A Maryland Homestead
The sun is bright; the earth and heavens are gay.
The time is winter, yet the air says May.
Mark yonder hawk that quivers in the sky;
What placid quaintness dreams beneath his eye!
His post be mine; a nobler quarry own
And give the nations what is love's alone.
O spot more dear than all the world beside!
O homestead-hamlet where I won my bride!
Where birds sang welcome to my eldest born,
My little Rose—unconscious of the thorn.
Where many an idle summer hour was spent
In the full bliss of unalloyed content.
How well I mind the gentle reader's tone!
The kind companions! one, alas! is flown
(Whose life was goodness, written in her face,
Whose soul was music as her breath was grace).
The deep-set window with its squares of glass,
The cumbrous door and oblong knob of brass,
The sideboard's half-seen prophecy of cheer;
High overhead the swinging chandelier;
The zephyr couch below the ample stair;
The door-framed picture of the open air.
There the dwarfed cedar vainly seemed to strive
In the sharp clasping of the circling drive;
The green leaves fluttered o'er the sheep-flecked lawn,
Crept the slow wain by clumsy oxen drawn;
Beyond the fences of the dusty road
The billowy amber of the wheat-field showed;
The corn, like scythe-blades, sparkled in the sun;
The fringing woodlands blended into one;
The light winds fanned me in the ancient hall;
And the white clouds went sailing over all.
When holy evening settled calm and still
We watched the village brighten on the hill,
As the round sun passed downward to his rest,
And left God's glory in the golden West,—
The great cloud blazing like a sheaf of fire;
The purple isles' imperial-hued attire;
The luminous fringe; the doubtful dash of green;
The gradual changes of the sinking scene!
Breathless we gazed with awe and strange delight,
Till pomp and glory faded into night.
Surely if e'er the golden walls are riven,
'Tis when the sunset opens into heaven.
Then from some hidden nook serene and chill
Came the clear note of lonesome whippoorwill.
The mocking partridge called us from the hedge,
His pert “Bob White,” an olden privilege.
The bull-bats darted past the maple's rim,
Like vampire spirits shrilly voiced and dim.
The shrieking swallows circled line on line
In lessening spirals round their chimney shrine,
Like some wild dervish dance in days of eld
Or witches' sabbath at the midnight held.
As the bright star-eyes opened one by one,
Each weed-tuft answered with its little sun,
Till mounting fire-flies, pulsing in their flight,
Made all the lawn with fairy lanterns bright.
The katydid kept rasping in the elms;
The screech-owl wailed amid his shadowy realms;
The frogs' fine chorus from the marshy stream
Came like the voices of a summer dream.
No other sound was heard o'er all the earth,
Save the low murmur or the burst of mirth,
Where old-time portraits in the lamp-light glowed,
And the quaint goblet silver-gleaming showed.
But, hark! a lustier, jollier peal ascends
From the swart concourse of our humbler friends.
Aunt Ellen's kitchen, may the painter thrive
Who paints that picture as it looked alive!
The much-enduring house-cat and her young;
The truant dog that lapped with eager tongue;
The wrangling chickens by the open door;
The round-eyed baby seated on the floor;
The wearied farm-hands lolling at their ease;
The strapping housemaid prone to flirt and tease;
The queen who owned a turban for a crown,
A stew-pan sceptre and a throne burnt brown;
The tattered minstrel perched upon the stair,
His head thrown sidewise with a knowing air,
While his deft hands the soft accordion press,
Or wake the home-made flute to happiness.
Blithe race, so poor in all the world can give;
So passing rich in knowing how to live!
I stand once more in sunshine and the dew
And clasp the mansion in my loving view.
The curtaining leaves just break away before
The jutting porch that screens the ample door,
Flanked by the roses' snow-cups of perfume,
And the crape-myrtle in its crisp pink bloom.
I note the brown walls brought from over sea
Sink, step by step, to greet the Eastern lee,
From triple-storied portliness and pride
To the low kitchen's archway-guarded side.
Old Time has let his scarring crowfeet fall
On every inch of woodwork and of wall.
The sills are dark with sixscore years' decay;
And the last pillar—see—has fallen away.
A wide gap opens in the robe of moss
That roofs the smoke-house with its yellow gloss.
Its wind-bleached arm the lofty sweep uprears;
The battered well-curb sparkles in its tears.
The venturous setter crowns with outstretched paw
The long dun hillock of the ice-house straw.
Clasped in the elbow of the bending lane,
The farm-roofs cluster brown with many a stain.
