy  save, 

And  bear  me  o'er  death's  boist'rous  wave. 

And  Christ  be  victor  o'er  the  grave. 

Lines 

To  Miss  E.  K.  G.  on  receiving  a  beautiful  Hydrangea 
Of  all  who  dwell  upon  the  earth- 

Lyric, 

On  land  or  on  the  sea—                                            \ 

Fair  lady,  there  is  scarcely  one                               . 

To  Major  General  B.  P.  Butxeb,  U.  S.  A. 

Who  ever  thinks  of  me. 

Hail !  Massachusetts'  cod-flsh  Mars  ! 

Immortal  Picayune ! 

Few  are  so  poor  they  have  no  friends 

r 

To  share  their  grief  or  mirth ; 

Deeds  as  illustrious  as  yours. 

I'm  sure,  deserve  a  tune. 

But  /  have  trod  life's  path  alone— 

And  I  have  seized  my  one-stringed  lyre 

A  stranger  on  the  earth. 

To  chaunt  those  deeds  in  rhyme, 

That  boys  may  stare,  and  men  admire. 
Throughout  all  future  time. 

What  pleasure  then  the  gift  affords 
So  kindly  sent  to  me ! 

My  heart  can  find  no  words  to  tell 

Not  where  the  cannons'  deaf 'ning  roar 

The  thanks  it  owes  to  thee. 

Like  an  earthquake  shakes  the  ground ; 

■ 

Not  where  lifers  sanguine  currents  pour 

In  Eden's  garden,  I  am  sure. 

No  fairer  bloom  e'er  gi'ew ; 

Through  many  a  gaping  wound— 

May  flowers  as  fragrant,  kindest  friend. 

The  laurels  grew  which  you  have  won. 

The  blood,  and  lire,  and  smut. 

Thy  pathway  always  strew. 

You  glad  resigned  to  Neptune's  son— 
The  famous  Faragut. 

Snug  in  your  quarters,  mighty  man ! 

Vicksburg. 

The  bloody  work  all  done. 

You  sent  abroad  the  dread  firman 

The  thunders  of  the  Northmen's  wrath 

That  all  your  laurels  won. 

Are  all  converged  on  thee. 

You've  proved  by  deed,  what  sapient  men 

Thou  Mordecai  in  Haman's  path 

Have  oft  declared  by  word  ; 

That  will  not  bow  the  knee  ! 

You've  proved,  0  Picayune,  your  pen 

Is  mightier' than  your  sword. 

The  rest  have  fallen  ;  thou  aloae 

Dost  guard  our  river  deep, 

Far  nobler  game  than  men  in  arms 

Serenely  sitting  on  thy  throne 

Attracts  your  vengeful  ire ; 

Upon  the  towering  steep. 

Backwoods   Poems. 


73 


Before  thee  ride  the  iron  boats 
Which  others  quaked  to  see ; 
The  red  volcanoes  in  their  throats 
No  terrors  have  tor  thee. 

For  thou  art  there  to  offer  up 
Thyself  on  Freedom's  shrine— 
Willing  to  drink  the  tiery  cup, 
And  perish,  thou,  and  thine. 

Queen  City  of  the  Sunny  South, 
Baptized  with  blood  and  flame  ! 
Thy  praises  are  in  eveiy  mouth, 
And  millions  bless  thy  name. 

Though  hell-lit  fires  of  Yankee  hate 
Consume  each  cot  and  hall, 
Thy  streets  shall  not  be  desolate. 
Thou  shalt  not  perish  all. 

We'll  make  thy  site  a  holy  ground— 
The  Mecca  of  the  free ; 
Each  ruin  charred,  each  shapeless  mound, 
Shall  Freedom's  temple  be. 

And  when  the  loud-mouthed  war  is  dumb. 
And  Peace  resumes  her  reign. 
Thy  daughters  and  thy  sons  shall  come 
To  build  thy  walls  again. 

More  fair  and  lovely  than  before. 
Thy  buildings  shall  arise; 
Bright  flowers  shall  bloom  at  every  door 
To  glad  thy  children's  eyes. 

And  they  whose  iron  missiles  beat 
Thy  dwellings  down  to-day. 
Shall  moor  their  vessels  at  thy  feet. 
And  there  their  tribute  pay. 


Song. 

I'm  thinking  of  thee,  dearest. 
In  the  stilly  winter  night, 
When  the  glist'ning  frost  is  forming 
And  stars  are  t-ft'inkling  bright. 
And  when  my  spirit  crosses 
To  the  shady  shore  of  sleep. 
It  beai-s  thee  in  its  arms,  love, 
Across  the  waters  deep. 


I'm  thinking  of  thee,  dearest. 
When  the  rising  sun  doth  wait 
For  the  rosy-fingered  morning 
To  ope  her  pearly  gate. 
When,  in  his  flaming  chariot. 
He  ascends  the  azure  sky, 
I'm  thinking  of  thee  still,  sweet, 
I'm  wishing  thou  wert  nigh. 

I'm  thinking  of  thee,  dearest. 

When  the  west  is  all  aglow 

With  the  purple,  gold,  and  crimson, 

Of  sunset's  over  flow. 

When  twilight  shades  are  stealing 

Over  valley,  hill,  and  glen, 

I'm  thinking  of  thee,  darling, 

I'm  sighing  for  thee,  then. 


Woman's  Appeal. 

Air — "  Happy  Land." 

Go  to  the  battle  field ; 

Make  no  delay : 
Your  bosoms  are  our  shield  ; 

Haste— haste  away. 
Lo !  now  the  vandal  band 
Come  with  sword  and  torch  in  hand ; 
Strke  for  your  native  land. 

Strike  while  ye  may. 

Go  to  the  field  of  strife- 
Go  meet  the  foe ; 

For  children,  home,  and  wife 
Strike  well  each  blow. 

How  can  you  linger  here, 

When  the  sound  of  battle's  near  f 

By  all  you  hold  most  dear, 
We  bid  you  go. 

In  God's  impartial  sight 
Our  cause  is  just; 

For  gold  the  Northmen  fight- 
Rapine  and  lust. 

Unsheathe  the  gleaming  blade, 

And  let  not  the  work  be  stayed, 

Till  every  foe  is  made 
To  bite  the  dust. 


u 


Baohwoods  Poems. 


Lucienne. 

With  chin  on  hands  a  resting, 

And  elbows  on  my  knees, 

I  watch  the  lengthening  shadows 

Of  the  tall  old  china  trees. 

And  listen  all  the  evening 

To  the  whispers  of  the  breeze. 

How  has  it  learned  my  secret  ? 

Pray  tell  me,  if  you  can  ; 

I  ne'er  so  much  as  breathed  it 

Unto  a  mortal  man ; 

And  yet  it  keeps  a  whispering 

The  name  of  Lucienne. 

Alas !  methought  my  passion, 
The  love  of  by-gone  years, 
Was  long  since  dead  and  buiied, 
And  all  its  hopes  and  fears, 
And  thronging  train  of  memories. 
Were  blotted  out  by  tears. 

It  was  not  dead,  though  buried 

With  the  epitaph— m  vain; 

And  the  breeze's  constant  whisper 

Calls  it  to  lite  again, 

As  the  withered  grass  reviveth 

When  kissed  by  summer  rain. 

And  memory — busy  memory— 
Recalls  the  long  ago. 
When  she  to  me  was  dearer 
Than  all  things  else  below ; 
While  I  to  her  was— nothing  — 
Too  well,  alas  !  I  know. 

She  was  a  pretty  school-girl 
When  first  my  heart  she  won — 
A  dainty  little  rosebud 
Just  opening  to  the  sun — 
Where  womanhood  and  childhood 
Were  sweetly  blent  in  one. 

So  long  had  I  been  living 

In  a  shadow  dark  and  cold, 

Musing  on  hopes  departed 

Which  perished  all  untold. 

That  my  brow  was  growing  wrinkled, 

And  my  heart  was  growing  old. 

The  sunlight  of  her  presence 

Gave  life  a  golden  hue ; 

The  hours  once  dull  and  languid 


On  rosy  pinions  flew ; 

And  my  sad  and  weary  spirit 

Put  on  its  youth  anew. 

The  very  skies  looked  brighter 

That  o'er  my  homestead  hung ; 

The  roses  by  the  gateway 

A  richer  fragrance  flung ; 

And  the  birds  among  the  branches 

A  sweeter  carol  sung. 

Bach  day,  my  heart's  young  passion 

New  strength  and  ardor  gained, 

Fed  on  the  honied  kisses 

By  idle  fancy  feigned. 

And  tender  smiles  and  glances 

From  lips  and  eyes  well  trained. 

As  we  sat  one  summer  evening 
Beneath  a  spreading  oak, 
We  learned  each  other's  secret, 
Though  not  a  word  was  spoke : 
My  blissful  dream  was  over,    - 
The  sweet  delusion  broke. 

Words  cannot  tell  my  anguish, 

My  soul's  exquisite  pain : 

It  seemed  some  fiend  of  darkness 

Had  written  on  my  brain. 

In  red-hot,  scorching  letters. 

The  cruel  words — in  vain. 

I  sought  again  my  shadow— 
This  shadow  dark  and  drear, 
But  horrid  grinning  demons 
Come  ti'ooping  round  me  here, 
And—"  Lucienne  !"  kept  whispering 
And  shrieking  in  my  ear. 

Time,  kind  physician,  led  me 

To  Lethe's  stilly  stream. 

Whose  waters  made  the  mem'ries 

Of  my  hopeless  passion  seem 

Like  the  scattered  shajjeless  fragments 

Of  a  half-forgotten  dream. 

But  the  fiends  have  told  my  secret 
To  the  tattling  zephyr  train ; 
And  the  love  long  cold  and  buried 
Has  come  to  life  again, 
To  crush  my  heart  with  anguish. 
And  rack  my  weary  brain. 


Bachwoods  Poems. 


75 


Song  for  Price's  Boys. 

With  knapsack  on  my  shoulders, 
And  musket  in  my  hand, 
I  go  to  meet  the  Yankees, 
To  fight  tor  Dixie's  land. 

And  to  battle  I  will  go. 

And  to  battls  I'll  go, 

I'll  go,  I'll  go,  I'll  go, 

And  to  battle  I  will  go. 

Farewell,  my  dear-loved  ta:)her, 
And  mother  ever  kind, 
My  sisters,  and  my  sweetheart, 
I  leave  you  all  behind. 
And  to  battle,  &c. 

I've  heard  the  cries  of  anguish. 
The  screams  of  children  pale. 
The  groans  of  gray-haired  fathers. 
And  helpless  woman's  wail, 
And  to  battle,  &c. 

They  call  on  us  to  shiver 
The  tyrant's  galling  chain. 
And  if  the  Lord  is  willing. 
They  shall  not  call  in  vain. 
And  to  battle,  &c. 

Before  our  dear  young  Nation 
Shall  to  the  Yankees  yield. 
We'll  lay  our  bloody  corpses 
Upon  the  battle  field. 
And  to  battle,  &e. 

So  cheer  up,  fellow-soldiers. 
And  hasten  to  the  fray. 
We'll  storm  the  den  of  Satan, 
If  "  Pap"  will  lead  the  way. 
And  to  battle,  &c. 


"To  Your  Tents,  Israel." 

Sons  of  sires  whose  life-blood  free 
Purchased  us  our  liberty. 
Will  ye  bend  the  supple  knee  ? 

Will  ye  shrink  in  pale  affright  \ 
Basely  yield  each  blood-bought  right  ? 
Cringe,  and  lick  the  bands  that  smite  J 


Will  you  see  your  children  wear. 
Through  long  years  of  black  despair, 
Chains  your  fathers  would  not  bear  ? 

Then,  while  it  is  called  to-day. 
Arm  ye  for  the  bloody  fray — 
March  where  duty  points  the  way. 

Oaths  and  fetters  for  the  slave ! 
But  for  all  the  true  and  brave, 
Independence  or  the  grave ! 


Xiula  Bell. 

Nay,  tell  me  not  that  lady  fair. 
With  haughty  lip  and  queenly  air. 
And  jewels  in  her  braided  hair, 
Is  Lula  Bell— my  Lula  Bell, 
The  sweet  young  girl  I  loved  so  well 
Six  years  ago. 

The  lips  are  false— as  false  as  hell- 
That  tell  me  so. 

My  Lula  would  not  pass  me  by 
AVith  curling  lip,  averted  eye. 
Ah !  no,  I'm  sure  she'd  rather  die 
Than  wound  my  heart ;  she  was  so  mild 
And  angel-like— the  darling  child  !— 
Six  years  ago. 

I  will  not  heed  a  tale  so  wild — 
'Tis  false,  I  know. 

Slu  never  marred  with  jewels  bright 

Her  dainty  taper  fingers  white ; 

Simplicity  was  her  delight. 

Diamonds  and  pearls  she  would  not  wear- 

Nor  gold— except  her  golden  hair. 

'Tis  vain  to  tell 

Me,  that  yon  jeweled  lady  fair 

Is  Lula  Bell. 

No,  Lula's  dead— mj/  Lula  Bell ; 
What  time  she  died  I  cannot  tell ; 
But  this  I  know— I  know  too  well : 
The  girl  I  loved  has  passed  away ; 
No  where  can  she  be  found  to-day, 
On  land  or  sea. 

Call  it  but  charge,  or  what  you  may. 
She's  dead  to  me  ! 


76                                           Backwoods   Poems. 

The  Maid  of  St.  Louis. 

The  warm  red  life  out-poured. 

> 

There  fell  the  bright-haired  Southern  boy— 

Among  the  victims  of  the  massacre  near  St.  Louis, 

My  darling  Willy  Lane — 

in  May  1861,  was  a  beautiful  g'irl  about  fourteen  years 
old. 

Baptizing  with  his  heart's  young  blood 

The  frozen  battle  plain. 

Quick  close  the  sightless  eyes ; 

Chorus— 0  Willy !  sweet  Willy ! 

Wash  off  each  purple  gout ; 

Darling  Willy  Lane  ! 

Wrap  close  the  muslin  robe 

Your  soft  blue  eyes  are  dim  in  death — 

Her  snowy  breast  about, 

We  ne'er  shall  meet  again. 

Where  the  Hessian's  ball  went  in, 

And  the  warm  red  life  nished  out. 

Oh !  he  was  dearer  far  to  me 

Than  all  the  world  beside ; 

Wipe  from  her  ashy  lips 

And  I  had  pledged  my  maiden  faith 

The  foam  that's  gathered  there ; 

That  I  would  be  his  bride. 

And  from  her  brow  smooth  back 

But  Willy  heard  his  country  call, 

The  tangled  golden  hair; 

And  could  no  longer  stay ; 

Fold  meekly  on  her  breast 

He  pressed  good-bye  upon  my  lips 

Her  dainty  hands  so  fair. 

And  hastened  to  the  fray. 

i                   Let  the  mother  cease  her  wail. 

Where  battle  fires  the  reddest  glowed. 

And  check  the  starting  tear  ; 

And  balls  the  thickest  flew, 

1                     It  were  not  well  such  sound 

My  Willy  stood  with  cheek  unblanched, 

;                     Should  reach  the  people's  ear  — 

To  duty  ever  true. 

A  mother  weeping  o'er 

And  there  the  lead — the  cruel  lead— 

Her  murdered  daughter's  bier ! 

His  tender  bosom  tore ; 

It  might  light  up  a  flame 

But  oh !  he  died  a  soldier's  death— 

In  every  list'ner's  breast, 

His  wounds  were  all  before. 

That  would  in  peril  place 

The  peace  with  which  we're  blest— 

0,  WUly  Lane  !  my  own  sweet  love  ! 

Such  peace  as  lambs  enjoy 

How  can  I  give  thee  up  ! 

i                   In  the  bloody  vulture's  nest ! 

'Twill  break  my  heart,  I  know  it  will  — 

" 

To  drink  this  bitter  cup. 

Let  women  dig  her  grave. 

But  welcome,  Death !  His  icy  touch 

And  bury  her  by  night. 

Shall  tree  me  from  my  pain ; 

When  the  moon  has  hid  her  face. 

And  in  a  lovelier,  better  land 

And  stars  have  veiled  their  light : 

I'll  meet  my  Willy  Lane. 

Missouri's  fiery  sons 

0,  Willy !  sweet  Willy  ! 

;                   Must  not  behold  the  sight : 

Darling  Willy  Lane ! 

' 

In  Heaven's  bright  and  shining  courts- 

■                    Lest  thej  should  swear  an  oath 

There— there—we'll  meet  again. 

Like  that  which  Brutus  swore. 

When  he  held  aloft  the  blade 

Red  with  Lucretia's  gore— 

And  scourge  the  Hessian  fiends 

Frum  fair  Missouri's  shore  ! 

The  Winter  of  the  Heart. 

Old  Winter  .soon  will  seek  his  home 

Willy  Lane. 

Beneath  the  iceberg's  glittering  dome : 
The  ice,  the  sleet,  the  piercing  blast , 

A  BALLAD  OF  THE  WAR. 

The  dreary  rain,  the  sky  o'ercast, 

From  us  will  shortly  pass  away : 

Where  fiercely  rung  the  clash  of  steel, 

But  oh  !  tha  winter  in  my  heart 

And  loud  the  cannons  roared. 

Will  never,  nevermore  depart ; 

And  from  rhe  breasts  of  friends  and  foes 

Its  spring  is  gone— and  gone  for  aye. 

• 

Backwoods  Poems.                                           '77 

The  wailing  trees,  whose  branches  bare 

We  have  sworn  it !  Ye  whose  revels 

An  icy  coat  of  armor  wear, 

Desecrate  our  childhood's  home- 

Their  deep-green  robes  will  soon  resume : 

Sons  of  Moloch— bloody  devils- 

The  swelling  buds  will  burst  and  bloom. 

Tremble,  tor  your  hour  has  come. 

When  kissed  by  April's  gentle  rain : 

Fierce-eyed  Vengeance  now  is  making 

But  hopes  of  mine,  once  fondly  cherished. 

Bare  his  brawny,  red  right  arm. 

Which  with  the  leaves  in  autumn  perished. 

And  the  gleaming  blade  is  shaking 

Will  never  come  to  life  again. 

That  shall  drink  your  life-blood  warm. 

Music  ^ill  float  o'er  hill  and  dell— 

We  are  coming !  fathers,  mothers. 

The  grazing  cattle's  tinkling  bell ; 

Let  the  fainting  hearts  revive ; 

The  murmur  of  the  western  breeze ; 

Fan  the  fire  the  tyrant  smothers, 

The  song  of  birds,  the  hum  of  bees. 

Keep  the  glowing  spark  alive. 

The  dusky  plowman's  loud  refrain : 

Ere  by  Cumberland's  blue  waters 

But  my  heart's  a  lute  with  broken  strings, 

Fades  the  last  wild  rose  of  Spring, 

And  naught  that  spring  or  autumn  brings. 

Tennessee's  own  bright  eyed  daughters 

Can  call  its  music  forth  again. 

Shall  our  glorious  triumph  sing. 

Tennessee. 

The  Grave  in  the  Wilderness. 

A  Sling  for  the  veteran  soldiers  of  the  Volunteer  State. 

Where,  long  before  the  close  of  day, 

Marching  through  the  gloomy  wild-wood. 

The  Twilight  musters  her  array 

Or  in  bivouac  on  the  plain, 

Of  shades,  to  scale  the  mountain  side 

Thoughts  of  spots  we  loved  in  childhood 

The  form  was  laid 

Crowd  upon  the  weary  brain. 

Of  one  who  in  her  girlhood  died ; 

As  a  lost  child's  heart  keeps  yearning 

Never  a  bride. 

For  its  place  on  its  motherfe  knee. 

But  alas !  no  maid. 

So  our  thoughts  are  ever  turning 

Back  to  dear  old  Tennessee  ! 

No  weeping-willows  drooping  wave 

Chorus — Tennessee !  dear  Tennessee  ! 

Above  her  narrow  lowly  grave  ; 

Wheresoe'er  our  lot  may  be. 

No  sculptured  marble  at  her  head 

Fondly  turn  our  thoughts  to  thee— 

Records  her  name ; 

Tennessee,  sweet  Tennessee ! 

But  the  wild  rose  blooms  upon  her  bed. 

And  blushes  red 

On  the  crimson  field  of  battle, 

For  the  lost  one's  shame. 

Wading  through  a  sea  of  gore, 

Loud  above  the  muskets'  rattle- 

She  was  her  father's  only  child ; 

Loud  above  the  cannon's  roar, 

As  fair  and  sweet  as  the  flow'rs  wild 

We  have  heard  her  wails  of  anguish- 

Which  near  her  vine-clad  cottage  grew 

Shrieks  for  help  when  none  was  near- 

In  early  spring ; 

Groans  ot  fathers  doomed  to  languish 

With  eyes  like  tender  violets  blue. 

In  the  prisons  dark  and  drear. 

And  hair  the  hue 

Of  the  raven's  wing. 

And  we've  sworn — her  hardy  yeomen — 

By  the  God  who  rules  above, 

But  a  serpent  came  in  the  guise  of  love. 

That  we'll  drive  the  vandal  foAnen 

With  a  voice  as  soft  as  a  cooing  dove. 

From  the  dear  old  State  we  love : 

And  a  heart  as  black  as  a  fiend  from  hell. 

From  the  altars  where  our  fathers 

Day  after  day. 

Knelt  in  olden  time  to  God, 

Around  the  maid  he  wove  his  spell, 

And  the  grave-yards  where  our  mothers 

Till  she  loved  and  fell— 

Sleep  beneath  the  hallowed  sod. 

The  spoiler's  prey. 

!l 

78                                           Backwoods   Poems.                                                 1 

What  need  to  tell  the  tale  oft  told— 

I'll  Think  of  Thee. 

How  love  dissembled  soon  grew  oold, 

And,  lar  from  home,  the  ruined  one 

I'll  think  of  thee,  when  morning  tints 

Was  cast  aside. 

Witn  rosy  hue  the  eastern  sky ; 

Like  a  broken  ring  with  the  ruby  gone  .' 

