Part 2 (1/2)

I stand where in my childhood's days, I often stood before, But nothing meets my altered gaze As in the days of yore.

The trees I climbed in youthful glee, Or slept beneath their shade.

Have disappeared--no trace I see Of them upon the glade.

The school house, too, which stood near by, Has long since ceased to be; To find its site I often try, No trace of it I see.

The road I traveled to and fro, With nimble feet and spry, I cannot find, but well I know It must have been hard by.

The pond where skating once I fell Upon the ice so hard-- I lost my senses for a spell, And hence became a bard--

Is dry land now where grain or gra.s.s Is growing year by year; I see the spot, as oft I pa.s.s, No ice nor pond is there.

A barn is standing on the spot Where once the school house stood; A dwelling on the playground lot, A cornfield in the wood.

I mourn not for these altered scenes, Although it seems so strange That all are changed; I know it means That everything must change.

I mourn the loss of early friends, My schoolboy friends so dear; I count upon my fingers' ends The few remaining here.

In early youth some found their graves, With friends and kindred by; While some beneath the ocean's waves In dreamless slumbers lie;

While many more, in distant lands, No friends nor kindred near, Are laid to rest by strangers' hands, Without one friendly tear.

A few survive, both far and near, But O! how changed are they!

Like the small band a.s.sembled here, Enfeebled, old, and gray.

Strange feelings rise within my soul, My eyes o'erflow with tears, As backward I attempt to roll The flood of by-gone years.

This honored pair we come to greet, For five-and-forty years Through winter's cold and summer's heat, Have worn the nuptial gears.

The heat and burden of the day They honestly have borne, Until their heads are growing gray, Their limbs with toil are worn.

In all the ups and downs of life-- Of which they've had their share-- They never knew domestic strife, Or, if at all, 'twas rare.

They now seem standing on the verge Of that unfathomed sea, Just waiting for the final surge That opes eternity.

When comes that surge, or soon or late, May they in peace depart; And meet within the s.h.i.+ning gate, No more to grieve or part.

THE DONATION VISIT.

The following poem was read upon the occasion of a donation visit by the Head of Christiana congregation to their pastor, Rev. James I.

Vallandigham.

Fair ladies dear, and gentlemen.

I thought not to be here to-day: But I'm a slave, and therefore, when My muse commands, I must obey.

I've struggled hard against her power, And dashed her yoke in scorn away, And then returned, within an hour, And meekly bowed and owned her sway.

I know the ground on which I stand And tremble like an aspen when I see around, on every hand, Such learned and such gifted men,