Chapter IV

O Sunny South! where blooming flowers and where the whispering pine Attunes his harp till every string gives forth a sound divine! We love you for the many gifts that generous Nature brings, But best of all--we love you for the song that Stanton sings!

THE OLD CHURCH BELL.

It hangs today where it has hung for fifty years or more, But some who loved its silver tones the church-yard covers o'er, And many are the times since then, with deep and solemn knell, Has tolled for dear departed ones the Old Church Bell!

Within a latticed tower it swings, high up above the street, And every Sabbath morn is heard the music clear and sweet Which floats above the village roofs, and over hill and dell, Upborne upon the vagrant wind, from the Old Church Bell!

Full many a change the hand of Time has in the village wrought, And passing years have often been with grief and anguish fraught, Yet age has never changed its tones, and years cannot dispel The magic of the music from the Old Church Bell!

Since it was placed within the tower, in days of long ago, The tempests wild have round it raved, and many a driven snow Has sifted through the slats up there, and mantled as it fell In robes of white its dwelling place, and the Old Church Bell!

Though gone from earth and earthly things--forever passed away-- The faithful ones who loved while here its summons to obey Now rest beyond the tide of Time, with rapture long to dwell, For there their footsteps guided were by the Old Church Bell!

A SUMMER EVENING.

I.

The sun has sunk in the crimson west, And "around the languid eyes of day" The Twilight's dreamy shadows rest And light and shade alternate play; The winds are hushed, nor leaf nor flower Is swayed with motion by their power.

II.

The fireflies with meteor lamps Arise from out the dewy lawn, And there the elfin cricket chants His vespers when the day is gone, And far above, the sky's coquette With all her starry train is met.

FATHER RYAN.

I.

In Southern sunny clime there is a hallowed tomb,
Where rest the ashes of a minstrel priest;
And soft winds that are laden with a sweet perfume
Their requiems for him have never ceased.

II.

We read his songs, and hear again the tread
Of armed battalions, marching to the fray,
Or see once more the features of beloved dead
Whose life blood crimsoned uniforms of gray!

III.

We see the tattered banner that he loved so well
Again unfurled and fluttering in the breeze,
And once again we hear the "rebel yell"
Triumphant wafted o'er the riven trees!

IV.

O, may thy minstrel spirit find eternal rest
In some fair clime where nothing can be lost!
Where anguish never more can rend thy breast,
And fondest hope can ne'er be tempest tost!

THE MEADOW PATH.

I.

It led adown the sloping hill, and through the valley wound, And where the blooming clover shed its fragrance all around, And then between the maple trees, across the little brook, To where the old fence bars let down, a tortuous course it took; And often are the times I've heard the merry, ringing laugh, From rosy-ankled children there, along the meadow path.

II.

Three boys--and a little girl whose hair was chestnut gold-- (She's resting now in dreamless sleep beneath the crumbling mold;)-- But I remember her as when, with innocence and glee, Her laughing eyes looked into mine--for she was dear to me; And thus it is I love to let the fancy photograph The merry group that idled there, along the meadow path.

III.

Adown it oft we used to go at twilight for the cows, Or wander from the beaten track a rabbit to arouse, And watch him as he scampered off, with frightened leap and bound, The while we made the welkin ring and with our shouts resound. The sweetest flowers that bloom for me--a fragrant aftermath-- Are those that in the memory blow, along the meadow path!

THE FOX HUNTERS.

I.

With fleet-limbed steeds and baying pack They follow close on Reynard's track, And wake the slumbering echoes round With music of the horn and hound; Through wood and field, o'er hill and dale, They course him in the moonlight pale, And sport they find which brings delight-- These reckless riders of the night!

II.

The game is up! away, away! Nor hedge nor fence their course can stay; They clear them at a single leap, And like the wind they onward sweep! O'er fallen trunk and hidden ditch The fearless horsemen plunge and pitch, And heedless all they follow on With ringing shout and winding horn!

III.

Thy wondrous ride, oh Tam O'Shanter, To speed like theirs was but a canter; Had you bestrode that night instead Of gray mare Meg a thoroughbred (Such as Kentuckians only breed-- To Scotia then an unknown steed), No carline could have caught his rump And left your brute with scarce a stump!

IV.

His foaming horse with throbbing sides Unslackened yet his pace he rides, Till in among the yelping hounds The foremost huntsman proudly bounds, And sees the leaders of the chase (Two matchless dogs that set the pace) O'ertake the game and win the race! And then dismounts and feels the flush Of victory as he takes the brush!

V.

O royal sport, befitting kings! It bids the demon Care take wings, And the rose's hue to the cheek it brings! And sweeter music none can hear Than that which greets the list'ning ear-- By distance mellowed to a key That breathes divinest harmony-- And wakes the slumbering echoes round-- The winding horn and baying hound!

THE CHARMING GIRL OF SOMERSET.

By magic spell was I entranced When on me first thy brown eyes glanced, And sunbeams played at hide and seek Thro' silken ringlets on thy dimpling cheek, And like some glorious halo shed Their radiance o'er thy shapely head-- And seemed as if they loved to dwell Where'er thy airy footsteps fell! And in my dreams I see thee now-- The pearly teeth--the arching brow-- The form that mocks the sculptor's art To add one curve that could impart More beauty and more witching grace, Or chisel out a sweeter face! Blest be the hour when first I met This charming girl of Somerset!

IN JULY.

I.

Oh, for a deep-shaded spot where the shadows cool
Are hid from the rays of the glaring sun,
And the sparkling waters from a limped pool
O'er the gleaming pebbles in ripples run!

II.

Where the sloping banks are with verdure clad,
And the hoary cliffs with moss o'ergrown,
And the tangled vine and the wildflowers pad
The fallen trunk and the hidden stone!

III.

Where the song that wells from a feathered throat
The echoes repeat again and again,
And the drifted sedge and the bubbles float
O'er the glassy depths of a miniature main!