When  sparkling  dews  and  blushing  flowers 

Heart-broke — undone — 

Around  in  sweet  profusion  lie. 

She  pined  and  died. 

When  all  nature  is  bright 

With  the  sun's  early  light. 

Aye,  perished  by  the  wayside  bare ; 

I'll  think  of  thee. 

With  none  to  hear  her  dying-  prayer. 

Or  to  cross  her  frozen  hands  so  fair 

I'll  think  of  thee,  when  in  the  west 

On  her  bosom  white : 

The  Sun  conceals  his  shining  face. 

But  the  frost  wove  pearls  in  her  raven  hair 

And  meek-eyed  Eve  with  blushes  glows 

That  a  queen  might  wear 

As  she  receives  his  last  embrace. 

On  her  bridal  night. 

When  the  twilight  creeps  on, 

I  will  wander  alone. 

Her  grave  wats  made  'neath  a  blasted  oak, 

And  think  of  tliee. 

Where  the  black-plumed  raven.s  come  to  croak, 

And  the  mould'ring  leaves  the  thickest  he 

I'll  think  of  thee,  when  the  pale-taced  moon 

When  winter's  gone. 

Rides  onward  in  her  shining  course. 

And  none  stood  near  with  a  moistened  eye. 

When  zephyrs  play,  and  the  whip-poor-will 

Nor  breathed  a  sigh 

Trills  in  the  wood  her  mournful  verse. 

When  the  work  was  done. 

With  the  stars  shining  bright 

In  the  canopy  of  night, 

I'll  think  of  thee. 

Mississippi. 

Thank  God !  she  is  not  conquered  yet — 

The  brave  old  EiHe  State, 

To  Arms. 

Tho'  many  a  recreant  son  has  lied 

And  left  her  to  her  fate. 

To  a.tms !  to  arms  !  our  Country  calls— 

She  well  can  spare  the  craven  wretch 

Our  own  bright  Southern  land  ; 

Who  safety  seeks  afar ; 

From  lowly  cots  and  spacious  halls. 

Who  wore  the  lion's  hide  in  peace, 

T'  obey  her  high  command. 

But  plays  the  sheep  in  war. 

Let  fi-eemen  rush  to  arms. 

She  is  not  conquered  yet !     Her  ilag 

Let  him  who'd  live  and  die  a  slave 

Still  proudly  floats  on  high ; 

Play  truant  if  he  will ; 

From  every  hill,  and  vale,  and  swamp, 

But  who  would  fill  a  freeman's  grave 

Is  heard  the  slogan  cry. 

Or  live  a  freeman  still, 

Old  men  and  boys  have  rushed  to  arms 

Let  him  now  rush  to  arms. 

Who  scorn  the  vandals'  wrath— 

Whose  breasts  shall  be  a  living  wall 

To  arms !  our  own  beloved  State, 

Across  a  conqueror's  path. 

By  vandals  overrun, 

Who  wreak  on  her  their  direst  hate, 

And  by  the  graves  of  martyred  sons 

Oalls  on  each  faithful  son 

In  bloody  conflict  slain. 

To  rouse  and  rush  to  arms. 

We  swear  our  dear  old  Mother  State 

Snail  wear  no  master's  chain  ! 

Let  old  men's  curses,  woman's  scorn. 

Ere  she  is  bound,  each  sunny  plain 

And  children's  hisses  fall 

A  Marathon  snail  be. 

On  that  base  wretch  of  manhood  shorn 

And  every  narrow  rugged  pass 

Who  will  not  heed  the  call, 

A  red  Thermopylae ! 

And  straitway  rush  to  arms. 

Backwoods   Poems. 


79 


To  arms !  to  arms !  our  brothers — sons- 
Pressed  by  the  Northern  host, 

Have  called  on  us  to  seize  our  guns. 
And  hurry  to  our  post— 
And  all  must  rush  to  arms. 

Let  age  forget  his  hoary  hairs 
And  deem  him  young  again  ; 

The  boy  foi-get  his  tender  years — 
The  invalid  his  pain, 
And  all  now  rush  to  arms. 


Forrest's  Men. 

Ere  the  East  is  lit  up  by  the  first  streak  of  day, 
The  bugle's  shrill  sound  bids  us  mount  and  away, 
With  limbs  weak  and  weary,  but  hearts  all  aglow, 
And  guns  ready  loaded  to  encounter  the  foe. 
For  the  grass  groweth  not  'neath  the  hoofs  of   the 

steed 
Of  the  hoiveman  who  follows  where  Forrest  doth 

lead; 
And  no  rust's  on  his  blade,  save  the  spot  that  is  left 
When  the  skull  of  the  foeman  in  battle  is  cleft. 

And  woe  to  the  Northmen  who  stand  in  our  path, 
When  we  rush  to  the  fight  like  a  storm  in  its  wrath  ; 
When  the  voice  of  our  chieftain  is  urging  us  on, 
To  deeds  which  shall  rival  the  deeds  that  we've  done. 
For  VENGEANCE  is  Writ  on  the  banner  we  bear. 
And  on  the  blue  steel  of  the  swords  that  we  wear ; 
Aye,  vengeance  for  deeds  too  atrocious  for  hell — 
Black  deeds  that  pale  history  will  shudder  to  tell. 

Homes  burned  to  the  ground  by  the  black  demon  band 
The  hounds  of  the  North  have  let  loose  in  the  land : 
Our  children  cast  out  without  shelter  or  food  ; 
Our  fathers  in  prison,  or  weltering  in  blood  ; 
Our  mothers  abused,  and  our  sisters  and  wives — 
Our  lips  will  not  speak  it,  but  myriads  of  lives 
Of  fiends  black  and  white,  tor  the  deeds  shall  atone. 
Ere  the  red  task  of  carnage  and  vengeance  is  done. 

With  hands  lifted  upward  all  reeking  with  gore, 
Let  Lincoln  and  Wade  roll  their  eyes,  and  deplore 
The  fate  of  the  slaves  they  incited  to  deeds 
Which  Satan  himself  stands  aghast  as  he  reads. 
We  laugh  at  their  wailing,  their  threat'ning  we  spurn; 
While  steel  hath  an  edge,  or  powder  will  bum. 
The  BLACKS  ciiught  in  arms  shall  not  cumber  our 

hands — 
*And  woe  to  the  whites  in  the  African  bands! 


The  Parmer's  Song. 

Praise  the  Lord  whose  gracious  hand 

Sliowers  on  the  thirsty  land 

The  vivifying  rain ; 

Who  doth  crown  the  waving  field 

With  so  bountiful  a  yield, 

Of  precious  golden  grain ! 

While  with  harrow,  plow,  and  hoe, 
We  assist  the  corn  to  grow. 
Our  grateful  songs  we  raise ; 
And  each  bloom  that  doth  appear 
On  the  green  enameled  ear, 
f'alls  forth  new  songs  of  praise. 

When,  at  morn's  first  rosy  glow, 
We  with  scythe  and  cradle  go. 
To  reap  the  bending  wheat ; 
To  our  Father  in  the  skies 
Songs  melodious  arise 
From  hearts  with  thanks  replete. 

When  the  harvest  time  is  o'er. 
And  on  clean-swept  garner  floor 
We  spread  the  golden  store. 
Let  us  not  forget  to  yield 
Him  the  fii-st  fruits  of  the  field- 
God's  stewards  are  the  poor. 


Our  Country's  Dead, 


Lady. 

Little  maid  with  fragrant  fiowei-s 
Gathered  in  the  woodland  bowers, 
Hither  come,  and  tell  me,  pray, 
Where  your  wandering  footsteps  stray. 

Ut  Little  Girl. 

I  have  gathered  violets  blue, 
Eoses  wet  with  morning  dew- 
Sweetest  flowers  of  every  hue — 
And  I'm  goii\g  now  to  strew 
Them  ujion  the  hallowed  graves  , 
Of  our  martyred  Southern  braves. 
Who  have  giv'n  their  life-blood  free 
To  secure  our  liberty. 


80 


Bachwoods  Poems. 


Lady. 

Little  maid  with  down-cast  eyes, 
Blue  as  April's  sunny  skies. 
Hither  come,  and  tell  me,  pray, 
Where  your  wandering  footsteps  stray. 

2nd  Little  Girl. 

I  am  going  forth  to  weep 
Where  the  pines  their  vig^ils  keep. 
Day  and  night,  above  the  bed 
Of  our  Country's  noble  dead. 
In  th^ir  homes,  far  far  away. 
Sisters— mothers— mourn  all  day; 
But  the  scalding  tears  they  weep 
Fall  not  where  the  loved  ones  sleep. 
Thither  go  I  every  day. 
Ere  the  dew  has  passed  away, 
And  for  sister — mother — shed 
Tears  upon  the  soldier's  bed. 

Lady. 

Little  maid  with  look  of  bliss. 

As  if  angel's  tender  kiss 

Lingei-ed  on  your  pretty  brow — 

Tell  me  wlxere  you're  wandering  now. 

Zd  Little  Girl. 

I  have  been  to  kneel  and  pray, 
At  the  rosy  dawn  of  day. 
By  the  graves  of  those  who  died 
In  their  manhood's  bloom  and  pride — 
Died  to  save  our  Southern  land 
From  the  Vandal  Northman's  hand. 
"  Take  us,  Father,"  was  my  prayer, 
"  Take  our  Nation  in  Thy  care  : 
Grant,  I  pray,  that  not  in  vain 
Flowed  the  life-blood  of  our  slain ; 
Crown  the  struggles  of  the  brave— 
Bles-s  the  land  they  died  to  save. 


When  I  am  Dead  andGoae. 

When  I  am  dead  and  gone. 
The  sun  will  shine  as  bright  as  now. 
The  summer  skies  appear  as  blue  ; 
The  dis,;ant  mountain's  brow, 

Kissed  by  the  the  early  dawn, 
Will  blush  as  roseate  a  hue. 


AVTien  I  am  dead  and  gone. 
The  sweet  wild  flowers  will  bloom  as  fair. 
In  woods  where  I  was  wont  to  roam  : 
And  birds  with  plumes  as  bright  and  rare. 

Sing  in  as  sweet  a  tone 
Among  the  trees  around  my  home. 

When  I  am  dead  and  gone, 
The  merry  laugh  will  ring  as  clear 
Among  my  friends;  they'll  jest  as  free; 
And  some,  the  songs  I  love  to  hear 

Will  sing  in  careless  tone. 
And  never  give  one  thought  to  me. 

When  I  am  dead  and  gone, 
The  maiden  that  I  love  so  well, 
The  arbor-vitae  at  my  head 
Will  pluck,  some  loving  swain  to  tell. 

She  lives  for  him  alone, 
And  hath  forgot  the  lover  dead. 


Pirate's  Serenade. 

Come  get  your  tiny  slippers. 
And  shoe  your  dainty  feet ; 
The  silver  moon  is  climbing 
The  eastern  mountain,  sweet. 
And  on  the  hills  the  whippoorwills 
Their  mournful  songs  repeat. 

My  ship  has  weighed  her  anchor 
And  spread  her  canvass  white. 
And  lies  upon  the  water. 
Like  a  swan  prepared  for  flight : 
And  in  the  cove  my  boat,  my  love, 
Floats  like  a  feather  light. 

Upon  the  boat  brave  sailors 

An  anxious  vigil  keep. 

With  lifted  oars  impatient 

Across  the  tide  to  sweep. 

And  swiftly  bear  their  mistress  fair 

To  her  home  upon  tlie  deep. 

Then  ope  your  chamber  window. 

And  do  not  fear,  my  sweet, 

Though  sways  the  flexile  ladder 

Beneath  your  little  feet : 

My  open  arms  shall  catch  your  charms. 

If  you  fall  into  the  street. 


Backwoods  Poems. 


81 


Tidings  from  the  Battle  Field. 

"Fresh  tidings  from  the  battle  field !" 

A  widowed  mother  stands, 
And  lifts  the  glasses  from  her  eyes 

With  trembling  withered  hands. 
"Fresh  tidings  from  the  battle  field  !" 

"  Your  only  son  is  slain ; 
He  fell  with  '  -victory'  on  his  lips, 

And  a  bullet  in  his  brain." 
The  stricken  mother  staggers  back, 

And  falls  upon  the  floor ; 
And  the  wailing  shriek  of  a  broken  heart 

Comes  from  the  cottage  door. 

"  Fresh  tidings  from  the  battle  field  !" 

The  wife  her  needle  plies, 
While  in  the  cradle  at  her  feet 

Her  sleeping  infant  lies. 
"  Fresh  tidings  from  the  battle  field !" 

"  Your  husband  is  no  more. 
But  he  died  as  soldiers  love  to  die~ 

His  wounds  were  all  before." 
Her  work  was  dropped—"  O  God !"  she  moans. 

And  lifts  her  aching  eyes  ; 
The  orphaned  babe  in  the  cradle  wakes, 

And  joins  its  mother's  cries. 

"  Fresh  tidings  from  the  battle  field !" 

A  maid  with  pensive  eye 
Sits  musing  near  the  sacred  spot 

Where  she  heard  his  last  good-bye. 
"  Fresh  tidings  from  the  battle  field  I" 

"  Your  lover's  cold  in  death ; 
But  he  breathed  the  name  of  her  he  loved 

With  his  expiring  breath." 
With  hands  pressed  to  her  snowy  brow. 

She  strives  her  grief  to  hide : 
She  shrinks  from  h-iendly  sympathy— 

A  widow  ere  a  bride. 

"  Fresh  tidings  from  the  battle  field  !" 

O,  what  a  weight  of  woe 
Is  borne  upon  their  blood-stained  wings 

As  onward  still  they  go ! 
War !  eldest  child  of  Death  and  Hell  ! 

When  shall  thy  hoiTors  cease  ? 
When  shall  the  gospel  usher  in 

The  reign  of  love  and  peace  ? 
Speed,  .speed  the  blissful  time,  O  Lord!— 

The  blessed  happy  years- 
When  plough-shares  shall  be  made  of  swords, 

And  pruning-hooks  of  spears ! 


Sheridan. 

From  Shenandoah's  valley  fair, 
Borne  on  the  chilly  midnight  air. 
There  comes  a  wail  of  wild  despair- 
Sheridan. 

Women  and  babea — the  old,  the  lame. 
Are  shivering  round  the  smouldering  flame, 
And  quivering  lips  pronounce  thy  name, 
Sheridan. 

In  mountain  gorge,  and  fertile  plain, 
Charred  ruins  now  alone  remain, 
And  carcasses  of  dumb  brutes  slain— 

Sheridan. 

Destruction  o'er  that  land  has. past. 
And  left  the  fields  a  blackened  waste ; 
No  food  is  there  for  man  nor  beast — 

Sheridan . 

No  black-winged  tempest  in  its  ire 
Has  caused  this  wide-spread  ruin  dire ; 
'Twas  thou  that  sweptst  this  land  with  fire, 
Sheridan. 

Thine  was  the  deed,  O  fiendish  man ! 
But  the  Moloch  of  the  Northern  clan 
Conceived  the  diabolic  plan, 

Sheridan. 

He  sought  a  man,  on  land  and  sea, 
To  execute  his  black  decree. 
And  turned  his  blood-shot  eyes  on  thee, 
Sheridan. 

A  proper  man !  Aye,  e'en  if  hell 
Should  spew  up  all  the  fiends  that  fell. 
None  could  be  found  to  serve  so  well- 
Sheridan. 

For  unto  thee,  pale  woman's  moan— 
The  infant's  scream— old  age's  groan- 
Are  sweeter  than  the  harp-string's  tone, 
Sheridan. 

And  burning  homes,  whose  lurid  gleam 
Lights  uj)  blue  Shenandoah's  stream. 
Are  fairer  than  a  poet's  dream- 
Sheridan. 

But  tremble  now,  tliine  hour  is  near; 
The  widow's  wail,  the  orphan's  tear, 
For  vengeance  cry— and  it  is  here  ! 

Sheridan. 


Backwoods   Poems. 


The  "  valley  men"  are  on  thy  track ; 
They've  stood  beside  their  homesteads  black, 
And  sworn  to  drive  the  blood-hounds  back, 
Sheridan. 

"  Old  Jubal's"  face  is  bright  once  more. 
As  he  reviews  his  gallant  corps ; 
He's  bloody  work  for  them  in  store — 

Sheridan. 

And  Old  Virginia's  Roderic  Dhu — 
Brave  Mosby,  and  his  gallant  crew, 
Are  perched  among  yon  mountains  blue, 
Sheridan. 

There  they  a  constant  vigil  keep, 

And  the  neighboring  plains  and  valleys  sweep 

With  piercing  eyes  that  never  sleep — 

Sheridan. 

Beware  the  vengeance  of  that  troop, 
When  fi'om  their  airy  height  they  stoop, 
Swift  as  gray  eagles  in  their  swoop, 

Sheridan. 

The  "crow"  that  flies  on  pinions  fleet. 
Need  take  no  "rations"  there  to  eat; 
For  Yankee  flesh  shall  be  his  meat, 

Sheridan. 


The  Vision  of  Blood. 

I  saw  a  wondrous  sight— a  Nation  drunk  ! 

Drunk  not  with  blood  of  grapes,  but  blood  of  men ; 

Aye,  drunk  with  blood  of  women  and  of  babes  ; 

Drunk  with  the  blood  of  gray-haired,  helpless  age. 

And  they  had  met — the  reeling,  drunken  ones — 

To  hold  high  revel  on  a  flow'ry  mead. 

Where  in  each  flower  cup,  instead  of  dew. 

Were  blood  drops  which  had  fall'n  and  clotted  there. 

The  passing  zephyr  bore  not  on  its  wings 

The  fragrant  breath  of  blooms,  but  in  its  stead. 

The  reeking  odors  of  the  battle-field — 

The  loathsome  smell  of  mouldering  human  bones. 

And  yet  in  all  that  countless  giddy  throng 

One  single  solemn  face  eould  not  be  seen; 

But  all  was  mirth  and  boistrous  gayety— 

The  joke,  the  gibe,  the  jeer,  the  pert  retort, 

Ten  thousand  ringing  laughs  at  once. 

That  shook  the  ground  and  drowned  the  song  of  birds. 

And  there  was  music  :  not  the  martial  strain 

Which  fires  the  hearts  of  men  to  val'rous  deeds. 

Nor  such  as  floats  above  the  bier  of  death. 


Nor  yet  the  notes  which  bear  the  tuntful  praise 

Of  grateful  hearts  to  Him  who  rtiles  on  high  ; 

But  music  pleasing  to  tlie  giddy  ear. 

Like  that  which  winged  unchaste  Salome's  feet 

When  she  before  incestuous  Herod  danced. 

And  won  the  bloody  prize — the  Baptist's  head.  • 

And  men  were  there  attired  in  garments  rich, 

Which  kings  might  covet  for  their  costliness, 

And  decked  with  glittering  jewels,  bright  as  those       1 

The  Queen  of  Sheba  to  Jerusalem  boi-e  1 

For  Solomon,  Judea's  sapient  king :  ■ 

And  in  these  jewels  fair  for  ruby  sets  " 

Were  drops  of  human  blood  congealed. 

Of  these  they  did  not  think  ;  their  thoughts  were  on 

The  wanton  ogling  beauties  at  their  side. 

Nor  yet  did  conscience  ever  whisper  them. 

That  while  in  costly  linen  they  were  clothed. 

Three  hundred  thousand  corpses,  stark  and  stiff. 

Of  brothers  slain,  did  want  a  winding'  sheet. 

And  ambling  giy-dressed  women,  too,  were  there, 

Who  might  be  counted  beautiful,  but  that 

They  wanted  beauty's  crown — chaste  modesty. 

And  these  were  robed  in  dresses  thin  as  web 

Of  spider ;  low-necked  and  lascivious  ; 

Well  fit  to  lure  the  wicked  fancy  on 

T'  explore  the  charms  which  were  but  half  concealed 

And  fan  to  furious  flame  the  fires  of  hell 

By  devils  lit  in  every  gazer's  breast. 

.For  God  was  not  in  all  their  passing  thoughts 

To  cast  a  shadow  o'er  the  mirthful  hour  ; 

And  Hymen's  chains,  with  those  of  Ham,  were  broke, 

And  Love  was  dead,  and  Ltjst,  at  last,  was  free  ! 

And  as  I  scanned  their  airy  fiowmg  robes, 

I  found  they,  too,  were  stained  with  human  blood; 

And  on  their  brazen  brows,  and  roiinded  arms. 

And  snowy  breasts,  'neath  which  their  hearts  should  be. 

Were  jewels  rich  and  rare— the  costly  spoils 

By  robber  hands  from  helpless  owners  torn. 

To  deck  a  sister's  or  a  mistress'  form, 

Or  bring  their  price  in  cursed  yellow  gold. 

These  flauntingly  they  did  display  in  sight 

Of  lovers  black  and  white,  with  many  a  leer 

And  filthy  jest ;  and  mocked  the  misery 

Of  those — their  own  sex  too — on  whom  grim  war 

Had  laid  his  heavy  gory  hand  in  wrath  ; 

And  laughing  thanked — not  God — but  lucky  fate, 

That  they  were  far  removed  from  war's  alarms ; 

Clothed  in  soft  raiment,  and  on  dainties  fed  ; 

Permitted  to  repose  on  downy  beds 

In  palaces ;  while  those  they  mocked  were  thrust, 

At  midnight's  gloomy  hour,  from  burning  homes. 

With  scarce  a  garment  to  exclude  the  cold, 

No  roof  to  ward  the  rain  and  howling  blast. 

And  scarce  a  crust  their  hunger  to  appease. 


Backwoods   Poems. 


And  of  the  millions  congregate  I  saw 

Some  whirling  through  the  mazes  of  the  dance— 

Mazourka,  Schottische,  Waltz,  Cachucha — all 

That  cunning  minds  depraved  have  studied  out 

To  license  dalliance  on  the  ball  room  floor  ; 

Some  gambling— eager  to  secure  the  pOes 

Of  yellow  gold  and  paper  green  that  lay 

Before  their  greedy  eyes  —all  stained  with  gore  ; 

Some  feasting  at  the  marble  tables,  spread 

With  viands  fit  for  dainty  epicure — 

Drinking  anon,  from  ghastly  human  skulls. 

