Poems (Dodd)/To a Cricket
TO A CRICKET.
Cease! cricket, cease thy melancholy song! Its chiming cadence falls upon my earWith such a saddening influence, all day long, I cannot bear those mournful notes to hear:Notes, that will often start the unbidden tear, And wake the heart to memories of old days,When life knew not a sorrow or a fear, Forever basking in the sunny raysWhich seem so passing bright to youth's all-trustful gaze.
Once more my steps are stayed at eventide, Beneath the fairest moon that ever shone,Where the old oak threw out its branches wide, Over the low roof of mine early home;Ere yet my bosom knew a wish to roam From the broad shelter of that ancient tree,Or dreamed of other lands beside our own, Beyond the boundary of that flowery lea,For the green valley there, was world enough for me.
A group are gathered round the household hearth, Where chilly autumn bids the bright flame play,And social converse sweet, and childhood's mirth, Swiftly beguile the lengthened eve away.A laughing girl shakes back her tresses gay, With a half doubtful look and wondering tone,"Hark! there is music! do you hear the lay? Mother, what is it singing in the stone?Some luckless fairy wight imprisoned there alone?"
Tis memory all that doth the spell renew, And though thy notes may strike the "electric chain,"Thou canst not bring those vanished forms to view, Or give me back my happy days again.Alone, I am alone, these tears in vain For the loved tenants of the tomb are given;They sleep—no more to suffer grief or pain; No more to gaze upon the star-lit heaven,Or with hushed hearts to list thy solemn strain at even.
Wake not remembrance thus; for stern the fate That marks my pathway with a weary doom,And to a heart so worn and desolate, Thy boding voice may add a deeper gloom.Though few the clouds which o'er the blue sky roam, And green the livery of our forest bowers, To warn us of a sure decay ye come, In sable guise, trailing the faded flowers,Singing the death-song sad of summer's waning hours.
Those emerald robes shall change to russet brown, Which summer over vale and hill-side cast;To other skies that wear no wintry frown, Bright birds will wing their weary way at last;And autumn's hectic hues, which fade so fast, Shall make the "dark old woods" awhile look gay;But death must come when the rare show is past: Then cease thy chant! dark prophet of decay!I cannot bear to hear thy melancholy lay.