THE GRAPE-VINE SWING WHEN I was a boy on the old plantation, Down by the deep bayou, The fairest spot of all creation, Under the arching blue; When the wind came over the cotton and corn, With brown feet bare, and a hat-brim torn, Swinging in the grape-vine swing, For the days gone by Swinging in the grape-vine swing. Out o'er the water-lilies bonny and bright, I shouted and laughed with a heart as light I was just as near heaven as I wanted to be, Swinging in the grape-vine swing, Laughing where the wild birds sing,— Oh, to be a boy With a heart full of joy, Swinging in the grape-vine swing! I'm weary at noon, I'm weary at night, And care is sowing my locks with white Forty Years Ago Swinging in the grape-vine swing, From the world to-day, Swinging in the grape-vine swing. 453 Samuel Minturn Peck [1854 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 Bolt In the old churchyard in the valley, Ben Bolt, They have fitted a slab of the granite so gray, Under the hickory tree, Ben Bolt, Which stood at the foot of the hill, 455 And a quiet which crawls round the walls as you gaze Has followed the olden din. Do you mind of the cabin of logs, Ben Bolt. And the button-ball tree with its motley limbs, 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 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] "BREAK, BREAK, BREAK" BREAK, break, break, On thy cold gray stones, O Sea! O, well for the fisherman's boy, That he shouts with his sister at play! O, well for the sailor lad, That he sings in his boat on the bay! And the stately ships go on, To their haven under the hill; But O for the touch of a vanished hand, Break, break, break, At the foot of thy crags, O Sea! But the tender grace of a day that is dead Will never come back to me. Alfred Tennyson [1809-1892] JAN 6 1918 |