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THE COUNTRYMAN. BY J. A. TURNER. —“ brevity is the soul of wit ”— $1 A YEAR. VOL. III. TURNWOLD, PUTNAM COUNTY, GA„ MONDAY, DECEMBER 8, 1862. NO. 11. THE 01,13 PLANTATION : A POEM. Account of The Wanderer’s first Love--Youthful Love Scenes Described — Disappointed Love—Its Conse quences—The Country Store—The Country Politi cian—The Country Squire—The Dead—Their Liv ing Sons as Worshippers of Mammon—The W rongs of the Poor»-Change of Fortune in the Wanderer- Misfortune—Heaven's Curse—Treachery of Friends — The Wanderer an Outcast—The Wanderer de nounces those who voluntarily sell their Home steads and their Father’s Graves—It is just that Heaven should Frown upon Such. Dear Dora, can 1 e’er forget the hours We loitering passed, amid these vernal bowers, When youth and innocence alike combined To give us joy, and fill the longing mind ? Can I forget our wanderings through the wood, When spring upon our pathway used to brood, Shedding the balm from off her glowing plumes, Lending her breath to flush the wakening blooms ? When with the morn our wanderings were be gun, And ended only with the setting sun ? Can I forget our rest beneath the tree, Whose floyreringsweets enticed the strollingbee? The bee whose sweets, when brought to tempt my view, Enticed my lips to seek for honey too ? Can I forget the vows which' we exchanged, As o’er the paths of youthful love we ranged ? How when thy heart was to my bosom pressed, It fired my veins and quivered through my breast? My highest joy, ambition’s proudest aim, Was darling Dora for mine own to claim ; And when she smiled, I lived in golden dreams, And through my breast swept heaven’s perem- al streams. My joy was boundless as the boundless sky, And high’ as heaven my pleasure bounded high. With her I hoped my manhood’s prime to spend, With her my life’s declining years to end ; As she declined my flickering days to crown, And by her side in death to lay me down. But not for me, ill-fated being me, Such glowing bliss, ecstatic joy could be ; Others might hail the rising sun of hope, When rosy fortune hovered nigh to ope, With glowing fingers, orient’s golden clasp— Its beaming joys escaped my empty grasp. Its bliss for me, fate never had in store, My cup with sorrow aye was running o’er. Another hand the prize I worshipped claimed, For broken faith he not my Dora blamed: They forced her to my happy rival’s breast, But there her panting heart could never rest: lie plucked my flower, it withered in his grasp, And death stepped forth the withered bloom to clasp. Then Dora slumbered in the peaceful tomb, And fate my bosom sowed with seeds of gloom. Down, down my feet have led me since the day They tore my loved one from my breast away. Perchance had fate decreed her hand to me, In some high place the wanderer now might be, For high ambition once my bosom fired, Ere hope with Dora from my heart retired, And I could soar upon the eagle’s plume, Ere fate had quenched my spirit in its gloom, And dragged my pinions, trailingon the ground, When keen despair imposed its mortal wound; For hearts When broken, hopes when crushed to • die, Bloom not again in realms beneath the sky. Poor and forsaken, butt of jibe and scorn, My night of gloom has never known its morn : Ordained my heart to suffer and to bleed, On earth no joy for me has fate decreed. And yet the blissful hope has never died, To be at last by gentle Dora’s side ; And strong’s my faith that fortune has in store Some bliss for me, when weary life is o’er. Yes, thanks to Heaven, from yonder cloud on high, I see hope’s vista opening from the sky, In mercy sending down its genial ray, That points my bosom to the coming day. Yon pile of ruins was the country store, With flaunting wares, and finery running o’er, Where many a piece of flaming goods wfis found, And cheese' and crockery ranged the shelves around, ’Mid bottles filled with muddy eau de vie, And liquid stores of high and low degree, While hails and nostrums stood exposed to view, Hard by a lot of cloudy tumblers too. Here the slowqjost brought papers once a week, And here the idlers came the news to seek, Partook the cheer the grocery did afford, And laughed aloud at many a witty word. Here all the country dames repaired to trade, And many a handsome bargain here was made, While talk of chickens ruled the social hour, Aud each confessed the other’s skillful power In raising fowls or giving catnip teas, In killing roaches, or destroying, fl^as ; In curing chickens of destructive ‘ pips,’ Or laying plans to multiply their thrips. The country politician here repaired, On many a subject many a thought declared, Narrated to the gaping crowd around, The wondrous things he in his paper found. He filled the office, too, of country ’squire, Dispensing justice to each heart’s desire, Unawed by power, unbought by love of gold, In rustic honor, rural virtue bold. No ermined meanness here was brought to view, Dispensing justice to a favored few, Put oft the poor in honest boldness came, Some petty tyrant’s power to put to shame, While justice gave the timid all their right, And robbed the proud oppressor of his might. These were the scenes that blessed mine eyes of old, * Ere mammon came to fix the reign of gold, Ere avarice dark proclaimed its fatal power, And o’er this.valley shed its blighting dower ; Robbed of its stores the fruitful, virgin soil, And drove away the humble sons of toil. , t Where once a garden smiled, a desert frowns, And stinted growth the sterile valley crowns; Red hills expose their barren fronts to view, W hence plenty late with drooping pinions flew. And where are those who once possessed the land, Where now repose the living, moving band Who once this happy country wandered o’er? Gore, gone, alas ! here to return no more : Within the dreary mansion of the tomb, Pressed by the shade of unremitting gloom, The pallid band in dreamless slumbers lie, But, God! thou keep’st thy sleepless vigils by. And where the sons of these departed sires, Where smoke their altars, where their sacred fires? Behold in yonder'crowded cities rise The wreathing volumes toward their golden skies, The song of mammon glowering round the scene, With scowling brow, and desolation’s mien. These are the few who on the towering tide Of heaving wealth in pompous grandeur ride; These they who robbed the humble sons of toil, Who reap the fruits of a demolished soil; The favored few who bask in fortune’s smiles, Decoyed to ruin by alluring wiles : These they whose stores with pilfered gains o’erflow, These they who reap the fruits that others sow. The poor, oppressed by rising wealth,have fled, These to the dreary mansions of the dead, And th se to toil within the distant West, As some lone bird flies to rebuild its nest, Where humble scenes protect its humble home, And birds rapacious never round it roam. Here by their toil they’ll make the country smile, Enjoy its fruits and plenty for awhile, Until the spoiler here shall spread his sway, Again to drive the sons of toil away. Where shall the poor possess a lasting home, Whereshall the homeless cease at length to ream? Where shall the pilgrim seek his needed rest, Its healing balm where find the wounded breast? Oh ! God in thee, their everlasting strength, The feeble poor shall find their home at length. Oh 1 well do I recall the fatal day, When sad misfortune drove our peace away, When as a blight the dark bereavement fell, And cast its shadow o’er this peaceful dell. Where plenty smiled, destruction hasted on, And misery came whence happy peace was gone: Our father’s God in anger veiled his face, And Heaven sent curses on our fated race. Naught we could do would prosper to our hand, Naught seemed to sate our cruel fate’s demand. Others the smiles of fortune’s face might win, Our bosoms lay its fatal frown within. Our friends proved false, when fame and fortune fled,