The Gold-Gated West/The Old Newspaper
THE OLD NEWSPAPER
The past rolled back like a rainbowed vapor,
As you read again the old newspaper,
Found to-day
In the must and dust of the garret's lumber,
Where the spiders weave their dreams of slumber
And still decay.
As you read again the old newspaper,
Found to-day
In the must and dust of the garret's lumber,
Where the spiders weave their dreams of slumber
And still decay.
Faded, and frayed, and dearly olden,
Its thoughts are sainted, its speech is golden,
Prose and rhyme;
As it wakes again, like a Rip Van Winkle,
With a heritage of rag and wrinkle,
The jest of Time.
Its thoughts are sainted, its speech is golden,
Prose and rhyme;
As it wakes again, like a Rip Van Winkle,
With a heritage of rag and wrinkle,
The jest of Time.
As soft as the tress of the bashful maiden,
You stole one day when the tress was laden
With tasselled bloom,
It seemeth now, and your touch is tender,
Tender as love, for the thread is slender
That stays its doom.
You stole one day when the tress was laden
With tasselled bloom,
It seemeth now, and your touch is tender,
Tender as love, for the thread is slender
That stays its doom.
As brown as the leaf of the last October,
Its smiles are tears and its wit is sober
In later days;
As the fountain, that springs with a laugh of bubbles,
Is hushed in the sweep of wider troubles
Of creeks and bays.
Its smiles are tears and its wit is sober
In later days;
As the fountain, that springs with a laugh of bubbles,
Is hushed in the sweep of wider troubles
Of creeks and bays.
Whispers sweet as the dry-lipped flowers,
Uttered in lonesome autumn bowers,
When the birds have flown,
Are faintly breathed by these withered pages,
That knew the language of roseate ages,
Once your own.
Uttered in lonesome autumn bowers,
When the birds have flown,
Are faintly breathed by these withered pages,
That knew the language of roseate ages,
Once your own.
And wistful shadows now delay on
The sportive freaks of its fleeting crayon,
Faded so—
And yet so sure in the fond recalling
Of the dear bygones into Lethe falling,
Long ago.
The sportive freaks of its fleeting crayon,
Faded so—
And yet so sure in the fond recalling
Of the dear bygones into Lethe falling,
Long ago.
Comings and goings, wedding and dying,
Week-day traffic, and rumors flying
Round the marts
In the mezzotint of the types reflected
In the long, low light of the years perfected
Reach our heart.
Week-day traffic, and rumors flying
Round the marts
In the mezzotint of the types reflected
In the long, low light of the years perfected
Reach our heart.
Flemish pictures of love and labor,
Friendly chat with the next door neighbor,
Helpful words
In the wayside rests of the path of duty,
And a gentle pride in the fruitful beauty
Of fields and herds.
Friendly chat with the next door neighbor,
Helpful words
In the wayside rests of the path of duty,
And a gentle pride in the fruitful beauty
Of fields and herds.
Only an artless shepherd piping
In the woodland ways when the wheat was riping
In country barn,
It was glad, withal, to get its guerdon
Of corn and wine, as it bore the burden
Of city's scorn.
In the woodland ways when the wheat was riping
In country barn,
It was glad, withal, to get its guerdon
Of corn and wine, as it bore the burden
Of city's scorn.
Fireside pleasures and household graces,
Were here enshrined, and the moon's wild phases
Aptly told;
And still, as the plot began to thicken,
Stalked forth again the tragic chicken
With legs three-fold.
Were here enshrined, and the moon's wild phases
Aptly told;
And still, as the plot began to thicken,
Stalked forth again the tragic chicken
With legs three-fold.