LAH BISNESS.
Zwee deitsche Baure, brav un gut,
Un ehrlich bis ufs Hoor,
Gans eenig, wie aus eenem Guss,
Die lebten am Catorus Fluss
Beisamme manches Johr.
Der eene hot geheese Hans,
Der anner awer Dschäck;
Dann unner alle Bauersleit
War’s so Gebrauch um selli Zeit:
Der letschte Nam’ blieb wek.
Die Baure hen vielfach Verkehr
Gehat vun Zeit zu Zeit;
Een hot dem ann’re g’holfe gern,
So bei der Hoiet un der Aern’,
Wie’s is bei Bauersleit.
Sie hen enanner Sache g’lehnt,
Un dess un sell abkaaft;
Enanner b’sucht dorch Schnee un Dreck,
Un freindlich gesse Kraut un Schpeck —
Viel uf un ab gelaaft.
Ufs Wort hen sie enanner borgt,
Hen nie nix ufgesetzt;
Un ehrlich, uf der werri Dag,
Z’rick bezahlt, so g’wiss ich sag —
Do war kee’ Bens verletzt!
Die Lah un Courts hen sie gehasst,
Gar kreislich, nemm mei’ Wort;
Kunschtabler sin am Haus v’rbei,
Verloss dich druf, sie sin net nei’ —
Kee’ Bisness hen sie dort.
Es ging wol gut bei Hans un Dschäck,
So nooch dem alte Schlag;
Doch, wer net naus geht, kummt net weit,
Un lernt ah nix vun annere Leit,
Wie er es lerne mag.
Doch, wie m’r sa’t: ’n blinde Sau
Find alsemol ’n Kescht.
So hot d’r Hans ’nmol, bei Glick,
G’lernt ’n wahres Meeschterschtick,
Ihm un sei’m Dschäck zum Bescht.
Im Schpodjohr war er an dem Pool,
Am Dschenerel ’Leckschen Dag;
Do war ’n loh gesoffe G’schlecht,
Die kumme in ’n wiescht Gefecht —
Wie m’r sich’s denke mag.
Nor’d hot der Een d’r Anner g’rescht,
’S is vor den Schqueier kumme;
Der Hans war g’sommenst, denk du dir,
Als Zeige in dem wieschte G’schmier;
Hot’s iewel ufg’numme.
Uf Samschdag war die Suht beschtellt;
Mei’ Hans war dort, net faul;
Wie hot er do die Achseln zuckt,
Un in d’r Affis rum gegukt,
Un ufgeschperrt des Maul!
Dem gute Hans war alles nei,
Er is verschrocke schier!
Was war do ’n gelernt Gemisch,
Mit grosse Biecher uf’m Disch,
Un Dinte, un Babier.
’S Zeigniss hot sie gilty g’macht,
’S war nix zu helfe da;
Nor’d hot d’r Schqueier gar kreislich scharf
G’sa’t, dass m’r net fechte darf,
Eccording zu der Lah!
D’r Schqueier hot der gans Pack g’feint,
Sell hot sie dief affect;
D’r Werth hot sie gebeelt — wann net,
Dann het d’r Schqueier die Lumpe Sett
Grad in die Bresent g’schickt.
Dess hot d’r Hans ebaut gepliehst,
Wie m’r sich’s denke kann.
„Mei’ liewer Schqueier,” sagt er „ei ja,
Ich seh dei’ Schreiwes un dei’ Lah
Bringt alles an d’r Mann!”
Nau Owets ging d’r Hans zum Dschäck,
Un hot ihm alles g’sa’t;
„Ja, unser eens” — so meent d’r Dschäck,
„Sitzt do d’rheem un kummt nie wek;
In dem Ding hen m’r g’fehlt.”
„M’r hen nau so viel Diehlings g’hat,
Un nix vun Dem gewisst!
Kee’ Schqueier, kee’ Schreiwes un kee’ Lah —
Ich glaab’s gewiss — glaabscht du net ah —
In Dem hen mir’s gemisst?”