Potations  deep  of  mingled  blood  and  wine. 

Hour  after  hour,  e'en  till  tlie  sun  went  down. 

The  sounds  of  frantic  revelry  increased  : 

The  boist'roijs,  ringing  lausrh  ;  the  mingled  sound 

Of  twice  ten  thousand  tuneful  instruments  ; 

The  hoarse  discordant  Bacchanalian  song ; 

The  muttered  curse  ;  the  tierce  blasphemous  oath. 

So  harsh,  so  God-defying,  that  it  made 

My  very  hair  with  horror  stand  on  end. 

And  as  I  saw  all  this,  and  thought  upon 

The  wasted  fields  and  desolated  homes, 

The  smouldering  towns  and  fields  of  bleaching  bones, 

Which  mark  the  track  of  those  these  sent  to  war, 

My  soul  grew  sick,  and  in  mine  agony 

I  cried :    How  long  !  how  long  ?    O  Lord,  how  long  ? 

And  now,  deep  Darkness  drew  his  sable  veil 
Between  the  revelers  and  me.    The  sound 
Of  harp  and  viol,  mingled  with  the  tramp 
Of  dancer's  feet — the  flltliy  maudlin  song — 
The  ringing  laugh — the  oaths  and  curses  deep- 
Grew  faint  and  fainter,  as  the  night  wore  on, 
Till  all  was  silent — silent  as  the  grave. 

II. 

But  hark  !  -What  sound  is  that  which  shakes  the  eartli 
Beneath  my  feet  ? — Is  it  the  muttering 
Of  sable  clouds,  surcharged  with  Heaven's  wrath  ? 
Again— again— it  rends  the  midnight  air : — 
'Tis  earth's  artillery,  not  that  of  Heaven  ! 
Yet  Heaven,  methinks,  doth  find  in  it  a  voice 
To  read  in  thunder  tones  its  sentence  dread 
Upon  a  nation  steeped  in  sin  and  blood. 
Soon  fitful  flashes  break  the  darkness  deep  ; 
The  sounds  grow  nearer,  and  new  quakings  seize 
Affrighted  earth.   And  now  the  sharp  report 
Of  musketry — the  clang  and  clash  of  steel — 
The  distant  hoarse  command— the  muttered  cm-se  ; 
The  shout  of  momentary  victory  — 
The  frantic  yell  of  wild  despairing  rage  ; 
The  shriek  of  pain—  the  agonizing  groan  of  death- 
Are  mingled  with  the  cannon's  sullen  roar. 
I  hear  a  scream  —a  million  screams  in  one — 


A  million  piercing  screams  firom  female  throats, 

So  loud,  so  sharp,  so  full  of  utter  wo. 

That,  like  the  charmed  adder,  I  would  fain 

Bar  up  the  passage  of  my  tingling  ears, 

T'  exclude  the  sound.    But  see !  a  lurid  flame 

Shools  up  athwart  the  gloomy  midnight  sky. 

Another  and  another  quick  succeed, 

Till  Darkness,  frightened,  plumes  his  sable  wing 

And  flies  away,  and  more  than  noonday  light 

Reveals  the  bloody  hoiTors  of  the  awful  scene. 

Towns,  villages,  and  cities  are  on  tire. 

Farm-houses,  barns,  and  tasteful  country-seats 

Have  not  escaped.     The  d\ill  red  smoke  which  floats 

Above  the  factorfes,  is  not  the  breath 

Of  flames  that  urge  the  busy  spindles  on  ; 

And  forge  and  furnace  glow  with  fervent  heat, 

Such  as,  I  ween,  they  never  knew  before. 

The  frantic  revelers,  like  blood-hounds  fierce 
That  once  have  chanced  to  lap  the  blood  of  man. 
Have  found  their  tliirst  insatiate,  and  have  turned 
Their  daggers  to  each  other's  guilty  breasts. 
To  quench  the  brand  of  hell  within  their  souls. 
Which,  like  the  leech's  mother,  crieth,  ''give  !" 
Brother  meets  brother  in  the  deadly  strife, 
And  sons  imbrue  their  hands  in  blood  of  sires. 
In  grim  array  and  all  the  panoply  of  war, 
Some,  face  to  face,  stand  on  the  battle-field, 
Where,  like  volcanoes,  wide-mouthed  caAnon  pour 
Destructive  missiles  in  the  serried  ranks. 
And  minnie  bulls  fly  thick  as  summer  hail, 
Mowing  their  victims  down  as  fast  as  falls 
The  ripened  grain  before  the  keen-edged  scythe: 
Some  from  the  tangled  brake  or  deep  morass 
Spring,  tiger-like,  upon  their  human  prey ; 
Some  on  his  very  threshold  tear  the  arms 
01  shrieking  loved  ones  from  their  victim's  neck. 
And  stain  with  crimson  blood  the  floor  of  home. 

Ten  thousand  bands  of  robbers,  black  and  white, 
Terambulate  the  highways  and  the  streets : 
The  rough  clad,  half-starved  sons  of  toil ; 
Street-beggars,  gamblers,  prostitutes,  and  thieves ; 
Sleek  parsons,  fresh  from  pulpits  they  deflled— 
Wolves  in  sheep's  clothing— shepherds  of  the  fleece 
Ai\d  not    the  flock  ;  the  sensual  sons  of  Ham, 
Whose  liberty  is  license  for  all  crimes 
That  desecrate  the  very  name  of  man  ; 
The  filthy  scum  of  Europe  and  ot  Hell, 
Whose  intercourse  with  men  of  native  birth. 
Yet  viler  still,  has  only  served  to  set 
The  seal  on  their  innate  depravity. 
And  give  to  ebon  darkness  unsurpassed 
A  deeper— blacker— more  internal.hue. 


84 


Backwoods  Poems. 


Of  these,  some  seek  the  banks,  and  in  hot  haste 
Burst  the  strong  vaults  and  seize  the  golden  spoil. 
Some  seek  the  stately  stores  with  marble  fronts. 
Where  merchant  princes  erst  displayed  their  wares 
Before  the  eyes  of  Fashion's  votaries. 
There  filthy  beggars  clothe  themselves  in  robes 
Which  Eastern  Kings  might  well  be  proud  to  wear ; 
And  wayside  strumpets  seize  on  sparkling  gems 
Fit  to  adorn  old  Egypt's  peerless  queen. 
Some  seek  the  homes  of  Fashion  and  of  Wealth, 
To  glut  their  hate,  their  lust,  and  avarice  there : 
For  in  the  jaundiced  eyes  of  such  as  tliese 
There  is  no  crime  that  can  compare  with  wealth. 
Devouring  iires  pursue  the  robbery'  track, 
Consuming  all  that  rapine  leaves  behind. 
As  from  their  homes  the  crackling  flames  leap  up. 
Pale  shrieking  women  rush  into  the  streets- 
Some  in  their  night  robes,  some  with  babes 
Clasped  wildly  to  their  breasts,  while  round  the  doors 
Groups  of  young  children  frightened  stand,  and  call — 
But  call  in  vain — their  murdered  fathers'  names. 
Like  storm-tossed  waves,  the  clam'rous  mobs  sweep  on. 
Blocking  the  streets  and  trampling  'neath  their  feet. 
As  they  would  trample  grass,  the  corpses  warm 
Of  bleeding  victims,  and  tha  living  forms 
Of  women,  children,  babes,  and  helpless  age. 

Now  flery  horsemen  dash  along  the  streets 

With  sabres  drawn,  and  charge  the  moving  hosts ; 

Now  gaping  cannon  to  the  muzzle  crammed. 

Pour  shell,  and  shot,  and  grape,  and  canister, 

Into  their  motley  ranks,  and  strew  the  paves 

With  heaps  of  mangled  slain.    'Tis  all  in  vain  ; 

Fresh  numbers  rush  to  flU  the  yawning  gaps 

From  every  alley— every  den  of  vice  ; 

And  to  their  work  of  plunder  or  revenge 

The  blood-stained  mobs  rush  wildly,  swiftly  on. 

Wo  to  the  leaders  whose  ambition  black 
Sowed  dragons'  teeth  in  a  prolific  soil. 
To  reap  a  golden  crop  of  wealth  or  power  ! 
Wo  to  the  wTiters  who  from  teeming  press 
Strewed  mental  poison  broadcast  o'er  the  land  ! 
Wo  to  the  preachers  who  from  sacred  desks 
Preached  war  and  blood,  not  Christ  the  crucified  ! 
The  willing  instruments  or  Heaven's  wrath 
Seize  on  them  now,  and  tear  them  limb  by  limb; 
As  he  who  trained  his  dogs  to  hunt  for  mea, 
By  those  same  dogs  was  mangled  and  devoured. 

And  thus  the  work  of  death  and  ruin  sped— 

On  battle  fields  where  dire  rebellion's  hosts 

And  power's  well  trained  bands— tho"outs"and  "  ins" — 

The  conflict  waged,  and  scientific  skill 

Made  war  a  mighty  problem,  ranks  ot  men 


The  geometric  lines  with  which  'twas  solved ; 
In  towns  and  cities,  where  the  rabble  bands, 
Intent  on  spoil  alone,  or  tierce  revenge. 
Like  Ishmaelites  did  turn  their  hands  'gainst  all — 
Murder  their  tactics — plunder  all  their  skill- 
Till  Death  was  satiate.  Ruin  weary  grown, 
And  all  the  wasted  land  baptized  in  blood. 
Black  ruins  lay  where  once  proud  cities  stood, 
And  tangled  briers  usurped  the  fertile  fields  ; 
The  wild  beasts  howled  in  whilom  haunts  of  men; 
The  air  was  fetid  with  the  loathsome  smell 
Of  bloated  corpses  rotting  in  the  sun ; 
And  stupid  death  birds  flapped  their  lazy  wings. 
Gorged  with  the  flesh  till  they  could  eat  no  more. 
And  sack-cloth  took  the  place  of  costly  robes  ; 
And  for  the  sound  of  tuneful  instruments 
Was  heard  a  wail  of  wo.    Where  dancers'  feet 
Tripped  lightly  on  the  green  enameled  mead, 
I  heard  the  solemn  sound  of  muflied  drums  ; 
And  for  the  songs  of  merry  revelers. 
The  mournful  music  of  a  funeral  dirge. 

And  as  again  the  sable  veil  of  night 

Closed  round  the  scene,  and  hid  it  from  my  view, 

I  heard  a  voice  proclaim :  It  is  enough ; 

i'ut  up  the  blood-stained  sword,  and  stop  the  mouth 

Of  battle's  brazen  monsters ;  let  the  land— 

The  weary  stricken  land— flud  rest  again. 

1864. 


The  Ragged  High  Private. 

Come  fill  to  the  brim  with  the  pure  distillation 
Of  Nature's  retort  deep  down  in  the  earth — 
The  stuff  Adam  drank  on  the  happy  occasion. 
When  he  wedded  fair  Eve  on  the  day  of  her  birth. 
I'll  pledge  you  to-day — not  the  bright  eyes  of  beauty, 
Though  the  warmth  of  their  glance  sets  my  heart  all 

aglow— 
But  the  ragged  high  private  who  shrinks  not  from 

duty. 
Who  stands  by  his  colors  in  weal  or  in  woe. 

Chorus— Then  till'  to  the  private— the  tearless  high 

private. 
Who  turns  not  his  back  on  a  friend  or  a  foe  ; 
The  gallant  high  private,  the  ragged  high 

private, 
Who  stands  by  his  colors  for  weal  or  for  woe. 


Backwoods  Poems. 


85 


The  ragged  high  private's  no  partner  sweet-smelling 

For  whale-bone  and  silks  in  cotillion  or  reel ; 

He  steps  to  a  music  more  grand  and  heart-swelling — 

The  booming  of  cannons— the  clashing  of  steel. 

He  wears  no  bright  buttons  to  please  the  dear  crea- 
tures— 

No  tinsel  embroidery  on  collar  or  sleeves ; 

But  the  hand  of  his  Maker  has  stamped  on  his  fea- 
tures 

A  seal  of  true  manhood  that  never  deceives. 

His  old  slouchy  beaver  quite  seedy  is  getting ; 
His  rents  arc  increasing  wherever  he  goes ; 
The  socks  on  his  feet  are  Darac  Nature's  own  knittiiip-, 
And  his  shoes  are  both  out  at  the  heels  and  the  toes. 
He  has  no  tragi-ant  moustache  where  his  index  m  ly 

trifle, 
But  a  rough  honest  beard  lika  the  patriarchs  wore  : 
And  his  baud's  better  suited  for  handling  the  ritle 
Than  squeezing  the  fingers  of  Lady  Lenore. 

Perhaps  he's  not  able  to  jabber  French  phrases: 
The  brogue  of  the  backwoods  may  cling  to  his  tongue ; 
But  his  own  loved  Southland  shall   ring  with  his 

praises, 
And  the  deeds  he  has  done  by  her  poets  be  sung. 
Let  exquisites  stare  at,  and  "  bomb-proofs"  upbraid 

him; 
The  ragged  high  private  may  laugh  them  to  scorn  : 
He  can  boast  that  no  tailor  nor  barber  has  made  him— 
He's  noble  by  nature— a  gentleman  born. 


Red-birds  in  scarlet,  sparrows  rigged  in  brown, 
And  "  rebel"  snow-birds  in  their  coats  of  gray — 
Each  one  as  blith»»  as  on  a  sunny  April  day. 

The  lowering  clouds  are  growing  thicker,  nigher ; 

Pile  high  the  hickory  wood  upon  the  flre, 

And  put  fat  light-wood  in— a  bounteous  store — 

Until  the  cheeiful  flames  shall  leap  and  roar. 

"  Thank  God  for  flre !" — the  sun-browned  father  cries; 

"Alas!  our  soldier  boy!"  the  meek-eyed  mother  sighs. 

Young  master  rushes  in :  "  It  snows !"— he  cries— 

And  all  his  soul  is  in  his  big  blue  eyes. 

Traps,  birds  and  snow-halls,  wheeling  thro'  his  brain. 

Have  made  his  heart  with  gladness  leap  again. 

"  It  snows!"  cries  he,  and  at  the  magic  word, 

Young  miss  darts  out,  as  swift  as  liny  humming-bird. 

Look  out !  Along  the  bleak  deserted  street. 
The  furious  north-wind  hurls  the  tinkling  sleet : 
AVhile,  here  and  there,  a  vagrant  flake  of  snow 
Floats  down  and  down  with  spiral  motion  slow. 
Sports  with  the  wind,  and  whirls  around  and  round. 
And  falls,  at  last,  and  melts  upon  the  frozen  ground. 

Close  by  the  shuck-pen,  built  of  oaken  rails. 

With  high-arched  backs,  and  ice-tags  to  their  tails. 

The  lean  and  bony  cattle  stand  and  low. 

The  sheep  into  the  thickest  thickets  go; 

And  in  their  beds,  with  grumbling  grunt  and  squeal, 

Tlie  sluggish  hogs  lie  dreaming  of  their  evening  meal. 


Southern  Winter  Scene. 

The  pattering  I'ain  has  ceased  which  all  the  raoi  n 
Dripped  slow,  from  cock-crow  till  the  dinner  liorn. 
Keen  blows  the  wind  from  out  the  misty  north. 
From  which  the  dark  dun  clouds  slow  issue  forth. 
Sharp  icicles  usurp  the  place  of  leaves 
On  bending  boughs,  and  gem  the  dripping  mossy  c  i  ves 

The  winds  grow  colder :  now  they  shriek  and  howl 

Around  the  house,  like  wolves  that  nightly  prowl; 

Seek  every  crack,  that  they  may  enter  in, 

To  chill  one's  back,  or  bite  one's  nose  and  chin; 

Or  shake  the  frozen  branches,  till  they  rattle 

Like  burnished  knightly  armor  in  an  ancient  battle. 

Flocks  of  small  birds  have  gathered  near  the  door, 

As  if  they'd  found  a  rich  nutritious  store ; 

Chirping  and  twittering,  still  they're  fluttering  down  - 


Now  faster  come  the  slanting  snow-flakes  down. 
And  soon  the  fallen  leaves  of  autumn  brown 
Are  covered  o'er;  the  sloping  roofs  are  white  ; 
The  trees  wear  ermine  with  their  jewels  bright ; 
And  field,  and  wood,  and  hill  tops  far  away, 
Aie  like  a  virgin's  garments  on  her  bridal  day. 

Dark  swarms  of  black-birds  wheel  and  circle  round. 

Light  now  on  cribs  and  trees,  now  on  the  ground ; 

And  blacker  by  the  contrast,  "  chack"  away. 

Or  sing  in  concert  their  mellifluous  lay ; 

While  flocks  of  wild  ducks  seek  the  stream  hard  by, 

Where  they  with  noisy  "(luack"  thoir  paddles  swiftly 

ply- 
But  hark !  I  hear,  far  down  the  village  street, 
A  merry  sound,  where  boys  and  maidens  meet, 
To  pelt  each  other  with  their  balls  of  snow. 
With  tresses  floating  loose,  and  cheeks  aglow, 
The  girls  forget  Dame  Fashion's  rules  precise. 
And,  swift  as  hounds,  pursue  the  tow-head  boy  that 
'     flies. 


86                                        Backwoods 

Poems. 

Loud  shout  the  boys :  old  men  with  locks  of  gray- 

Around  the  Southern  camp  fires  oft  • 

Have  come  to  Join  them  in  the  mimic  tray. 

These  songs  at  night  are  heard  ; 

(The  young  men  all  are  with  our  cpuntry's  brave, 

And  as  he  lists  the  numbers  soft 

Or  fill,  alas!  the  soldier's  humble  grave.) 

The  soldier's  heart  is  stirred. 

The  girls  now  charge  with  well  dissembled  wrath. 

They've  fired  the  souls  of  gallant  men, 

And  wo  unto  the  gray-beards  in  their  onward  path. 

.'\.nd  urged  them  to  the  strife ; 

Oft  on  their  lips  they've  lingered  when 

The  twilight's  misty  shades  are  gathering  slow : 

Fast  flowed  the  crimson  life. 

Still,  fast  and  faster  falls  tlie  feathery  snow. 

jM 

The  fire  replenished  blazes  warm  and  bright, 

Wlien  all  is  dark,  when  croakers  cry,                -JPJW 

As  with  the  best  of  spices — appetite — 

And  patriot  hearts  grow  weak ;                               T 

The  family  surround  the  frugal  board. 

When  through  the  clouds  which  veil  the  sky            1 

And  thanks  return  to  Him  who   hath  their  larder 

Men  see  no  rosy  streak ;                                             M 

stored. 

Fair  daughters  sing  them  to  their  sires,                    M 

The  mother  to  her  son,                                            ■ 

With   snow-flakes    glistening    'mongst    their    glossy 

To  light  anew  the  holy  fires — 

curls. 

The  fires  of  sixty-one. 

In  rush  a  crowd  of  romping  bright-eyed  girls ; 

And  song  and  jest,  and  tale  and  merry  play. 

We  sing  them  oft — we  Southern  girls  — 

Serve  well  to  while  the  winter  night  away ; 

But  not  for  thee  nor  thine ; 

Till  to  tlic  desk  the  father  draws  his  chair, 

We  may  not  cast  our  precious  pearls 

Takes  down  the  good  old   book,  and  says,  " 'Tis  time 

Before  the  heedless  swine. 

tor  prayer." 

Then  ask  no  more  a  Southern  maid 

To  sing  a  Southern  song : 

The  servants  enter,  and  with  solemn  face 

To  him  who  wears  a  Southern  blade 

Each  seats  himself  in  his  accustomed  place. 

The  dear-loved  strains  belong. 

The  chapter's  slowly  read — the  old  man's  eyes  are 

dim — 

And  all  unite  to  sing  the  evening  hymn. 
Then  all  kneel  down,  and  in  a  fervent  tone 

The   old  man  lajw  his  prayer    before   our  Father's 

throne. 

Submission— Never ! 

And  now  to  bed,  where  'twixt  the  blankets  w.irm 

What  I  brothers,  shall  we  cease  the  strife  >. 

"We  snugly  lie,  and  listen  to  the  storm 

Lay  down  our  arms  and  beg  for  life. 

Which  howls  without,  and  hear  the  snow  and  sleet 

With  shaking  limbs  and  fluttering  breath. 

Against  the  windows  of  our  chamber  beat ; 

Like  base  poltroons  afraid  of  death  '. 

Till  sleep  his  sable  curtain  draws  between, 

Never  -never ! 

And    closes  till   the  morn  the  Southern  Winter 

While  God  aftords  us  life  and  light, 

Scene. 

We'll  battle  for  the  truth  and  right- 

Aye,  forever. 

And  shall  it  be  they  died  in  vain — 

The  dear-loved  ones  in  battle  slain  .' 

Shall  foes  insult  the  patriot's  grave, 

The  Maiden's  Response. 

And  rule  the  land  he  died  to  save  ! 

Never — never ! 

Ask  not  a  Southern  song  of  me — 

While  God  affords  us  life  and  light. 

Thou  art  my  country's  foe; 

We'll  battle  for  the  truth  and  right- 

To  sing  these  sacred  songs  for  thee, 

Aye,  forever. 

Were  sacrilege  I  know. 

My  lips  cannot  pronounce  a  word, 

Our  ruined  homes  shall  we  forget  ? 

My  fingers  touch  a  key  ; 

And  sliall  we  kiss  the  liand  that's  wet 

These  songs  the  patriot's  heart  have  stirred— 

With  kindred  blood  ?    The  thieving  hordes- 

They  are  not  fit  for  thee.                                       ■*■ 

Shall  we  be  slaves  and  Ihey  our  lords  ? 

Backwoods  Poems. 


87 


Never— never ! 
While  God  affords  us  life  and  light, 
We'll  battle  for  the  truth  and  rig'ht— 
Aye,  forever. 


Shall  we,  our  earthly  stores  to  save. 
Shrink  from  the  duties  of  the  brave. 
Or  purchase  life's  poor  empty  span 
With  all  the  sacred  rights  of  man  .' 

