On a Painting by Harry Brown
Yes, 'tis the same! The old home barn!
Scene of my boyhood plays;
How many memories, sweet and sad,
Rise up from those old days.
Through the open door again I ride
On hayrack heaped full high,
And toss to the mow the fragrant store,
Born of the summer sky.
I leap from the beam, and, buried deep,
Emerge with laugh and shout;
Hunt in the hay the stolen nest,
The hidden eggs seek out.
Old Dobbin neighs from behind his crib,
I hear the oxen's tread,
The breath of the kine comes sweet to me—
But where is the colt I fed?
On the floor the hens are scratching still;
The stout farm-wagon, too, is there;
The carryall that carried all
In state to the county fair.
How rung the barn with merry glee
When the husking-bee came round,
And cheeks were aglow with blushes deep,
When the bright red ears were found.
Through the open door, across the road,
A picture framed I see,
The fields, the wood, the hills afar,
That hid the world from me.
What lay beyond I pondered deep,
A realm most fair it seemed;
And much I wished to tread its ways
Of which I long had dreamed.
I've wandered far; the world so wide,
That still has lured me on,
Ne'er gave to me a scene so fair
As that I gaze upon.
The old home barn, in boyhood's days,
A pleasure palace reared;
To-day it stands a temple filled
With memories e'er endeared.
O Artist of the magic wand
Which thus recalls the past,
Your work shall hang in memory's hall
So long as life shall last.