„Juscht so, mei liewer Dschäck,” sagt Hans,
„Sell is ebaut mei’ Sinn;
Un weil ich nau d’r Schqueier gut kenn,
So, wann mir widder Bisness hen,
Dann reit ich dapper hin.”
Sagt Hans: „Es fallt m’r ewe ei’,
Ich brauch juscht nau ’n Ferd;
Ich glaab dei’ schwarzer Dschim is feel,
Ich dhet ihn kaafe, meiner Seel!
Was meenscht du, is er werth?”
„Ei ja, d’r Dschim is feel,” sagt Dschäck,
„Ich hab jo sechs beseid;
’N hunnert Dhaler grad awek —
W’rhaftig wolf’l,” meent d’r Dschäck —
„Doch mir sin Nochbersleit!”
„All recht,” sagt Hans, „Ich nemm ’n mit —
Ich denk du borgscht doch mir?
Ich kennt ’n wol bezahle käsch,
Doch in der Lah geht’s net so räsch,
’S muss erscht uf’s Lahbabier!
„Ich reit ihn morje naus zum Schqueier,
Er macht uns Schreiwes aus.
For unser alter dummer Plan,
Der bringt die Sach net an der Mann —
M’r kummt aus Heem un Haus!”
Der nekschte Owet kummt d’r Hans
Beizeite zu sei’m Dschäck;
„Do is nau ’s Schreiwes, all compliet,
Gemixt mit Lah, dass alles biet,
Es hot kee’ Fla’ un Fleck.”
„Well, les es vor,” sagt Dschäck zum Hans;
„Kann net!” sagt Hans zum Dschäck;
„’S is Englisch g’schriwe — seh mol da!
Weescht doch, es gebt in Deitsch kee’ Lah!
Loss mir die Schpuchte wek!”
„Ich hab’s geseint, sell is genunk:
Der Schqueier hot alles drin.
Wann die beschtimmt Zeit is verfalle
Muss ich die hunnert Dhaler zahle;
Dess is so ’baut der Sinn.”
„All recht!” sagt Dschäck, „Was dhut m’r nau
Mit dem schee’ Lahbabier?”
„Ja, schur genunk,” sagt Hans, „Well — hem —
Dess Ding is m’r doch ’n wenig fremm;
Ich wott d’r Schqueier wär’ hier!”
„Doch nau scheint mir die Sach gans klohr,”
Sagt Hans; „Ich kräck die Nuss;
Ich muss ’s b’halte, ohne Schtreit,
Nor’d kann ich sehne do die Zeit,
Wann ich bezahle muss!”
Sechs Monet nooch dem werri Dag
War Hans do mit dem Geld;
„Do sin die hunnert Dhaler grad,
Un do’s Babier — nau nemm mei’ Rath —
Die Lah biet alle Welt!”
„All recht,” sagt Dschäck; „Wo dhut m’r nau
Dess Lahbabierle hin?”
„Ja, freilich, Dschäck; doch ennihau —
Du b’haltscht’s — es weist, dass ich dir nau
Kee’ Bens meh schuldig bin!”
„Gans gut — do hoscht du recht, mei’ Hans;
Die Bisness hot kee Fla’!”
Die Bauere hen g’seh’ wie gut
Es geht wann m’r sei’ Bisness dhut
Eccording zu der Lah!
HEEMWEH.
Ich wees net was die Ursach is —
Wees net, warum ich’s dhu:
’N jedes Johr mach ich der Weg
Der alte Heemet zu;
Hab weiter nix zu suche dort —
Kee’ Erbschaft un kee’ Geld;
Un doch treibt mich des Heemgefiehl
So schtark wie alle Welt;
Nor’d schtärt ich ewe ab un geh,
Wie owe schun gemeldt.
Wie nächer dass ich kumm zum Ziel,
Wie schtärker will ich geh,
For eppes in mei’m Herz werd letz
Un dhut m’r kreislich weh.
Der letschte Hiwel schpring ich nuf,
Un ep ich drowe bin,
Schtreck ich mich uf so hoch ich kann
Un guk mit Luschte hin;
Ich seh’s alt Schtee’haus dorch die Beem,
Un wott ich wär schun drin.
