Ashtabula telegraph. (Ashtabula, Ohio) 1874-1880, 1877-07-13

palms display,
Lifts his gray head and murmurs ..T,et Nc
praY!"
To plead unanswered by the God that hears
What if he deells onmaRy fact as though
Some things heaven knew not which il
ought to know
Thanks God for all his favors past, and yet
Tells him there's something he must not
forget.
Such are the prayers his people love to
hear
See how the deacon slants his listening ear!
What! look once more! Nay, surely there
trace
The hinted outlines of a well-known face!
Not those the lips for laughter to beguile.
Yet round their corners Turks an embryo
smile
The same on other lips my childhood knew.
That scarce the Sabbath's mastery could
subdue.
Him, too, my lineage gives me leave to
The good, grave man that bears the Psalm
lists name.
And still in ceaseless round the seasons
passed;
Spring piped her carol. Autumn blew his
blast;
Babes waxed to manhood, manhood shrunk
to age;
Life's wOrn-out players tOttered off the
stage.
The few are many; boys have grown to men
Since Putnam dragged the wolf from Pom
fret's den;
Our new old Woodstock is thriving town,
Brave are her children; faithful to the
crown;
Her soldiers steel the savage redskin
knows
Their blood has crimsoned his Canadian
SHOWS.
And now once more along that quiet vale
Rings the dread call that turns the moth
ers pale;
Full well they know the valorous heat that
runs
In every pulse-beat of their loyal sons;
Who would not bleed in good King
Georges cause,
When England's lion shows his teeth and
claws?
With glittering firelocks on the village
green
In proud array, martial band is seen;
You know what names those ancient ros-
tiers hold
Whose belts were buckled when the drum
beats rolled
But mark their Captain! tell us. who is he?
On his brown face that same old look l see!
Yes, from the hOmestead's still retreat he
came,
Whose peaceful owner bore the PsaImist's
name;
The same his own. Well, Israel's glorious
King,
Who struck the harp could also whirl the
sling;
Breathe in his song a penitential sigh,
And smite the sons of Amalek hip and thigh.
These shared their task; one deaconed out
the psalm,
One slashed the scalping hellhounds of
Montcalm;
The praying fathers piOus work was done,
Now sword in hand steps forth the fighting
son.
On many fields he fought in wilds afar;
See on his swarthy cheek the bullets scar!
There hangs a murderous tOmahawk; be-
meath,
Without a blade, knifes embroidered
sheath;
Save for the stroke this trusty weapon dealt
His scalp had dangled at their owners belt;
But not for him such fate; he lived to see
The bloOdier strife that made our nation
free,
To serve with willing toll, with skillful
hand,
The war-wOrn saviOrs of the bleeding land.
His wasting life to Others needs he gave,
Sought rest in home, and found it in the
grave;
See where the stones life's brief memorial
keep,
The tablet telling where he 'sfell on Sleep
Watched by winged cherub'S rayless eye;
A scroll above that says we all must die
These Saddening lines beneath, the Nights
Thoughts lent;
So stands the soldier surgeons monument.
All! At glance nv fiial eye dVines
The scholar son in those remembered lines.
The Scholar Son. His hand my footsteps
led.
No more the dim unreal past tread.
0, thou, whose breathing form was once so |
dear,
Whose cheering voice was music to my ear,
The village paths so well my bOyhOOd knew, |
Along the tangled margin of the stream
Whose murmurs blended with thine infant |
dream,
Or climb the hill, or thread the wooded |
vale,
Or seek the wave where CLEANS Yon distant |
sail,
Or the old homestead's narrowed bounds |
explore,
Where sloped the roof that sheds the rain
no more,
Where one last relic still remains to tell
Here stood thy home-the memory-haunt-
ed well,
Whose waters quench deeper thirst than
thine,
Changed at my lips to sacramental wine
Art thou not with me, as fondly trace
The scanty records of thine honOred race,
Call up the forms that earlier years have
known,
And spell the legend of each slanted stone?
With thoughts of thee my loving verse
began,
Not for the critics curious eye to scan,
Not for the many listeners, but the few
Whose fathers trod the path my fathers
Still in my heart the loved remembrance
burns;
Still to my lips thy cherished name re-
turns;
Could 1 but feel thy gracious presence near,
Amid the groves that once to thee we're
dearI
Could but my trembling lips with mortal
speech,
Thy listening ear for one brief moment
reach!
How vain the dream! The pallid voyager's
track
No sign betrays-he sends no message back,
No word from thee since evenings shad-
ows fell
On thy cold forehead with my long fare
we'll
Now, from the margin of the silent sea,
Take my last offering ere l cross to thee.
For the Telegraph.
Trip from OIL City 80 A .hsabuIa, Ohio.
One bright July morning ! left
Oil City for trip over the James
town Rail Road to Ashtabula, o.
The day was beautiful, and l saw
nature in its lOyeliest mood. Oil CITY