The Old Hanging Fork and Other Poems Part 15

III.

O, where are the fancies, the visions, the dreams, That filled the young breast--with which memory teems?

They have faded away--from life they have pa.s.sed-- Like stars blotted out when the sky's overcast!

IV.

O, where are the hopes that have beckoned us on With their beacons of light, through sunshine and storm?

Like spectres--like phantoms--like vapor and mist, They have vanished forever--a will-o'-the-wisp!

V.

O, where are the harbors, the havens of rest, That solace can give to a heart that's opprest?

They are hid from the vision beyond the blue sky, Yet the eye of sweet Faith their portals descry!

THE HILLS OF LINCOLN.

I.

O the hills of old Lincoln!--I can see them to-day As they stretch in dim distance far, far away, And on Fancy's swift pinions my spirit hath flown To rest 'mid the scenes which my childhood has known-- Where the old Hanging Fork, with its silvery gleam, Glides away 'tween the meadows like thoughts in a dream, And far to the south, with their outlines so blue, The rugged k.n.o.bs blend into heaven's own hue!

II.

O the hills of old Lincoln!--how fondly I gaze On their wildwoods and thickets and deep-tangled ways When memory's mirror presents them to view, And I dream once again that I tread them anew, While raptured I listen to the music of love That the song-birds are singing in the tree-tops above, And the soul drifts away in a swoon of delight, Unanch.o.r.ed from care and from sorrow's cold blight!

III.

O the hills of old Lincoln!--my footsteps have trod Up and down their green valleys, with shotgun and rod, And it seems to me now that the years that have fled Around their old summits a halo have shed That guides the fond fancy unerringly there When backward it wanders with childhood to share Sweet scenes such as these, inurned in the heart, And which from fond memory can never depart!

LOVED AND LOST.

I.

Sweetly to sleep beneath the fresh green turf They laid the loved and lost away; A chair is vacant by the household hearth, And shadow-vested Sorrow's there to-day.

II.

The tender hands that guided us in youth Are folded now upon the gentle breast, And those dear eyes whose depths were love and truth Are closed to open in eternal rest.

III.

Through simple faith and duty well performed, A crown of light forever shall be hers; And though with bitter grief and anguish mourned, A consolation gleams through blinding tears!

A TRUE STORY.

(READ BEFORE A MEETING OF THE DANVILLE SCRIBBLER CLUB.)

Dear friends, to-night the inspiration of my theme Is not the baseless fabric of a weird, fantastic dream-- For truth, combined with justice, doth impel, And therefore it is fact--not fiction--that I tell.

"Truth, crushed to earth, will rise again"-- A maxim true as holy writ;--then it is plain, If rudely woven by an untaught hand it be, Sustains but transitory wrong and injury.

And thus it is, in homely rhyme, I venture forth, Relating nothing here but under oath; And if, perchance, at times it sounds a little strange, You know that truth o'er fiction hath a wider range.

These stanzas three I hope you'll deem explanatory-- As introductory and preliminary to the story-- A preface simply used before I introduce The proper characters essential for our use.

And just one moment more attention I will claim, And crave indulgence while I here explain, That "character" is used in a Pickwickian sense-- So truth and justice need not take offense.

'Twas when the Autumn leaves, with russet hue, Scarce quivered in the gentle wind, and when the dew Lay sparkling on the gra.s.s, beneath the argent moon, A tragedy took place--of which I'll tell you soon.

And ever and anon a fleecy, drifting cloud, Meek Dian's face would veil with filmy shroud, And lend to wood and field that softened ray Unmatched in beauty from the glaring G.o.d of day!

But I will tell the story as 'twas told to me, And vouched for by some others--two or three-- Whose word to doubt would be a heinous sin-- So, armed with truth, in confidence I will begin.

Ah, memory! Thou art a fickle jade, And oft responsible when grave mistakes are made, And therefore 'tis with caution that I hesitate When truthful things I undertake to state.

This much is due to accuracy and circ.u.mspection, As well as to a rather faulty recollection; And so I'll trespa.s.s on your patience now no more, But straightway tell the story--as I said before.

All good beginnings have that natural trend Which safely leads to a successful end, And stories all should have their plots well laid-- Which neither prose nor verse can do, when haste is made.

'Tis said "procrastination is the thief of time,"

And this might seem to be the object of my rhyme.

Had I not told you, as I should have done, The reason why the story's not begun.

'Tis my sole object, then, to give without delay, The narrative in a direct and proper way, For as you know some critics may be here Whom scribbling rhymesters may, with justice, fear.

"What shameless bards we have! And yet, 'tis true, There are as mad, abandoned critics, too!"

This couplet, penned by Pope, is ever new-- But then, dear friends, the second line was _not_ for you!

I only quote that you may comprehend How modesty in _me_ has missed its end, And why it is I ever undertook to write The story that I'm going to tell--sometime to-night.

An introduction that will keep the listener in suspense I deem derogatory to good taste and sense; And this is also why I'll nothing put as prefatory Before I launch right out into the story.