Guk, wie der Kicheschornschtee’ schmokt —
Wie oft hab ich sell g’seh’,
Wann ich draus in de Felder war,
’N Buwele jung un klee’.
O, sehntscht die Fenschterscheiwe dort?
Sie guk’n roth wie Blut;
Hab oft cunsiddert, doch net g’wisst,
Dass sell die Sunn so dhut.
Ja, manches wees ’n Kind noch net —
Wann’s dhet, wär’s ah net gut!
Wie gleich ich selle Babble Beem,
Sie schtehn wie Brieder dar;
Un uf’m Gippel — g’wiss ich leb!
Hockt alleweil ’n Schtaar!
’S Gippel biegt sich — guk, wie’s gaunscht —
’R hebt sich awer fescht;
Ich seh sei’ rothe Fliegle plehn,
Wann er sei’ Feddere wescht;
Will wette, dass sei’ Fraale hot
Uf sellem Baam ’n Nescht!
O, es gedenkt m’r noch gans gut,
Wo selle werri Beem
Net greeser als ’n Welschkornschtock
Gebrocht sin worre heem.
Die Mammi war an’s Grändäd’s g’west,
Dort ware Beem wie die;
Drei Wipplein hot sie mitgebrocht,
Un g’sa’t: „Dort blanscht sie hie.”
M’r hen’s gedhu’ — un glaabscht du’s nau —
Dort selli Beem sin sie!
Guk! werklich, ich bin schier am Haus! —
Wie schnell geht doch die Zeit!
Wann m’r so in Gedanke geht,
So wees m’r net wie weit.
Dort is d’r Schap, die Welschkornkrip,
Die Seiderpress dort draus;
Dort is die Scheier, un dort die Schpring —
Frisch quellt des Wasser raus;
Un guk! die sehm alt Klapbord-Fens,
Un’s Dheerle vor’m Haus.
Alles is schtill — sie wisse net,
Dass epper fremmes kummt.
Ich denk, der alte Watsch is dodt,
Sunscht wär er raus gedschumpt;
For er hot als verschinnert g’brillt
Wann er hot ’s Dheerle g’heert;
Es war de Träw’lers kreislich bang,
Sie werre gans verzehrt:
Kee’ G’fohr — er hot paar Mol gegauzt,
Nor’d is er umgekehrt.
Alles is schtill — die Dheer is zu!
Ich schteh, besinne mich!
Es rappelt doch en wenig nau
Dort hinne in der Kich.
Ich geh net nei — ich kann noch net!
Mei’ Herz fiehlt schwer un krank;
Ich geh ’n wenig uf die Bortsch,
Un hock mich uf die Bank;
Es seht mich niemand, wann ich heil,
Hinner der Drauwerank!
Zwee Blätz sin do uf däre Bortsch,
Die halt ich hoch in Acht,
Bis meines Lebens Sonn versinkt
In schtiller Dodtes-Nacht!
Wo ich vum alte Vaterhaus
’S erscht mol bin gange fort,
Schtand mei’ Mammi weinend da,
An sellem Rigel dort;
Un nix is mir so heilig nau
Als grade seller Ort.
Ich kann se heit noch sehne schteh,
Ihr Schnuppduch in d’r Hand;
Die Backe roth, die Aage nass —
O, wie sie doch do schtand!
Dort gab ich ihr mei’ Färewell,
Ich weinte als ich’s gab,
’S war’s letschte Mol in däre Welt,
Dass ich’s ihr gewe hab!
Befor ich widder kumme bin
War sie in ihrem Grab!
Nau, wann ich an mei’ Mammi denk,
Un meen, ich dhet se seh,
So schteht sie an dem Rigel dort
Un weint, weil ich wek geh!
Ich seh sie net im Schockelschtuhl!
Net an keem annere Ort;
Ich denk net an sie als im Grab:
Juscht an dem Rigel dort!
Dort schteht sie immer vor mei’m Herz
Un weint noch liebreich fort!
