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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 15, 1862. NO. 12. THE OLD PLANTATION : A POEM. The Wanderer’s Mother—Childish Scenes and Child ish Affliction—The Wanderer’s Father—Descrip tion of his Faiher’s Death-bed—Reflections on the Past and on Death—Conclusion. My dear ol<] mother, how my bosom yearns, As to the past my wakeful vision tarns, And looks on thee, the dearest boon by Heaven To ch ildhood’s days,' or manhood’s memory given. I see thee, now, with meek and pensive eye Gaze on thy children as they loiter by ; I hear thy words of kindness as they fall, In blessings on thy sons and daughters all; I see thee sewing round the cheerful fire With child and husband’s weal thy sole desire ; I see thee in thy cosy corner sit, And by the light-wood’s blazing taper knit, When night her sable garb.has thrown around, And darkness on departing day-light frowned; Thy well-worn bible in thy lap I see, Read to thy other children and to me; Thy whispered prayer falls on my bearing now, And now beside my mother’s knee I bow. Oh ! God, incline thine ear to hear the prayer, Which simple childhood breathed to Mercy there; And though the heart that breathed the prayer . be crushed, Be still its accents on thine ear unhushed; And though, since then, I’ve oft forgotten thee, Thank Heaven that thou hast ne’er forgotten hie; And though my feet sin’s devious paths have trod, Oh ! God, may mercy temper still thy rod ; Save me from sin, from all harassing doubt, And, Father, blot my past offences out. Oh! direful wo has harbored in my heart, The crowded sheath for many a poisoned dart; And yet ’tis just—for God, it comes from thee, Thou hold’st the rod whose blows have chasten ed me; Thou gavest me—’twas thou who took’d’st away, Blest be thy name forever, and for aye : And though my heart by many a sorrow’s riven, Oh! priceless wealth, I’m spared the hope of heaven. Oh ! how I love thee, mother, still, in heaven, The dearest boon to mortal ever given, Thou who would’st clasp me to thy loving breast, And pillow there my little head to rest. Happy if now restored to childhood’s state, The joys thou gav’st my childish heart could freight, And give the bark for aye to childhood’s tide, Thou, gentle mother, ever by my side, Aroumd my feet thy tender watch to keep, Or, when I tired, to sing thy boy to sleep. Here in these garden walks, dear mother, oft, With watchful care, and loving accents soft, Thou led’st my feet deformed, unshaped, and lame, In careless crowds my sorrow and my shame. Child as I was, my little bosom burned With wounded pride, for heartless children learned To jeer me for the blow affliction gave, And thou alone my wounded pride could’st save. When othersjeered, my glowing face would turn Where thy dear heart with tender love did yearn, And in thy bosom hide my burning cheek, Whilst thou the words of kindly cheer did’st speak; And ’twas enough—my shrinking shame was o’er, My childish heart could never ask for more. Oh ! can I e’er forget the happy days, Spent with thee, mother, in these rustic ways ? Can I forget thy tender, watchful care— Thine angel voice—the low and humble prayer Thou breath’d’st for me, for me thine erringson, As long as ages o’er their course shall run ? When time itself shall pass and be no more, Eternal cycles round the heavens shall pour, Still I’il remember thee, dear mother, still, My heart with warm, maternal feeling thrill. And oh! should bounteous Heaven propitious give My weary soul in Eden’s bowers to live, The happy place were less with pleasux-e fraught, Unless—oh ! Heaven, forgive the cherished thought— My mother’s hand should greet my soul to rest, And help to make my heart supremely blest. Mindful of all the laws of man and God, These quiet walks my aged father trod, Despising heartless luxury and display, But many a blessing showering on his way, On those.who needed favors at his hand, When pinched by wo, or pressed by want’s de mand. Oft as the day was ushered to its close, Within his door some wanderer found repose, To whom he freely offered bounteous fare, And every comfort which he had to share. He welcomed all who had a mind to come, And find repose within his peaceful home, Nor ever spumed the stranger from his gale, However humble God had made his fate. He’d make no difference in the fare he’d trin^ To feed a pauper, or to feast a king, For cringing knee he never bent to power, Nor fawned on mammon for his sumptuous bower. To him the high and low were all the same, Those linked to humble station or to fame ; He loved them all who wore the human form, And kindly would his genial bosom warm, Where’er he saw a being in distress, And yearn to make his suffering sorrow less. His heart in every manly virtue rich, Ilis soul attuned to honor’s highest pitch, Whatever justice said that he must do, Cost what it would, to justice he was true, Though fire and flood might lay across his path, Or tempests hurl the fury of their wrath. To do the wrong—he’d not for worlds of pelf, To do the right, he’d brave the stake itself: Fame, power, and pelf might tempt him from the track Where virtue led—he thrust the baubles back : To rise or fall corruption bade him choose, To win ambition’s coronet, or lose: He laughbd to scorn the tempter’s luring call, And chose to keep his honor, and to fall. Oh ! I remember when he came to die, What beaming triumph lit my father’s eye, While stretched upon the bed of death he lay, And calmly breathed his parting life away. His pallid face, serene in sweet repose, He saw his wasted life approach its close, For well he knew, when he had laid it down, That having borne the cross,he’d wear the crown. His hands he meekly folded on his breast, To give his soul to God and heavenly rest, As weeping wife and sobbing children round, His dying hour with sweet affection crowned ; And as his thoughts were centered in the sky, He sliowed a Christian need not fear to die. Yet from his eye triumphant, stole a tear, For those he left in sorrow’s shadow here, And though his tongue for Utterance was too weak, He looked the sympathy he could not speak. The joys of paradise upon his view Peeped bending heaven’s celestial vistas through; Yet all his eye upon them was not turned, For earthly love still in his bosom burned. One lingering look affection cast behind, Ere Heaven to earth had made his vision blind, And angels on the dying sufferer smiled, That bent his eye on weeping wife and child; For God approved the purpose in his heart, To bless the weeping mourners—then depart. And so he died, and many years have fled, Since standing by my dying father’s bed, And things have changed, and time has flown away, And my own locks are scattered, few and gray. Beneath this oak his mouldering body sleeps, W hile here his son the luckless wanderer weeps, Careless of all that life can give or take, To one lone feeling—only one awake, The memory of the brighter scenes which here, Lured all his boyhood through the lingering year. Can vain regrets recall the sleeping dead, Or back to youth restore the frosty head? Can deep-drawn sighs restore the grateful past, Or turn the course of time’s relentless blast? Can these restore the joys which childhood knew, And give the heavens again their rosy hue? Can sorrow call the pleasures back again, Which walked the aisles of this sequestered fane ? Give back the throng who once this valley trod, Ere they were called to meet their Father, God? In vain the thought, and foolish mortal he Who’d break the force of gracious Heaven’s decree;