Never— never ! 
While  God  affords  us  life  and  light. 
We'll  battle  for  the  truth  and  right- 
Aye,  forever. 


Will  pause  awhile  their  dirge  to  swell ; 

And  moaning  pines  will  midnight  vigils  keep 

Above  the  spot  where  heroes  fell. 

The  poet's  lyre  may  never  sound  their  fame, 

Nor  History's  pen  their  deeds  record ; 

And  cravens'  tongues  may  load  each  hero's  name 

With  epithets  his  soul  abhorred. 

But  there  are  hearts — thank  God  !  a  chosen  few — 

Where  still  their  memory  is  enshrined ; 

And  deeds  of  men  to  duty  ever  true, 

A  lasting  record  there  shall  find. 


We  spurn  all  slavish  thoughts  afar  ; 
We  grasp  the  gleaming  tools  of  war ; 
We  heavenward  lift  each  hand  and  eye, 
And  swear  by  Him  who  rules  on  high — 

Never — never ! 
While  God  affords  us  life  and  light. 
We'll  battle  for  the  truth  and  right- 
Aye,  forever. 

The  holy  cause  shall  yet  be  won  : 
We'll  hand  it  down  from  sire  to  son  ; 
And  generations  yet  unborn 
Shall  swear  the  oath  that  we  have  sworn- 

Never — never ! 
While  God  affords  us  life  and  light. 
We'll  battle  for  the  truth  and  right- 
Aye,  forever. 


The  Battle  Ground. 

Inscribed  to  the  memory  of  my  Brother,  Lieut.  AVm. 
H.  Berryhill,  Co.  D.  43d  Miss.  Reg.,  who  was  killed 
at  Nashville,  Tenn.,  December  15,  1864. 

In  memory  of  freedom's  martyred  dead 

No  monument  we  now  may  raise ; 

No  sculptured  marble  at  each  soldier's  head 

May  speak  in  coming  years  his  praise. 

But  Spring,  with  noiseless  step  and  face  all  sad. 

Will  robe  with  flowers  each  grassy  mound. 

And  star-crowned  Night,  in  mourning  garments 

clad, 
Will  bathe  in  tears  the  holy  ground. 

No  weeping  nation  now  may  come  to  chant 

The  funeral  antliem  of  the  brave. 

Nor  stricken  loved  ones  seek  the  lonely  haunt 

To  weep  above  the  soldier's  grave. 

But  wild  free  winds  that  through  the  forest  sweep. 


$100  Reward 


II 


stolen  from  me  sometime  ago — 

No  matter  when  nor  where — 
A  heart — "shackling" — as  Zaek  would  say- 

And  much  the  worse  for  wear. 
But  still  it  was  an  only  one, 

A  faithful,  honest  heart. 
That  for  full  thirty  years  and  more 

Had  well  pefonned  its  part. 

You'll  recognize  the  thief  by  this : 

She  is  so  very  fair. 
That  earth  affords  no  other  she 

Who  can  with  her  compare. 
And  you  may  know  her  by  her  eyes — 

To  them  I'll  safely  swear— 
For  search  the  world  you  cannot  find 

Another  such  a  pair  ! 

Let  all  look  sharp  who  would  secure 

The  promised  large  reward. 
Which  I  will  pay  in  greenback  notes, 

Or  specie  bright  and  hard. 
But  heed  me  well,  or  else,  perhaps. 

You'll  find  your  labor  vain  : — 
It  is  the  thief  and  not  the  heart, 

I'd  have  brought  back  again. 

Don't  take  her  to  the  County  Court, 

Where  th'  wrangling  lawyere  are  : 
To  hang  her  by  her  pretty  thumbs 

Would  be  too  cruel  far. 
The  Probate  Clerk— friend  Ira  Mc . 

A  writ,  I'm  sure,  could  write 
Which,  with  a  friendly  parson's  aid. 

Would  set  the  matter  right. 


88 


Backwoods  Poems. 


A  Song. 

Sing  me  a  song  to-night,  love  : 
A  song  of  bygone  years, 
To  calm  my  troubled  spirit, 
And  melt  my  heart  to  teal's. 
For,  oh  !  my  heart  is  burdened. 
And  through  my  weary  brain 
Wild  thoughts  are  ti-ooping  madly- 
A  dark  and  endless  train. 

Sing  me  a  song  to-night,  love— 
Some  sweet  old  tender  lay 
I  used  to  hear  in  childhood 
From  lips  now  passed  away. 
And  touch  the  keys  as  gently 
As  if  a  spirit's  hand 
Were  playing  us  the  music 
They  have  in  spirit-land. 

Sing  soft  as  one  that  luUetb 
A  fretful  babe  to  sleep ; 
I'll  be  a  child  again,  love— 
'Twill  do  me  good  to  weep. 
My  soul's  opjjressed  with  sorrows 
My  lips  may  never  speak ; 
Unseal  the  crystal  fountain, 
Or,  oh  I  my  heart  will  break  ! 


Nevermore. 

My  soul  is  sad  this  morning,  love. 
For  I  have  dreamed  of  thee  ;— 

And  such  a  dream  as  ne'er  again 
I  pray  may  come  to  me. 

Far  out  upon  the  ocean  deep, 
Two  frail  light  barks  did  ride  ; 

And  thou  in  one,  and  I  in  one, 
Were  sitting  side  by  side. 

Thy  warm  soft  hand  was  clasped  in  mine. 

Just  as  it  used  to  be ; 
And  thou  to  me  wast  all  the  world, 

And  I  was  all  to  thee. 

And  thus,  methought,  we  glided  on 

For  many  a  joyous  hour ; 
When  lo !  our  boats  were  drawn  apart 

By  some  mysterious  power. 


'Twas  not  the  wind,  'twas  not  the  waves, 

For  all  was  calm  and  still : 
Each  moved  as  if  within  itself 

Were  human  power  and  will. 

I  called  thy  name— thou  calledst  mine ; 

We  stretched  our  hands  in  vain  : 
Still  wider  did  our  paths  diverge — 

Never  to  meet  again. 

Neveb  !  I  knew  it— felt  it  in 
My  crushed  heart's  inmost  core  : 

The  very  sea-gulls  overhead 

Kept  shrieking—"  nevermore  !" 

1  watched  thy  fast  receding  form, 

As  it  dim  and  dimmer  grew ; 
I  saw  thee  raise  thy  snowy  hand 

To  wave  a  last  adieu. 

Thy  bark  grew  small  and  smaller  still- - 
A  speck  on  the  ocean  blue — 

And  then  two  blinding  tear-drops  ro.?e. 
And  hid  it  from  ray  view. 

Gray  morning  called  my  spirit  back 
From  Dreamland's  mystic  shore  ; 

But  every  bi'eeze  that  sways  the  trees. 
Still  whispers  "  nevermore." 


The  Philanthropic  Goose. 

A  FABLE  FOR  THE  GREAT  WEST. 

Once  on  a  time,  a  new-tledged  goose, 

Fresh  from  the  pasture  green, 

Stalked  down  a  pleasant  village  street 

To  see  whatcould  be  seen ; 

And  spied  before  a  cottage  door — 

What  hon-or  filled  her  mind! — 

A  poor  old  fox  in  an  iron  cage, 

"  Cribbed,  cabined  and  confined"— 

Who  turned,  to  earn  his  daily  bread, 

A  wheel  that  reeled  his  master's  thread. 

Th9  goose,  indignant  at  the  sight. 

Bewailed  the  case  full  sore ; 

Shedding  such  tears,  while  on  she  stalked. 

As  goose  ne'er  shed  before  ; 

And  swore  by  Juno,  Jove's  great  queen, 

To  right  the  mighty  wrong, 


Backwoods  Poems. 

89 

Or  pour  her  blood  in  crimson  streams 

Lines. 

The  village  streets  along ; 

So  full  of  pious  wrath  was  she, 

He  never  dies  in  vain 

That  men  should  cage  what  gods  made  free. 

Who  for  his  country  dies— 
Who  on  her  altar  lays  his  life, 

The  Fates  smiled  on  her  generous  aims ; 

A  precious  sacrifice. 

She  burst  the  prison  door ; 

And  the  fox  forsook  his  master's  wheel, 

The  foemen's  teet  may  crush 

To  roam  the  woods  once  more. 

The  flowers  on  his  grave  ; 

Alas !  alas !  that  I  am  forced 

And  foemen  bind  with  slavery's  chain 

Such  sequel  to  record  ! 

The  land  he  died  to  save. 

Alas !  that  pure  benevolence 

Should  meet  with  such  reward ! 

Yet  will  his  life  and  death 

That  very  day,  the  fox  turned  loose 

In  other  hearts  inspire 

Dined  on  the  philanthropic  goose. 

A  high  resolve  to  imitate 
What  all  mankind  admire. 

And  from  that  life— that  death- 

My  Mother-land. 

Posterity  will  learn 

The  srrandeur  of  obedience. 

My  Mother-land  !  my  Mother-land  ! 

Though  dust  is  on  thy  brow, 
And  sack-cloth  wraps  thy  beauteous  form, 

I  love  thee  better  now, 
Than  when,  arrayed  in  robes  of  power. 

Thou  sent'st  thy  legions  forth 
To  battle  with  the  hosts  that  poured 

From  out  the  mighty  North. 

My  Mother-land !  my  Mother-land  ! 

The  stars  that  decked  thy  crown. 
And  lustre  shed  o'er  land  and  sea, 

In  gloomy  night  went  down. 
The  flag  is  furled  that  led  thy  sons 

To  victory  or  deatli ; 
And  at  thy  feet  lies  withering 

The  victor's  laurel  wreath. 

My  Mother-land  !  my  Mother-land  ! 

Thy  bravest  and  thy  best. 
Beneath  the  sod  their  life-blood  stained. 

In  dreamless  slumber  rest. 
Thrice  happy  dead !  They  cannot  hear 

Thy  low,  sad  wail  of  woe ; 
The  taunts  thy  living  sons  must  bear 

They  are  not  doomed  to  know. 

My  Mother-land  !  my  Mother-land  ! 

Their  spirits  whisper  me. 
And  bid  me  in  thy  days  of  grief 

Still  closer  cling  to  thee. 
And  though  the  hopes  we  cherished  once 

With  them  have  found  a  grave, 
I  love  thee  yet,  my  Mother-land— 

The  land  they  died  to  save. 


And  duty's  lesson  stern. 

And  men,  while  they  recall 
The  hero's  deeds  with  pride. 
Will  better  love  their  native  land  - 
The  land  for  which  he  died. 


The  Good  Physician. 

A  HYMN. 

Physician  of  the  siu-sick  so\il  \ 

To  thee  I  humbly  pray  ; 
Bind  up  my  bleeding  broken  heart, 

And  wash  my  sins  away. 

Thy  precious  blood  for  sinners  shed 
Alone  can  make  me  whole ; 

Come,  in  thy  Spirit's  power  come, 
And  heal  my  fainting  soul. 

'i'hou  who  didst  call  to  life  aguin 

The  .sleepers  cold  and  still ! 
Speak  but  the  word,  and  I  shall  live, 

To  do  do  my  Master's  will. 

My  soul  is  deaf,  Lord,  make  it  hear ; 

Is  blind,  O,  make  it  see; 
Is  lame  and  dumb.  Lord,  make  it  leap, 

.Vnd  praises  sing  to  thee. 


90 


Backwoods  Poeims. 


Smoke. 

When  summer  heat  begins  to  fail, 

As  autumn  draweth  near, 

And  on  the  crests  of  giaut  oaks 

The  golden  leaves  appear ; 

Where  the  vine  wliich  clambers  round  the  porch 

Shuts  out  the  evening  ray, 

I  sit  me  down  with  lig'hted  pipe. 

And  puff  the  hours  away. 

With  half-closed  eyes,  I  sit  aud  watch. 

As  I  lean  in  my  easy  chair. 

The  curling  smoke  that  floats  away. 

And  melts  in  the  evening  air. 

And  mem'ries  tondly  cherished  once. 

That  long  in  tneir  graves  have  lain. 

As  Fancy  waves  her  magic  wand, 

Come  thronging  back  again. 

Familiar  eyes  from  the  azure  smoke 

Are  looking  down  at  me, 

Which  it  makes  my  heart,  though  old  and  seared, 

Beat  quicker  still  to  see : — 

The  eyes  of  girls  that  I  have  loved 

Since  first,  in  boyhood's  days, 

Young  Cupid  tuned  my  rustic  harp, 

And  taught  me  tender  lays. 

And  some  are  gray,  and  some  are  brown  ; 

And  some  as  black  as  jet; 

And  some  ai'e  softly,  sweetly  blue 

As  the  early  violet. 

And  as  I  gaze,  the  old-time  loves 

That  long  have  dormant  lain, 

In  all  their  vigor  spring  to  lite. 

And  thrill  my  heart  again. 

Ah  ?  me !  full  many  a  wrinkle  Time 

Has  written  on  my  face ; 

But  he  still  permits  the  roses'  scent 

To  cling  to  the  broken  vase. 

As  shells  of  the  boisterous  ocean  sing. 

Though  far  from  the  surf-beat  shore,    ' 

So  a  heart-string  touched  by  the  hand  of  love 

Thrills  on  forevermore. 

My  pipe  is  out ;  the  clouds  of  smoke 

Which  drajjed  my  vision  bright. 

Are  puffed  away  by  a  zephyr  stray. 

And  vanish  from  my  sight. 

Gone — gone — all  gone !  like  the  glowing  hopes 

That  cheered  my  j'outhful  hours : — 

How  much  like  imok^  are  the  joys  and  hopes 

Of  this  poor  world  of  ours ! 


Daughters  of  Southland. 

Daughters  of  Southland,  weep  no  more 

For  Southland's  noble  slain, 

Who  fell  in  the  fight  for  truth  and  right, 

And  sleep  'neath  the  battle  plain. 

Rather  rejoice  tliat  they  lived  and  died 

In  a  land  that  still  was  free, 

And  the  grave's  deep  night  hides  from  their  sight 

What  we  are  doomed  to  see. 

Daughters  of  Southland,  weep  no  more 

For  sons  and  brothers  slain : 

For  the.  living  weep  who  in  anguish  deep 

Must  wear  the  conqueror's  chain. 

Weep  that  proud  men  should  cringe  like  slaves 

As  the  dark  waves  o'er  us  roll ; 

That  the  love  of  life,  and  the  fear  of  strife, 

Should  dwarf  th'  immortal  soul. 

Daughters  of  Southland,  weep  no  more  • 

For  Southland's  martyred  dead. 

As  ye  bring  fresh  fiowers  from  svoodland  bowers 

To  strew  their  hallowed  bed. 

Rejoice !  rejoice !  for  a  seal  is  set 

On  the  record  of  their  fame  ; 

Whate'er  our  fate,  no  fiendish  hate 

Can  tarnish  one  honored  name. 

Daughters  of  Southland,  weep  no  more ; 

Their  glory's  priceless  gem 

Nor  peace  nor  war  can  ever  mar : 

There  is  no  change  for  them. 

Rejoice  !  for  tho'  the  conqueror's  hate 

Still  beats  upon  our  head. 

Despite  our  chains  there  yet  remains 

The  memory  ot  our  dead. 


Cholera  the  Conqueror. 

A  conqueror  from  o'er  the  sea 

Has  landed  on  our  shore. 

More  dreadful  far  than  those  of  old 

Who  the  Roman  eagles  bore. 

More  cruel  e'en  than  Ghengis  Khan, 

Or  fierce-eyed  Tamerlane, 

Whose  mad  ambition  bathed  in  blood 

Each  oriental  plain. 


Bachwoods  Poems. 


91 


He  lands,  but  not  a  drum  is  heard, 

Nor  bugle's  stirring  sound  ; 

No  cannons  belch  their  lava  forth 

And  shake  the  solid  gi'ound. 

His  pale  steed  moves  with  footstep  slow, 

And  he  flaunts  no  banners  gay ; 

But  a  million  graves  beyond  the  sea 

Attest  his  power  to  slay. 

He  scorns  the  art  of  engineers — 

This  warrior  old  and  grim ; 

Abbattis,  moat,  and  fortress  wall — 

What  are  such  things  to  him  .' 

He  goes  straight  in,  e'en  where  the  hosts 

Of  Lee  might  quake  to  tread, 

And  asks  no  spades,  save  those  employed 

To  cover  up  the  dead. 

In  crowded  towns,  and  forests  wild, 
The  conqueror  shall  wage 
A  cruel  and  relentless  war, 
That  spares  nor  sex  nor  age: 
Till  even  he  wJio  loudly  boasts— 
While  human  devils  cheer — 
Thai  babes  and  women  felt  his  power. 
Shall  find,  at  last,  a  peer ! 

The  heartless  victor  now  may  quaU, 
Who  taunts  his  vanquished  foe. 
And  daily  seeks  new  bitter  draughts 
To  till  his  cup  of  woe : 
Before  the  dreadful  "scourge  of  God," 
Shall  victor  and  vanquished  fall. 
Till  the  land  is  one  great  sepulchre, 
The  sky  a  funeral  pall. 


The  Labor  Question. 

A  SOXG   FOR   THE  TIMES. 

Ot  politics  and  parties,  and  all  that  sort  of  stuff, 
We  rebels  down  in  Dixie  have  read  and  heard  enough; 

Old  Thad  may  go  to  H Halifax  I  mean, 

With  Stanton  in  the  rear,  and  Andy  J.  between  ; 

The  vexed  labor  question  engages  all  our  wit. 

And    quondam    mighty   statesmen    give  all    their 

thoughts  to  it; 
At  every  sort  of  meeting,  the  precedence  it  takes. 
Like  the  serpent  rod  of  Aaron  that  swallowed  aU  the 

snakes. 


Chorus — 
Haul  off  your  jackets,  ami  roll  up  your  sleeves; 
Thrust  in  your  sickles,  and  bind  the  golden  sheaves; 
Tickle  Mother  Earth  with  the  ploughshare  and  the 

hoe. 
And  you'll  solve  the  labor  problem  the  surest  way 
I  know. 

The  niggers  have  turned  dandies  —  may  Beelzebub 
quick  take  'em — 

They  will  not  work  tor  wages,  and  we  have  no  power 
to  make  'em ; 

The  briers  and  the  sedge-grass  our  fields  are  over- 
running. 

And  though  we're  quite  undone,  our  creditors  keep 
dunning. 

We'd  like  to  have  an  influx  of  Paddies  and  Meinherrs, 

To  lease  our  big  plantations,  or  tend  them  on  the 
shares ; 

But  the  tide  of  immigration  now  sets  another  way. 

And  they  turn  their  backs  on  Dixie-land— coax  them 
as  we  may. 

So  haul  off  your  jackets,  &c. 

The  ladies,  too— dear  creatures — are  very  much  put 

toit— 
A  thousand  things  to  do,  and  not  a  wench  to  do  it ; 
As  long  as  dusky  Dinahs  can  live  by  hook  or  crook, 
Their  pride  of  'scent  forbids  them  to  wash,  or  scrub, 

or  cook. 
Each  help-meet  wants  a  help,  and  each  maiden  wants 

a  maid ; 
But  they'll  "  take  it  out  in  wanting,"  I'm  very  much 

afraid : 
The  Bridgets  are  non  est,  in  spite  of  all  their  pains, 
And  the  queslio  vexala  —vexata  still  remains. , 

Cliorus — 
So  haul  off  yonr  waterfalls— swing  the  pots  about ; 
There  is  no  way  .to  help  it,  and  there's  no  use  to 

pout; 
Rub  the  duds  in  the  suds  till  they're  whiter  than 

the  snow, 
And  you'll  solve  the  labor  question  the  surest  way 

I  know. 


A  Hymn, 

To  Thee,  O  God  '.  to  Thee  we  bring 

Our  ott'ci'ing  of  praise. 
And  join  the  angel  choirs  above 

To  sing  thy  wondrous  grace. 


9^ 


Backwoods  Poems. 


Light,  from  the  dark  and  deep  abyss, 

Sprung  up  at  Thy  command ; 
And  earth,  and  sun,  and  moon,  and  stars, 

Were  fashioned  by  Thy  hand. 

Thou  keep'st  the  planets  in  their  place ; 

Thou  mak  st  the  sun  to  shine  ; 
The  starry  worlds,  bright  holds  of  light, 

Great  God  of  Hosts,  are  Thine. 

Yet  hast  thou  deigned  to  visit  us — 

Poor  creeping  worms  of  clay  ; 
Thy  Son  has  shed  His  precious  blood 

To  wash  our  sins  away. 

And  Thou  hast  sent  Thy  Spirit  down, 

To  draw  our  hearts  to  Thee, 
To  break  the  chain  that  Satan  forged, 

And  make  our  spirits  free. 

Then  unto  Thee,  O  God  of  love  ! 

Our  songs  of  praise  shall  rise  ; 
Shall  till  the  earth  with  melody, 

And  pierce  the  staiTy  skies. 


October  Weather. 

In  this  bright  October  weather, 
When  the  leaves  come  rustling  down. 
And  the  gi-ass  upon  the  heather 
In  the  breeze  waves  sere  and  brown, 
Ula,  I  am  wondering  whether 
You  are  thinking,  far  away,  , 

Of  the  days  we  spent  together 
When  our  lives  were  young  and  gay. 

Scattered  o'er  the  close-cropped  pastures 
Autumn  flowers  look  to  the  skies- 
Indian  pinks,  and  golden  asters. 
Vervains  blue  as  Ula's  eyes. 
In  the  slanting  sunbeams  mellow, 
Glorious  now  the  woods  appear. 
Where  the  scarlet  leaves  and  yellow 
Robe  the  fading  dying  year. 

Ah !  this  sad  October  weather, 

Floating  clouds,  and  hazy  skies. 

Moaning  winds,  and  dry  brown  heather. 

With  my  spirit  harmonize. 

Falling'  leaves — they  are  the  slighted 

Hopes,  of  being  once  a  part ; 

And  the  cruel  frost  that  blighted — 

It  is  Ula— cold  of  heart ! 