Was macht’s dass ich so dort hi’ guk,
An sell End vun der Bank!
Weescht du’s? Mei’ Herz is noch net dodt,
Ich wees es, Gott sei Dank!
Wie manchmal sass mei Dady dort,
Am Summer-Nochmiddag,
Die Hände uf der Schoos gekreizt,
Sei Schtock bei Seite lag.
Was hot er dort im Schtille g’denkt?
Wer mecht es wisse — sag?
V’rleicht is es ’n Kindheets-Draam,
Dass ihn so sanft bewegt;
Oder is er ’n Jingling jetz,
Der scheene Plane legt!
Er hebt sei’ Aage uf juscht nau
Un gukt weit iwer’s Feld;
Er seht v’rleicht d’r Kerchhof dort,
Der schun die Mammi helt!
Er sehnt v’rleicht nooch seiner Ruh
Dort in der bessere Welt!
Ich wees net, soll ich nei’ in’s Haus,
Ich zitter an d’r Dheer!
Es is wol alles voll inseid,
Un doch is alles leer!
’S is net meh heem, wie’s eemol war,
Un kann’s ah nimme sei;
Was naus mit unsere Eltere geht
Kummt ewig nimme nei’!
Die Freide hot der Dodt geärnt,
Das Trauerdheel is mei’!
So geht’s in däre rauhe Welt,
Wo alles muss vergeh!
Ja, in der alte Heemet gar
Fiehlt m’r sich all allee’!
O, wann’s net vor der Himmel wär,
Mit seiner scheene Ruh,
Dann wär m’r’s do schun lang verleedt,
Ich wisst net, was ze dhu.
Doch Hoffnung leichtet meinen Weg
Der ew’gen Heemet zu.
Dort is ’n schee’, schee’ Vaterhaus,
Dort geht m’r nimmeh fort;
Es weint kee’ guti Mammi meh’
In sellem Freideort.
Kee’ Dady such meh’ for ’n Grab,
Wo, was er lieb hat, liegt!
Sell is kee’ Elendwelt wie die,
Wo alle Luscht betriegt;
Dort hat das Lewe ewiglich
Iwer der Dodt gesiegt.
Dort find m’r, was m’r do verliert,
Un b’halt’s in Ewigkeit;
Dort lewe unsre Dodte all.
In Licht un ew’ger Freid!
Wie oft, wann ich in Druwel bin,
Denk ich an selli Ruh,
Un wott, wann’s nor Gott’s Wille wär,
Ich ging ihr schneller zu;
Doch wart ich bis mei’ Schtindle schlägt,
Nor’d sag ich — Welt, adju!
Wie manchmal sass mei Dady dort,
Am Sommer Nachmiddag;
Die Hände uf der Schoos gekreizt,
Sei Schtock bei Seite lag.
…
Er seht v’rleicht d’r Kerchhof dort,
Der schun die Mammi helt;
Er sehnt v’rleicht nooch seiner Ruh,
Dort in der bessere Welt!
The following translations of four of the preceding poems were made by the author himself, and are here appended as possessing additional interest on this account.
THE OLD SCHOOL-HOUSE AT THE CREEK.
To-day it is just twenty years,
Since I began to roam;
Now, safely back, I stand once more,
Before the quaint old school-house door,
Close by my father’s home.
I’ve been in many houses since,
Of marble built, and brick;
Though grander far, their aim they miss,
To lure my heart’s old love from this
Old school-house at the creek.
Let those who dream of happier scenes,
Go forth those scenes to find;
They’ll learn what thousands have confessed,
That with our home our heart’s true rest
Is ever left behind.
I’ve travelled long and travelled far,
Till weary, worn, and sick;
How joyless all that I have found,
Compared with scenes that lie around
This school-house at the creek.
How home-like is this spot to me!
I stand, and think, and gaze!
The buried past unlocks its graves,
While memory o’er my spirit waves
The wand of other days.
The little creek still idles by,
With bright and playful flow;
And little fish still sport and glide,
Where yon low elder shades the tide,
As they did long ago.
