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A poem by Jared Barhite

Poundridge, N. Y.

Title:     Poundridge, N. Y.
Author: Jared Barhite [More Titles by Barhite]

Perhaps no spot upon this sphere,
Has charms for me more sacred, dear,
Than those of old Poundridge;
I love her hills, her lakes, her streams,
Her rural haunts, where Nature teems
With joys naught can abridge.

Her dew-bespangled meadows shine
With gems of radiance so divine,
When touched by matin sun,
That myriad pendant drops of dew,
Lend to the mead a brilliant hue
Like earth with diamonds strown.

The woods that sleep on distant hills,
Or watch o'er gently murmuring rills,
Seem restful to the soul;
Their silence brings sweetest repose,
A panacea for the woes
That spurn M. D.'s control.

The healthful, healing, peaceful rest,
To frame fatigued, to mind distressed,
Seems but a foretaste here,
Of that serene and blest abode,
Which to the faithful child of God
Hereafter shall appear.

I love the rustic's rough demesne,
Which yields to toil a wealth unseen
To those of civic life;
For here I drank, in youth's bright dawn,
The draughts of vigor which were drawn
From labor's busy strife.

I love the house wherein I played,
The yard o'erspread by maple's shade,
The nearby babbling brook;
The fields o'er which my youthful feet
Sped onward toward the trout's retreat,
With dangling line and hook.

I love the path across the wood
Which once I trod in search of food
For hungering, thirsting mind,
The room where pupils used to meet
And strive to make their work complete
And manners more refined.

All these I love for what is past,
And still must love while life shall last;
But I do love still more
The souls who fired my mental lamp,
And on my character did stamp
Truths fraught with richest lore.

I see my aged mother there,
My father in his old arm-chair,
And fancy hears their voice;
My brother yet so full of joy,
Has passed the limits of a boy,
But still can much rejoice.

Upon the hill, the lakes between,
Are sacred mounds of living green,
Where sleep my precious dead;
A vacant spot reserved for me,
To which my heart looks longingly,
Invites my weary head.

No greater boon could I e'er ask
When I have finished earthly task,
Than quietly to rest,
Surrounded by her vales and hills,
Her laughing lakes and singing rills,
And friends that I love best.

Tho' many years now intervene,
My mind recalls each boyhood scene
Of field and wood and bridge;
These cherished memories only prove
Abiding faith and filial love
Toward restful, old Poundridge.

[The end]
Jared Barhite's poem: Poundridge, N. Y.