The Poetical Works of Jonathan E. Hoag/The Old Farm Home
Songs of Home
The Old Farm Home
My old farm home on Hoosick's verdant lea,How oft in stilly night I dream of thee!Of childhood's scenes I left so far behind,The dreams of youth do yet my heart remind.The mountain stream I yet can clearly spy,As now these lines unfold before my eye.The cooling waters gently lave the shore,As when I watched in youth, long years before!That old, old rural home of long ago;Dear, though my locks have whitened as the snow,To mark the passage of the fleeting years,And call to memory such bitter tears!The old, old barn with swinging rope so free,Where girls and boys were wont to romp in glee;The old sheepshed, wherein the woolly flocksAnd tender lambkins played on mossy rocks!Ah, then, the orchard too, where apples sweetOn bending boughs our vision oft would greet;As, basking 'neath its grateful verdant shade,We watched the sportive lambkins while they played.And, too, the clover bloom from newmade hay,That scented southern winds at close of day;The lowing herd that slowly climbed the lea, ,While lengthening shadows stretched from leafy tree.The old stump fence still lies along the road,Where children's voices once in laughter flowed;But where the crossroads schoolhouse stood in grace,Now rush the trains at fevered modern pace.On the steep hillside with its balmy pines,And ancient oak trees with their swinging vines,The happy children sought for wintergreen,Whose berries red with rapture oft were seen.Where are they now, who gathered berries here,And gaily prattled in a bygone year?Their present homes are scattered far and wide,While some, alas, have crossed the fateful tide!See the old bridge with wooden arches high!Far, far beneath the water rushes by.Within that covered space the shadows lay;And spooky fancies lurked along the way.Ah! the old mill that ground the yellow corn,With waters whirling past that ne'er return.Seedtime and harvest hold eternal reign;Though mortals die, great Nature must remain!Home of my youth! Once more I come to thee,Where long ago I lived in infant glee.I step within thy silent doors; but thereNo voice, no face familiar cheers the air.I peer out through the narrow window-pane, Where mother watched her sportive childish train,I touch the latch which once my mother grasped,While me, close to her breast, she fondly clasped.I gaze along the dusty old handrail,And count the sagging steps on stairs now frail.My mother's feet these stairs have often pressed;But now, alas, those feet in silence rest.That mother-love—O miracle divineIn dreams I feel her gentle hand in mine.My footsteps echo through the empty hall,While deathlike silence hovers over all.I climb the ancient, creaky kitchen stair,Peer fondly through the little window there.Here years ago myself and brother slept,Where now are web-hung walls and floor unswept.Old home, reluctantly I turn from thee,Whose roof long years ago protected me.With doors ajar and dusty window-panes,Gloom stalks supreme; for now naught else remainsThough fourscore years and more, I yet revereThy walls, since father, mother, all, lived here;But now the beckoning vista seems afar,Since those we loved of old have crossed the bar!
1916.