The Grape-Vine Swing 467 How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it, And sighs for the bucket that hangs in the well- THE GRAPE-VINE SWING LITHE and long as the serpent train, Springing and clinging from tree to tree, Now darting upward, now down again, T With a twist and a twirl that are strange to see; Never took serpent a deadlier hold, Never the cougar a wilder spring, Strangling the oak with the boa's fold, Spanning the beach with the condor's wing. Yet no foe that we fear to seek,- As ever on lover's breast found place; On thy waving train is a playful hold Thou shalt never to lighter grasp persuade; O giant strange of our Southern woods! I dream of thee still in the well-known spot, As the cordage yields to my playful grasp,Dost thou spring and cling in our woodlands yet? Does the maiden still swing in thy giant clasp? William Gilmore Simms [1806-1870] THE OLD SWIMMIN'-HOLE OH! the old swimmin'-hole! whare the crick so still and deep Of the angels lookin' out as we left Paradise; Oh! the old swimmin'-hole! In the happy days of yore, That gazed back at me so gay and glorified, It made me love myself as I leaped to caress My shadder smilin' up at me with sich tenderness. But them days is past and gone, and old Time's tuck his toll From the old man come back to the old swimmin'-hole. Oh! the old swimmin'-hole! In the long, lazy days Thare the bulrushes growed, and the cattails so tall, Or a wownded apple-blossom in the breeze's controle Oh! the old swimmin'-hole! When I last saw the place, The bridge of the railroad now crosses the spot And I stray down the banks whare the trees ust to be- And I wish in my sorrow I could strip to the soul, FORTY YEARS AGO I'VE wandered to the village, Tom, I've sat beneath the tree, Upon the schoolhouse playground, that sheltered you and me; But none were there to greet me, Tom; and few were left to know, Who played with us upon that green some forty years ago. The grass is just as green, Tom; barefooted boys at play Were sporting, just as we did then, with spirits just as gay. But the "master" sleeps upon the hill, which, coated o'er with snow, Afforded us a sliding-place some forty years ago. The old schoolhouse is altered some; the benches are replaced By new ones, very like the same our jackknives once defaced; But the same old bricks are in the wall, the bell swings to and fro; Its music's just the same, dear Tom, 'twas forty years ago. The boys were playing some old game, beneath that same old tree; I have forgot the name just now-you've played the same with me, On that same spot; 'twas played with knives, by throwing so and so; The loser had a task to do, there, forty years ago. The river's running just as still; the willows on its side Are larger than they were, Tom; the stream appears less wide; But the grape-vine swing is ruined now, where once we played the beau, And swung our sweethearts-pretty girls just forty years ago. The spring that bubbled 'neath the hill, close by the spreading beech, Is very low-'twas then so high that we could scarcely reach; And, kneeling down to get a drink, dear Tom, I started so, To see how sadly I am changed since forty years ago. Near by that spring, upon an elm, you know I cut your name, Your sweetheart's just beneath it, Tom, and you did mine the same; Some heartless wretch has peeled the bark, 'twas dying sure but slow, Just as she died, whose name you cut, some forty years ago. My lids have long been dry, Tom, but tears came to my eyes; I thought of her I loved so well, those early broken ties; I visited the old churchyard, and took some flowers to strow Upon the graves of those we loved some forty years ago. Some are in the churchyard laid, some sleep beneath the sea, And none are left of our old class, excepting you and me; But when our time shall come, Tom, and we are called to go, I hope we'll meet with those we loved some forty years ago. Francis Huston [18 BEN BOLT DON'T you remember sweet Alice, Ben Bolt,- Who wept with delight when you gave her a smile, Ben Bolton In the old churchyard in the valley, Ben Bolt, They have fitted a slab of the granite so gray, Which stood at the foot of the hill, Together we've lain in the noonday shade, And listened to Appleton's mill. The mill-wheel has fallen to pieces, Ben Bolt, The rafters have tumbled in, 471 And a quiet which crawls round the walls as you gaze Has followed the olden din. 1 Do you mind of the cabin of logs, Ben Bolt. The cabin to ruin has gone, Ben Bolt, The tree you would seek for in vain;; And where once the lords of the forest waved Are grass and the golden grain., And don't you remember the school, Ben Bolt, Grass grows on the master's grave, Ben Bolt, And of all the boys who were schoolmates then There is change in the things I loved, Ben Bolt, Your presence a blessing, your friendship a truth, Thomas Dunn English [1819-1902] |