The Caledonian. [volume] (St. Johnsbury, Vt.) 1837-1867, 1865-09-15
For The Caledonian
Under THE NAPLES.
An Idle Idyl.

An Idle Idyl.
BY AL. KIMBALL.
'Tis O lovely morning
In the summer time,-
have had my bitters
And am feeling prime,
So. from force of habit
Iresort to rhyme.
Isn't this delicious,
Lying at my ease
Underneath the shadow
OF the maple trees.
Shutting up the fragrance
Of the early breeze?
On the hillside near me,
See the grazing herds,
Hear the soft, low tWitter
OF the little BIRDS
Wouldn't you like their music
Rendered into words?
All the glowing landscape
Meath my very sight
Smiles in the embraces
OF the golden light
Reader, do not blame them,
Natures ways are right.
There, a jetting fountain
Flashes in the sun;
Not the least relation
TO that tiny one,
Which, at old Sloan Hospital,
Makes deal Of fun.
Through this pleasant valley
Onion River rolls
On the slope beyond it,
In their narrow holes,
Lie the WORKOUT bodies
OF some hundred souls.
In that cemetery
Shrubs and gravestOnes thrive;
Nice place for a ramble
Or quiet drive:
But for folks to like it
They must be alive.
Once, in summer twilight,
When the dews were damp,
And the studious FREELY
Lit his evening lamp,
Those dull shades re-echOed
The song of'Tramp, tramp, tramp.
And the girls beside me
On the carriage seat,
AS we jOurneyed slowly
Through the solemn street.
Where stern nlDeath, policeman.
Trod his lonely beat
Talked of-well. no NATTER
Something rather queer:
With these ghastly marbles
HOvering so near,-
But the silent sleepers
Did not wake to hear.
Strange. eternal slumber.
Dreamless and profound;
In that common lodging
Six feet under ground.
Merchant-prince and beggar
SnOOzing just as sound.
Precious little difference
When. in Pluto's grab,
We 60 jogging thither
In his ancient cab.
If tomb awaits us
Or a humble slab.
Ry the broad POtcmo",
By the yellow James.
Rest some hero martyrs
Who have prouder claims
Than hundred thousand
Neatly chiseled names;
Yet from out their ashes
Ne'er stone shall rise;
Publishing their virtues
To the worlds cold eyes,
Which through gOld-bOwed spectacle
Read to criticise.
Not the long procession
And the pOmpOus bier,
Not the splendid coffin
And the mourning gear
Made their funeral service
Elegantly dear.
No fair women weeping
Der the cOrses there.
No soft jewelled fingers
'MOng the matted hair.
No sweet lips to otter
Kiss or curse or prayer.
Night shades threw their mantle
O'er the noble slain,
Night stars saw them buried
On the bloody plain.
And the drealy night winds
Sang their sad refrain.
Then the scene was over.
Then the rite was done,
And the morning radiance
OF a Southern sun
Bathed the soil above them
Which their valOr won.
But. on many hearth stone,
From their rude graves fell,
Shadows dark and fearful
As a dream from hell
TO the hearts that loved them
Oh. God knows how we'll.
And at Northern fireside
BY deaths footsteps crossed,
Where the broken households
Mourn the brave ones lost.
Angel pens are reckoning
What our victory cost.
Ye who read these verses
Should be told the while
That below Montpelier,
Just about a mile,
Is a famous deer-park,
Kept in rustic style.
Here the lazy morning
have lolled away,
And my truant fancieS
Have been out at play
Till old Sol has reached me
With his nOontide ray.
Oh, the dreamy languor
OF these summer hours
Old dame Nature dozes
On her couch of flowers,
While the birds to sOOth her
Try their sleepy powers.
Well, must be going
Dinner breaks my dceam;
At the thought Of walking
Sweat begins to stream;-
Wish l was in Greenland
Eating an ice-cream.
Pooh! truce to rhyming-
Come. I've done my song;
kneeland. don't YOU hear the