The quarter, lusty corporal in red,
Marshals its awkward squad of frame and shed;
The tottering stable leans with listening ear
To the bright cottage of the overseer;
And white-winged legions ever circle nigh
The barn's sharp ridge-pole pointing to the sky.
A home, a village, and a picture too,
The homestead-hamlet dawns upon the view.
Again I lie beneath the willow shade,
And watch the sunshine weave its golden braid.
Above, the hollow buttressed bole expands,
Its massy branches reaching shattered hands,
Where, deeply sunk, thy round-doored homes I see,
Pert pretty wren, our least troglodyte.
The graveyard cedars' century-guarding row,
The flowering cherry with its mound of snow,
The bare-boughed locust where the martins strive,
The bowery alley where the lilacs thrive,
The lightning swallow's purple-flashing coat,
The distant wood-dove's melancholy note,
The faint-heard call of strutting chanticleer,
The day-long chorus of the song-birds dear,—
All, all combine to weave a subtle spell
Of shadowy day-dreams where I love to dwell.
The old colonial days have come again,
Of plenteous cheer and rare good will to men.
Bright forms, long hidden from the light of day,
Float lightly forth in quaintly-garbed array.
Without a sound the phantom footsteps pass
The terraced garden's waste of weeds and grass.
With all the graceful stateliness of yore
They bend to pluck the flowers that bloom no more.
Their merry laughter dies upon the air,
But leaves its sunshine in their beauty rare:
And yonder—as I live—the walnut-tree
Shades a young couple,—lovers? can it be?
Who tell the tale their children's children told
When the soft earth had wrapped them in its fold.
I start,—a thunder-burst,—the dream is gone.
See yonder cloud that rushes grandly on.
Its swollen cheeks are flushed with angry red;
A cowl of blackness swathes its mighty head;
The warning shadow swift before it flies,
Like Satan's herald fleeing from the skies.
Like some lost woman in her wild despair,
The willow tosses high its tangled hair.
A moment more, and all is crash and gloom;
The judgment glare, the darkness of the tomb;
While hurrying demons yell amid the blast
Their mad delight in the confusion vast.
Yet my thrilled spirit, swelled beyond its form,
Drains to the lees the vintage of the storm,
Clasps with full hands the glory and the glare,
And with the tempest hurtles through the air.
The time is winter, yet the air says May.
Mark yonder hawk that quivers in the sky;
What placid quaintness dreams beneath his eye!
His post be mine; a nobler quarry own
And give the nations what is love's alone.
O spot more dear than all the world beside!
O homestead-hamlet where I won my bride!
Where birds sang welcome to my eldest born,
My little Rose—unconscious of the thorn.
Where many an idle summer hour was spent
In the full bliss of unalloyed content.
How well I mind the gentle reader's tone!
The kind companions! one, alas! is flown
(Whose life was goodness, written in her face,
Whose soul was music as her breath was grace).
The deep-set window with its squares of glass,
The cumbrous door and oblong knob of brass,
The sideboard's half-seen prophecy of cheer;
High overhead the swinging chandelier;
The zephyr couch below the ample stair;
The door-framed picture of the open air.
There the dwarfed cedar vainly seemed to strive
In the sharp clasping of the circling drive;
The green leaves fluttered o'er the sheep-flecked lawn,
Crept the slow wain by clumsy oxen drawn;
Beyond the fences of the dusty road
The billowy amber of the wheat-field showed;
The corn, like scythe-blades, sparkled in the sun;
The fringing woodlands blended into one;
The light winds fanned me in the ancient hall;
And the white clouds went sailing over all.
When holy evening settled calm and still
We watched the village brighten on the hill,
As the round sun passed downward to his rest,
And left God's glory in the golden West,—
The great cloud blazing like a sheaf of fire;
The purple isles' imperial-hued attire;
The luminous fringe; the doubtful dash of green;
The gradual changes of the sinking scene!
Breathless we gazed with awe and strange delight,
Till pomp and glory faded into night.
Surely if e'er the golden walls are riven,
'Tis when the sunset opens into heaven.
Then from some hidden nook serene and chill
Came the clear note of lonesome whippoorwill.
The mocking partridge called us from the hedge,
His pert “Bob White,” an olden privilege.
The bull-bats darted past the maple's rim,
Like vampire spirits shrilly voiced and dim.
The shrieking swallows circled line on line
In lessening spirals round their chimney shrine,
Like some wild dervish dance in days of eld
Or witches' sabbath at the midnight held.
