Chapter IV

And thus, in tribute to the forms that rest
In their last camping-ground, we strew the bloom
And fragrance of the flowers they loved the best,
In silence o’er the tomb.

With reverent hands we twine the Hero’s wreath
And clasp it tenderly on stake or stone
That stands the sentinel for each beneath
Whose glory is our own.

While in the violet that greets the sun,
We see the azure eye of some lost boy;
And in the rose the ruddy cheek of one
We kissed in childish joy,—

Recalling, haply, when he marched away,
He laughed his loudest though his eyes were wet.—
The kiss he gave his mother’s brow that day
Is there and burning yet:

And through the storm of grief around her tossed,
One ray of saddest comfort she may see,—
Four hundred thousand sons like hers were lost
To weeping Liberty.

...

But draw aside the drapery of gloom,
And let the sunshine chase the clouds away
And gild with brighter glory every tomb
We decorate to-day:

And in the holy silence reigning round,
While prayers of perfume bless the atmosphere,
Where loyal souls of love and faith are found,
Thank God that Peace is here!

And let each angry impulse that may start,
Be smothered out of every loyal breast;
And, rocked within the cradle of the heart,
Let every sorrow rest.

UP AND DOWN OLD BRANDYWINE

Up and down old Brandywine,
In the days ’at’s past and gone—
With a dad-burn hook-and-line
And a saplin’-pole—i swawn!
I’ve had more fun, to the square
Inch, than ever _any_where!
Heaven to come can’t discount _mine_,
Up and down old Brandywine!

Hain’t no sense in _wishin’_—yit
Wisht to goodness I _could_ jes
“Gee” the blame’ world round and git
Back to that old happiness!—
Kindo’ drive back in the shade
“The old Covered Bridge” there laid
’Crosst the crick, and sorto’ soak
My soul over, hub and spoke!

Honest, now!—it hain’t no _dream_
’At I’m wantin’,—but _the fac’s_
As they wuz; the same old stream,
And the same old times, i jacks!—
Gimme back my bare feet—and
Stonebruise too!—And scratched and tanned!—
And let hottest dog-days shine
Up and down old Brandywine!

In and on betwixt the trees
’Long the banks, pour down yer noon,
Kindo’ curdled with the breeze
And the yallerhammer’s tune;
And the smokin’, chokin’ dust
O’ the turnpike at its wusst—
_Saturd’ys_, say, when it seems
Road’s jes jammed with country teams!

Whilse the old town, fur away
’Crosst the hazy pastur’-land,
Dozed-like in the heat o’ day
Peaceful’ as a hired hand.
Jolt the gravel th’ough the floor
O’ the ole bridge!—grind and roar
With yer blame’ percession-line—
Up and down old Brandywine!

Souse me and my new straw hat
Off the foot-log!—what _I_ care?—
Fist shoved in the crown o’ that—
Like the old Clown ust to wear.—
Wouldn’t swop it fer a’ old
Gin-u-wine raal crown o’ gold!—
Keep yer _King_ ef you’ll gim me
Jes the boy I ust to be!

Spill my fishin’-worms! er steal
My best “goggle-eye!”—but you
Can’t lay hands on joys I feel
Nibblin’ like they ust to do!
So, in memory, to-day
Same old ripple lips away
At my “cork” and saggin’ line,
Up and down old Brandywine!

There the logs is, round the hill,
Where “Old Irvin” ust to lift
Out sunfish from daylight till
Dewfall—’fore he’d leave “The Drift”
And give _us_ a chance—and then
Kindo’ fish back home again,
Ketchin’ ’em jes left and right
Where _we_ hadn’t got “a bite”!

Er, ’way windin’ out and in,—
Old path th’ough the iurnweeds
And dog-fennel to yer chin—
Then come suddent, th’ough the reeds
And cattails, smack into where
Them-air woods-hogs ust to scare
Us clean ’crosst the County-line,
Up and down old Brandywine!

But the dim roar o’ the dam
It ’ud coax us furder still
To’rds the old race, slow and ca’m,
Slidin’ on to Huston’s mill—
Where, I ’spect, “the Freeport crowd”
Never _warmed_ to us er ’lowed
We wuz quite so overly
Welcome as we aimed to be.

Still it ’peared-like ever’thing—
Fur away from home as _there_—
Had more _relish_-like, i jing!—
Fish in stream, er bird in air!
O them rich old bottom-lands,
Past where Cowden’s School-house stands!
Wortermelons!—_master-mine!_
Up and down old Brandywine!

And sich pop-paws!—Lumps o’ raw
Gold and green,—jes oozy th’ough
With ripe yallar—like you’ve saw
Custard-pie with no crust to:
And jes _gorges_ o’ wild plums
Till a feller’d suck his thumbs
Clean up to his elbows! _My!_—
_Me some more er lem me die!_

Up and down old Brandywine!...
Stripe me with pokeberry-juice!—
Flick me with a pizen-vine
And yell “_Yip!_” and lem me loose!
—Old now as I then wuz young,
’F I could sing as I _have_ sung,
Song ’ud shorely ring _dee-vine_
Up and down old Brandywine!

THREE SINGING FRIENDS

I

LEE O. HARRIS

Schoolmaster and Songmaster! Memory
Enshrines thee with an equal love, for thy
Duality of gifts,—thy pure and high
Endowments—Learning rare, and Poesy.
These were as mutual handmaids, serving thee,
Throughout all seasons of the years gone by,
With all enduring joys ’twixt earth and sky—
In turn shared nobly with thy friends and me.
Thus is it that thy clear song, ringing on,
Is endless inspiration, fresh and free
As the old Mays at verge of June sunshine;
And musical as then, at dewy dawn,
The robin hailed us, and all twinklingly
Our one path wandered under wood and vine.

II

BENJAMIN S. PARKER

Thy rapt song makes of Earth a realm of light
And shadow mystical as some dreamland
Arched with unfathomed azure—vast and grand
With splendor of the morn; or dazzling bright
With orient noon; or strewn with stars of night
Thick as the daisies blown in grasses fanned
By odorous midsummer breezes and
Showered over by all bird-songs exquisite.
This is thy voiced beatific art—
To make melodious all things below,
Calling through them, from far, diviner space,
Thy clearer hail to us.—The faltering heart
Thou cheerest; and thy fellow-mortal so
Fares onward under Heaven with lifted face.