And down through the woods to the swimming-hole-- Where the big, white, hollow, old sycamore grows,-- And we never cared when the water was cold. And always "clucked" the boy that told On the fellow that tied the clothes.-- When life went so like a dreamy rhyme That it seems to me now that then The world was having a jollier time Than it ever will have again. [Illustration] [Illustration] AT SEA O we go down to sea in ships-- But Hope remains behind, And Love, with laughter on his lips, And Peace, of passive mind; While out across the deeps of night, With lifted sails of prayer, We voyage off in quest of light, Nor find it anywhere. O Thou who wroughtest earth and sea, Yet keepest from our eyes The shores of an eternity In calms of Paradise, Blow back upon our foolish quest With all the driving rain Of blinding tears and wild unrest, And waft us home again. [Illustration] THE OLD GUITAR Neglected now is the old guitar And moldering into decay; Fretted with many a rift and scar That the dull dust hides away, While the spider spins a silver star In its silent lips to-day. The keys hold only nerveless strings-- The sinews of brave old airs Are pulseless now; and the scarf that clings So closely here declares A sad regret in its ravelings And the faded hue it wears. But the old guitar, with a lenient grace, Has cherished a smile for me; And its features hint of a fairer face That comes with a memory Of a flower-and-perfume-haunted place And a moonlit balcony. Music sweeter than words confess Or the minstrel's powers invent, Thrilled here once at the light caress Of the fairy hands that lent This excuse for the kiss I press On the dear old instrument. The rose of pearl with the jeweled stem Still blooms; and the tiny sets In the circle all are here; the gem In the keys, and the silver frets; But the dainty fingers that danced o'er them-- Alas for the heart's regrets!-- Alas for the loosened strings to-day, And the wounds of rift and scar On a worn old heart, with its roundelay Enthralled with a stronger bar That Fate weaves on, through a dull decay Like that of the old guitar! [Illustration] [Illustration] JOHN McKEEN John McKeen, in his rusty dress, His loosened collar, and swarthy throat; His face unshaven, and none the less, His hearty laugh and his wholesomeness, And the wealth of a workman's vote! Bring him, O Memory, here once more, And tilt him back in his Windsor chair By the kitchen-stove, when the day is o'er And the light of the hearth is across the floor, And the crickets everywhere! And let their voices be gladly blent With a watery jingle of pans and spoons, And a motherly chirrup of sweet content, And neighborly gossip and merriment, And old-time fiddle-tunes!