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it Vi m rf v* 3 o -& \ THE COUNTRYMAN. B-Y J. A. TURNER. —“ BREVITY IS TnE SOUL OF WIT $1 A YEAR. VOL. III. TURNWOLD, PUTNAM COUNTY, GA., MONDAY, NOVEMBER 3, 1862. NO. 6. THE OLD PLANTATIONS A POEM. . The Wanderer, after his Invocation to his Old Home, begins to look round, and cell up the Memories and Scenes of Childhood—One of the deafest of these is the Old Spring, which he describes—Then the Objects around it—But returns to the Sprinsr once more—Then be refers to the neighboring Grove, and the Oaks—But as (he most cherished Object around him, roturns, the 3rd time, to the Spring and its Brook, and the immediate Objects near them—Refers, in a rambling way, to other Mem ories and Scenes of Childhood—The Garden—The Negro’s Cottage—The Dairy—The Trees—The neighboring Ilill—The old Yard Dog—The Deni zens of the Barn Yard—The Dairy and Aunt Tab by— Butter-milk and Ashcake—Picture of the Old Ruins—The effect on the Wanderer’s Mind. ' To boyhood’s scenes,fond mem’ry.tum thy ga«e, And paint the pleasures,of my childish days; By yonder fountain, fold thy weary wing, And rest awhile beside the good old spring, Whose low rail-pen, half tottering, stood around, As limpid waters all my labor crowned. These gurgling waters pure as crystal were, Whose rising vapors cooled the summer’s air, Where green as emerald was the mossy gum, And laden bees .produced their drowsy hum, Beneath the oaks that spread their giant arms, To hid me welcome to their rustic charms. The hang-bird reared her fledglings overhead, The log-cock hammered—with his crested red; The humming-bird pursued his airy track, The red-wing bunting spread his glossy black; The killdee whistled by the limpid rill, The piper bowed upon its grassy frill; The gold-foot dauber gathered here his mud, The fire-bird flitted by, as red as blood. My brothers sat beside me on the pen, And sisters ‘fond were my companions then ; But all are gone—oh ! Heaven how lonely now, Do all my thoughts, and all my feelings how ! What crowds of memories throng the pregnant mind, Though few remaining objects here I find Of all that crowned my youthful days with-joy, And wreathed the hours that lingered round the boy! From yon old spring how often have I quaffed The cooling beverage, nature’s nectar’d draught, Which gods themselves might lend the knee- to sip, As glorious water kissed the fevered lip. But now the fount in cane and rushes hid, A stagnant tide spreads tangled grass amid, Its heart too weak to drive a silvery A'ein With murmuring pulses toward the wat’ry main. In yonder grove, where many an aching void Betrays the growth by heartless hands destroyed, The gnarled trunks by cruel axemen scarred, The knotted shafts by mammon’s minions marred, With rapturous joy mine eyes once more be hold Surviving oaks, whose shades were here of oil: And still they stand, those giants of the wood, Where centuries since in vigorous growth they stood. Wrenched by the storms of heaven their wav ing arms, - Their wasted houghs despoiled of half their charms, Defiant still they rear their branches hiarh, And gaze unconquered toward the conquering sty, Proud monarchs yet that can alike withstand The blasting storm and man’s destroying hand. • Back to yon spring,once more, my vision turns, To taste its wave, oh ! how my bosom yearns ! But pure no more these waters may 1 find, To rotting rush, and oozy moss consigned. There flows the brook which bathed my feverish 'feet, Its hanks perfumed with many a vernal sweet, The fragrant breath of wild-flowers hovering round, While -nature’s Brussels spread the mossy ground. The aromatic spicew r ood’s tiny bloom Tied with th’ ambrosial sweetshrub’s rare per fume, While the neat hawthorn all its fragrance threw, And gaudy dogwoods decked the vernal vfew. Oh ! happy scene of happier boyhood’s days, How longs my heart for all thy flowery ways ; From bloom to bloom to chase the gaudy fly, And breathe the incense of the laden sky. The bee and butterfly are flitting still, The hatfthorn blooms beside the lessening rill, But old, familiar objects are decayed-, Where oft my feet with lingering joy delayed, And I, alas ! am standing all alone, My loved companions, and my boyhood flown. The garden walks by weeds are all effaced, The negro’s cottage by decay displaced; The dairy stands no more where once it stood, The axeman’s hand has mangled half the wood; The moss-choked fountain starves the hungry brook, And yon old hill, which summer’s thunder shook, Alone the power of tempests can defy, And mock the terrors of the wasting sky. Well I remember many a mirthful scene Of playful children sporting o’er the green, Beneath the oak that spread its cooling shade, In summer’s flush of foliage bright arrayed. The generous dog cur peaceful sports partook, Joy in each motion, love in every look, A faithful friend misfortune could not try, A loyal servant money could not buy. How oft when boyish fancy made me roam, The faithful fellow hayed me welcome home, Frisked round my steps,and gamboled as I came, And eager rushed the fiist embrace to claim. For many years, old friend, thy dust has slept, By stranger hearts and stranger eyes unwept, But in my mind thine image aye hath been, And in my heart thy memory still is green. Art thou all dead, or in a better land Dost thou beside my gentle father stand, Waiting to greet the weary wanderer home, When here my wayworn feet shall cease to roam? To hay me welcome, as thou didst of yore, When all my wo, with all my wandering’s o’er? ^Well I remember all the grunting swine, The playful calves amid the lowing kins; The lazy pig that wallowed in the mud, The scfljer cow that chewed her savory cud, Or waded through the cooling wave she drank,' To crop the flower upon the mossy hank ; The dairy that received the liquid store, The snowy vessels full, and flowing o’er ; Aunt Tabby striving, stately as a queen, To keep her milk-pans burnished bright and clean, Her sable bosom heaving high with pride, Where stood the churn and dasher by her side. Wo to the little darkey who should dare To visit, or invade her kingdom there : A shout and slap announced her queenly frown, And knocked the luckless black intruder down. Yet she was kind, and when the milk was churned, Out in a troop the little negroes turned, Armed with a ,tin-cup each, to get his share Of Granny’s scolding and the homely fare. On foaming butter-milk, and sifloking bread Baked in the ashes, each was fully fed, Beneath the tree, all seated on the ground, With grass and grateful shadow.spread around. Nor these alone the rustic fare partook, The master’s children daintier meals forsook, And Granny laughed to see the youngsters hie, To feast where mirth and frolic waited by ; To eat the ashcake which she kindly gave The little master with the little slave, All gaily happ.y, in their boisterous glee, As equals ’neath the old familiar tree. Blest in his lowly and his happy lot, The negro here possessed a cheerful cot, Which gave him shelter for his humble head, While daily toil,supplied him bounteous bread: Here was the garden with its scented thyme, And all the flowers thatddess the southern clime ; The luscious fruit upon the tangled vine, Whose mellowing juice produced the rustic wine; Here all the scenes that blessed my boyish heart, And freighted bliss to pleasure’s crowded mart; But things are changed, and mouldering, sure decay Is sweeping all these lovely scenes away. Where all this vale was once instinct with life, No more we hear the hum of busy strife, But mouldering walls are trembling in decay, And whip-poor-wills discourse their lonely lay. Adown yon roof the creeping ivy falls, And bats depend upon the tottering walls, While hooting owls their midnight orgies hold, Then, in the day, their sombre pinions fold On mossy timbers rotting overhead, Their dozy dreams on some dull fancy fed. By day the partridge whistles in the wood, By night the rabbit crops his tender food,