Part 4 — “BLESS THE HOMESTEAD LAW.”

———

BY L. VIRGINIA SMITH.

———

It was a summer morning. Soft the flame

Of the early sunlight up the zenith came,

Deep tinging with a golden-crimson hue

The clouds that floated o’er the welkin blue,

Or veiled the distant mountain. Far, and near,

From farm to farm the call of chanticleer

Rang like a clarion, shrilly sweet and long,

The robin red-breast trilled his matin song,

Hid in the high old maple, while around

From far, deep-waving grain-fields gayly sound

The carols of the bob-o-link. The bee

Was out among the blossoms, in his glee

To rouse them from their dreamings. Gracefully

The west-wind waved the weeping willow-tree

That drooped above the rivulet, or crept

Amid the branches of the elm that swept

A low-browed homestead. Ruby columbine,

Sweet honey-suckle, and the Indian vine,

Had veiled the rustic portico, and wild

Swayed o’er the casement, and the sunlight smiled

Through the low entrance. ’Twas a winsome place,

And like the sunny calm of some sweet face,

You would have thought in gazing on its rest,

That earth’s frail children sometimes can be blest.

And yet misfortune found it;—see the group

Now gathered at the threshold, o’er them droop

Long, swaying branches, and the loving leaves

Lay their light fingers o’er the heart that grieves,

As if to soothe its sorrows. Agony

Lights up the darkness of the husband’s eye,

He stands apart, his bearing calm and proud,

And yet his heart is burning ’neath a cloud

Of dread and misery. The young wife leans

By the old elm-tree, ’mid the passing scenes

Her heart is busy, for beside her stands

A lovely child, with snowy, dimpled hands

Clasping her mother’s, while within the shade

Her baby brother on the greensward played.

The little maiden mused, a choking swell

Filled her young bosom, and the large tears fell

All silently, then her slow-lifting eyes

(Their blue depths troubled with a strange surprise)

Sought out her mother’s;—tossing back her hair,

Her clear voice melted on the morning air;—

“We leave the homestead!—Say, dear mother, why?

Do not the birds and blossoms love us here?

Has any other home a clearer sky,

With brighter stars upon it? Mother, dear,

Shall we not sigh there for this old elm shade,

Where you and I and brother oft have played?

“We leave the homestead!—Oh! my father, tell,

Why turn we from the fields, and wood-paths dim,

Through which we wended as the Sabbath bell

Called us to worship, with its solemn hymn?

Shall we not sigh to pray where friends have prayed,

Or weep our loved ones in the church-yard laid?”

The haughty bosom of the strong man shook

With an internal tempest, and he took

Her tiny hand within his own; his pride

Was bending, and he earnestly replied:

“Why do we leave it?—’tis a tale too long,

And strange to fall upon thy heart, my child;

’Twould tell of dark misfortunes, pain, and wrong,

And wo, that seemed at times to drive me wild,

To make me doubt the path my fathers trod,

And that the poor man had indeed a God!

“But thou, my Ada, true and gentle bride,

Dost thou remember when thy violet eye

Looked first upon ‘Glenoran?’ All untried,

It seemed to thee a Paradise; ah! why

Am I myself its serpent and its bane,

To leave on all its bloom a deadly stain?

“Oh! could I only bear this all alone,

The grinding poverty—the lurking sneer—

All the poor debtor’s wretchedness—no moan

My soul would utter audibly, but here

My heart of hearts is crushed, my life of life,

They suffer also, child, and babe, and wife.

“We leave the homestead;—wanderers we go,

From friends, from kindred, and our native land—

My God! if I have merited such wo,

Have these deserved it at thy mercy’s hand?

Oh! let thy justice all my actions scan,

Yet leave one hope—to die an honest man.”

He drooped his head upon his bosom, bowed

With misery, and instantly the proud

Young wife was at his side; soft o’er his brow

Swept her white fingers, and her voice was low:

“Thy soul is dark, beloved, it fears for us—

Ah! only trust in God, as I in thee,

Lift up thy stately brow; to see thee thus

Is worse than all life’s agony to me.

Thou couldst have died for us, beloved, but we,

E’en when all hope is lost, will live for thee.

“They cannot separate our souls from thine,

They cannot part us wheresoe’er we roam,

Or place aught else within the sacred shrine,

Where dwell thy wife and children. Loved one, come,

Give me mine only home within thy heart—

I’ll bear it with me—let us hence depart.”

It is the summer twilight. Dark the shades

Are falling through the forest everglades,

The winds are hushed, the lonely whip-poor-will

Sings his wild lullaby upon the hill,

A sighing murmur from the mountain-pines

Steals up valley, and the love-star shines,

All brightly in “Glenoran.”

Since the morn

Glad tidings visited those bosoms torn

With unavailing sorrow, now the “right”

To have a home was granted, and delight

Was blended into orisons. That line

Whose fiat echoes back a law divine,

Was made a statute, and sweet Ada saw

Her loved ones singing, “Bless the Homestead Law!”