The white-oak stands before the door,
And shades the roof at noon;
The grape-vine, too, is fresh and green;
The robin’s nest!—Ah, hark!—I ween
That is the same old tune!
The swallows skip across the mead—
The foremost one is best!
And, look ye at the gable there,
A house of stubble, mud, and hair—
That is the swallow’s nest!
The young are very still just now—
They all are sleeping sound;
Wait till the old with worms appear,
Then you the hungry cry shall hear
From mouths that lie around!
These scenes are as they were of yore,
Though void of former glee;
But I have changed!—From yonder brook
The boy’s reflected rosy look,
No more smiles out on me!
I stand, like Ossian in his vale,
And watch the shadowy train!
Now joy, now sadness me beguile,
And tears will course o’er every smile,
And bring their pleasing pain!
’Twas here I first attended school,
When I was very small:
There was the Master on his stool,
There was his whip and there his rule—
I seem to see it all.
The long desks ranged along the walls,
With books and inkstands crowned;
Here on this side the large girls sat,
And there the tricky boys on that—
See! how they peep around!
The Master eyes them closely now,
They’d better have a care;
The one that writes a billet-doux—
The one that plays his antics, too—
And that chap laughing there!
For all the scholars, large and small,
Are under equal rule;
Which is quite right—whoever breaks
The Master’s rules, a whipping takes,
Or leaves at once the school.
Around the cosy stove, in rows,
The little tribe appears;
What hummings make those busy bees—
They better like their A, B, C’s,
Than boxing at their ears!
Those benches are by far too high—
Their feet don’t reach the floor!
Full many a weary back gets sick,
In that old school-house at the creek,
And feels most woful sore!
Poor innocents! behold them sit,
In miseries and woes!
It is no wonder, I declare,
If they should learn but little there,
On benches such as those!
With all these drawbacks, that was still
A well conducted school;
For Master such, in vain you look,
Who cyphers through the Ainsworth book,
And never skips a rule!
That he was cross, I must confess;
He whipped us through and through;
But still most wholesome rules observed;
Who felt the rod, the rod deserved—
According to his view!
This duty he with zest performed,
Though charmless to us all!
’Tis strange, our nature never could
Delight in what is for our good—
’Tis owing to the Fall!
When a new Master took the school,
Around the question ran:
“Oh, is he Irish? Is he cross?”
How much our gain, how much our loss,
Depended on that man!
Then when the autumn school began,
We eyed the Master shy!
His rules, his whip, told very quick,
That he to former rules would stick,
And ancient methods ply.
Still was there little of complaint;
We had our pleasures too;
This world does not just always dish
Our fare as sweet as we could wish,
Yet sweeter than is due!
At noon-day, when the school left out,
We had of sport our fill;
Some play the race, some houses wall,
Some love a stirring game of ball,
Some choose the soldier drill.
The large girls sweep; the larger boys—
What mischief they are at!
They tease, they laugh, they hang about,
Until the Master turns them out—
The rules were strict in that!
The little girls, of “ring” most fond,
Their giggling circle drew;
When larger girls joined in the ring—
Now is it not a curious thing?—
The large boys did it too!
The large ones always tagged the large—
The small ones always missed!
Then for the prize began the race;
The one that’s caught, has now to face
The music, and be kissed!
Old Christmas brought a glorious time—
Its mem’ry still is sweet!
We barred the Master firmly out,
With bolts, and nails, and timbers stout—
The blockade was complete!
Then came the struggle fierce and long!
The fun was very fine!
And whilst he thumped and pried about,
We thrust the terms of treaty out,
Demanding him to sign!
The treaty signed—the conflict o’er,
Once Master now were we!
Then chestnuts, apples, and such store,
Were spread our joyous eyes before—
We shared the feast with glee!
Oh, where are now the school-mates, who
Here studied long ago?
Some scattered o’er the world’s wide waste!
By fortune hither, thither chased!
Some, in the church-yard low!
My muse has struck a tender vein!
And asks a soothing flow;
O Time! what changes thou hast made,
Since I around this school-house played,
Just twenty years ago!
