Green Fields and Running Brooks | Page 6

sircastic fun, Has got more friends than ary candidate 'at ever run!?Do n't matter what his views is, when he states the same to you, They allus coincide with your'n, the same as two and two: You can't take issue with him--er, at least, they haint no sense In startin' in to down him, so you better not commence.-- The best way's jes' to listen, like your humble servant does, And jes' concede Jap Miller is the best man ever wuz!
A SOUTHERN SINGER.
Written In Madison Caweln's "Lyrics and Idyls."
Herein are blown from out the South?Songs blithe as those of Pan's pursed mouth--?As sweet in voice as, in perfume,?The night-breath of magnolia-bloom.
Such sumptuous languor lures the sense--?Such luxury of indolence--?The eyes blur as a nymph's might blur,?With water-lilies watching her.
You waken, thrilling at the trill?Of some wild bird that seems to spill?The silence full of winey drips?Of song that Fancy sips and sips.
Betimes, in brambled lanes wherethrough?The chipmunk stripes himself from view,?You pause to lop a creamy spray?Of elder-blossoms by the way.
Or where the morning dew is yet?Gray on the topmost rail, you set?A sudden palm and, vaulting, meet?Your vaulting shadow in the wheat.
On lordly swards, of suave incline,?Entessellate with shade and shine,?You shall misdoubt your lowly birth,?Clad on as one of princely worth:
The falcon on your wrist shall ride--?Your milk-white Arab side by side?With one of raven-black.--You fain?Would kiss the hand that holds the rein.
Nay, nay, Romancer! Poet! Seer!?Sing us back home--from there to here;?Grant your high grace and wit, but we?Most honor your simplicity.--
Herein are blown from out the South?Songs blithe as those of Pan's pursed mouth--?As sweet in voice as, in perfume,?The night-breath of magnolia-bloom.
A DREAM OF AUTUMN.
Mellow hazes, lowly trailing?Over wood and meadow, veiling?Somber skies, with wildfowl sailing?Sailor-like to foreign lands;?And the north-wind overleaping?Summer's brink, and floodlike sweeping?Wrecks of roses where the weeping?Willows wring their helpless hands.
Flared, like Titan torches flinging?Flakes of flame and embers, springing?From the vale the trees stand swinging?In the moaning atmosphere;?While in dead'ning-lands the lowing?Of the cattle, sadder growing,?Fills the sense to overflowing?With the sorrow of the year.
Sorrowfully, yet the sweeter?Sings the brook in rippled meter?Under boughs that lithely teeter?Lorn birds, answering from the shores?Through the viny, shady-shiny?Interspaces, shot with tiny?Flying motes that fleck the winy?Wave-engraven sycamores.
Fields of ragged stubble, wrangled?With rank weeds, and shocks of tangled?Corn, with crests like rent plumes dangled?Over Harvest's battle-piain;?And the sudden whir and whistle?Of the quail that, like a missile,?Whizzes over thorn and thistle,?And, a missile, drops again.
Muffled voices, hid in thickets?Where the redbird stops to stick its?Ruddy beak betwixt the pickets?Of the truant's rustic trap;?And the sound of laughter ringing?Where, within the wild-vine swinging,?Climb Bacchante's schoolmates, flinging?Purple clusters in her lap.
Rich as wine, the sunset flashes?Round the tilted world, and dashes?Up the sloping west and splashes?Red foam over sky and sea--?Till my dream of Autumn, paling?In the splendor all-prevailing,?Like a sallow leaf goes sailing?Down the silence solemnly.
TOM VAN ARDEN.
Tom Van Arden, my old friend,?Our warm fellowship is one?Far too old to comprehend?Where its bond was first begun:?Mirage-like before my gaze?Gleams a land of other days,?Where two truant boys, astray,?Dream their lazy lives away.
There's a vision, in the guise?Of Midsummer, where the Past?Like a weary beggar lies?In the shadow Time has cast;?And as blends the bloom of trees?With the drowsy hum of bees,?Fragrant thoughts and murmurs blend,?Tom Van Arden, my old friend.
Tom Van Arden, my old friend,?All the pleasures we have known?Thrill me now as I extend?This old hand and grasp your own--?Feeling, in the rude caress,?All affection's tenderness;?Feeling, though the touch be rough,?Our old souls are soft enough.
So we'll make a mellow hour:?Fill your pipe, and taste the wine--?Warp your face, if it be sour,?I can spare a smile from mine;?If it sharpen up your wit,?Let me feel the edge of it--?I have eager ears to lend,?Tom Van Arden, my old friend.
Tom Van Arden, my old friend,?Are we "lucky dogs," indeed??Are we all that we pretend?In the jolly life we lead?--?Bachelors, we must confess,?Boast of "single blessedness"?To the world, but not alone--?Man's best sorrow is his own!
And the saddest truth is this,--?Life to us has never proved?What we tasted in the kiss?Of the women we have loved:?Vainly we congratulate?Our escape from such a fate?As their lying lips could send,?Tom Van Arden, my old friend!
Tom Van Arden, my old friend,?Hearts, like fruit upon the stem,?Ripen sweetest, I contend,?As the frost falls over them:?Your regard for me to-day?Makes November taste of May,?And through every vein of rhyme?Pours the blood of summertime.
When our souls are cramped with youth?Happiness seems far away?In the future, while, in truth,?We look back on it to-day?Through our tears, nor dare to boast,--?"Better to have loved and lost!"?Broken hearts are hard to mend,?Tom Van Arden, my old friend.
Tom Van Arden, my old friend,?I grow prosy, and you tire;?Fill the glasses while I bend?To prod up