Iiines. 

Inscribed  to  the  memory  of  my  little  niece,  Emma  Flor- 
ence Bebryhill,  who  died  Sept.  24,  1866. 


The  gloomy  days  of  rain  are  o'er. 
The  clouds  have  rolled  away ; 
All  nature  sweetly  smiles  to  greet 
The  golden  Sabbath  day  ;— 
But  there's  a  shadow  on  my  heart 
Will  never,  never  more  depart. 

The  fleecy  clouds  in  the  azure  dome 
Like  white-winged  spirits  glide ; 
I  watch  them,  as  I  used  to  watch 
When  tJwu  wast  by  my  side  : — 
But  silvery  cloud  and  azure  sky 
No  more  can  greet  thy  soft  blue  eye. 

The  mocking-birds  are  caroling 

In  their  leafy  cool  retreat ; 

The  wild  bees  come  with  drowsy  hum. 

Laden  with  many  a  sweet : — 

But  song  of  bird  and  hum  of  bee 

Can  never  more  be  heard  by  thee. 

Syringas — roses— golden  flags- 
Are  bursting  into  bloom ; 
The  pui'ple  flowers  of  the  clematis 
Send  forth  a  sweet  perfume  ; — 
But  thou  hast  crossed  death's  shadowy  sea- 
There's  none  to  cull  sweet  flowers  for  me. 


Lines  on  the  Death  of  a  Lady. 

No  more  the  mother's  low  sweet  voice  shall  soothe 

The  sorrows  of  the  household  band ; 

No  more  she'll  make  the  pillows  soft  and  smooth 

'Neath  little  heads,  with  careful  hand  : 

No  more,  sweet  words  of  counsel  spoke  in  love. 

The  husband  hears  from  the  faithful  wife — 

Precious  as  manna  dropping  from  above 

Upon  the  wilderness  of  life. 

No  more  the  daughter's  cheerful  smiling  face 
Shall  light  her  parents'  waning  years ; 
With  aching  hearts  they  view  her  vacant  place. 
And  grief  unseals  the  fount  of  tears. 
No  more  the  sister's  hand  shall  wipe  away 
The  moisture  from  the  aching  brow  ; 
From  the  family  chain  a  link  is  gone  for  aye- 
She's  sister  to  the  angels  now. 


Backwoods   Poems. 


98 


The  grave— the  cruel  grave— has  hid  from  sight 

The  neighbor  kind,  the  faithful  friend  ; 

But  deeds  of  love  in  which  she  found  delight, 

Shall  ftagrance  to  her  mem'ry  lend. 

For,  as  there  lingers  still  a  sweet  perfume 

When  roses  droop,  and  fade,  and  fall. 

So  kindly  words  and  deeds  survive  the  tomb— 

The  good  can  never  perish  all. 


The  Spectral  Army. 

The  deep-toned  clock  strikes  twelve ; 
The  winds  are  lulled  to  rest ; 
And  the  cuspate  moon,  loug  past  her  noon. 
Sinks  slowly  m  the  west. 

Like  serpents  on  the  ground 
The  length'ning  shadows  creep : 
Each  shrub  assumes  a  phantom  form 
To  eyes  that  can  not  sleep ; 

That  can  not  sleep  to-night 
For  the  spirit's  wild  unrest— 
The  grief  for  stricken  mother-land 
Which  weighs  upon  lUy  breast ; 

Which  weighs  more  heavy  now. 
While  all  is  still  around, 
And  the  mind  turns  inward  on  itself. 
Unswayed  by  sight  or  sound. 

But  hark !  upon  the  hills 

A  rustling  sound  is  heai-d. 

Like  the  noise  of  trees,  when  by  the  breeze 

The  frost-browned  leaves  are  stirred. 

And  now  a  bugle-blast 
And  a  muffled  di-um  I  hear ; 
And  soon,  dark  moving  lines  of  men 
Upon  the  hills  appear. 

Fi'om  every  battle-tield, 

In  solemn  long  array. 

At  the  tap  of  the  drum,  they  come— they  come- 

The  men  that  wore  the  gray ! 

The  men  that  wore  the  gray- 
That  died  our  land  to  save— 
Have  heard  the  clanking  of  our  chains, 
And  come  from  the  silent  grave. 


The  flag  they  loved  so  well 

Above  them  floats  once  more ; 

And  the  starry  cross  shines  bright  again 

As  it  shone  in  days  of  yore. 

O,  how  my  spirit  yearns. 
As  many  a  once-loved  face 
Looks  on  me  from  the  spectral  lines 
That  move  with  measured  pace  ! 

My  brother,  brave  and  kind. 

And  ever  to  duty  true, 

One  moment  halts,  and  lifts  his  hand 

To  wave  a  last  adieu. 

On— on— still  on  they  come. 
Like  the  flow  of  a  mighty  stream ; 
And  burnished  guns  and  bayonets 
In  the  silvery  moonlight  gleam. 

The  prancing  steeds  move  by  ; 
The  cannon's  lumbering  car ; 
Caisson,  and  ambulance,  and  all 
The  appurtenants  of  war. 

Here  Stonewall  Jackson  rides. 

In  the  quaint  old  garb  he  wore. 

When  he  hurled  his  ranks  against  the  foe 

On  Shenandoah's  shore. 

And  Sidney  Johnston  there 
His  gleaming  sabre  draws — 
The  noblest  man  that  ever  died 
For  freedom's  holy  cause. 

On  a  snowy  steed  I  see. 

Robed  in  a  sable  gown, 

The  martyr  Polk— ble.^t  man  of  God  — 

Wearing  a  starry  crown. 

Here  ZoUicoffer  mova", 

Calm  as  a  summer  morn ; 

And  Patrick  Cleburne— bravest  son 

Of  the  isle  where  he  was  bom. 

The  christian  warrior,  Hill, 
And  Bee,  together  ride ; 
Stuart,  "Virginia's  chevalier. 
And  Ashby  by  his  side. 

Garuett  and  Hanson  now 

Upon  the  scene  appear ; 

And  Barksdale  waves  his  sword,  and  smiles 

As  if  the  foe  were  near. 


1 

94                                         Baehwoods  Poems.                                                  \ 

McCuUoch  rushes  by, 

From  silver  lamps  the  rosy  light 

And  Mcintosh,  the  brave ; 

Fell  on  the  rich-dressed  throng, 

And  Hattou  leads  the  long  brigade 

As  round  the  marble  table  passed 

That  with  him  found  a  grave. 

The  ribald  jest  and  song, 

And  with  the  loud  and  merry  laugh 

John  Morgan  comes— let  foes, 

The  vaulted  ceiling  rung 

Fear-stricken,  hold  their  breath ; 

And  Adams  spurs  the  steed  which  leaped 

What  recked  they  of  the  sons  of  toil, 

Into  the  jaws  of  death. 

To  hopeless  slavery  sold. 

That  they  might  dwell  in  princely  homes. 

The  long,  long  spectral  lines 

And  count  their  bags  of  gold  '. 

At  last  have  all  passed  by. 

Of  mothers  pale  and  pinch-faced  babes. 

And  the  moon  has  dipped  one  silver  horn 

That  shivered  in  the  cold  .' 

Beneath  the  western  sky. 

What  though  the  sparkling  wine  was  red 

The  shadows  of  the  trees 

With  blood  of  brothers  slain. 

Have  mingled  on  the  ground ; 

And  every  dainty  dish  had  cost 

And  faint  and  fainter  on  the  hills 

A  day  of  toil  and  pain  ? 

Now  grows  the  rustling  sound. 

The  band  struck  up  a  merry  air. 

And  the  song  burst  forth  again. 

The  roll  of  the  muffled  drum 

In  the  distance  dies  away, 

"  Fill  up !  fill  up !  —our  fields  are  broad- 

And  the  veil  of  night  conceals  from  sight 

Broad  as  the  continent— 

The  men  that  wore  the  gray. 

And  flUed  with  serfs,  who  toil  and  sweat 

To  pay  our  six  per  cent : 

0,  gallant  men  in  gray  ! 

Whose  flesh  and  blood  were  pawned  to  us 

Our  country's  hope  and  pride  ! 

For  the  yellow  gold  we  lent. 

Time  can  not  mar  the  laurels  green 

"Which  crowned  ye  when  ye  died  ! 

Fill  up !  till  up  !— We'll  drink  to-night 

To  the  memory  of  the  braves 

The  cause  for  which  ye  bled. 

Who  tell  beneath  the  starry  flag, 

Shall  rise  from  the  dust  again  ; 

And  sleep  in  unknown  graves— 

The  God  is  just  in  whom  we  trust— 

Who  died  to  set  the  negroes  free, 

Ye  have  not  died  in  vain. 

And  make  tlieir  children  slaves." 

Then  shook  the  walls  with  loud  huzzas. 

And  music's  louder  swell. 

And  laughter— such  as  that  which  rung 

Through  the  corridors  of  hell. 

When  man— God's  last  and  noblest  work— 

The  Bondholders'  Feast. 

From  his  primal  glory  fell. 

"  Fill  up !  fill  up !  and  cursed  be  he 

But  while  the  sound  of  festive  mirth 

Who  talks  of  sleep  to-night ! 

Was  loudest  in  the  hall. 

We'll  quaff  the  wine  from  vine-clad  Rhine 

There  came  a  spectral  brawny  hand. 

And  old  Madeira  bright, 

And  wrote  upon  the  wall — 

Till  stars  have  paled  and  dappled  morn 

With  a  dagger-pen,  and  blood  for  ink- 

Reveals  her  amber  light. 

Wrote  on  the  frescoed  wall. 

"  Fill  up !  fill  up !— let  toil-worn  slaves 

No  need  was  there  for  ancient  seer 

Into  their  kennels  creep. 

To  read  the  word  it  wrote ; 

And  with  their  brats  and  pale-faced  wives 

Each  reveller  grew  pale  with  fear. 

Spend  night  in  sluggish  sleep ; 

And  his  knees  together  smote, 

The  men  who  dwell  in  marble  halls 

And  the  ruby  wine  from  vine-clad  Rhine 

Will  high  old  revel  keep." 

Stopped  half-way  in  his  throat ! 

Backwoods   Poems. 


95 


And  silence  reigned  in  the  festive  hall, 
Like  the  silence  ot  the  dead, 

And  the  flickering  lamps,  as  if  afraid, 
A  pallid  radiance  shed. 

As  the  cravens  gazed  with  stony  stare 
Upon  that  writing  dread. 


The  Boquet. 

The  fair  boquet  you  sent  me 

Recalls  the  happy  hours, 
When  I,  a  boy,  was  roaming 

In  the  shady  woodland  bowers ; 
"Wlien  love  was  all  my  dream — 

My  muse's  constant  theme, 
And  brain  and  hands  were  busy  to  tell  my 
love  with  flowei's. 

Ah !  this  delightful  fragrance 

Is  a  talismanic  key 
To  unlock  the  golden  casket, 

And  set  old  memories  free — 
Dear  memories  of  the  past — 

Of  joys  too  sweet  to  last — 
Ot  girls  that  bloomed  in  beauty,  but  did  not 
bloom  tor  me. 

How  like  the  hopes  then  cherished, 

These  tiny  rosebuds  fair, 
Just  opening  their  bosoms 

To  the  sunlight  and  the  aii' ! 
How  like  my  manhood's  prime — 

Its  fruit  and  harvest  time— 
This  rose  «^^hat  sheds  its  petals,  and  leaves 
the  stem  all  bare ! 


Waiting. 

SONG   FROM   THE   DRAMA - 
PRINCES." 


'THE   THREE 


I'm  waiting  for  you,  dearest— 
You  said  you'd  come  to-day ; 
But  now  the  sun  is  sinking 
Behind  the  mountains  gray  ; 
The  twilight  shades  have  gathered 
Down  in  the  valleys  deep. 
And  slowly  up  the  hill-sides 
Like  dusky  phantoms  creep. 


I'm  waiting  love,  I'm  waiting; 

The  eagle  seeks  the  nest. 
Where  his  mate  awaits  his  coming 
Upon  the  mountain's  crest. 
The  tinkhng  bells  come  nearer — 
The  flocks  are  homeward  bound ; 
And  the  shadows  of  the  elm -trees 
Have  mingled  on  the  ground. 

I'm  waiting,  darling,  waiting ; 
The  angel  of  the  night 
Through  the  azure  fields  is  walking, 
The  twinkling  lamps  to  light. 
Above  tne  eastern  hill-tops 
The  round  moon  rises  bright. 
And  bathes  the  fields  and  forests 
In  floods  of  silver  light. 

I'm  waiting,  oh !  I'm  waiting  : 
The  day  is  past  and  gone, 
But  still  beside  the  gateway 
I'm  waiting  all  alone. 
There's  a  rustling  'mong  the  bushes- 
Why  beats  my  heart  so  fast  ? — 
It  is  the  well-known  footstep- 
He's  come— he's  come  at  last ! 


"  Let  us  have  Peace." 

"Wo  to  them  who  cry    'peace!'   'peace!'   when 
there  is  no  peace  !" 

"  Let  us  have  peace !"  the  eagle  screams. 

As  in  his  bloody  nest 

He  tears  the  flesh  of  the  quivering  kid 

For  his  clam'rous  young  one's  feast. 

He  sees  the  agile  shepherds  climb 

The  rugged  winding  path, 

With  gleaming  rifles  in  their  hands, 

And  faces  red  with  wrath. 

"  Let  us  have  peace !"  I  hear  the  eagle  shriek, 

As  on  his  breast  he  wipes  his  bloody  beak. 

"  Let  us  have  peace  !"  exclaims  the  wolf, 
Crouched  in  his  bone-paved  den. 
With  the  mangled  lamb  between  his  jaws 
He  ravished  from  the  pen. 
The  hunter's  dogs  are  at  the  door- 
He  hears  their  angry  bark, 
And  fiercely  glare  his  eye-balls  red, 
Through  the  cavern  dank  and  dark. 
"  Let  us  have  peace !"  I  hear  the  black  wolf  growl. 
As  he  lii'.ks  his  bloody  chops  with  angry  scowl.     • 


96                                       Backwoods 

Poems. 

"  Let  us  h^ve  peace !"  the  murderer  cries, 

Praise  the  Lord! 

As  he  lifts  his  dagger  red : 

Prone  at  his  feet,  his  victim  lies, 

A  HYMN. 

All  pale,  and  cold,  and  dead. 

The  blood-avenger's  on  his  traok. 

Praise  the  Lord  with  shout  and  song ;                  ;, 

He  hears  his  footsteps  nigh  ; 

All  ye  saints  your  voices  raise ; 

His  bloated  cheek  is  blanched  with  fear. 

Tune  your  harps,  ye  angel  throng- 

And  quails  his  blood-shot  eye. 

Tune  them  to  your  Maker's  praise. 

"  Let  us  have  peace '."  I  hear  the  murderer  yell. 

Praise  is  worshijj's  sweetest  part :                 jjOH 

In  tones  that  would  appal  the  fiends  in  hell. 

Though  our  words  are  few  and  weak,            tIBB^ 

From  the  fulness  of  the  heart 

"  Let  us  have  pijace  !"  the  pirate  says, 

Shall  the  mouth  in  numbers  speak. 

As  slow  the  plundered  wreck 

C/ionts— Hallelujah!  praise  the  Lord! 

Settles  beneath  the  yesty  waves. 

Let  all  earth  the  chorus  swell ! 

With  corses  on  the  deck. 

Praise  the  ever-blessed  Word, 

A  man-of-war  with  open  ports 

For  He  doeth  all  things  well. 

Bears  down  upon  him  fast ; 

And  well  he  knows  the  grand  old  flag 

Praise  Him  for  the  wonders  wrought 

That  flutters  at  the  mast. 

In  creation's  natal  hour ; 

"Let  us  have  peace!"  I  hear  the  pirate  roar. 

Praise  Him  for  the  light  He  brought 

As  from  his  blade  he  wipes  the  clotted  gore. 

Out  of  darkness  by  His  power. 

Stars  of  morning,  at  their  birth, 

Filled  the  heavens  with  their  lays ; 

Sun,  and  moon,  and  teeming  earth, 
Joined  in  their  Creator's  praise. 

Praise  the  Lord  for  life  and  health. 

The  Dappled  Cloud. 

And  for  all  that  these  sustain — 

Light  and  warmth— all  nature's  wealth- 

The  dappled  cloud  with  silvery  wings 

Cooling  breeze— and  gentle  rain. 

That  hid  the  halt-round  moon- 

Praise  Him  for  the  field  that  bends 

How  much  of  bliss  I  owed  to  it 

With  its  precious  golden  load  : 

That  eve  in  sultry  June  ! 

Food  and  raiment— country— friends- 

The  tempting  lips,  like  berries  ripe. 

Call  for  praises  to  our  God. 

Were  smiling  close  to  me, 

And  I  longed  to  taste  their  dainty  sweets— 

Praise  Him  for  His  gracious  plan — 

But  prudish  eyes  would  see  ! 

Angels  hear  it  told  with  awe  !  — 

To  redeem  poor  fallen  man 

The  dappled  cloud  flew  overhead, 

From  the  curses  of  the  law. 

And  hid  the  moon  from  sight. 

Jesus  died— 0  wondrous  love  !— 

And  all  around  was  dark  awhile 

Died  to  save  our  souls  from  wo ; 

As  black  Egyptian  night. 

And  the  Spirit  from  above 

'Twas  but  a  moment,  yet  in  it 

Came  to  dwell  with  man  below  I 

I  lived  an  age  of  bliss : 

The  fabled  cup  of  Ganymede 

Contained  no  sweet  like  this  '. 

The  dappled  cloud  flew  to  the  east, 

Lines, 

The  moon  shone  out  once  more, 

In  memory  of  my  father,  Samuel,  Bebryhill,  who 

And  on  her  cheek  I  saw  a  blush 

died  November  22, 1867,  in  the  70th  year  of  his  age. 

That  was  not  seen  before. 

0,  dappled  cloud  with  silvery  wings. 

1           A  year  ago,  my  father,  at  this  hour, 

How  much  I  owe  to  thee  ! — 

As  closed  the  autumn  day. 

The  brightest,  dearest,  gieene.^it  spot 

Thy  spirit  summoned  by  Almighty  power 

«       In  the  waste  of  memory  ! 

Forsook  its  tenement  of  clay. 

Backwoods   Poems. 


97 


Life's  toilsome  task  complete,  the  hardened  hands 
Were  folded  on  the  pulseless  breast ; 
And  the  weary  spirit  found  with  angel  bands 
Refreshment  and  eternal  rest. 

Thou'rt  gone,  my  father,  and  I'm  lonely  here 
On  life's  bleak,  tempest-beaten  shore : 
Thy  converse  sweet  no  more  our  home  can  ehoer— 
Thy  counsel  I  can  hear  no  more. 

Yet,  O,  if  in  thy  radiant  home  above 
Blest  spirits  wrestle  still  in  prayer. 
Still  let  me  share  a  father's  tender  love — 
Still  claim  a  father's  tender  care. 

Pray,  O,  my  father,  for  thy  erring  child. 
Whose  devious  steps  are  prone  to  stray; 
That  grace  may  curb  my  passions  strong  and  wild, 
And  keep  me  in  the  narrow  way. 

Pray  that  thy  kind  and  honest  heart  be  mine, 
To  guide  aright  my  every  aim  ; 
That  I  may  load  a  life  as  pure  as  thine, 
And  leave  behind  as  fail-  a  name. 


Lines. 

There  is  a  robe  of  white 

Laid  up  in  Heaven  above 

For  those  w^ho  in  Christ's  law  delight  — 

The  holy  law  of  love. 

They  whom  the  Saviour's  blood 

Hath  cleansed  from  sin's  dark  stain. 

Shall  stem  cold  Jordan's  rolling  flood 

And  the  robe  of  white  obtain. 

There  is  a  crown  of  light — 
How  bright  its  gems  appear  !— 
For  those  who  light  the  Christian  fight 
And  toil  and  suffer  here. 
The  lowly  and  the  meek, 
Who  shun  temptation's  snare, 
And  e'er  their  Maker's  glory  seek, 
The  crown  of  light  shall  wear. 

And  golden  harps  are  given 

To  the  redeemed  throngs 

Who  roam  among  the  fields  of  Heaven, 

And  sing  celestial  songs. 

And  they  who  mourn  and  weep 

Along  earth's  rugged  ways. 

The  golden  harp-strings  there  shall  sweep 

In  their  Redeemer's  praise. 


Three. 

In  memory  of  AnnieLee,  Lovie  Spboles,  and  Willie 
Meek,  daughters  of  John  N.  and  Maria  C.  Bowen. 

Three  little  bodies 
Laid  beneath  the  sod ! 
Three  immortal  spirits 
Taken  home  to  God ! 

Three  tender  lambkins— 
Weary— wanting  rest — 
Nestling  in  sweet  slumber 
On  the  Shepherd's  breast ! 

Three  tiny  rosebuds. 

By  the  Maker  given. 

Plucked  by  Him  who  gave  them — 

Blooming  now  in  Heaven  I 

Parents,  do  not  murmur. 
At  the  chastening  rod  : 
He  hath  given— taken— 
Bless  the  name  of  God  ! 


Tell  Me  Ye  Winged  Wiiads. 

Tell  me,  ye  winged  winds 
That  in  the  tree-tops  moan. 
Is  tliere  no  happy  place 
Where  taxes  are  unknown  I — 
No  sweet  Elysian  vale- 
No  Paradisaic  spot, 
Where  the  wicked  cease  to  trouble. 
And  the  tax-man  cometh  not .' 

Where  is  that  happy  land  .'— 

Mid  the  North's  perennial  snows  ? 

Or  where  the  tropic  fruit 

In  the  torrid  sunbeams  glows .' 

Is't  some  oasis  green 

In  Sahara's  waste  of  sand  ? 

Ye  winged  winds,  pray  tell  me. 

Where  is  that  happy  land  ? 

