You are here
قراءة كتاب The Loom of Life
تنويه: تعرض هنا نبذة من اول ١٠ صفحات فقط من الكتاب الالكتروني، لقراءة الكتاب كاملا اضغط على الزر “اشتر الآن"
اللغة: English
الصفحة رقم: 5
dreams, it often seems
I see thee, Waterloo,
And see the flash of beaded splash
Upon the waters too,
While crossing Pleasant Run.
Yes, in my dreams, I often hear
The songs they used to sing—
Those solemn lays of reverent fear,
When Christ indeed was King:
Then sinners bowed when prayer was led
By some poor saint the ravens fed
At holy Waterloo.
How free from lust, the simple trust
Of soul that worshipped there;
How free from guile were men erstwhile
Whose creed was song and prayer,
The creed of Waterloo.
The songs they used to sing—
Those solemn lays of reverent fear,
When Christ indeed was King:
Then sinners bowed when prayer was led
By some poor saint the ravens fed
At holy Waterloo.
How free from lust, the simple trust
Of soul that worshipped there;
How free from guile were men erstwhile
Whose creed was song and prayer,
The creed of Waterloo.
The meeting days were always fair—
God smiled on Waterloo!
And mother rode the dark brown mare,
And took the mule colt, too;
For fashion then did not beguile
A mother's heart with worldly wile,
Ah! happy days agone!
Oh! days no more when mothers wore
Sunhood and riding skirt,
And fathers dressed their Sunday best,
A plain check-cotton-shirt,—
Ah! happy days agone!
God smiled on Waterloo!
And mother rode the dark brown mare,
And took the mule colt, too;
For fashion then did not beguile
A mother's heart with worldly wile,
Ah! happy days agone!
Oh! days no more when mothers wore
Sunhood and riding skirt,
And fathers dressed their Sunday best,
A plain check-cotton-shirt,—
Ah! happy days agone!
The sunlight dances on the hills
That shelter Waterloo;
I see the gold of daffodils
That bloom the meadow through—
The hour has come, for meeting's broke,
And now the simple country folk
Are leaving Waterloo!
The horses neigh; away, away!
Away, but not for home;
Grandma to-day will laugh and say,
"My boy, my boy has come."
Oh, blessed Waterloo!
That shelter Waterloo;
I see the gold of daffodils
That bloom the meadow through—
The hour has come, for meeting's broke,
And now the simple country folk
Are leaving Waterloo!
The horses neigh; away, away!
Away, but not for home;
Grandma to-day will laugh and say,
"My boy, my boy has come."
Oh, blessed Waterloo!
IN THE HAPPY LONG AGO
Yes, I see him, still he's sitting
By his little cabin door!
Ah! but Dinah's gone! She left him
For the shining, golden shore;
Left old Isham where he's dreaming
With his head bowed deep and low,
Thinking only now of Dinah,
And the happy long ago.
By his little cabin door!
Ah! but Dinah's gone! She left him
For the shining, golden shore;
Left old Isham where he's dreaming
With his head bowed deep and low,
Thinking only now of Dinah,
And the happy long ago.
Long the kinky wool was creamy,
Now as white as any snow;
And his eyes are red and dreamy,
Thinking of the long ago.
Massa sleeps beneath the ivy,
Missus, where the daisies blow;
Near them Dinah, and old Isham's
Dreaming of the long ago;—
Now as white as any snow;
And his eyes are red and dreamy,
Thinking of the long ago.
Massa sleeps beneath the ivy,
Missus, where the daisies blow;
Near them Dinah, and old Isham's
Dreaming of the long ago;—
Thinking of the days when Dinah
Won old Missus' heart and praise,
By her wondrous dainty cooking,
And her charming well-bred ways:—
When his own black arm was brawny—
Swift the step that now is slow—
When he stole the heart of Dinah,
In the happy long ago.
Won old Missus' heart and praise,
By her wondrous dainty cooking,
And her charming well-bred ways:—
When his own black arm was brawny—
Swift the step that now is slow—
When he stole the heart of Dinah,
In the happy long ago.
THE OLD DRINKING GOURD
A deep alcove where clambering vine
Enfashioned wreathes of green festoon,
Where through the long, long afternoon
No ray of summer's sultry shine
E'er kissed the rustic grape-vine swing:
High up the purpling muscadine
Clung close to where the waters poured,
And he saw the glint of the redbird's wing
In the crystal wave of the mossy spring,
As she stooped for the Old Drinking Gourd.
Enfashioned wreathes of green festoon,
Where through the long, long afternoon
No ray of summer's sultry shine
E'er kissed the rustic grape-vine swing:
High up the purpling muscadine
Clung close to where the waters poured,
And he saw the glint of the redbird's wing
In the crystal wave of the mossy spring,
As she stooped for the Old Drinking Gourd.
The odor tint of elder bloom
The zephyrs wafted through the spray
Was fresh as dew at dawn of day,
Caught in the geometric loom,
Arachne plies with subtle hand:
A pigeon bathed his snowy plume,
A fading speck the vulture soared;
And a tide swept in across the sand
As they stood on the brink of the golden strand
And drank from the Old Drinking Gourd.
The zephyrs wafted through the spray
Was fresh as dew at dawn of day,
Caught in the geometric loom,
Arachne plies with subtle hand:
A pigeon bathed his snowy plume,
A fading speck the vulture soared;
And a tide swept in across the sand
As they stood on the brink of the golden strand
And drank from the Old Drinking Gourd.
A palace wrought of art sublime
Where antique paintings haunt the walls,
And gilded foot as silent falls
In depths of plush, as flight of time,
And liquid music softer blows
Than Hymen's mellow golden chime:
They plighted troth beneath the sword
Of the knight that wore the blood red rose;
But they drank of the cup that never flows
From the bowl of the Old Drinking Gourd.
Where antique paintings haunt the walls,
And gilded foot as silent falls
In depths of plush, as flight of time,
And liquid music softer blows
Than Hymen's mellow golden chime:
They plighted troth beneath the sword
Of the knight that wore the blood red rose;
But they drank of the cup that never flows
From the bowl of the Old Drinking Gourd.
Now sunset spills his scarlet dyes
Through fleecy rifts of snowy cloud,
And night puts on her ebon shroud,
And stars look out of wintry skies:
Still spacious halls with revels ring
Where chivalry with beauty vies,
And red-wine flows at festive board.
But oh! for the cove where the redbirds sing
By the crystal wave of the mossy spring,
And a draught from the Old Drinking Gourd.
Through fleecy rifts of snowy cloud,
And night puts on her ebon shroud,
And stars look out of wintry skies:
Still spacious halls with revels ring
Where chivalry with beauty vies,
And red-wine flows at festive board.
But oh! for the cove where the redbirds sing
By the crystal wave of the mossy spring,
And a draught from the Old Drinking Gourd.