Vermont phÅ“nix. [volume] (Brattleboro, Vt.) 1834-1955, 1857-08-01
VOL. XXIV.
POETRY.
THE SYCA NOR ES.

In the outskh ts Of tho village,
On the rivers winding shores,
Stands the Occidental plane-trecs,
Stand the ancient sycamores
One long century hath been numbered,
And another halfway told,
Since the rustic Irish geeman
Broke for them the virgin mold.
Deity set to Celtic music,
At his vioins sound they grew,
Through the moont of summer,
Making Amphions fable true.
Rise again, thou poor Hugh Talent
Pass in jerkin green along,
With thy eyss brim full of laughter,
Aud thy mouth US full Of song.
Pioneer of Brin's outcasts,
With his fiddle and his pack
Little dreamed the village saxons
or tho myriads ut his back.
How he wrought with spade and fiddle,
Dclvcd by day, and sang BY night,
With hand that wearied,
And heart forever light.
Still the gay tradition minges
With record grave and drcar,
Like the rock air Of Cluny
With the solemn march of Near.
When the Box-trcc white with blossoms,
Made the sweet May woodlands glad
And the Aroma by the river
Lighted up the swarining shad.
And the bulgins nets swept Shorcward,
With their s ver-silcd haul
Midst the shouts of dripping fishers,
lie iaerriest Of them all.
When among the joyal huskerr,
Love stole in at Iabor's side,
With the lusty airs of England
soft his Ccltc "a We'd
Songs Of love and wailing llke-wakc
Aud tho merry fairs earouse;
OF the wild Red Pox Of Erin,
And the woman of Three Cows.
BY the blazing hear;hs Of Winter,
Pleasant seemed his simple tales,
Midst the grmmer Yorkshire legends,
And the mountain my tbs Of Wales.
How the souls in Purgatory
Scrambled up from fate forlorn,
On st. Kevens sackcloth ladder
slyly hiched to satan's horn.
or the fiddler who, in Tara,
Played all night to ghosts Of kings;
or the brown dwar:s, and the 'aiiies,
Dancing in their moorlani rings!
Jolest.of our birds Of singing,
Best he loved the Bob o-link.
'uuSh." he'd say, "the tipsy fairies
"iicar the little folks in drink :"
Merry faced with spade and fiddle,
Singing thro' the ancient town,
Only this Of poor Hugh Talent,
Hath Tradition handed down.
Not stone his grave dsclosca;
But, If yet his spirit walks,
It's beneath the trees he planted,
And when Bob-o-Iincoln talks.
Green memorials OF the geeman!
Linking still the river shores,
With their shadows cast by sunset,
Stand Hugh Talents sycamores!
When the Father Of his Country.
Thro the north land riding came,
And the roofs starred with banners,
And the secples rang acclaim
When each war-scarred Continental,
Leaving smithy, mill, and farm,
Waved his ru,tcd sword in welcome,
And shot Oh his cid King EARN
Slowly passed that august Presence,
Down the thronged and shouting street.
Village girls, MS white as angels,
Scattering flowers around his feet
Midway, where the plans-trees shadow
Deepest fell, his rein he drew;
On his stately head, uncovered
Cool and soft the west wind blew
And he stood up in his stlrrups,
Looking up, and looking down,
On the hills Of Gold and Silver,
thinning vund the little town
On thr river, full Of sunshine,
To the lap of greencst wales,
Winding down from wooded headlands
Willow-skirted, white with sails.
And he said, the landscape sweeping
Slowly with his ungloveI hand,
81 have seen no prospect fairer
In this gooIly Eastern land"
Then the bugles Of his escort
Stirred to life the cavalcade;
And that head, so bare and stately,
Vanished down the depths of shade.
Ever since, in town and farmhouse,
life hath had its ebb and flow;
Thrice hath passed the human harvest
To it's garner, green and low
but the trees the gleeman planted,
Thro' the changes, changeless stand;
As the marble calm Of Tadnor
Aiocks the deserts shifting sand.
Still the level moon, at rising,
Silvors DER each stately shaft
stlll beneath them, half in shadow,
Singing, g'des the pleasure-craft
SIN beneath them, arm-enfoded,
Love and Youth together stray;
While, III heart to heart beats faster,
Moro and more their feet delay.
Where the ancient cobber, Kecsar,
On the open hillside wrought,
Singing as he drew his stitches
Songs his German master taught
Singing with his grey hair floating
Round his rosy, ample face
Now a thousand Saxon craftsmen
Stitch and hammer in his place.
All the pastoral lanes, grassy,
Now a-e Traihc's dusty streets
Prom the village grown city,
Fast the rural grace retreats.
But still green, and tall, and stately,
On the rivers winding shores,
Stand the Occidental panetrecs,
Stand Hugh Talents sycamoros
National Ere
NJ IS G E / LANY.
ERN EUROPE.