'HE old farm gate hangs, sagging down,
On rusty hinges, bent and brown;
Its latch is gone, and, here and there
It shows rude traces of repair.
That old farm gate has seen, each
The blossoms bloom and disappear:
The bright green leaves of Spring unfold,
And turn to Autumn's red and gold.
The children have upon it clung,
And, in and out, with rapture swung,
When their young hearts were good and pureWhen hope was fair and faith was sure.
Beside that gate, have lovers true
Told the old story, always new;
Have made their vows, have dreamed of bliss,
And sealed each promise with a kiss.
The old farm gate has opened wide
To welcome home the new-made bride,
When lilacs bloomed, and locusts fair
With their sweet fragrance filled the air.
That gate, with rusty weight and chain,
Has closed upon the solemn train
That bore her lifeless form away,
Upon a dreary Autumn day.
The lichens gray and mosses green
Upon its rotting posts are seen;
Initials, carved with youthful skill,
Long years ago, are on it still.
Yet dear to me above all things,
By reason of the thoughts it brings,
Is that old gate, now sagging down,
On rusty hinges, bent and brown.
SONG for the early times out west,
And our green old forest home,
Whose pleasant memories freshly yet
Across the bosom come:
A song for the free and gladsome life
In those early days we led,
With a teeming soil beneath our feet,
And a smiling heaven o'erhead!
O the waves of life danced merrily,
And had a joyous flow,
In the days when we were pioneers,
FIFTY YEARS AGO!
The hunt, the shot, the glorious chase,
The captured elk or deer;
The camp, the big, bright fire, and then
The rich and wholesome cheer;
The sweet, sound sleep, at dead of night,
By our camp-fire blazing high-
Unbroken by the wolf's long howl,
And the panther springing by.
O merrily passed the time, despite
Our wily Indian foe,
In the days when we were pioneers,
FIFTY YEARS AGO!
We shunned not labor; when 'twas due,
We wrought with right good will;
And, for the home we won for them,
Our children bless us still.
We lived not hermit lives, but oft
In social converse met;
And fires of love were kindled then,
That burn on warmly yet.
O pleasantly the stream of life
Pursued its constant flow,
In the days when we were pioneers,
FIFTY YEARS AGO!
We felt that we were fellow-men;
We felt we were a band
Sustained here in the wilderness
By Heaven's upholding hand.
And, when the solemn Sabbath came,
We gathered in the wood,
And lifted up our hearts in prayer
To God, the only Good.
Our temples then were earth and sky;
None others did we know
In the days when we were pioneers,
FIFTY YEARS AGO!
Our forest life was rough and rude,
And dangers closed us round,
But here, amid the green old trees,
Freedom we sought and found.
SONG OF THE PIONEERS.
Oft through our dwellings wintry blasts
Would rush with shriek and moan;
We cared not-though they were but frail,
We felt they were our own!
O free and manly lives we led,
Mid verdure or mid snow,
In the days when we were pioneers,
FIFTY YEARS AGO!
But now our course of life is short;
And as, from day to day,
We're walking on with halting step,
And fainting by the way,
Another land, more bright than this,
To our dim sight appears,
And on our way to it we'll soon
Again be pioneers!
Yet while we linger, we may all
A backward glance still throw
To the days when we were pioneers,
FIFTY YEARS AGO!
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