Pipes O'Pan At Zekesbury Part 17

There's a part Of the art Of thy music-throbbing heart That thrills a something in us that awakens with a start, And in rhyme With the chime And exact.i.tude of time, Goes marching on to glory to thy melody sublime.

And the guest Of the breast That thy rolling robs of rest Is a patriotic spirit as a Continental dressed; And he looms From the glooms Of a century of tombs, And the blood he spilled at Lexington in living beauty blooms.

And his eyes Wear the guise Of a purpose pure and wise, As the love of them is lifted to a something in the skies That is bright Red and white, With a blur of starry light, As it laughs in silken ripples to the breezes day and night.

There are deep Hushes creep O'er the pulses as they leap, As thy tumult, fainter growing, on the silence falls asleep, While the prayer Rising there Wills the sea and earth and air As a heritage to Freedom's sons and daughters everywhere.

Then, with sound As profound As the thunderings resound, Come thy wild reverberations in a throe that shakes the ground, And a cry Flung on high, Like the flag it flutters by, Wings rapturously upward till it nestles in the sky.

O the drum!

There is some Intonation in thy grum Monotony of utterance that strikes the spirit dumb, As we hear Through the clear And unclouded atmosphere, Thy palpitating syllables roll in upon the ear!

TOM JOHNSON'S QUIT.

A pa.s.sel o' the boys last night-- An' me amongst 'em--kindo got To talkin' Temper'nce left an' right, An' workin' up "blue-ribbon," _hot_; An' while we was a-countin' jes'

How many bed gone into hit An' signed the pledge, some feller says,-- "Tom Johnson's quit!"

We laughed, of course--'cause Tom, you know, _He's_ spiled more whisky, boy an' man, And seed more trouble, high an' low, Than any chap but Tom could stand: And so, says I "_He's_ too nigh dead.

Far Temper'nce to benefit!"

The feller sighed agin, and said-- "Tom Johnson's quit!"

We all _liked_ Tom, an' that was why We sorto simmered down agin, And ast the feller ser'ously Ef he wa'n't tryin' to draw us in: He shuck his head--tuck off his hat-- Helt up his hand an' opened hit, An' says, says he, "I'll _swear_ to that-- Tom Johnson's quit!"

Well, we was stumpt, an' tickled too,-- Because we knowed ef Tom _had_ signed Ther wa'n't no man 'at wore the "blue"

'At was more honester inclined: An' then and there we kindo riz,-- The hull dern gang of us 'at bit-- An' th'owed our hats and let 'er whizz,-- "_Tom Johnson's quit!_"

I've heerd 'em holler when the b.a.l.l.s Was buzzin' 'round us wus 'n bees, An' when the ole flag on the walls Was flappin' o'er the enemy's, I've heerd a-many a wild "hooray"

'At made my heart git up an' git-- But Lord!--to hear 'em shout that way!-- "_Tom Johnson's quit!_"

But when we saw the chap 'at fetched The news wa'n't jinin' in the cheer, But stood there solemn-like, an' reched An' kindo wiped away a tear, We someway sorto' stilled agin, And listened--I kin hear him yit, His voice a-wobblin' with his chin,-- "Tom Johnson's quit--

"I hain't a-givin' you no game-- I wisht I was!... An hour ago, This operator--what's his name-- The one 'at works at night, you know?-- Went out to flag that Ten Express, And sees a man in front of hit Th'ow up his hands an' stagger--yes,-- _Tom Johnson's quit_."

LULLABY.

The maple strews the embers of its leaves O'er the laggard swallows nestled 'neath the eaves; And the moody cricket falters in his cry--Baby-bye!-- And the lid of night is falling o'er the sky--Baby-bye!-- The lid of night is falling o'er the sky!

The rose is lying pallid, and the cup Of the frosted calla-lily folded up; And the breezes through the garden sob and sigh--Baby-bye!-- O'er the sleeping blooms of summer where they lie--Baby-bye!-- O'er the sleeping blooms of summer where they lie!

Yet, Baby--O my Baby, for your sake This heart of mine is ever wide awake, And my love may never droop a drowsy eye--Baby-bye!-- Till your own are wet above me when I die--Baby-bye!-- Till your own are wet above me when I die.

IN THE SOUTH.

There is a princess in the South About whose beauty rumors hum Like honey-bees about the mouth Of roses dewdrops falter from; And O her hair is like the fine Clear amber of a jostled wine In tropic revels; and her eyes Are blue as rifts of Paradise.

Such beauty as may none before Kneel daringly, to kiss the tips Of fingers such as knights of yore Had died to lift against their lips: Such eyes as might the eyes of gold Of all the stars of night behold With glittering envy, and so glare In dazzling splendor of despair.

So, were I but a minstrel, deft At weaving, with the trembling strings Of my glad harp, the warp and weft Of rondels such as rapture sings,-- I'd loop my lyre across my breast, Nor stay me till my knee found rest In midnight banks of bud and flower Beneath my lady's lattice-bower.

And there, drenched with the teary dews, I'd woo her with such wondrous art As well might stanch the songs that ooze Out of the mockbird's breaking heart; So light, so tender, and so sweet Should be the words I would repeat, Her cas.e.m.e.nt, on my gradual sight, Would blossom as a lily might.

THE OLD HOME BY THE MILL.

This is "The old Home by the Mill"--far we still call it so, Although the old mill, roof and sill, is all gone long ago.

The old home, though, and old folks, and the old spring, and a few Old cat-tails, weeds and hartychokes, is left to welcome you!

Here, Marg'et, fetch the man a tin to drink out of' Our spring Keeps kindo-sorto cavin' in, but don't "taste" anything!

She's kindo agein', Marg'et is--"the old process," like me, All ham-stringed up with rheumatiz, and on in seventy-three.

Jes' me and Marg'et lives alone here--like in long ago; The childern all put off and gone, and married, don't you know?

One's millin' way out West somewhere; two other miller-boys In Minnyopolis they air; and one's in Illinoise.

The oldest gyrl--the first that went--married and died right here; The next lives in Winn's Settlement--for purt' nigh thirty year!

And youngest one--was allus far the old home here--but no!-- Her man turns in and he packs her 'way off to Idyho!

I don't miss them like _Marg'et_ does--'cause I got _her_, you see; And when she pines for them--that's 'cause _she's_ only jes' got _me_!

I laugh, and joke her 'bout it all.--But talkin' sense, I'll say, When she was tuk so bad last Fall, I laughed the t'other way!

I haint so favorble impressed 'bout dyin'; but ef I Found I was only second-best when _us two_ come to die, I'd 'dopt the "new process" in full, ef _Marg'et_ died, you see,-- I'd jes' crawl in my grave and pull the green gra.s.s over me!

A LEAVE-TAKING.

She will not smile; She will not stir; I marvel while I look on her.