The people, too, were simple in their ways,
And dwelt contented in their humble sphere,
The morning and the evening of their days,
Passing the same with every closing year.
There were the Deacons, solemn, sober, staid,
Beneath the pulpit each Communion Sunday,
They never smiled, but sung there psalms and prayed;
And then made whiskey at the still on Monday.
Perhaps you smile just here, I only say,
Men did not deem it then a heinous crime;
Such was the common custom of the day,
As those can tell who recollect the time.
For further proof of this, look up the tract
Of Deacon Giles and his distillery,
Where you will find that for this very fact,
He was set up high in the pillory.
Young life for me began its early spring,
Here in the freshness of the Mountain air,
When nature seemed in fullest tune to sing,
And all the world was beautiful and fair.
And Death—Who stays to think of him, till age
Comes stealing on with sure and silent tread?
Nor even then can he the thoughts engage,
Till his cold fingers touch the dying bed.
He called one then in withered leaf and sere,
And sent a warning, so wiseacres said,
By causing apple blossoms to appear
In winter, and the old man soon was dead.
The Guinea Chieftain too, a century old,
Born a young Prince beneath his native sky,
Who with his banjo sang rare tales of gold—
I saw him strive and struggle, gasp and die.
A child was brought one evening, lived, and died,
Almost before its eyes beheld the day;
The infant and the old men, side by side,
Were in the quiet churchyard laid away.
I learned of Life and Death, but know no more
Of their mysterious secrets now than then;
No sesame can open wide the door,
That veils those mysteries from the light of men.