Awhile  the  winds  are  hushed, 
And  then  tlieir  voices  swell. 
Loud  as  the  Ku-Klux  whoop. 
Or  "  the  banner  cry  of  hell." 
And  through  my  chamber  door. 
That  they  have  blown  ajar, 
I  hear  them  groaning— shrieking— 
Their  answer—"  Nary-whar !" 


98 


Backwoods  Poems. 


Memories. 

Like  the  faint  sweet  fragrance  that  the  zephyrs  bring 
From  the  distant  orchards  m  the  early  spring ; 
Like  the  low  sad  music  of  the  home-bound  bells, 
When  the  twilight  shadows  deepen  in  the  dells ; 
Like  the  azure  shimmer  on  the  hill-tops  seen, 
Ere  the  budding  forests  clothe  themselves  in  green- 
Are  the  tender  mem'ries  of  a  sweet  young  face 
Time  could  never  wholly  from  my  mind  erase. 

Like  a  dark  deep  river,  stained  witli  blood  and  tears — 
Tossed  in  troubled  billows-'seem  the  bygone  years 
Which  divide  the  present  from  the  happy  days 
When  her  girlish  beauty  waked  my  tender  lays ; 
When  her  coming  footsteps  music  made  more  sweet 
Than  the  rippling  murmur  where  two  streamlets  meet; 
When  her  smiles  and  glances  made  my  spirit  glad, 
And  her  coyish  coldness  almost  drove  me  mad. 

O'er  that  dark  deep  river—  on  that  hazy  shore — 
Sleep  the  hopes  that  perished — sleep  to  wake  no  more; 
But  the  love  I  cherished — cherished  though  m  vain— 
With  the  early  flowers  comes  to  lite  again— 
Brings  me  tender  mem'ries  of  the  fair  young  face 
Time  can  never — never  from  my  heart  erase — 
Mem'ries  sad  as  bell-tones  in  the  distance  heard — 
Sweet  as  breath  of  orchards  by  the  zephyrs  stirred. 


K;aty-Did. 

O,  Kate,  you  did,  you  know  you  did— 
The  fact  you  can't  deny — 
Let  Harry  squeeze  your  lily  hand. 
And  kiss  you  on  the  sly- 
Out  where  the  red-cheeked  peaches  hung 
And  shed  their  fragrance  round, 
And  mellow  golden  apples  lay 
Thick  scattered  on  the  ground. 
O,  Kate,  you  did,  you  know  you  did  ! 
You  needn't  blush  nor  smile  ; 
For  'mong  the  leafy  branches  hid, 
I  saw  you  all  the  while. 

O,  Kate,  he  did,  you  know  he  did, 
While  the  purple  sunset  lay 
Low  in  the  west,  and  up  the  hill 
Climbed  the  twilight  shadows  gray— 
He  pared  a  peach  and  threw  the  peel. 
Which  fell  the  letter  K, 


Then  took'  your  little  hand  in  his, 
And  kissed  your  pout  away. 
O,  Kate,  he  did,  &c. 

O,  Kate,  you  did,  you  know  you  did, 

In  the  orchard  linger  long. 

Till  the  round  full  moon  rose  in  the  east. 

And  I  began  my  song — 

Till  Harry  told  the  old,  old  tale 

That  maids  have  loved  to  hear. 

Since  the  morning  stars  together  sang 

In  creation's  natal  year. 

O,  Kate,  you  did,  &c. 


.  Scanlan. 

Not  only  on  the  battle-field. 
Mid  clang  and  clash  of  steel, 
Do  noble  men  by  gallant  deeds 
Their  noble  souls  reveal. 

Within  a  prison's  walls,  to-day, 
There  beats  as  brave  a  heart 
As  ever  nerved  a  hero's  arm 
To  do  a  hero's  part. 

And  the  Muse  of  History,  as  she  pens 
The  records  of  our  times— 
The  glorious  deeds  of  the  good  and  great, 
And  bad  men's  hellish  crimes — 

And  comes  to  fill  the  immortal  lists 
For  the  shining  scroll  of  Fame, 
Shall  write,  in  lines  of  living  light. 
Brave  Thomas  Soanlan's  name. 


TJp  with  the  Banner! 

Up  with  the  grand  old  banner,  men, 

And  nail  it  to  the  mast, 
Where  we  have  sworn  that  it  shall  float 

As  long  as  time  shall  last ! 
The  evil  days  of  mongrel  rule, 

Thank  God !  shall  soon  be  past ! 

From  California's  golden  sands 

To  the  deep  wild  woods  of  Maine, 
From  the  evergreens  of  the  Southern  coast 


Backwoods   Poems. 


99 


To  the  North's  lacustrine  chaia, 
Four  million  tongues  have  sworn  the  oath  — 
And  have  not  sworn  in  vain  ! 

Up  with  the  grand  old  banner,  men— 

The  flag  we  loved  of  old  ! 
"  White  Men  shall  k0le  America  !" 

Is  stamped  on  every  fold 
In  letters  red  with  martyr's  blood, 

And  bright  as  burnished  gold. 

Millions  of  hearts  shall  welcome  it — 
Though  traitors  hiss  their  scorn — 

As  sad  and  weary  watchers  greet 
The  rosy  van  ot  morn, 

Or  sages  hailed  the  star  which  shone 
O'er  a  Saviour  newly  born. 

Up  with  the  White  Man's  Banner,  men— 

The  banner  of  our  race — 
And  flaunt  the  motto  that  it  bears 

In  every  traitor's  face 
Who  has  sold  his  soul  to  the  negro  Baal 

For  pelf,  and  power,  and  place  ! 

Up  with  the  flag !  On  with  the  work 

That  to  our  hands  is  given ! 
The  hell-forged  chains*must  shivered  fall. 

As  if  by  lightning  riven. 
And  the  huckster  hordes  who  buy  and  sell, 

From  the  temple  must  be  driven  ! 

*  The  "  Reconstruction  Measures,"   including    tlit^ 
'  Amendments." 


I'll  dream  of  an  island  far  away. 

Where  the  young  gazelles  on  the  mountains  play, 

And  the  bright-plumed  birds  in  the  myrtle  bowers 

Sing  of  a  love  as  fond  as  ours ; 

Where  orange  trees  bend  with  their  golden  store, 

And  snow-capped  billows  strew  the  shore 

With  rare  brigut  shells,  whose  roseate  dyes 

Were  caught  from  the  lips  that  hold  my  prize. 

And  I  will  dream  ot  a  coral  cave. 
Washed  by  the  ocean's  dashing  wave, 
Where  we  will  live  through  all  the  year, 
With  nought  to  wish  and  nought  to  fear. 
Our  ibod  shall  be  the  honey-comb 
From  the  bowers  where  the  wild  bees  roam — 
The  luscious  fruits  of  tree  and  vine, 
And  the  purple  wild  gi'ape's  Buby  wine. 

All  day  we'll  roam  the  forests  green. 

And  view  the  azure  mountain  scene  ; 

Or  on  the  mossy  banks  recline. 

With  thy  warm  soft  hand  still  clasped  in  mine. 

I'll  gather  flowers  on  the  mountain  side 

To  weave  a  wreath  for  my  blushing  bride ; 

I'll  cull  the  scarlet  berries  fair 

To  twine  among  her  raven  hair. 

Of  this  wild  bright  isle  my  dream  shall  be— 
This  kingdom  shared  alone  with  thee — 
Whose  snow-white  strand  and  emerald  sod 
No  feet  but  ours  have  ever  trod. 
And  I'll  win,  I  know,  the  precious  prize, 
If  I  can  but  look  in  thy  soft  dark  eyes ; 
For  in  tlieir  depths  there  is  a  fire 
That  will  the  brightest  dreams  inspire. 


The  Wager  Dream. 

Axe — "  Ossian's  Sere.nade.^' 

In  the  golden  light  of  the  summer  day, 
In  the  stilly  night,  'neath  the  moon's  pale  ray, 
Awake  or  asleep,  I  will  dream  with  thee. 
And  a  kiss,  my  love,  shall  the  wager  be— 
A  kiss  as  sweej  as  the  fragrance  borne 
O'er  the  Persian  gulf  in  the  early  morn. 
By  the  winds  that  slept  in  the  spicy  gi-ove 
Wliere  the  bulbul  sung  to  the  rose  of  love. 
Chorus— Tlien  come,  my  love,  and  dream  with  nie. 
And  a  nectar  kiss  shall  the  wager  be ; 
Let  me  look  awhile  in  thy  soft  dark  eyes. 
And  I'll  win,  I  know,  the  precious  piize. 


Re-Reconstruction. 

Aye,  heat  the  iron  seven  times  hot 

In  the  furnace  red  of  hell ; 

<;all  to  your  aid  the  venomed  skill 

Of  "  all  the  fiends  that  fell," 
And  forge  new  links  for  the  galling  chain, 
'J\)  bind  the  prostrate  South  again  ! 

Stir  up  again  your  .snarling  pack— 
Your  jackals  black  and  white. 
That  tear  her  lovely  form  by  day, 
And  gnaw  her  bones  by  night — 
Your  snivelling  thieves  with  carpet-bags— 
Your  sneaking,  whining  scallawags  ! 


100                                        Backwoods   Poems. 

Tear  open  wide  the  festering  wounds, 

Come  back,  bright  dreams  that  cheered  my  lonely 

Ere  they  have  time  to  heal ; 

hours, 

And  by  youi  harsh  vindictive  laws 

When  I,  too  weak  to  roam  abroad  mid  trees  and  flow- 

Make every  Southron  feel 

ers, 

He  is  an  alben  with  no  right 

Oft  spent  the  livelong  day  in  Fancy's  haunted  bowers. 

Safe  from  the  clutch  of  despot  might ! 

There,   Muses  came  and  dipped  my  pen  in  flowing 

Villains,  go  on ;  each  blow  you  strike 

rhyme, 

To  glut  your  hellish  hate, 

And   tuned  my  rustic  harp,  and  taught  me  strains 

But  welds  in  one  all  Southern  hearts, 

sublime 

And  State  unites  to  State  ; 

That  iloated  evermore  adown  the  corridors  of  Time. 

And  lo  !  compact  our  Southland  stands  - 

A  Nation  fashioned  by  your  hands  ! 

For  me  their  sweetest  smiles  the  lips  of  beauty  wore ; 

And  wealth  poured  at  my  feet  a  precious  golden  store, 

So  vast,  so  measureless,  I  could  not  wish  for  more 
The  pretty  hopes  have  perished,  by  Fancy  fed  in  vain; 

A  Welcome  to  the  Immigrant. 

My  future  is  a  blank,  and  mem'ry  brings  but  pain  — 

What  would  I  give  to  dream  my  boyhood's  dreams 

Thrice  welcome  to  our  sunny  land, 

again  ! 

The  hardy  sons  of  toil 

Who  have  left  their  homes  on  distant  sliores 
To  till  our  fertile  soil ! 

The  matron  grave,  the  blooming  maid. 

The  sturdy  yeoman  tall, 

Death  of  Liberty. 

The  rosy  romping  boys  and  girls— 

A  welcome  to  them  all ! 

Let  church-bells  toll  a  knell 

Through  all  the  stricken  land ; 

The  Switzer  from  the  Alpine  vales, 

For  Liberty  lies  cold  and  dead. 

The  German  and  the  Dane ; 

Struck  by  a  tyrant's  hand  : 

Norwegians,  Swedes,  and  Briton's  sons, 

And  the  men  of  vine-clad  Spain ; 

Struck  by  his  mailed  hand — 

The  Celt,  Sclavonian,  and  Magyar, 

Where  were  the  true  and  brave, 

The  Roman  and  the  Gaul— 

That  they  heeded  not  her  cry  for  help, 

They're  brethren  of  our  common  blood- 

Nor  stretched  a  hand  to  save  ? 

Thrice  welcome  to  them  all ! 

Our  fathers  loved  her  well— 

The  Southland's  fields  shall  smile  once  more  — 

Those  noble  men  of  old, 

Shall  blossom  as  the  rose  ;— 

Who  would  not  brook  a  tyrant's  rule, 

And  white  men  rule  the  land  again. 

Nor  sell  their  souls  for  gold. 

In  spite  of  all  our  foes. 

^ 

Then  let  warm  hearts  the  exiles  greet 

How  would  those  brave  men  weep 

Who  seek  our  sunny  land ; 

Could  they  but  see  her  now, 

And  meet  them  all  with  kindly  words, 

All  pale  and  cold,  with  the  seal  of  death 

And  with  a  helping  hand. 

Upon  her  queenly  brow ; 

With  temple  black  and  bruised, 
Where  the  fiendish  tyrant  smote, 

And  the  purple  prints  of  his  iron  clutch 

Day-Dreams. 

Upon  her  snowy  throat ! 

borne  back,  sweet  dreams  that  lilled  with  joy  the  van- 

Let weeping  women  come. 

ished  years: 

Their  hearts  with  sorrow  bowed. 

Without  your  light,  my  life  a  starless  night  appears— 

And  close  her  glazed  glaring  eyes, 

A  dreary  arid  waste,  wet  only  with  my  tears. 

.4.nd  put  her  in  her  shroud. 

Backwoods  Poems. 


101 


And  let  them  dig"  her.  grave. 
And  bury  her  at  night, 
AVhen  the  pallid  moon  has  veiled  her  face 
To  hide  the  wot'ul  sight. 

Forevermore  unknown 
Let  the  burial  spot  abide, 
Like  the  grave  of  Israel's  holy  seer 
Who  on  Mount  Nebo  died. 

"We  are  not  worthy— we 
Who  heard  her  pleading  cry, 
And  let  our  idle  rusty  swords 
In  their  dusty  scabbards  lie— 

We  are  not  worthy  even 
To  look  upon  the  grave 
That  holds  the  hallowed  torm  of  her 
We  would  not  die  to  save  ! 


And  yet,  not  all  for  good  it  reigns 

(For  the  world  is  growing  worse ;) 
Error  is  blent  with  truth  and  turns 

The  blessing  to  a  cui-se. 
Wrong  in  the  Press  too  often  finds 

A  willing  advocate : 
Light  of  the  world— when  it  is  dark, 

The  darkness,  O,  how  great ! 

May  this  no  longer  be— may  truth 

Be  evermore  its  aim ; 
Only  the  good  and  true  receive 

Fi'om  it  the  meed  of  tame ! 
May  clouds  of  error  seldom  dim 

The  splendor  of  its  light, 
And  The  Peess  be  always  on  the  side 

Of  Freedom,  Truth,  and  Right ! 


The  Press. 

[The  following  poem  was  read  before  the  Mississippi 
Press  Association  at  its  annual  Convention,  held  in  Co- 
lumbus, June  5th  and  0th,  1872.] 

Crowns  ai'e  but  baubles,  royal  pomp 

A  vain  and  empty  show ; 
The  sceptres  are  but  childish  toys 

That  sway  all  things  below : 
Thrones  vainly  lift  their  occupants 

Above  the  common  clay : 
The  Pbinting  Pkess  is  monarch  now— 

U  rules  the  world  to-day. 

No  rivers  deep,  nor  lakes,  nor  seas, 

Nor  rock-ribbed  mountain  chains, 
Nor  difference  of  clime  or  speech, 

Limit  its  wide  domains. 
Earth  is  its  kingdom — everywhere 

Where  mind  communes  with  mind 
Dispensing  light,  its  rule  is  felt : 

Its  subjects  are  mankind. 

No  gleaming  spears  its  throne  uphold  ; 

No  swords  its  conquests  spread ; 
Its  fields  of  glory  are  not  strewed 

With  the  dying  and  the  dead. 
In  peace  it  reigns — the  peaceful  arts 

Each  day  its  rule  extend  ; 
And  science  always  finds  in  it 

Its  truest,  noblest  friend. 


My  Boquet. 

Inscribed  to  Miss  Zxibie  F****,  of  Bellefontaine,  Miss. 

Sweet,  the  perfume  of  these  flowers ; 

All  the  air  they  till ; 
But  the  memoiies  they  bring  me — 

They  are  sweeter  still : 
Tender,  dear,  delightful  mem'ries  • 

Of  the  vanished  years, 
That  have  filled  my  heart  with  gladness — 

And  my  eyes  with  tears ! 


Back— back — back — through  Time's  long  vista 

Wings  my  mind  it;s  flight, 
[Swiftly  as  through  realms  empyreal 

Leaps  the  solar  light ; 
Brings  me  back,  through  gathering  shadows, 

Pictures  of  the  Past — 
Scenes  of  beauty,  hours  of  gladness, 

Joys  too  sweet  to  last. 

Tlirough  the  twilight  gray  are  peering 

Faces  fair  as  thine ; 
Tempting  lips,  as  sweet,  are  smiling ; 

Eyes,  as  radiant,  shine. 
Voices,  too,  as  full  of  music, 

Haunt  the  evening  air, 
And,  stretched  out  in  friendly  greeting, 

Little  hands  as  fair. 

And  the  olden  loves  come  thronging 

Back  to  life  again, 
From  the  cryptic  burial-places 


102                                      Backwoods 

Poems. 

Where  they  long  have  lain : 

To  the  Farmers,                    ; 

Thronging  slowly,  singing  lowly, 

In  a  sad  retrain — 

Hardy  tillers  of  the  soil. 

What  the  epitaph  of  each  is — 

Ruddy  brown  with  daily  toil. 

Two  short  words— J«  ■nain ! 

Te  are  monarchs  of  this  land. 

If  ye'll  grasp,  with  daring  liand, 

Flowers !  flowers !  precious  flowers  ! 

Sceptres  that  ye  should  have  borne, 

Culled  by  beauty's  hand  ! 

Regal  crowns  ye  should  have  worn. 

Ye  can  conjure  fairer  visions 

In  all  the  past. 

Than  magician's  wand. 

But  ye  drudged — a  patient  band— 

On  your  fragrant  breath  ye  waft  ma, 

Step-sons  in  your  fatlier's  land- 

From  these  scenes  of  pain, 

Drudged,  that  pampered  pets  of  State 

Back,  through  Time's  long  checkered  vista, 

Might  grow  rich,  and  proud  and  great, 

To  my  youth  again. 

On  the  fruits  your  patient  toil 

Gathered  from  the  stubborn  soil ; 

Drudged  till,  at  last. 
Venal  politicians  sold 

You  and  yours  for  yellow  gold 

Rally  Song. 

To  the  "  rings"  that  lie  in  wait 

For  their  prey  in  every  State— 

Huzza !  on  every  mountain  peak 

And  in  Babylon  tbe  Great  !  — 

The  signal  flres  are  gleaming ; 

Till  they  bound  your  teet  and  hands 

In  every  vale,  on  every  plain, 

With  their  cunning  iron  bands— 

The  grand  old  iiag  is  streaming  ! 

Fashioned  bonds  for  you  to  wear- 

"  U'CoNOB  !  Adams  !"  is  the  cry 

Burdens  made  for  you  to  bear 

That  through  the  land  is  ringing ; 

Through  long  years  of  toil  and  care. 

Truth  crushed  to  earth  by  tyrant's  heel, 

Again  to  life  is  springing. 

Trusting  in  their  ill-got  power, 

Lo !  these  lords  above  you  tower. 

The  Ship  of  State  our  fatliers  built— 

Mocking  your  demand  for  right. 

The  theme  of  song  and  story- 

As  an  Eastern  Sultan  might 

Shall  ride  the  storm-tossed  waves  again. 

Mock  the  prayer  of  abject  slave, 

In  all  her  pristine  glory  ! 

Cringing,  some  poor  boon  to  crave. 

We'll  haul  her  from  the  rocks  and  sands. 
Whore  traitor  pirates  ran  her ; 

And  patriots  shall  guide  her  helm. 
And  honest  men  shall  man  her  ! 

Though  the  bands  be  tough  and  strong 
Ye  have  worn  through  years  of  wrong, 
Let  the  mocking  lords  beware — 

Strength  still  dwells  in  Sampson's  hair ! 

Our  heritage  of  sacred  rights— 
Our  richest  earthly  treasure— 

The  petty  despots  of  an  horn- 

No  more  shall  crush  at  ijleasure  ! 

A  Song. 

The  thieving  rings  no  more  shall  prey 

On  the  fruits  of  honest  labor, 

We  launcli  the  proud  old  ship  once  more 

Nor  priv'leged  nabob  roll  in  wealth 

Upon  the  storm-tossed  sea, 

By  starving  out  his  neighbor ! 

And  from  her  top-most  mast  her  flag — 

Her  same  old  flag— floats  free. 

Huzza!  on  plains  and  mountain  peaks 

"A  Federal  Union— Soveeeign  States!" 

Our  beacon  fires  are  burning. 

Its  shining  motto  reads ; 

And  erring  brethren  by  their  light 

And  hearts  are  braced  with  high  resolves. 

Are  to  our  ranks  returning ! 

And  stirred  to  gallant  deeds. 

From  North  to  South,  from  East  to  West, 

Huzza !  huzza  !   our  flag  is  there — 

The  people  shout— "O'Oonor!" 

The  flag  we  love  so  well ! 

And  honoring  statesman  pure  as  he. 

Huzza !  huzza  \  let  every  tongue 

They  clothe  tliemselves  with  honor ! 

The  gladsome  chorus  swell ! 

Backwoods   Poems. 


103 


Huzza !  our  ship  no  longer  lies 

Dry-rotting  near  the  shore : 
Her  sails  have  caught  the  stitt'  salt  breeze— 

She  rides  the  waves  once  more  ! 
Let  black  clouds  burst  in  tempest  tierce, 

And  lash  the  foaming  sea  ; 
Not  a  heart  sliall  quail,  while  in  the  gale 
Our  beacon  flag  floats  free. 

Huzza  I  huzza !  our  flag  is  there — 

The  flag  we  love  so  well ! 
Huzza  !  huzza !  let  every  tongue 
The  gladsome  chorus  swell ! 


Lines 


Inscribed  to  the  memory  of  my  mother,  Mrs.  Mabga- 
RET  Berryhill,  who  died  February  22,  1873. 

I'm  sitting  by  the  hearth,  mother, 

In  the  old  homestead  gray ; 
Low  in  the  west  is  faintly  seen 

The  light  of  parting  day ; 
The  twilight  shades  are  gathering 

In  the  corners  of  the  room ; 
And  the  hollow  moan  of  the  autumn  wind 
Adds  to  my  spirit's  gloom. 