Good bye! Old school-house! Echo sad,
“Good bye! Good bye!” replies;
I leave you yet a friendly tear!
Fond mem’ry bids me drop it here,
’Mid scenes that gave it rise!
Ye, who shall live when I am dead—
Write down my wishes quick—
Protect it, love it, let it stand,
A way-mark in this changing land—
That school-house at the creek.
THE OLD-TIME HEARTH-FIRE.
The poets praise, in touching rhyme,
The hearth-fire of the olden time;
I read their verse with many a sigh,
And think of times and joys gone by.
Thus dreaming o’er the past, I’m fain
To think I see it all again.
Now, sights like these are truly rare,
Coal fires are fashion every where;
Among the so-called class elite,
There is nor stove nor fire in sight.
You wonder?—yes, ’tis even so—
The heat comes somehow from below!
One feels quite lost—things do not fit—
No place to look, no place to sit—
The room is warm—how strange to me—
And yet no fire to stir or see!
Such modes!—away, ’tis nothing worth,
Give me the old-time glowing hearth.
I ever feel for that dear spot,
A home-sick love that ceases not;
Whate’er I do, where’er I roam,
My heart returns to that hearth-home;
I never can recall the cheer
Of that old hearth, without a tear.
There lay the back-log round and thick;
In front a row of stone or brick;
On that we laid the smaller wood;
Then rose the flame—how warm and good!
And when without the storm-wind blew,
What roaring in the chimney flue!
Against the jam—forethought is good—
Is piled the ready-needed wood;
Just opposite—a thing how rare—
Inviting leans the rustic chair,
And in the chimney-corner stand
The tongs and shovel near at hand.
The mantle-shelf, familiar still,
Holds candlesticks and coffee-mill;
The smoothing irons, large and small,
The lard-lamp overtops them all;
And sulphur sticks—they burn you know,
From faintest coal when fire is low.
Oft have I watched at even-tide
Strange ghost-forms through the embers glide;
The glowing coals, white, black and red,
Now livid are, and now seem dead!
We look, and think, and can with ease
See in the fire just what we please.
How sweet to sit the hearth-fire by,
Till living coals to embers die;
White ashes, creeping o’er their crest,
Come as if covering them for rest;
How dream-like fades their glowing light,
Like eyes that sink to sleep at night.
Sit we beside a certain friend,
In love the evening hour to spend;
To double eyes, at such an hour,
The coals have a most charming power!
As one, appear such mutual souls,
They see the same forms in the coals.
O’er youth, as all the poets say,
The hearth-fire holds enchanting sway;
For then their dreaming fancy sees
A cottage mid a clump of trees;
They ask no greater bliss to share
Than just to live together there.
Some think the hearth-fire spell o’er hearts
Is close allied to witching arts!
One thing is sure—oft to that shrine,
Fond memory draws this heart of mine;
And round that hearth’s soft evening gleams,
My spirit dreams its sweetest dreams.
When I that hearth in fancy see,
My childhood all comes back to me;
Then lives my father as before—
Then is my mother there once more;
And brothers, sisters, scattered wide,
Come home again at even-tide.
HOME-SICKNESS.
I know not what the reason is:
Where’er I dwell or roam,
I make a pilgrimage each year,
To my old childhood home.
Have nothing there to give or get—
No legacy, no gold—
Yet by some home-attracting power
I’m evermore controlled:
This is the way the home-sick do,
I often have been told.
As nearer to the spot I come
More sweetly am I drawn;
And something in my heart begins
To urge me faster on.
Ere quite I’ve reached the last hill-top—
You’ll smile at me, I ween!—
I stretch myself high as I can,
To catch the view serene—
The dear old stone house through the trees
With shutters painted green!
See! how the kitchen chimney smokes!
That ofttimes gave me joy;
When, from the fields, that curling cloud
I witnessed as a boy!
And see! the purple window panes,
They seem as red as blood.
I often wondered what did that,
But guess it, never could.
Ah! many a thing a child knows not.
Did it, it were not good!
