Riley Songs of Home Part 2

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A FEEL IN THE CHRIS'MAS-AIR

They's a kind o' _feel_ in the air, to me.

When the Chris'mas-times sets in.

That's about as much of a mystery As ever I've run ag'in!-- Fer instunce, now, whilse I gain in weight And gineral health, I swear They's a _goneness_ somers I can't quite state-- A kind o' _feel_ in the air.

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They's a feel in the Chris'mas-air goes right To the spot where a man _lives_ at!-- It gives a feller a' appet.i.te-- They ain't no doubt about _that_!-- And yit they's _somepin_'--I don't know what-- That follers me, here and there, And ha'nts and worries and spares me not-- A kind o' feel in the air!

They's a _feel_, as I say, in the air that's jest As blame-don sad as sweet!-- In the same ra-sho as I feel the best And am spryest on my feet, They's allus a kind o' sort of a' _ache_ That I can't lo-cate no-where;-- But it comes with _Chris'mas_, and no mistake!-- A kind o' feel in the air.

Is it the racket the childern raise?-- W'y, _no_!--G.o.d bless 'em!--_no_!-- Is it the eyes and the cheeks ablaze-- Like my _own_ wuz, long ago?-- Is it the bleat o' the whistle and beat O' the little toy-drum and blare O' the horn?--_No! no!_--it is jest the sweet-- The sad-sweet feel in the air.

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AS CREATED

There's a s.p.a.ce for good to bloom in Every heart of man or woman,-- And however wild or human, Or however brimmed with gall, Never heart may beat without it; And the darkest heart to doubt it Has something good about it After all.

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WHERE-AWAY

O the Lands of Where-Away!

Tell us--tell us--where are they?

Through the darkness and the dawn We have journeyed on and on-- From the cradle to the cross-- From possession unto loss.-- Seeking still, from day to day, For the Lands of Where-Away.

When our baby-feet were first Planted where the daisies burst, And the greenest gra.s.ses grew In the fields we wandered through,-- On, with childish discontent, Ever on and on we went, Hoping still to pa.s.s, some day, O'er the verge of Where-Away.

Roses laid their velvet lips On our own, with fragrant sips; But their kisses held us not, All their sweetness we forgot;-- Though the brambles in our track Plucked at us to hold us back-- "Just ahead," we used to say, "Lie the Lands of Where-Away."

Children at the pasture-bars, Through the dusk, like glimmering stars, Waved their hands that we should bide With them over eventide; Down the dark their voices failed Falteringly, as they hailed, And died into yesterday-- Night ahead and--Where-Away?

Twining arms about us thrown-- Warm caresses, all our own, Can but stay us for a spell-- Love hath little new to tell To the soul in need supreme, Aching ever with the dream Of the endless bliss it may Find in Lands of Where-Away!

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DREAMER, SAY

Dreamer, say, will you dream for me A wild sweet dream of a foreign land, Whose border sips of a foaming sea With lips of coral and silver sand; Where warm winds loll on the shady deeps, Or lave themselves in the tearful mist The great wild wave of the breaker weeps O'er crags of opal and amethyst?

Dreamer, say, will you dream a dream Of tropic shades in the lands of s.h.i.+ne, Where the lily leans o'er an amber stream That flows like a rill of wasted wine,-- Where the palm-trees, lifting their s.h.i.+elds of green, Parry the shafts of the Indian sun Whose splintering vengeance falls between The reeds below where the waters run?

Dreamer, say, will you dream of love That lives in a land of sweet perfume, Where the stars drip down from the skies above In molten spatters of bud and bloom?

Where never the weary eyes are wet, And never a sob in the balmy air, And only the laugh of the paroquette Breaks the sleep of the silence there?

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OUR OWN

They walk here with us, hand-in-hand; We gossip, knee-by-knee; They tell us all that they have planned-- Of all their joys to be,-- And, laughing, leave us: And, to-day, All desolate we cry Across wide waves of voiceless graves-- Good-by! Good-by! Good-by!

THE OLD TRUNDLE-BED

O the old trundle-bed where I slept when a boy!

What canopied king might not covet the joy?

The glory and peace of that slumber of mine, Like a long, gracious rest in the bosom divine: The quaint, homely couch, hidden close from the light, But daintily drawn from its hiding at night.

O a nest of delight, from the foot to the head, Was the queer little, clear little, old trundle-bed!

O the old trundle-bed, where I wondering saw The stars through the window, and listened with awe To the sigh of the winds as they tremblingly crept Through the trees where the robin so restlessly slept: Where I heard the low, murmurous chirp of the wren, And the katydid listlessly chirrup again, Till my fancies grew faint and were drowsily led Through the maze of the dreams of the old trundle bed.

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O the old trundle-bed! O the old trundle-bed!

With its plump little pillow, and old-fas.h.i.+oned spread; Its snowy-white sheets, and the blankets above, Smoothed down and tucked round with the touches of love; The voice of my mother to lull me to sleep With the old fairy-stories my memories keep Still fresh as the lilies that bloom o'er the head Once bowed o'er my own in the old trundle-bed.