The Old Hanging Fork and Other Poems Part 2

V.

Speak on! And scatter broadcast healing seed That shall a harvest of good feeling yield-- And Peace, no less than War, shall lend her meed And crown anew this hero of the b.l.o.o.d.y field!

UP AND DOWN OLD CLARK'S RUN.

Bright visions of childhood! How dear to the heart Are the scenes which from memory can never depart!

Undimmed by the sorrows, the grief and the tears Which have shadowed the pathway of life's later years, They come like the rainbow which follows the storm-- On remembrance reflected with colors as warm-- And in dreams of delight they picture the fun That we had long ago when we fished in Clark's Run!

With a can full of worms and a heart full of joy, Up and down the old stream, a bare-footed boy, A truant from school, my footsteps would stray To the deep-shaded pool, or where ripples at play, As they flowed over beds of smooth-polished stones, Sang a lullaby sweet in soft undertones!

From the dawn of the day to the set of the sun What pleasures we've had when we fished in Clark's Run!

Equipped with a pole, a hook and a line, And stowed in some pocket a long piece of twine On which you could string, if you seined for a week, Every fish that was found up and down the old creek-- With one "gallus" to pants that were rolled to the knee, And holes in our hats through which you could see Where the sunbeams had turned the light hair to dun-- We hied us away to the banks of Clark's Run!

There we baited the hook and threw out the line, And watched the cork disappear with a rapture divine!

And felt just as proud as a prince or a king When we landed high up, with a jerk and a swing, A fish that would measure two inches or more, Then anch.o.r.ed him fast with the string to the sh.o.r.e!

But unnumbered now are the silver strands spun With the hair of the head since we fished in Clark's Run!

O who can there be with a heart in his breast Would forget the dear scenes which so lovingly rest In the bosom when life has grown old and cold, And feel no delight when such pictures unfold, And would blot out forever from memory's page The records of childhood which solace old age?

'Till time ends for me and with life I have done, I'll dream of the days when we fished in Clark's Run!

ROBERT BURNS.

(A PARAPHRASE.)

I.

Thou lingering Star! No less'ning ray Will e'er bedim thy natal morn, Or usher in the unhallowed day When we forget that thou wert born!

O Burns! Thou dear departed shade!

Where is thy place of blissful rest?

See'st thou again a Highland maid, Who heard the groans that rent thy breast?

II.

That sacred day can we forget, Can we forget the hallowed spot Where by the winding Ayr was set The sparkling jewel in lowly cot?

Eternity will not efface The record dear of time that's past; Thy memory sweet we still embrace, And will as long as life shall last!

III.

Ayr, congealed to its pebbled sh.o.r.e, O'erhung with wild woods, shorn of green; The leafless birch and hawthorn h.o.a.r Were planted round the wintry scene; No flowers sprang wanton to be pressed-- No birds sang love on every spray-- But brightest yet o'er all the rest Will ever shine thy natal day!

IV.

Still o'er thy songs our rapture wakes, And memory broods with miser care!

Time but their music sweeter makes, As streams their channels deeper wear.

O Burns! Thou dear departed shade!

Where is thy place of blissful rest?

See'st thou again a Highland maid, Who heard the groans that rent thy breast?

WISHING--FISHING.

I.

Full well I know that wishing never yet has brought The things that seem to us would satisfy the heart, And that antic.i.p.ated pleasure, when at last 'tis caught, Has naught but transitory solace to impart; And yet, somehow, I've ever felt and thought A joy there is that never can depart-- (As long as we are capable of feeling--wishing)-- And that's to leave dull care behind, and--go a-fishing!

II.

Some dream of wealth--of place--of fame-- And fleeting shadows vainly they pursue; And some have sighed to win a deathless name Where fields of carnage corpses thickly strew, And shrieks of agony are heard 'mid smoke and flame; But these are dizzy heights attained by few; So, when Dame Fortune is her favors dishing, I hope that I'll get mine in ample time to--go a-fishing!

III.

Oh, was there ever any sweeter dream, Or music with a tone that's more entrancing, Than just to wander where some mountain stream Is o'er the rocks and polished pebbles dancing?

And nothing short of heaven itself, I ween, Is like the moment when, his scales all glancing, You see the happy consummation of your wishing, And catch the very fish for which you have been fishing!

POE.

I.

Oh, melancholy child of want and woe!

A brilliant meteor in an ebon sky!

Thy soul's weird music all did flow From heart-strings touched by destiny!

II.

The Raven, perched above thy chamber door, Responsive croaked with a prophetic word-- For in the realm of song may "Nevermore"

Such strains as thine by mortal ear be heard!