I lived there too, once, in my younger days,
And have, engraven yet on memory,
A kindly recollection of its ways,
And much there is familiar still to me;
Yon old brick school-house there's the very place,
Where first I learned immortal A B C!
And (truant school-boy) caught there many a blessing,
For catching fish in thee, oh! Conoquenessing!
The town appears to be still much the same-
Though it has grown some little since I left it,
While some have moved away, yet others came,
And took their places, who had else bereft it:
There's my old home, and the red pump, whose stream
Still runs as clear as when, a boy, I quaffed it;
These commons too, I've played on many a day:
But where are those with whom I used to play?
Some in the sunny South have made their home,
And some the prairies of the Far West tread;
Others upon our western waters roam;
And others yet prove in their narrow bed,
"That sleep which knows no waking," till shall come
The great Archangel's trump to rouse the dead!
Yon village burial-place holds-precious trust!—
Best loved, first lost!--an infant sister's dust!
But I grow sad !-and sadness, sunny stream,
Is not the mood that should be linked with thee; The lay that takes thy praises for its theme,
Laughing and joyous as thyself should be!
Ne'er camest thou to my vision in a dream,
But it was one of light and witchery;
And stroll I now along thy banks in sadness,
Thy sunny waves soon sing me into gladness!
Fair stream, farewell!—I've sung as best I might,
Thy beauties in this rude and hasty verse;
For thy fair sake, who badest me, lady bright!*
The praises of our native stream rehearse,
I would 'twere better done!-but, luckless wight,
Through life it ever yet hath been my curse,
Most to go wrong where I would fain not go so,
And least to please when most I wish to do so!
"Eyes like the blue of a Damascus blade, and hair like a shower of braided and flowing sunbeams!—I have done your bidding! Adieu!-WILLIS.
WITH THE GIFT OF A BIBLE.
gem of the dark and dirty mine
No pearl of the deep blue sea
No gilded offering at Vanity's shrine,
Is the token I send to thee:
I send, for remembrance, lady fair,
An offering of richer worth
Than pearls of the sea, or gifts of the air,
Or the precious stones of earth!
I send thee a Book!-yet no trifle light Of ballad and roundelay;
No legend of brave and gallant knight, And ladye-love, fair and gay;
No idle and fanciful wild romaunt,
With which poets delight to lure; Nor chanson, roundelay, lay, or chaunt, Of the brave old troubadour!
But the Book of the HIGH and HOLY ONE-
The record of life and truth;
To the aged pilgrim his noon-day sun,
And a lamp to the feet of youth:
I send it—no token of lightsome love,
But of feelings as pure and true,
As the angels know in their homes above-
As dwell in this heart for you!
I know thou art loved by another now,
I know thou canst ne'er be mine;
Yet take from me this, my heart's pure vow—
I ask thee not now for thine:
Though others be with thee in gaudy light,
And thy duty and love be theirs,—
Oh! think of me, here when thou readest at night,
And remember me then-in thy prayers!
I WILL not say what it hath cost,
This bosom's throbbing pulse to still;-
To calm the surge of passion, cross'd,
And feeling subject bring to will!
It were all vain in me to tell-
As thou to hear the agony
Of the fierce struggle, ere the spell
Were broken, and the captive free!
I will not grieve thy gentle heart,
To tell thee of the burning tears
The "strong man" e'en must shed, to part
With all the cherished hopes of years:
How hard the task, ah! none may deem,
Its bitterness who hath not proved-
Passion to merge in cold esteem,
And but admire where we have loved!
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