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The Gold-Gated West/The Old Newspaper

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4514658The Gold-Gated West — The Old NewspaperSamuel Leonidas Simpson
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.