As the bright star-eyes opened one by one,
Each weed-tuft answered with its little sun,
Till mounting fire-flies, pulsing in their flight,
Made all the lawn with fairy lanterns bright.
The katydid kept rasping in the elms;
The screech-owl wailed amid his shadowy realms;
The frogs' fine chorus from the marshy stream
Came like the voices of a summer dream.
No other sound was heard o'er all the earth,
Save the low murmur or the burst of mirth,
Where old-time portraits in the lamp-light glowed,
And the quaint goblet silver-gleaming showed.
But, hark! a lustier, jollier peal ascends
From the swart concourse of our humbler friends.
Aunt Ellen's kitchen, may the painter thrive
Who paints that picture as it looked alive!
The much-enduring house-cat and her young;
The truant dog that lapped with eager tongue;
The wrangling chickens by the open door;
The round-eyed baby seated on the floor;
The wearied farm-hands lolling at their ease;
The strapping housemaid prone to flirt and tease;
The queen who owned a turban for a crown,
A stew-pan sceptre and a throne burnt brown;
The tattered minstrel perched upon the stair,
His head thrown sidewise with a knowing air,
While his deft hands the soft accordion press,
Or wake the home-made flute to happiness.
Blithe race, so poor in all the world can give;
So passing rich in knowing how to live!
I stand once more in sunshine and the dew
And clasp the mansion in my loving view.
The curtaining leaves just break away before
The jutting porch that screens the ample door,
Flanked by the roses' snow-cups of perfume,
And the crape-myrtle in its crisp pink bloom.
I note the brown walls brought from over sea
Sink, step by step, to greet the Eastern lee,
From triple-storied portliness and pride
To the low kitchen's archway-guarded side.
Old Time has let his scarring crowfeet fall
On every inch of woodwork and of wall.
The sills are dark with sixscore years' decay;
And the last pillar—see—has fallen away.
A wide gap opens in the robe of moss
That roofs the smoke-house with its yellow gloss.
Its wind-bleached arm the lofty sweep uprears;
The battered well-curb sparkles in its tears.
The venturous setter crowns with outstretched paw
The long dun hillock of the ice-house straw.
Clasped in the elbow of the bending lane,
The farm-roofs cluster brown with many a stain.
The quarter, lusty corporal in red,
Marshals its awkward squad of frame and shed;
The tottering stable leans with listening ear
To the bright cottage of the overseer;
And white-winged legions ever circle nigh
The barn's sharp ridge-pole pointing to the sky.
A home, a village, and a picture too,
The homestead-hamlet dawns upon the view.
Again I lie beneath the willow shade,
And watch the sunshine weave its golden braid.
Above, the hollow buttressed bole expands,
Its massy branches reaching shattered hands,
Where, deeply sunk, thy round-doored homes I see,
Pert pretty wren, our least troglodyte.
The graveyard cedars' century-guarding row,
The flowering cherry with its mound of snow,
The bare-boughed locust where the martins strive,
The bowery alley where the lilacs thrive,
The lightning swallow's purple-flashing coat,
The distant wood-dove's melancholy note,
The faint-heard call of strutting chanticleer,
The day-long chorus of the song-birds dear,—
All, all combine to weave a subtle spell
Of shadowy day-dreams where I love to dwell.
The old colonial days have come again,
Of plenteous cheer and rare good will to men.
Bright forms, long hidden from the light of day,
Float lightly forth in quaintly-garbed array.
Without a sound the phantom footsteps pass
The terraced garden's waste of weeds and grass.
With all the graceful stateliness of yore
They bend to pluck the flowers that bloom no more.
Their merry laughter dies upon the air,
But leaves its sunshine in their beauty rare:
And yonder—as I live—the walnut-tree
Shades a young couple,—lovers? can it be?
Who tell the tale their children's children told
When the soft earth had wrapped them in its fold.
I start,—a thunder-burst,—the dream is gone.
See yonder cloud that rushes grandly on.
Its swollen cheeks are flushed with angry red;
A cowl of blackness swathes its mighty head;
The warning shadow swift before it flies,
Like Satan's herald fleeing from the skies.
Like some lost woman in her wild despair,
The willow tosses high its tangled hair.
A moment more, and all is crash and gloom;
The judgment glare, the darkness of the tomb;
While hurrying demons yell amid the blast
Their mad delight in the confusion vast.
Yet my thrilled spirit, swelled beyond its form,
Drains to the lees the vintage of the storm,
Clasps with full hands the glory and the glare,
And with the tempest hurtles through the air.
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