For  I  am  all  alone,  mother — 
No  loved  one's  form  is  near ; 

Of  all  who,  in  the  long  ago, 
Were  wont  to  gather  here 

When  the  labors  of  the  day  were  o'er 
And  hands  from  toil  were  free, 

Not  one  is  left  in  the  dear  old  home- 
Not  one  is  left  but  me. 

They  left  us  one  by  one,  mother— 

Our  happy  household  band— 
Some  for  new  homes  amid  new  scenes- 
Some  for  the  spirit  land- 
Till  only  thou  and  1  remained, 

And  thon—lhou  leftst  me  too  — 
Leftst  me  alone  in  the  wide,  wide  world. 
Life's  journey  to  pursue. 

Oh !  it  is  hard  to  live,  mother. 
With  none  to  care  for  me— 

With  none  to  care  if  sick  or  well- 
Alive  or  dead— I  be ; 

No  hands  to  cool  my  fevered  brow. 
Or  to  make  my  pillow  smooth. 

No  voice  to  cheer  me  at  my  tasks, 
And  all  my  sorrows  soothe. 


Dost  thou  still  care  for  me,  mother, 

Thy  helpless,  wayward  son. 
Now  thou  hast  found  the  peaceful  shore. 

And  the  work  of  life  is  done  ? 
Does  a  mother's  love  with  the  body  die — 

Die,  nevermore  to  wake  ' 
Or  are  its  golden  cords  too  strong 

For  the  hand  of  death  to  break  ? 

I  will  not  wish  that  love,  mother, 

Beyond  the  grave  should  last — 
That  the  sainted  spirit,  freed  from  clay. 

Be  fettered  with  the  past. 
For  well  I  know  that  I  have  proved 

Unworthy  of  thy  love. 
And  I  would  not  that  my  walk  below 

Should  mar  thy  peace  above. 


Bereaved. 

She  came  with  April's  gentle  showers — 

Our  gold-haired  darling  child— 
AVlien  'neath  the  liquid  azure  skies 

The  flowers  in  beauty  smiled ; 
AVhen  fragrance  filled  the  balmy  air, 

Wlien  verdure  clothed  the  plain. 
And  bright-plumed  birds  on  leafy  boughs 

Poured  forth  their  sweet  re&ain. 

But  when  the  trees  their  leaves  had  lost, 

Kissed  by  the  frosty  air, 
And  wailing  winds  played  dirges  wild 

.'Vmong  their  branches  bare; 
When  all  the  flowers  were  dead,  and  clouds 

Obscured  the  azure  dome. 
From  Paradise  the  angels  came 

And  took  our  darling  home. 


Winter  Flowers. 

(iather  me  flowers— beautiful  flowers- 
Budding  and  blooming  in  the  winter  hours ; 
Glowing  with  life  while  the  trees  are  bare ; 
Freighting  with  fragrance  the  chilly  air; 
Joyous  and  smiling  'neath  a  clouded  sky ; 
Beautiful  and  bright  as  a  maiden's  eye  I 


104 


Backwoods   Poems. 


Dear  as  the  inem'ries  of  vanished  years 
When  trouble  has  frozen  the  fount  ot  tears ; 
Sweet  as  the  voice  of  friendship  when  woe 
Saddens  the  heart  and  extinguishes  its  glow  ; 
Bright  as  the  hopes  that  linger  for  aye, 
Are  the  flowers  that  bloom  'ueath  a  winter  sky. 


Night's  First  Sleep. 

Soft  as  falls  the  midnight  dew 
On  the  tender  violets  blue, 
As  they  lay  their  drooping  heads 
On  theii'  fragrant  leafy  beds, 
Night's  first  sleep  descends  and  lies 
On  my  half-closed  weary  eyes. 

Laden  with  the  rich  perfumes 
(iathered  from  the  orchard  blooms. 
Evening's  humid  zephyrs  glide 
Through  the  window  at  my  side, 
Cool  my  brow,  and  bring  to  me 
Kisses  sweet,  and  dreams  of  thee ! 


Independence. 

Air — ^^  Hail  Columbia.^" 

Hail  ye  Patrons — sons  of  toil ! 

Hail  ye  tillers  of  the  soil ! 

Who  guide  the  plows  and  wield  the  hoes. 

And  when  your  yearly  task  is  done, 

Enjoy  the  fruits  your  labor  won  ! 

Let  Independence  be  the  goal 

Animating  every  soul, 

Nerving  every  Patron's  arm 

For  the  labors  of  the  farm, 

Bracing  every  Patron's  heart 

To  perform  a  Patron's  part, 

In  the  war  with  chartered  "rings"— 

In  the  war  with  "  money  kings." 

Long  enough  ye  wore  their  chains  ; 
Long  enough  your  toil-worn  gains 
Had  filled  the  coffers  of  your  toes— 
The  pampered  pets  of  venal  power — 
The  gold-winged  insects  of  an  hour. 
Now  Independence  is  the  boast 
Of  the  Patron's  mighty  host ; 
Every  flag  tliat  motto  bears— 


Every  breast  that  motto  wears. 
"  Independence !"  glorious  word ! 
Once  our  fathers'  hearts  it  stirred  ; 
Now  it  shall  our  watchword  be — 
Watchword  of  the  farmers  freei 


I 


"  Deterior." 

A  PARODY. 

The  shades  of  night  were  falling  fast 
As  along  a  muddy  road  there  passed 
A  negro,  with  a  bob-tailed  lice, 
Who  bore  a  flag  with  the  strange  device— 
"  Deterior  !" 

His  shoes  were  out  at  heels  and  toes ; 
A  hundred  rents  gaped  thro'  his  clothes; 
And  wildly  rolled  his  big  white  eye, 
As  from  his  lips  escaped  the  cry— 
"  Deterior!" 

The  flag  he  bore  was  so  besmeared 
That  scarce  the  stars  and  stripes  appeared ; 
But  bright  as  sign  o'er  tinker's  door 
The  talismanic  word  it  bore — 
"Deterior !" 

His  way  led  down  a  long  descent, 
Which  muddier  grew  as  on  he  went : 
With  shambling  gait  he  trudged  along. 
One  word  the  burden  of  his  song — 
"  Deterior !" 

He  saw  the  worm-fence  rotting  down  ; 
He  saw  the  fields  of  sedge-grass  brown ; 
Below,  the  swamp's  dark  waters  shone, 
And  his  thick  lips  mumbled,  with  a  groan - 
"  Deterior !" 

"  Pass  not  the  swamp !"  an  old  man  said  — 
The  wool  was  white  upon  his  head — 
"  The  mire  is  deep— the  sloughs  are  wide !" 
But  thus  the  tipsy  voice  replied— 
"  Deterior !" 

"Stay!"  cried  a  dusky  wench,  "oh!  stay! 
Abide  with  us  till  dawn  of  day !" 
But  he  only  grinned  and  shook  his  head, 
And  muttered— as  he  onward  sped— 
"  Deterior !" 


Backwoods  Poems.                                          105 

"  Beware  the  black  wolf  in  the  brake  ! 

The  Union  that  our  fathers  made — 

Beware  the  spotted  water-snake !" 

Unbroken  may  it  be. 

A  negro  on  the  wood-pile  cried: 

While  crowned  with  clouds  our  mountains  stand— 

A  voice  far  down  the  hill  replied — 

Our  rivers  seek  tiie  sea  ! 

"  Deterior !" 

And  may  our  sisterhood  of  States 

A  carpet-bagger  passed  that  way 

Move  on  without  a  jar. 

A  hunting  votes,  at  break  of  day, 

As  roll  the  stellar  systems  round 

And  in  the  mud  began  to  swear : 

Creation's  axis  star. 

A  voice  cried  through  the  startled  air — 

"  Deterior !" 

And  evcniiore,  as  millions  bow 

At  Freedom's  sacred  shrine. 

Neck-deep  in  mud  the  negro  stood 

O,  may  they  tind  Thy  presence  there, 

In  a  tangled  growth  of  underwood : 

And  own  its  glory  Thine  ! 

One  hand  held  up  the  bob-tailed  tice. 

And  one  the  flag  with  the  strange  device— 

"  Deterior  I'' 
As  deeper  sunk  the  dusky  wight, 

Till  e'en  his  wool  was  hid  from  sight, 

Under  the  Violets. 

From  the  mii-y  deep  there  came  a  yell 

Like  wail  of  spirit  plunged  in  hell — 

Inscribed  to  my  old  friend,  A.  B.  Hill,  of  Texas,  Mich. 

"  Deterior  I" 

Under  the  violets  Lelia  lies— 

Violets  blue  as  the  soft  sweet  eyes, 

Veiled  by  lids  white  as  the  winter  snow 
Sleeping  in  death  in  the  ground  below. 

Thanksgiving  Hymn. 

Ah !  she  once  loved  the  blue  violets  well ; 

For  Thursday,  November,  26th,  1874. 

Hunted  them  oft  in  the  shadowy  dell. 

By  the  gnarled  roots  of  the  ancient  oaks. 

From  North  and  South  we  come  to  bow 

Tenanted  once  by  the  fairy  folks. 

Before  our  fathers'  God ; 

Or  on  the  banks  of  the  gurgling  stream. 

To  own  the  sins  that  woke  His  ire, 

AVhere  through  the  water  the  white  pebbles  gleam ; 

And  kiss  His  chastening  rod. 

Plucked  them  with  rosy-tipped  lingers  fair- 

Wove  them  in  wreaths  for  her  golden  hair — 

The  temple  which  our  fathers  built 

Walked  in  them— trampled  them— till  Iier  bare  feet, 

A  blackened  ruin  stands ; 

Dripped  with  the  dew,  and  the  fragrance  sweet. 

And  blood  is  on  the  threshold — shed 

By  fratricidal  hands. 

Year  after,  year  shall  the  spring  time  come ; 

Birds  shall  be  singing,  and  wild  bees  hum  ; 

With  chastened  hearts  we  come  to  build 

Sunshine,  and  dew,  and  pattering  rain. 

The  broken  walls  again : 

Wake  the  blue  violets  to  life  again ; 

0,  may  the  pard'ning  love  of  God 

They  shall  be  blooming  as  fair  as  of  yore — 

Erase  the  bloody  stain ! 

,S'/ie  shall  be  sleeping  and  pluck  them  no  more. 

May  Love  cement  the  stones  we  lay. 

Lelia,  Lelia,  darling  child, 

By  square  and  plummet  tried  ; 

Oft  have  I  wished  in  my  sorrow  wild. 

And  Faith  and  Hope  within  the  walls 

That,  in  the  world  where  the  spirits  are, 

Forevermore  abide ! 

Sometimes  the  gates  would  be  left  ajar. 

WouUl'st  thou  not,  darling  one,  steal  away 

Look  down,  our  fathers'  God,  look  down 

From  thy  bright  home  in  the  sky  some  day. 

Upon  the  work  we  do ; 

As  thou  wast  wont  from  the  elm-shaded  yard, 

Bless— bless  us  all  to-day,  while  we 

When  the  big  wicket  was  left  unbarred  f 

The  covenant  renew ! 

Wouldst  thou  not  come  when  the  shadows  creep 

106 


BaoJcwoods  Poems. 


Up  the  long  slope  from  the  valley  deep  1 
Wouldst  thou  not  come,  love,  and  walk  unseen 
Under  the  elms  so  darkly  green — 
Wander  with  me  in  the  valley  below 
Where  the  stream  glides,  and  the  violets  grow, 
Freighting  the  air  with  a  fragrance  sweet 
As  that  which  clung  to  thy  little  feet  '. 

Lelia,  Lelia,  wilt  thou  come 
Back  to  the  sorrowing  ones  at  home, 
Bringing  fresh  flowers  in  thy  lily-white  hand — 
Amaranth  flowers  from  the  spirit-land — 
Clad  in  the  robes  of  that  world  so  fair — 
Wearing  its  stars  in  thy  golden  hair  .' 
We  could  not  see  thee— from  mortal  eyes 
Spirits  are  hid — but  the  holy  ties 
Linking  the  dead  with  the  mourners  here, 
Surely  would  tell  us  wlien  thou  art  near— 
Surely  would  thrill  us  as  lute-strings  thrill 
Touched  by  the  zephyrs  with  a  delicate  skill, 
Filling  the  air  with  a  low  sweet  strain — 
Heard  once  on  earth,  and  heard  never  again. 


A  Life  in  a  Rural  Cot. 

A  life  in  a  rural  cot — 
A  home  'mid  the  lofty  trees. 
In  some  sweet  secluded  spot, 
Where  the  honey-seeking  bees 
Hum  among  the  fragrant  flow'rs  . 
Through  the  golden  April  days. 
And  among  the  leafy  bow'rs 
Wild  birds  pour  their  tuneful  lays' 

Once  moi-e  'mid  the  waving  corn 
I'm  guiding  the  keen-edged  plow. 
While  the  fragrant  breath  of  morn 
Plays  upon  my  sun-burnt  brow. 
Like  a  shimmering  purple  veil, 
Flecked  with  blue,  and  green,  and  gold. 
Lies  the  mist  on  hill  and  dale. 
And  upon  the  grass-grown  wold. 

Who— who  would  exchange  this  life — 
This  life  in  the  fresh  pure  air. 
White-washed  cot,  and  smiling  wife, 
Eosy  children  plump  and  fair, 
For  a  home  in  crowded  mart 
Where  the  Kings  of  Commerce  live. 
Though  adorned  with  all  that  art 
Can  of  gorgeous  splendor  give  ? 


It  Matters  Not. 

It  matters  not --it  matters  not, 

Though  stranger  hands. 

In  distant  lands. 

May  bury  me 

In  some  wild,  lone,  and  dreary  spot 

Beneath  the  sands 

That  skirt  the  dark  blue,  rolling  sea  ; 

Or  on  the  bleak 

Bare  mountain  peak. 

Where  chilling  winds  forever  blow. 

And  lichens  cling 

To  the  rocks  that  fling 

Their  shadows  on  the  vale  below. 

It  matters  not — it  matters  not. 

Where  I  am  laid — 

In  the  forest's  shade 

Or  'neath  the  plain 

Where  Summer  pours  her  sunbeams  hot. 

And  ne'er  a  blade 

Of  grass  is  kissed  by  gentle  rain ; 

In  the  black  loam  dank 

On  the  river  bank. 

Where  the  trees  are  clasped  by  clamb'ring  vines. 

Or  where  all  day 

The  sad  winds  play 

Soft  dirges  'mong  the  long-leaved  pines. 

It  matters  not— it  matters  not. 

When  the  spirit's  fled. 

Where  rests  the  dead 

Decaying  shell — 

'Mong  the  graves  unmarked  in  the  pauper's  lot, 

Or  in  marble  bed. 

Where  sculptured  shafts  life's  hist'ries  tell. 

With  a  wing  as  light 

'Twill  wing  its  flight — 

The  spirit  from  its  prison  flo  ivn  ; 

And  in  that  day — 

That  Great  Last  Day— 

The  Son  of  God  will  find  His  own. 


Within  the  Gate. 

Hail,  happy  day  !  when  Patrons  meet 
To  spend  the  hours  in  converse  sweet. 
When  each  his  brother's  joy  may  share. 
And  each  his  brother's  burden  bear 
Within  the  gate. 


Backwoods  Poems. 


107 


While  toil-worn  hands  from  labor  rest, 
Let  care  be  banished  from  the  breast ; 
Let  strife  and  envy  ne'er  be  found, 
But  peace  and  love,  and  joy  abound 
Within  the  gate. 

No  stately  pomp  can  hither  come : 
Like  children  round  the  hearth  of  home, 
From  stiff  precision  we  are  free  :— 
Brothers  and  sisters  all  are  we 
Within  the  gate. 

When  the  sun  of  life  has  sunken  low, 
And  thoughts,  like  shadows,  backward  go. 
The  greenest  spots  in  mem'ry's  waste 
Shall  be  the  hours  that  we  have  passed 
Within  the  gate. 

And  when  the  Master's  work  is  done. 
And  the  fleeting  sands  of  life  are  run, 
O,  may  we  find  eternal  rest 
In  the  radiant  mansions  of  the  blest 
Within  the  gate ! 


Decoration  Day. 

Read  at  the  annual  decoration  of  the  Soldiers'  Graves 
at  Bellefontaine  grave  yard,  April  26, 1871. 

The  sentry  oaks  a  vigil  keep 

About  the  hallowed  ground  ; 

The  winds  sing  dirges  'mong  the  pines 

That  weep  their  fragrance  round — 

Sing  solemn  dirges  for  the  dead — 

For  the  dead  their  fragrance  weep — 

For  the  men  in  gray  that  we  mourn  to-day 

A  ceaseless  vigil  keep. 

For  the  loved  ones  gone  who  wore  the  gray,  • 

Daughters  of  Southland,  bring 

Bright  evergreens— type  of  our  faith  !— 

And  the  choicest  flowers  of  Spring — 

Sweet  flowers  to  decorate  their  graves  — 

Bright  evergreens  to  lay 

On  the  sod  that  rests  on  the  mouldering  breasts 

Ot  the  men  who  wore  the  gray. 

No  towering  shaft  in  the  coming  years. 

Their  humble  names  may  bear ; 

Historian's  pen  and  poet's  lyre 

Their  deeds  may  ne'er  declare. 

But  their  names  are  writ  on  loving  hearts 


And  e'er  when  Spring  appears, 

Her  fairest  blooms  shall  deck  their  tombs 

Through  all  the  coming  years. 

For  when  we  sleep  with  the  men  in  gray, 
And  our  dust  with  dust  shall  blend. 
The  holy  duty  that  we  owe 
To  our  children  shall  descend. 
And  though  their  chains  may  heavier  be 
Than  those  we  wear  to-day. 
They'll  ne'er  forget  the  sacred  debt 
They  owe  the  men  in  gray. 


A,  Heart  History, 

1  loved.    I  know  not  when,  nor  how,  nor  why 
My  love  began.    A  pretty  little  bud 
Just  coming  into  bloom  of  womanhood, 
I  little  saw  in  her  when  first  we  met 
To  wake  a  thought  of  love.    But  then  her  smile 
Was  wondrous  sweet,  and  in  my  dwelling  place, 
In  the  cold  shadow  ot  a  ruined  hope, 
It  fell  upon  my  spirit  hke  a  gleam 
Of  April  sunshine  in  a  gloomy  dell. 
We  often  met— too  oft  alas !  for  me :  — 
And  soon  I  longed  for  that  sweet  smile,  as  long 
The  thirsty  plants  for  night's  refreshing  dew. 
'Twould  haunt  me  everywhere.    The  cooing  tones 
Of  her  sweet  voice  would  linger  in  my  ear. 
Like  angel-music  heard  in  midnight  dreams. 
I  sought  her  presence  oft— and  yet  was  I 
In  that  sweet  presence  dumb.    To  see  her  smile. 
To  hear  her  voice — these  were  enough  for  me. 
My  friends  and  monitors  -my  precious  books- 
Grew  wearisome  and  hateful  in  my  sight. 
I  shunned  the  face  of  man :    I  longed  to  be 
Alone,  that  I  might  think— and  think  of  her. 
My  cunning  passion  wound  its  silken  web 
Around  my  every  thought,  before  I  knew 
That  she  was  aught  to  me  except  a  child — 
A  pretty  child  with  very  winning  ways. 

I  learned  at  last  tlie  secret  which  my  heart 
Had  kept  from  me  so  long— I  loved— I  hoped  ; 
My  fancy  built  fair  castles  in  the  air. 
Illumed  them  with  the  rosy  light  of  love, 
And  crowned  her  queen  and  mistress  of  them  all. 
It  could  not  last — my  wild,  sweet  dream  of  love 
And  happiness.    Too  soon,  alas !  I  learned 
The  bitter  truth— my  love  was  all  in  vain. 
My  airy  castles  all  came  toppling  down. 
And  all  the  pretty  hopes  my  heart  sent  forth, 


108 


Backwoods  Poems. 


Bleeding  and  broken-winged,  came  fluttering  back, 

With  plaintive  cry,  and  died  before  my  eyes. 

I  sought  once  more  the  dark,  cold  shadow  where. 

For  weary  years,  my  dwelling  place  had  been. 

Alas !  'twas  colder  —darker — than  before 

The  sunlight  of  her  presence  on  me  fell. 

One  hope  was  left  me,  ami  I  caught  at  it, 

As  drowning  men  will  catch  at  floating  straws, 

And  it  alone  made  life  endurable. 

I  would  forget ;  I'd  tear  her  from  my  mind. 

And  leave  not  e'en  a  trace  resembling  her. 

I  thought  that  it  would  be  an  easy  task  : 

I  knew  the  mighty  strength  of  human  will, 

How  it  can  pluck  the  giant  mountains  up 

That  block  our  path,  and  cast  them  in  the  ssa. 

It  was  a  futile  hope  :  I  had  not  learned 

With  what  tenacious  grasp  despairing  love 

Clings  to  the  heart,  when  hope  is  wrecked  and  lost 

On  life's  uneven  sea     With  all  its  strength. 

My  will  was  tar  too  weak  to  set  me  tree. 

Her  dear  ideal  was  so  interwrought 

With  all  the  mem'ries  of  the  recent  past, 

That  I  could  not  pursue  a  train  of  thought, 

Linked  by  suggestion  in  a  golden  chain. 

But  it  was  sure  to  end  in  thoughts  of  her. 

If  I  but  chanced  to  see  a  half-blowa  rose, 

Or  caught  its  fragrant  breath,  I'd  think  of  her. 

"  'Twas  one  like  this  she  gave  me,"  I  would  muse, 

"That  lovely  morning  when  she  smiled  so  sweet." 

Or  if  the  eve  was  bright,  and  in  the  west 

The  purple  sunset  lingered,  loth  to  go, 

"  'Twas  on  an  eve  like  this,"  I'd  sighing  say, 

"That  I  sat  by  her  gazing  in  her  eyes." 

