There is the orchard-the very trees
Where my childhood knew long hours of ease,
And watched the shadowy moments run
Till my life imbibed more shade than sun;
The swing from the bough still sweeps the air,
But the stranger's children are swinging there.
There bubbles the shady spring below,
With its bulrush brook where the hazels
'Twas there I found the calamus-root,
And watched the minnows poise and shoot,
And heard the robin lave its wing—
But the stranger's bucket is at the spring.
O ye, who daily cross the sill,
Step lightly, for I love it still;
And when you crowd the old barn-eaves,
Then think what countless harvest-sheaves
Have passed within that scented door
To gladden eyes that are no more!
Deal kindly with these orchard-trees;
And when your children crowd their knees
Their sweetest fruit they shall impart,
As if old memories stirred their heart:
To youthful sport still leave the swing,
And in sweet reverence hold the spring.
The barn, the trees, the brook, the birds,
The meadows with their lowing herds,
The woodbine on the cottage wall—
My heart still lingers with them all.
Ye strangers on my native sill,
Step lightly, for I love it still!
Thomas Buchanan Read.
POOR lone Hannah,
Sitting at the window, binding shoes!
Faded, wrinkled,
Sitting, stitching, in a mournful muse!
Bright-eyed beauty once was she,
When the bloom was on the tree.
Spring and Winter
Hannah's at the window, binding shoes.
Passing nod or answer will refuse
To her whisper:
"Is there from the fishers any news?"
Oh, her heart's adrift with one
On an endless voyage gone!
Night and morning
Hannah's at the window, binding shoes.
Fair young Hannah,
Ben, the sun-burnt fisher, gayly woos;
Hale and clever,
For a willing heart and hand he sues.
May-day skies are all aglow,
And the waves are laughing so
For her wedding,
Hannah leaves her window and her shoes.
'Mid the apple-boughs a pigeon coos. Hannah shudders,
For the wild southwester mischief brews;
Round the rocks of Marblehead,
Outward bound a schooner sped.
Silent, lonesome,
Hannah's at the window, binding shoes.
Now no tear her wasted cheek bedews;
From Newfoundland
Not a sail returning will she lose;
Whispering, hoarsely, "Fishermen,
you, have you heard of Ben ?"
Old with watching,
Hannah's at the window, binding shoes.
Bleach and tear the ragged shore she views.
Twenty seasons;
Never one has brought her any news.
Still her dim eyes, silently,
Chase the white sail o'er the sea.
Hopeless, faithful,
Hannah's at the window, binding shoes.
WE are two travellers, Roger and I,
Roger's my dog.-Come here, you scamp!
Jump for the gentlemen-mind your eye!
Over the table-look out for the lamp !—
The rogue is growing a little old:
Five years we've tramped through wind and weather,
And slept out-doors when nights were cold,
And ate and drank-and starved-together.
We've learned what comfort is, I tell you!
A bed on the floor, a bit of rosin,
A fire to thaw our thumbs (poor fellow !
The paw he holds up there's been frozen),
Plenty of catgut for my fiddle
(This out-door business is bad for strings),
Then a few nice buckwheats hot from the griddle,
And Roger and I set up for kings!
No, thank ye, sir-I never drink;
Roger and I are exceedingly moral-
Aren't we, Roger?-See him wink!-
Well, something hot, then-we won't quarrel.
He's thirsty, too-see him nod his head?
What a pity, sir, that dogs can't talk!
He understands every word that's said—
And he knows good milk from water-and-chalk.
The truth is, sir, now I reflect,
I've been so sadly given to grog,
I wonder I've not lost the respect
(Here's to you, sir !) even of my dog.
But he sticks by, through thick and thin;
And this old coat, with its empty pockets,
And rags that smell of tobacco and gin,
He'll follow while he has eyes in his sockets.
There isn't another creature living
Would do it, and prove, through every disaster,
So fond, so faithful, and so forgiving,
To such a miserable, thankless master!
No, sir!-see him wag his tail, and grin !
By GEORGE! it makes my old eyes water!
That is, there's something in this gin
That chokes a fellow. But no matter.
We'll have some music, if you're willing,
And Roger here (what a plague a cough is, sir!) Shall march a little.--Start, you villain!
Paws up! Eyes front! Salute your officer! 'Boutface! Attention! Take your rifle!
(Some dogs have arms, you see!) Cap while the gentlemen give a trifle,
To aid a poor old patriot soldier!
March! Halt! Now show how the rebel shakes,
When he stands up to hear his sentence.
Now tell us how many drams it takes
To honor a jolly new acquaintance.
Five yelps-that's five; he's mighty knowing!
The night's before us, fill the glasses!--
Quick, sir! I'm ill-my brain is going!-
Some brandy-thank you there!-it passes!
Why not reform? That's easily said;
But I've gone through such wretched treatment, Sometimes forgetting the taste of bread,
And scarce remembering what meat meant,
That my poor stomach's past reform;
And there are times when, mad with thinking,
I'd sell out heaven for something warm
To prop a horrible inward sinking.
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