Chapter III

The paper has the taint of must-- The hand that traced the lines is dust, And silvery hair is on the head Of that same boy since first he read This missive from the sainted one That bore her love to an erring son-- More fondly prized than any other-- 'Twas written by the hand of--Mother!

THE HERMIT.

By the waters of a river, where the rocks like giants stand, There a stranger, young and favored, built a home with his own hand.

Hewed the logs and reared the roof-tree, where for years alone he dwelt, Wanderer from the sunny Southland, and from pangs his heart had felt.

Legend says high-born and wealthy, seeking there in Nature's wilds To forget a maiden fickle, basking in a rival's smiles.

Where the music of the wild birds, echoed from the cliffs around, Blended with the voice of waters, flowing past with silvery sound;

Where in Springtime wild flowers blooming shed their incense day and night, And the rugged cliff-sides wearing robes of dogwood, snowy white;

Where in Summer old trees spreading overhead a leafy roof Flung their shadows, deep and cooling, 'gainst the burning sunbeams proof;

Where in Winter wild winds raving whistled 'round his lonely home, And the swollen torrent rushing struck the rocks with sullen tone--

He a sunnier clime forsaking for the "dark and bloody ground," Where the forest stretched unbroken--there the wanderer rest had found.

All of human-kind deserting, where no din of toil and strife Ever came to break the stillness--there he spent a hermit's life.

All his frugal wants supplying from the storehouse Nature gave, Nevermore his footsteps bending toward where Hope had found its grave.

Striving to forget the false one, dwelling 'neath her sunny skies, Who had left the arrow rankling in his heart with honied lies.

Long ago she was forgotten, and at last surcease had come-- For his heart was stilled forever, and his lips were sealed and dumb.

Long he lay beside the river, flowing sweetly there to-day, Where was found a bleaching skeleton, and a rude hut in decay.

There where briars in tangled network sway above a little mound, Rest the bones of Southern stranger, in the "dark and bloody ground!"

THE "MEDICAL SPRING."

I.

Let tipplers all boast of the pleasure divine That is found in old whisky, in beer and in wine-- But what are all those to a feller who knows Where the "Medical Spring" in its purity flows, And has knelt at its brink and just drank his fill Of the clear, sparkling fluid, from Nature's own still?

II.

How often I've strayed on a hot Summer's day Where it gurgles and gushes, then flows on its way With a ripple as sweet as the music that died When the tones of loved voices are to us denied, And mirrored my face in the "Medical Spring," Where the beetling old cliffs their cool shadows fling!

III.

Not riches, nor honors, nor place do I crave, Ere they lay me at last to rest in the grave, But oh, let me hear its music once more, And drink from its depths while I kneel on its shore-- Then bear me away on the Death Angel's wing While my lips are yet moist from the "Medical Spring!"

AN "IDYL" OF THE BALL.

I.

In reel, in waltz, in lancer's maze,
She moved with pretty air of grace,
And all the ball-room's brilliant blaze
Seemed borrowed brightness from her face!
O, winsome maid, demure and sweet!
I'll ne'er forget when first I met her,
And saw the dainty slippered feet
Glide o'er the floor at Linnietta!

II.

O, dreams of youth and beauty rare,
What rose-hued visions thou canst paint!
But none in loveliness compare
With her who seemed Love's patron saint!
Her pictured image haunts the mind,
And, oh, I never can forget her,
Nor rarer pleasure hope to find
Than dance with her at Linnietta!

III.

Arrayed in softly flowing gown,
The love-light flashing from her eyes--
With cheeks aglow like roses blown
Beneath the ardent summer skies--
No artist hand could fitly trace
The wondrous charm that did beset her,
When tripping with a fairy's grace
O'er the waxen floor at Linnietta!

DREAMS.

I.

The sweetest dreams, it seems to me, that we can ever know, Are those the fancy brings to us of days of long-ago, When rainbow-tinted pictures all are like a mirage flung Upon the canvas memory weaves--of days when we were young.

II.

The step may falter, eye be dim--the brow may wrinkles wear, And underneath the crumbling mould our friends be sleeping there-- But oh, these visions come to us as to the rose the dew, And while with raptured gaze we look the heart seems ever new.

III.

Oh, when perhaps at last we're left a laggard on life's stage, This is the mellowed draught we quaff our longings to assuage-- As sweet as that from Paradise the smiling Houris hand The Prophet's faithful followers when at its gates they stand!