Or,  if  the  day  was  dark,  and  gloomy  clouds 

O'erspread  the  heavens  like  a  funeral  pall, 

"Alas!  "  I'd  say,  "this  dark  and  dreary  day 

Is  like  the  life  of  him  who  loves  in  vain." 

I  never  took  my  harp  to  seek  relief 

From  (veary  thought  in  music's  soothing  strains. 

But  my  rebellious  fingers  touched  the  notes 

Of  some  old  tune  she  used  to  love  to  near. 

I  saw  her  eyes  in  all  the  twinkling  stars 

That  looked  down  on  me  from  the  spangled  vault ; 

I  heard  her  voice  in  every  turtle's  coo — 

Her  silvery  laugh  in  every  mock-bird's  song. 

And  thus  the  shadow  of  my  hopeless  love. 
Like  a  grim  ghost,  pursued  me  everywhere, 
And  mocked  me,  till  I  longed  to  hide  from  it. 
E'en  in  the  dark,  cold  precincts  of  the  grave. 

I'd  read  somewhere  in  mythologic  lore 
About  a  stream  that  through  Elysium  ran. 
Called  Lethe  by  the  Greeks.     Upon  its  banks 


The  spirits  from  the  upper  world  would  pause 
To  rest  awhile  their  weary  aching  limbs, 
And  view  the  prospect  fair  which  lay  beyond. 
To  quench  their  thirst,  they  quatfed  the  water  clear 
Which  glided  at  their  feet.     Straitway  the  past. 
With  all  its  gloomy  train  of  loves  and  hates. 
And  carking  cares,  and  hopes  not  realized. 
Would  vanish  from  their  minds,  and  heaven  begin. 
One  long  dark  night,  when  every  eye  save  mine 
Was  closed  in  sleep,  I  thought  me  of  this  stream  — 
That  if  some  spirit  from  the  shadowy  world 
Would  bring  of  it  a  brimming  cup  to  me. 
How  glad  I'd  drain  it  to  the  very  dregs. 
While  musing  thus  I  fell  into  a  sleep, 
And  in  the  misty  land  of  dreams  that  lies 
Midway  'twixt  lite  and  death— a  neutral  ground 
For  living  men  and  ghosts  to  wander  in — 
I  found  my  wish  fulfilled. 

There  came  to  me 
A  man  of  reverend  mien,  whose  flowing  beard 
Lay  like  a  wintry  snow-drift  on  his  breast. 
His  robes  were  loose  and  of  that  quaint  old  style 
We  see  in  pictures  of  the  ancient  Greeks. 
He  brought  with  him,  and  on  the  table  set, 
A  golden  cup  of  cunning  workmanship, 
And  fixing  on  my  face  his  stony  eyes. 
He  murmured,  though  his  lips  moved  not,  the  word 
"  Lethe!" — no  more— and  vanished  from  my  sight. 

'Twas  in  my  reach  at  last — forgetfulness— 

Rest  from  the  thoughts  which  preyed  like  vultures 

fierce 
Upon  my  heaj-t.    1  trembled  at  the  thought, 
And  in  a  transport  seized  the  brimming  cup ; 
But  ere  it  pressed  my  lips,  Love  stayed  my  hand, 
And  bade  me  think.    How  could  I  give  her  up  ? 
How  rase  from  mem'ry's  page  that  picture  sweet 
Which  had  become  with  me  the  glowing  type 
Of  every  beauty  and  of  every  grace  1 
For  I  knew  not  the  dawn  was  beautiful. 
Until  I  found  'twas  like  her  blushing  cheeks. 
Nor  ever  gazed  with  pleasure  on  the  sky. 
At  midnight  hour,  until  I  found  its  hues 
Had  all  been  borrowed  from  her  dark  gray  eyes. 
And  then  her  bright  ideal  image  rose 
Before  me,  more  distinct  and  true  to  life 
Than  that  which  art  has  taught  the  sun  to  paint. 
Her  dark-brown  hair  hung  loose ;  one  truant  tress 
Had  quit  its  place  behind  her  pearly  ear 
To  dally  with  and  kiss  her  rounded  cheek. 
A  shade  of  sadness,  like  a  summer  cloud, 
Lay  on  her  broad  fair  brow,  and  in  her  eyes 
There  was  a  tender  half-beseeching  look  ; 


Bachwoods  Poems. 


109 


But  still  the  smile  which  won  my  heart  at  first 
Played  like  a  suu-beam  on  her  little  mouth. 
I  could  not  give  her  up.     My  trembling  hand 
Set  down  the  cup ;  I  would  not  drink  the  drauarht. 

Then  Pride  was  roused :     "Why  worship  still  the 

chai-ms 
That  never  can  be  mine  1    Those  sott  gray  eyes 
With  tender  love-look  ne'er  shall  gaze  in  mine. 
Another's  lips  shall  snatch  in  kisses  sweet 
The  nectar  of  that  little  dimpled  mouth ; 
Another's  fingers  toy,  in  dalliance  fond, 
With  the  soft  tresses  of  her  dark-brown  hair ; 
While  on  that  other's  breast  her  forehead  fair — 
The  thought  was  madness,  and  I  seized  the  cup, 
Intent  to  quench  the  hell  within  my  soul. 

Again  my  hand  was  stayed  by  pleading  Love. 

Could  I  resign  the  mem'ries  of  the  hours 

I  spent  with  her  when  love  was  ted  by  hope — 

Oases  in  the  weary  waste  of  life. 

Where  thought  was  wont  to  pause  and  linger  long  .' 

Must  I  forego  the  dreams — the  golden  dreams — 

Which  fancy  wove  in  spite  of  ruined  hope. 

To  cheer  me  in  my  shadow  dark  and  cold  ? 

The  voice  of  wounded  pride  would  not  be  hushed : 
Of  what  avail  are  these  fond  mem'ries  now  1 
They  only  serve  to  mock  my  misery. 
As  thoughts  of  dainty  banquets  once  enjoyed 
Increase  the  pangs  the  standing  pilgiim  feels. 
And  idle  dreams — why  blindly  cling  to  them — 
Dreams  that  I  know  can  ne'er  be  realized  .' 
As  well  pursue,  in  hope  to  quench  my  thirst. 
The  spectral  fountains  in  the  desert  seen, 
As  hope  for  aught  of  happiness  from  them. 
I'll  drink  the  cup ;  my  love  shall  be  forgot, 
With  Its  long  train  of  hopes  and  waking  dreams, 
On  which  the  cruel  hand  of  fate  has  writ, 
In  lines  of  Are.  the  two  sad  words — in  vain. 

But  Love  still  plead  for  life  in  plaintive  tones. 

I  should  not  call  my  hopeless  passion  vain  ; 

Though  mad  desire  may  gnaw  its  clanking  chains. 

And  curse  the  prize  which  lies  beyond  its  reach, 

True  love  will  always  yield  its  own  reward  : 

As  flowers  bruised  theii'  sweetest  perfumes  yield, 

As  grapes  are  crushed  ere  we  obtain  the  wine, 

So  hearts  that  bleed  with  hopeless  love  inspire 

The  sweetest  music  of  the  poet's  lyre. 

But  Pride,  still  furious,  drowned  the  voice  of  Love. 

And  wovild  I  coin  my  heart-blood  into  gems, 

And  barter  them  to  an  unfeeling  world 

For  worthless  gold,  or  still  more  worthless  fame  ? 


What  boots  it  to  the  shell-tish  racked  with  pain 
That  beauty's  brow  some  day  shall  wear  the  pearl 
That  forms  around  the  cause  of  all  its  woe  ? 
I  seized  the  cup— the  brim  had  touched  my  lips, 
When  Love— sweet  ijleader — urged  its  cause  again. 

O,  not  for  gold,  nor  for  the  bauble,  fame, 

Uoth  touch  the  poet  true  his  trembling  lyre, 

When  he  awakes  the  strains  which  float  for  aye 

Adown  the  long  dim  coiTdiors  of  time. 

He  hath  a  mission  here,  to  whom  is  given 

The  priceless  pearl— the  heavenly  gift  of  song. 

To  fit  him  for  his  high  and  holy  task, 

'Tis  needful  that  lie  suffer.    There  are  founts 

Of  feeling  locked  in  every  human  breast. 

The  spear  must  pierce  ere  they  can  be  revealed. 

Who  hath  not  suffered  is  but  half  a  man  ; 

Who  hath  not  loved  is  not  a  man  at  all. 

The  body — limbs — may  their  full  growth  attain — 

The  soul  is  but  a  dwarf  in  stature  still.     ■ 

The  child  of  song,  to  whom  the  gift  is  given 

Of  playing  on  a  harp  of  human  hearts, 

Must  drain  the  brimming  cup  of  human  woes 

Ere  he  can  touch  with  skill  the  hidden  strings. 

And  I — I  will  not  murmvir,  though  I  am 

But  a  poor  step-child  of  the  heaven-born  Muse. 

I  will  not  murmur,  though  I've  loved  in  vain  ; 

For  hopeless  love  hath  taught  me  secrets  deep — 

Heart  secrets  that  I  wouid  not  else  have  learned. 

And  sorrow  for  my  pretty  hopes  that  died 

Hath  called,  sometimes,  from  my  rude  half-strung 

hai-p  J(, 

A  strain  of  love  and  woe— a  simple  strain — 
Wliich  may,  perchance,  when  I  am  dead  and  gone. 
Impart  sad  pleasure  to  a  brother's  heart, 
Suffering,  like  mine,  from  unrequited  love. 

And  thou,  the  darling  of  my  every  thought, 
Be  thou  the  angel  of  my  day-dreams  still : 
My  love  for  thee  has  stood  the  fiery  test ; 
The  dross— the  earthly  taint — has  been  consumed ; 
The  gold — the  pure  fine  gold— is  left  me  still. 
Though  we  may  meet  no  more,  thou  still  art  mine — 
Mine,  as  the  sky  that  o'er  me  hangs  is  miue — 
Mine,  as  the  star  with  silvery  ray  is  mine — 
Mine,  as  the  landscape  clothed  in  goldeh  light, 
The  forest  robed  in  green,  the  rippling  stream, 
The  breath  of  flowew,  the  song  of  birds,  are  mine. 
Yes,  cruel  Fate,  that  blightedst  all  the  hopes 
Which  budded  m  my  youth,  I  mock  thee  now. 
My  love  is  not  in  vain ;  she  stiU  is  mine — 
My  spirit's  bride  that  never  can  grow  old. 
The  touch  of  Time  shall  mar  all  earthly  things; 
His  iron  hand  shall  write,  in  shrivelling  seams. 


110                                       Baohwoods  Poems.                                                    j 

"Passing  away"  on  beauty's  snowy  brow; 

Out  in  the  apple  tree. 

But  she  shall  be  to  me  forever  young, 

The  song  so  sweet  to  other  ears, 

And  beautiful  and  bright,  as  when  her  smile 

But  oh,  so  sad  to  me  ! 

Made  sunlight  in  the  shadow  where  I  dwelt. 

My  home  !  How  yearns  my  heart  for  thee, 

The  golden  cup  dropped  from  my  hand ;  the  shades 

"When  Spring-time's  purple  haze. 

Of  dreamland  passed  away— and  I  awoke. 

The  budding  trees,  and  breath  of  flowers. 

Recall  the  vanished  days  ! 

"What  memories  like  ivy  cling 

Around  thy  old  gray  walls. 

Or  roam  like  viewless  spirits  through 

Thy  bare  deserted  halls  ! 

My  Old  Home. 

Now  "Winter  drear  has  passed  away. 
And  gentle  Spring  has  come. 

I  wonder  if  the  grass  grows  green 

Around  my  dear  old  home. 

I  wonder  if  the  lilac  blooms 

My  Muse. 

Beside  the  garden  gate, 

And  if  the  brown  wren  on  the  roof 

My  rustic  muse  in  buckskin  shoes. 

Sings  to  its  brooding  mate. 

That  erst  wast  wont  to  roam 

Through  sylvan  shades  and  bush-grown  dells 

I  wonder  if  the  soft  west  wind 

Around  my  boyhood's  home, 

Comes  laden  with  perfumes 

And  there  didst  teach  me  numbers  sweet, 

It  gathered  as  it  paused  to  kiss 

And  tune  my  halt-strung  lyre — 

The  fragrant  orchard  blooms. 

"Why  wilt  thou  not  return  to  me  ? 

I  wonder  if  the  old  rose  bush 

"Why  not  my  song  inspire  1 

Its  crimson  glory  wears, 

And  if  the  clambering  clematis 

Do  dusty  streets  and  red  brick  walls 

Its  purple  clusters  bears. 

Affright  thy  timid  eye  ? 

Art  thou  afraid  of  brazen  bells 

I  wonder  if  the  yard  is  strown 

That  clang  in  steeples  high  ? 

"With  petals  snowy  white 

Of  engine's  shriek  on  boat  or  car, 

The  lithe  syringa  scatters  round 

The  noise  and  jam  of  trade. 

"When  swayed  by  zephyrs  light ; 

And  throngs  of  men  and  women  fair, 

If  by  the  fence  the  poplars  stand 

That  drive  or  promenade  ? 

Like  tapering  steeples  tall, 

And  cast  their  shimmering  shadows  down 

,    And  hast  thou  sought,  like  tim'rous  fawn. 

On  chimney,  roof  and  wall. 

The  wild- wood's  deep  retreat, 

"Wherfi  feathered  choirs  in  brush  and  tree 

I  wonder  if  the  mocking-birds 

Pour  forth  their  anthems  sweet. 

Still  in  their  old  retreat— 

And  nature  writes  with  grass  and  ilowers 

The  thick-branched  cedars— build  their  nests 

Bright  poems  on  the  ground. 

And  pour  their  warbles  sweet  : 

And  winds  that  sway  the  fragrant  pines 

If  still  my  loved  mimosa  lifts  - 

Give  out  a  rhymthmic  sound  .' 

Sweet  charity  to  show — 

Its  overhanging  boughs  to  let 

Come  back,  O,  dear  loved-muse,  come  back. 

The  less  crape-myrtle  grow. 

And  tune  my  lyre  again. 

"Whose  strings  discordant  at  my  touch 

I  wonder  if  the  tall  gums  wear 

Give  back  no  dulcet  strain.                                "" 

Their  bright  green  vernal  suit  : 

For  many  a  thought  and  many  a  theme 

And  if  the  lagging  "Winter  spared 

My  heart  has  treasured  long, 

The  mulbeiTy's  nescent  fruit. 

Await  thy  magic  touch  to  be 

I  wonder  if  the  red-bird  sings, 

Transmuted  into  song. 

Backwoods  Poems. 


Ill 


Grone. 

"  Gone !" — 
Hark !  from  the  steeple  tall  and  lone 
Floats  the  monosyllabic  tone ! — 

"  Gone !" 
Another  life  gone  out  on  earth ! 
In  the  world  beyond,  another  bii-th  ! 

"Gone!" 

"Gone!" 
List !  bow  the  stilly  air  doth  moan, 
That  wafteth  down  the  monotone  ! — 

"  Gone  !"— 
And  every  bell  in  beUry  high 
Responds  with  deep  sonorous  sigh ! — 

"  Gone !" 

"  Gone !" — 
StiU  brazen  lips  and  iron  tongue 
The  solemn,  sad  refrain  prolong  ! 

"  Gone !" — 
And  thoughts  as  sad  and  solemn  creep 
Across  the  soul,  like  shadows  deep  ! — 

"  Gone !" 

"Gone  !"— 
For  ME,  some  day  from  steeple  lone 
Shall  float  this  mournful  monotone  ! 

"Gone !" 
My  sands  run  out  1 — my  labor  done ! 
The  crown  of  Ute  or  lost  or  won ! — 

"  Gone !" 


The  Shepherd's  Horn. 

SONG. 

When  through  the  gaps  with  footsteps  light 
Slow  steals  the  gray-clad,  dewy  morn, 
Perched  on  the  craggy  Alpine  height. 
The  shepherd  sounds  his  mellow  horn. 
Sound  the  horn  !  Sonnd  the  horn  ! 
To  welcome  in  the  coming  mom  ; 
Sound  the  horn  !  Sound  the  horn  ! 
To  greet  the  pensive  gray-eyed  morn  I 

Now  bleating  flocks  of  goats  and  sheep 
In  the  narrow  winding  paths  are  seen. 
Climbing  the  jagged  mountain  steep. 
To  search  in  nooks  tor  herbage  green. 
Sound  the  horn  !  Sound  the  horn  ! 


To  welcome  in  the  coming  mom  ! 
Sound  the  horn,  the  mellow  horn. 
To  gi-eet  the  blushing  rosy  mom  ! 

From  rock-ribbed  peaks  where  eagles  dwell, 
And  the  hunter  seeks  the  chamois'  track — 
From  sloping  lawn  and  winding  dell — 
A  hundred  horns  give  answer  back. 
Sound  the  horn  !  Sound  the  horn  ! 
To  welcome  in  the  coming  morn  ; 
Sound  the  horn,  the  mellow  horn. 
To  greet  the  smiling  gold-haired  morn  ! 


Stand  Fast. 

Stand  fast !  tho'  round  thee  black 
The  tempest  cloud  be  lowering, 

And  cravens  white  with  fear 
Before  its  wrath  be  cowering. 

Stand  fast !  though  overhead 
The  lightnings  red  be  flashing, 

And  'gainst  the  rock-girt  shore 
The  raging  waves  be  dashing. 

Stand  fast !  though  hell  send  forth 

Its  legions  to  assail  thee  : 
The  rock  of  truth  beneath 

Thy  feet,  shall  never  tail  thee. 

Stand  fast !  tho'  siren  notes 
And  landscapes  robed  in  beauty 

May  tempt  thee  from  thy  post. 
The  bleak  lone  post  of  duty. 

Stand  fast !  still  keep  the  faith 
In  youth  and  manhood  cherished, 

Though,  one  by  one,  the  hopes 
Ambition  nursed  have  perished. 

Stand  fast !  tho'  for  thy  faith 

The  fickle  crowd  around  thee. 
To  mark  their  hate  and  scorn. 

With  piercing  thorns  have  crowned  thee. 

Stand  fast !  in  God's  good  time 
The  dark  cloud  shall  be  rifted. 

The  crown  of  thorns  removed, 
And  all  thy  burden  lifted. 


112 


Baohwoods  Poems. 


To  Jefferson  Davis. 

Come  back,  beloved  chief,  come  back  ! 

All  hearts  for  thee  are  yearning'  ; 

As  loud  the  notes  of  triumph  swell. 

All  thoughts  to  thee  are  turning. 

Thou  sharedst  our  dang'ers  and  our  toils— 

Our  days  of  grief  and  sadness  : 

Come  back,  beloved  chief,  come  back. 

And  share  our  days  of  gladness. 

The  thick  black  cloud  that  o'er  us  hung-. 

And  hid  the  face  of  heaven. 

In  scattered  racks  has  passed  away. 

As  if  by  tempest  driven. 

Our  night  of  agony  is  o'er — 

Our  soul's  long  crucifixion  ; 

And  Heaven — the  withering  curse  revoked- 

Bestows  a  benediction. 

Come,  help  iis  build  tlie  walls  again, 
By  adversaries  broken  ; 
From  thee  each  builder  would  receive 
A  word,  a  sign,  a  token. 
Stand  on  the  walls,  and  try  our  work 
By  the  plummet-line  of  duty. 
Until  our  temple  stands  again 
In  all  its  olden  beauty. 
1875. 


Unfinished. 

Had  I  the  skill  which  makes  the  canvas  glow 

"With  life  immortal  as  the  soul  of  man, 

I'd  paint  a  picture  of  my  life,  that  all  might  know 

"What  I've  accomplished  in  my  little  span. 

My  Little  span  say  I  ?     It  may  expand 

Beyond  the  four-score  years  and  ten  whose  snows 

Blanched  three  ancestral  heads  before  the  hand 

Of  death  was  gently  on  them  laid.     "Who  knows  .' 


It  matters  not,  if  it  be  long  or  brief ; 
'Tis  fixed — my  past  foreshows  my  future's  law : 
"When  Time  distreins,  he  finds  each  standing  sheaf 
The  absconding  Tear  has  left,  is  chaff  and  straw. 

A  picture  parable — or  I  jhould  say 

A  group  of  picture  parables— should   be 

My  pencil's  theme ;  where  each,  in  its  own  way. 

Should  tell  what  life's  hard  tasks  have  earned  for  me. 

Multa  in  unu — each  should  stand  apart. 

But  one  same  shadow  all  should  blend  in  one — 

Sad  hist'ries  writ  upon  my  brain  and  heart. 

Of  tasks  unfinished  in  high  hope  begun. 

A  monument  should  in  the  centre  stand— 
A  broad-based  frustum  built  of  granite  gray  : 
In  shape,  I  ween,  'twere  like  the  tower  grand 
Half-reared  at  Babel  in  the  olden  day. 

Four  mouldering  walls ! —  A  woodman  here  his  cot 
Of  rough-hewed  logs  began  to  build  one  year : 
But  changeful  mind— or  death — I  know  not  what — 
Cut  short  the  work,  and  leaves  these  ruins  here. 

"Witli  branches  bare  outstretched,  a  girdled  oak 
Clings  with  gnarled  roots  unto  a  sterile  coast. 
A  limbless  pine  that  died  of  thunderstroke. 
Stands  in  the  distance  like  a  sheeted  gho.st. 

Foui'  zig-zag  lines  of  rotting  fence  inclose 
A  patch  of  gTound  :— here  bare  as  sheep  new-shorn  ; 
Here  scarred  with  gashes  red ;  and  here  the  rows 
Thick  set  with  stunted  stalks  of  Indian  corn. 
The  twisted  blades  have  lost  their  glossy  green ; 
The  tassels  on  the  stems  stand  stitf  and  sere ; 
And  on  the  sapless  stalks  no  silk  is  seen, 
To  mark  the  nestling  place  of  nascent  ear. 

My  canvas  is  not  full :  a  vacant  space 
Remains  untouched.    To  fill  it  were  not  meet. 
I'll  leave  it  so— like  all  that  bears  a  trace  of  me 
On  earth — unfinished— incomplete  I 


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