The Complete Poems of Paul Laurence Dunbar · Paul Laurence Dunbar

The Old Homestead

414 of 424 · 2 min of reading

'Tis an old deserted homestead

On the outskirts of the town,

Where the roof is all moss-covered,

And the walls are tumbling down;

But around that little cottage

Do my brightest mem'ries cling,

For 'twas there I spent the moments

Of my youth,--life's happy spring.

I remember how I used to

Swing upon the old front gate,

While the robin in the tree tops

Sung a night song to his mate;

And how later in the evening,

As the beaux were wont to do,

Mr. Perkins, in the parlor,

Sat and sparked my sister Sue.

There my mother--heaven bless her!--

Kissed or spanked as was our need,

And by smile or stroke implanted

In our hearts fair virtue's seed;

While my father, man of wisdom,

Lawyer keen, and farmer stout,

Argued long with neighbor Dobbins

How the corn crops would turn out.

Then the quiltings and the dances--

How my feet were wont to fly,

While the moon peeped through the barn chinks

From her stately place on high.

Oh, those days, so sweet, so happy,

Ever backward o'er me roll;

Still the music of that farm life

Rings an echo in my soul.

Now the old place is deserted,

And the walls are falling down;

All who made the home life cheerful,

Now have died or moved to town.

But about that dear old cottage

Shall my mem'ries ever cling,

For 'twas there I spent the moments

Of my, youth,--life's happy spring.

ON THE DEATH OF W. C.

Thou arrant robber, Death!

Couldst thou not find

Some lesser one than he

To rob of breath,--

Some poorer mind

Thy prey to be?

His mind was like the sky,--

As pure and free;

His heart was broad and open

As the sea.

His soul shone purely through his face,

And Love made him her dwelling place.

Not less the scholar than the friend,

Not less a friend than man;

The manly life did shorter end

Because so broad it ran.

Weep not for him, unhappy Muse!

His merits found a grander use

Some other-where. God wisely sees

The place that needs his qualities.

Weep not for him, for when Death lowers

O'er youth's ambrosia-scented bowers

He only plucks the choicest flowers.

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End of part 414 of 424