Chapter V

Yes, "echo through the corridors of Time"
Will have a tone that ages yet will know,
And blend with all that's beautiful--sublime--
The deathless name of Edgar Allan Poe!

A BARREN "IDEALTY."

This song that I sing--
It is not of a spring,
Nor yet of a silvery stream--
But of a vision bright
Which came last night
In the garb of a blissful dream--
When I thought, as I lay,
It was Thanksgiving Day,
And I was invited to dine
Where a table stood
On which everything good
Spread a feast that was almost divine!

Where the savors arose,
Right under my nose,
From turkey--and pumpkin pies;
And from jolly roast pig
Were slices as big
As some of the campaign lies!
And celery so white
'Twas a thing of delight
To bite the crisp stalks in two.
And the cranberry sauce--
Oh, I tell you 'twas boss--
And flanked by an oyster stew!

Where the bread and the cake--
The best they can bake--
Were cut into slices heroic.
And the amber ice cream
Melted into my dream
Like love to the heart of a 'poet';
And they heaped up my plate,
And I sat there and ate
Till I awoke with a yell,
And a shiver and shake
And a pain and an ache
That rudely my dream did dispel!

But dreams, as you know,
By contraries go,
And thus I fear if it will be
With the one of delight
That came last night
When I feasted so heartily;
And Thanksgiving Day
In the usual way
Will come to me, don't you see,
And the dinner I had
And the ache that was bad
Prove a----barren "idealty"!

A CHERISHED RELIC.

In the attic, unused, there they put it away; The old oaken frame has begun to decay; What iron's about it is eaten with rust, And upon and around it are cobwebs and dust; The dear, loving hands that on it have spun, With labor and toil forever are done, And long is the time since I saw them unreel The threads, snowy white, from the old spinning-wheel!

It stood on a porch where the Summer sunshine Sifted down to the floor through a clambering vine, Whose tendrils about the lattice-work clung Like my heart-strings round her, and the song that she sung; And the pictures of fancy I con o'er and o'er, Till, raptured, I see the dear features once more, And thrill with the touch when her lips set the seal Of her love, as she spun on the old spinning-wheel!

Then through the shadows and mists of many long years The old cottage home to the vision appears; And though youth it has fled, and the hair it is gray, I'm a bare-footed boy returned to his play-- Forgetting the present to dream once again That life had no anguish, no sorrow, no pain; And sweetly the bells of the memory peal When communing up there with the old spinning-wheel!

And back from the past, with its grief and its joy, Come the tones of a voice I heard when a boy, And I see once again, as it moved to and fro, A form that now rests where the wild roses blow, And the sentinel stars their love vigils keep Above the dear one in her long, dreamless sleep; But memories sweet to a heart that can feel Still cluster around the old spinning-wheel.

Some spokes from the rim are broken and gone, And it stands there forsaken, neglected, alone; It knows naught of language, but a story can tell With a charm that for me time cannot dispel; And often I climb the old attic stair The love of my childhood with it to share, And emotions possess me I cannot conceal When fondly I gaze on the old spinning-wheel!

The distaff is worn and smooth with the touch Of the now folded hands that used it so much; And lingering there I clearly can trace The sweet smile of love from a well-cherished face, Which sheds round about it a halo divine When thus I am kneeling at memory's shrine, And hallows the thoughts which on the mind steal, When up there alone with the old spinning-wheel!

'Tis then that I see her in saintly guise, Through the fast-welling tears that come to my eyes-- A vision arrayed in raiment white That beckons to me from the regions of light, And illumines the way that my footsteps may tread Unerringly where her love for me led-- Along the straight path that she tried to reveal As she taught me, and spun on the old spinning-wheel!

Yes, the finger of Time has furrowed the brow, And silvered the hair, yet I dream of her now As when, long ago, I heard as a child The words of her love that my sorrows beguiled; And this relic she used but brings back anew The morning of life, that was fresh with the dew Distilled from the heart, as she taught me to kneel Right down by her side, and the old spinning-wheel!

"RESTLAND."

WRITTEN IN THE DANVILLE (KY.) CEMETERY.

I.

Within thy hallowed precincts on this sweet autumnal day,
We're wandering 'neath the cedar and the pine,
Where rests the sacred dust of loved ones passed away,
And bleeding hearts a melancholy pleasure find.

II.

In memory's faithful mirror here once more we trace
Familiar forms of those in life we knew,
And see again the shadowy outlines of some face
That, living, beamed with kindness--ever true.

III.

Old age, and manhood's prime, and helpless infancy
Have dotted o'er with many an emerald mound,
And marked each stone with mournful tracery
Which stands within this consecrated ground.

IV.

And there the marble shaft its stately head
In polished whiteness pointing to the sky,
And here the modest tribute to the lowly dead--
The silent monitors that tell us all must die.

V.

Here lavish Nature her bright smile imparts
And decks with lovely flowers in early Spring,
And here the sympathetic tear unbidden starts,
And loving hands their sweetest tributes bring.

VI.

Loved spot! A solace to the living 'tis to know
That when at last--life's fitful fever o'er--
The cortege sad, with solemn step and slow,
Shall bear us here, to rest forever more,--

VII.

'Till that bright day when ransomed spirits rise,
And loved and lost shall reunited be,
To dwell in realms beyond the star-lit skies
Throughout one circling, vast eternity!

MY VALENTINE.

I.

I passed her on the crowded street-- This winsome maid, demure and sweet-- And envious saw the silken tresses That seemed to give her cheeks caresses, And rapture felt that thrilled me through When on me glanced those eyes of blue From underneath the drooping lashes That could not hide their azure flashes! And oh, I dreampt of bliss divine If she would be--my Valentine!

II.

And visions of as fair a face As painter's pencil e'er did trace Would haunt the mind each waking hour, And slumber owned its magic power-- Until I found by merest chance That belladonna made the glance, And borrowed hair had lent its aid For silken tresses of this maid-- And padding--paint--did all combine To make for me--my Valentine!

A SMOKE.

I.

O others may boast of their pleasures galore-- The miser with rapture may count o'er his store, And some may imagine great happiness there In the gay shining beam of Society's glare; But best of all comforts a feller can know, While wintry winds whistle and fast flies the snow, Is a pipe after supper, by a bright blazing fire, Encircled with ringlets that curl high and higher!

II.

O doctors may tell you and others declare It'll shorten your days and your heart will impair-- That nicotine poison will flow through your veins And nervous distraction will rack with its pains; But what cares a feller in slippers and gown, When wintry winds whistle and snow's pouring down, With papers and books, and his feet near the fire, Encircled with ringlets that curl high and higher?