Classic Poem

A BALLAD, — PART FIRST .

Farewell, awhile, the city's hum,
Where busy footsteps fall,
And welcome to my weary eye
The Planter's friendly Hall.

Here let me rise at early dawn,
And list the mock-bird's lay,
As warbling near our lowland home
He waves the bending spray.

Then tread the shading avenue,
Beneath the Cedar's gloom,
Or Gum tree with its flicker'd shade,
Or Chinquapen's perfume.

The Myrtle tree, the Orange wild,
The Cypress' flexile bough,
The Holly, with its polish'd leaves
Are all before me now.

There, towering with imperial pride,
The rich Magnolia stands,
And here in softer loveliness,
The white bloom'd Bay expands.

The long gray moss hangs gracefully;
Idly I twine its wreaths,
Or stop to catch the fragrant air,
The frequent blossom breathes.

Life wakes around — the red bird darts
Like flame from tree to tree;
The whip-poor-will complains alone,
The Robin whistles free.

The frighten'd Hare scuds by my path,
And seeks the thicket nigh;
The Squirrel climbs the Hickory bough,
And peeps with careful eye.

The Humming-bird with busy wing
In rainbow beauty moves;
Above the trumpet-blossom floats,
And sips the tube he loves.

Triumphant to yon wither'd pine,
The soaring Eagle flies,
There builds her eyrie mid the clouds,
And man and heaven defies.

The hunter's bugle echoes near,
And see, his wary train,
With mingled howlings scent the woods,
Or scour the open plain.

Yon skiff is darting from the cove;
And list the negro's song,
The theme, his owner and his boat,
While glide the crew along.

And when the leading voice is lost,
Receding from the shore,
His brother boatmen swell the strain,
In chorus with the oar.

There stands the dairy on the stream,
Within the broad oak's shade,
The white pails glitter in the sun,
In rustic pomp array'd.

And she stands smiling at the door,
Who minds that milky way ,
She smoothes her apron as I pass,
And loves the praise I pay.

Welcome to me her sable hands,
When, in the noontide heat,
Within the polish'd calibash
She pours the pearly treat.

The poulterer's feather'd tender charge
Feed on the grassy plain:
Her Afric brow lights up with smiles,
Proud of her noisy train.

Nor does the herdsman view his flock
With unadmiring gaze,
Significant are all their names,
Won by their varying ways.

Forth from the Negroes' humble huts
The labourers now have gone;
But some remain, diseas'd and old —
Do they repine alone?

Ah, no. The nurse, with practis'd skill,
That sometimes shames the wise,
Prepares the herb of potent power,
And healing aid applies.

While seated at his hut's low door,
The convalescent slave
Gazes upon his garden store,
And sees the young corn wave.

On sunny banks his children play,
Or wind the fisher's line,
Or, with the dext'rous fancy-braid,
Their willow baskets twine.

Long ere the sloping sun departs,
The labourers quit the field,
And, hous'd within their sheltering huts,
To careless quiet yield.

But see, yon wild and lurid clouds,
That rush in contact strong,
And hear the thunder, peal on peal,
Reverberate along.

The cattle stand and mutely gaze,
The birds instinctive fly,
While forked flashes rend the air,
And light the troubled sky.

Behold yon sturdy forest pine,
Whose green top points to heaven.
A flash! its firm, encasing bark,
By that red shock is riven.

But we, the children of the south,
Shrink not with trembling fears;
The storm familiar to our youth,
Will spare our ripen'd years.

We know its fresh, reviving charm,
And, like the flower and bird,
Our looks and voices, in each pause,
With grateful joy are stirr'd.

And now the tender rice up-shoots,
Fresh in its hue of green,
Spreading its emerald carpet far
Beneath the sunny sheen.

Tho' when the softer ripen'd hue
Of autumn's changes rise,
The rustling spires instinctive lift
Their gold seeds to the skies.

There the young cotton plant unfolds
Its leaves of sickly hue,
But soon advancing to its growth,
Looks up with beauty too.

And as midsummer suns prevail,
Upon its blossoms glow
Commingling hues, like sunset rays —
Then bursts its sheeted snow.

How shall we fly this lovely spot,
Where rural joys prevail,
The social board, the eager chase,
Gay dance and merry tale?

Alas! our youth must leave their sports
When spring-time ushers May;
Our maidens quit the planted flower,
Just blushing into day;

Or, all beneath yon rural mound,
Where rest th' ancestral dead,
By mourning friends, with sever'd hearts,
Unconscious will be led.

Oh, Southern summer, false and fair!
Why from thy loaded wing,
Blent with rich flowers and fruitage rare,
The seeds of sorrow fling?