(From the dedication page of his "Home Ballads.")
I call the old time back; I bring these lays
To thee in memory of the summer days,
When, by our native streams and forestways,
We dream them over; while the rivulets made
Songs of their own, and the great pine trees laid
On warm noon-lights the masses of their shade.
And she was with us, living o'er again
Her life in ours, despite of years and pain—
The Autumn's brightness after latter rain.
Beautiful in her holy peace, as one
Who stands at evening, when the work is done,
Glorified in the setting of the sun!
Her memory makes our common landscape seem
Fairer than any of which painters dream—
Lights the brown hills and sings in every stream.
For she whose speech was always truth's pure gold
Heard, not unpleased, its simple legends told,
And loved with us the beautiful and old.
FIELD'S APPRECIATION.
(Dedication to His Sister, Mary Field French, from His "Little Book of Western
Verse." Copyrighted, 1889, by Eugene Field, Published by
Charles Scribner's Sons.)
A dying mother gave to you
Her child a many years ago;
How in your gracious love he grew,
You know, dear, patient heart, you know.