How do I love those poplar trees;
What tall and stately things!
See! on the top of one just now
A starling sits and sings.
He’ll fall!—the twig bends with his weight!
He likes that danger best.
I see the red upon his wings,—
Dark shining is the rest.
I ween his little wife has built
On that same tree her nest.
O, I remember very well
When those three poplar trees
Not thicker than my finger were,
And could be bent with ease.
My mother was at grandpa’s house,
And trees like these had he;
She brought three scions home, and said,
“Boys, plant them there for me.”
Can you believe—they grew so tall
And made the trees you see!
See! really I am near the house;
How short the distance seems!
There is no sense of time when one
Goes musing in his dreams.
There is the shop—the corn-crib, too—
The cider-press—just see!
The barn—the spring with drinking cup
Hung up against the tree.
The yard-fence—and the little gate
Just where it used to be.
All, all is still! They know not yet
That there’s a stranger near;
I guess old Watch, the dog, is dead,
Or barking, he’d appear.
What fearful bellowings he made
Whene’er he heard the gate;
The travellers always feared him sore,
He bounced at such a rate;
But though the bark was woful loud,
The bite was never great!
All, all is still! The door is shut.
I muse with beating heart;
Hark! there’s a little rattling now
Back in the kitchen part.
I’ll not go in! I cannot yet;
I’m overcome, I fear!
The same old bench here on the porch,
I’ll rest a little here.
Behind this grape-vine I can hide
The falling of a tear!
Two spots on this old friendly porch
I love, nor can forget,
Till dimly in the night of death
My life’s last sun shall set!
When first I left my father’s house,
One summer morning bright,
My mother at that railing wept
Till I was out of sight!
Now like a holy star that spot
Shines in this world’s dull night.
Still, still I see her at that spot,
With handkerchief in hand;
Her cheeks are red—her eyes are wet—
There, there I see her stand!
’Twas there I gave her my good-bye,
There, did her blessing crave,
And oh, with what a mother’s heart
She that sought blessing gave.
It was the last—ere I returned
She rested in her grave!
When now I call her form to mind,
Wherever I may be,
She still is standing at that rail
And weeping on for me!
She is in no familiar spot,
As oft in former years;
And never to my fancy she
As in her grave appears;
I see her only at that rail,
Bedewed with holy tears.
What draws my eye to yonder spot—
That bench against the wall?
What holy mem’ries cluster there,
My heart still knows them all!
How often sat my father there
On summer afternoon;
Hands meekly crossed upon his lap,
He looked so lost and lone,
As if he saw an empty world,
And hoped to leave it soon.
Doth a return of childhood’s joys
Across his spirit gleam?
Or is his fancy busy now
With some loved youthful dream?
He raises now his eyes and looks
On yon hill’s sacred crest;
Perhaps he sees the graveyard there
Where mother’s sleep is blest,
And longs to slumber by her side,
In death’s last peaceful rest.
All, all is still! I hesitate—
I fain would pass the door,
But fear the pain of missing all
This home contained of yore.
For, ah, it is not what it was
Though its inmates are kind;
What with our parents once we lose
We nevermore shall find;
Death goes before and reaps the sheaves;
We can but glean behind.
Such is the fate of earthly loves
Where all things die or change.
Yes, even in the homestead here,
I feel alone and strange.
O were it not for yon bright heaven,
With its unchanging rest,
How heavy would our burdens be,
Our life how sore distressed;
But hope illumes our pathway to
The regions of the blest.
That is a lovely Fatherland:
There I shall never roam;
No mother there with tearful eyes,
Shall see me leave that home.
No father there shall seek the grave
Where his beloved lies;
That is no vale of woes like this,
Where all we cherish dies;
The beautiful is permanent
In those unchanging skies.
There we shall find what here we lose,
And keep it evermore;
There we shall join our sainted dead,
Who are but gone before.
I’m fain, in lonely hours, to lift
The veil that let them through,
And wish it were God’s holy will
To let me pass it too;
Yet patience! till my hour shall come,
To bid the world, Adieu!