The Old Mansion.
The following simple but touching ballad was composed a short time since, by a girl in Maine, about seventeen years of age, who had been suffering several years from a weakness of sight, so as to prevent her reading or writing. It was taken down, from her dictation, by a friend.
There stood a stately mansion old
On brow of sloping hill;
There many a joyous day I’ve passed,
And mem’ry loves it still.
’Twas ’neath the shade of lofty elms
And evergreen dark pine,
Where robins sing, with notes so sweet,
In spring and summer time.
There dwelt my aged ancestor,
With partner of his years;
They’d travell’d long together here
In sunshine and in tears.
Their spring-time hopes were faded,
And winter days came round,
Yet sunny ties of kindred
Their hearts to earth still bound.
My grandma’s eyes were soft and blue,
And tenderly she smiled,
She ne’er thought ill of any one,
Her words were always mild.
I never shall forget her voice,
The tones of her “Good even’;”
Nothing we ever asked her for
But what was kindly given.
My grandpa’ often told us tales,
All of the olden time;
And of the wars for liberty
He fought in “auld lang syne.”
He gave us pretty picture-books
On happy New-Year’s day;
And poor, who hither came for aid,
Ne’er empty went away.
Grandma’ would tell us of the train,
The beaver hat and plume,
And all the fashion of the dress
She wore in girlhood’s bloom.
She always kept some plums or cake
In cupboard saved away,
To give “the children,” every time
They came with her to stay.
And we assembled every year
In that wide ancient hall,
To keep the old “Election-day,”
Parents and children all.
Then rang the walls with merriment,
With laughter and with glee;
Those sounds come o’er my memory now,
And sadly seem to me.
Oh, there were entries long and dark,
Clock-room and pantry too;
And a hole was cut in the cellar-door,
Where fav’rite cat went through.
Grandma’ wore parted on her brow
Her own soft, silvery hair;
And scissors bright at her girdle hung,
E’er knitting her fingers were.
A buck-horn head had grandpa’s cane,
His hat was wide of brim;
His silver snuff-box was a gift
From Washington to him.
Up in the garret long and low,
Was spinnet and spinning-wheel;
For grandmamma, though lady bred,
Could deftly spin a reel.
Then at foot of the kitchen stairs
There stood a “settle” low;
And cheerily the large fire blazed
With log and fore-stick too.
With wheels and bucket in the porch,
There was a deep old well;
We thought, as in its depths we gazed,
A fairy there might dwell.
And there were haunts so old and dark
We hardly dared to stay,—
Where bones and curious things were kept,
And mouldering rubbish lay.
We wandered in the orchard green,
Where large red apples grew,
And damsons purple, moose-plums sweet,
Of varied size and hue.
We shook the branches merrily,
And strewed them on the ground;
Such mellow and delicious fruit
Could nowhere else be found.
Down in the “Happy Valley” near
A streamlet wandered by;
We often crossed its bridge, to climb
For wild choke-cherries high.
We ran, too, in the long, straight mall,
Bordered with poplar trees,
Mingled with rose and currant bush,
Lilacs and gooseberries.
We sported in the garden aisles,
And sat in the arbors old,
Whose many-fancied tales of love
Then laughingly we told.
There grew the honied columbines,
And fragrant fleur-de-lis;
And grandma’s yellow marigolds,
And full-blown peony.
And there, with many a frolic wild,
We fled the hornets’ rage;
And grandma’ smiled, tho’ footsteps marred
Her much-prized bed of sage.
Her fav’rite pinks and southernwood
With fragrance filled the air;—
The summer days were always warm,
And every spot seemed fair.
The violets were very blue,
The grass was tall and green;
Such colors in my womanhood
I never since have seen!
The cows from their rich pastures came
Just at the sunset glow;
And laughing maids came out to milk,
And sat on cricket low.
’Tis the same sun in the sky, I ween,—
Ah, now it seems more cold;
And my cousin’s happy tones I miss
That fell in the arbors old.
That cherished place is still most fair,
There blooms the peony,—
He walks not o’er his broad lands now,
Nor she her flowers to see.
Alas! I never shall forget
When cold I saw her lay;
And full of years and goodness too,
They bore grandma’ away.
Eight times, as wont, the summer bloomed,
Eight times the autumn fell,
And he, the lonely, grey-haired man,
Was borne by her to dwell.
The flame broke wild and brightly forth,
One Sabbath evening still!—
In ruins fell the mansion old
On brow of sloping hill.
