Cricket Lodge
On a green and breezy hill
Overlooking Arthur Kill
And the Orange Mountains blue
In their everchanging hue—
Here not far from where the gull
Skims along the Kill von Kull,
Winging to the Upper Bay
Thence the ocean vast to roam,
Here for life's remaining day
I have builded me a home.
Rather had I hewn my beam
By old Yadkin's gentle stream—
Rather there on wintry days
Felt the cheery lightwood's blaze,
Heard the cawing of the crow
And the wild geese honking go—
Rather there the summer long
Melon, fig, and scuppernong
Seen and tasted—rather there
Felt the ever balmy air;
But not thus the stern fates would.
Be it so—and God is good.
Cricket Lodge I named my home,
For at evening when I come
From the city's noisy throng,
Weary, weary, limb and brain,
From the grass the cricket's song
(Musical and quaint refrain)
Welcomes me; and I have heard
Many a night the mocking-bird
Singing to a heavenly moon;
But the crickets' changeless tune,
Modest, plaintive, gives to me
Wonderful tranquility.
Some I know the frost will dodge,
Winter with me in my lodge.
And on many a midnight drear
Chirrup to my drowsy ear.
If but one survive the chill
He shall be my comrade still,
And his song shall give me cheer
Till the bud of a new year,
When the grass again shall green
And his choir in full be seen.
Innovation has full sway,
Ornate gracelessness full play—
Romanesque, Byzantine, Greek,
Persian, Chinese, English freak,
Pointed, rounded, every style
Jumbled in one gimcrack pile,
Form and beauty set at naught—
Such are built, such houses bought;
But there's none of such hodge-podge
In the make of Cricket Lodge.
It is but a lodge indeed—
Two end-gables, one end freed
From rigidity by sweep
Of a dormer-windowed deep
Rooftree—such where pigeons preen—
And the shingles stained moss-green.
Slate-gray colored is the house
(Just the shading of a mouse),
With a middle belt of red
(Like leaves where Cock Robin bled);
Red the Chimney, looking far
Seaward when the morning star
Hangs above the gleaming sea;
Westward when the splendid sun,
Glorifying sward and tree,
Fades away and day is done.
Inside no white wall offends.
Restful terra-cotta blends
With hues negative, and books
Lounge at ease in curtained nooks.
Who would not forego the gas
Of the city here to pass
Evening hours with the lamplight shed
Softly on the book you handle,
And when drowsy mount to bed
With a fragrant waxen candle?
How that brings back nights of old,
When, the last ghost-story told,
You went whistling to your room
Through the chill and silent gloom,
Swift to bed, and in the dark
Watched the last expiring spark,
And, ere yet you fell to sleep,
Saw a silvern moonbeam creep
Slanting across the floor—
Cuddled up and knew no more.
Here shall I enjoy again
Winter frore and sleety rain.
Let the winds blow shrill and cold,
Let the snows my lodge enfold;
By my ruddy fire I'll muse,
Or some favorite volume choose,
Snuggled like a nested hare
In my sleepy-hollow chair.
I have even set apart
Certain treasures of my heart
For re-feasting—Laurence Sterne's
“Journey,” “Don Quixote,” Burns,
Cowper's “Task,” George Herbert, Poe,
William Blake, Balzac, DeFoe,
Thackeray (sublimated fun!),
Noble, knightly Tennyson,
Wordsworth (even to “Peter Bell”),
Scott, “The Blessed Damozel,”
Shakespeare often, and a score
Of our own—but names no more.
One among the poems here,
Held than anything more dear,
For some Christmas night I'll leave—
Keat's loved “Saint Agnes Eve.”
Oh immortals, ye who dwell
In the meads of Asphodel,
May that fair youth be endued
With most sweet beatitude.
This, let come whatever may,
Shall be a memorial day.
Here's my fireplace, flanked by thick
Pilasters of honest brick
(So used by old-timey folk),
With a mantel top of oak,
And betwixt the columned piles
A tympanum of blue tiles,
With a center-piece where follows
Breaking clouds a flight of swallows.
That's my dream-piece—wing-and-wing
Swallows heralding the spring—
After winter's cold subjection
Life resurgent!—resurrection!
Ready now the grate is made;
Paper, wood, and coal are laid.
Scratch!—the phosphor is ignited.
Whirr!—and my first fire is lighted.
What shall be the incantation?—
Hear, kind heaven, my conjuration:
May she unto whom I cleave
Loyally and do believe
Noblest type of womanhood—
She who faithfully has stood
By my side and shared with me
For a score of years and three
Joy and sorrow, mirth and tears,
Here find life's declining years
Happier than the past has been.
On earth peace, good will toward men.
Overlooking Arthur Kill
And the Orange Mountains blue
In their everchanging hue—
Here not far from where the gull
Skims along the Kill von Kull,
Winging to the Upper Bay
Thence the ocean vast to roam,
Here for life's remaining day
I have builded me a home.
Rather had I hewn my beam
By old Yadkin's gentle stream—
Rather there on wintry days
Felt the cheery lightwood's blaze,
Heard the cawing of the crow
And the wild geese honking go—
Rather there the summer long
Melon, fig, and scuppernong
Seen and tasted—rather there
Felt the ever balmy air;
But not thus the stern fates would.
Be it so—and God is good.
Cricket Lodge I named my home,
For at evening when I come
From the city's noisy throng,
Weary, weary, limb and brain,
From the grass the cricket's song
(Musical and quaint refrain)
Welcomes me; and I have heard
Many a night the mocking-bird
Singing to a heavenly moon;
But the crickets' changeless tune,
Modest, plaintive, gives to me
Wonderful tranquility.
Some I know the frost will dodge,
Winter with me in my lodge.
And on many a midnight drear
Chirrup to my drowsy ear.
If but one survive the chill
He shall be my comrade still,
And his song shall give me cheer
Till the bud of a new year,
When the grass again shall green
And his choir in full be seen.
Innovation has full sway,
Ornate gracelessness full play—
Romanesque, Byzantine, Greek,
Persian, Chinese, English freak,
Pointed, rounded, every style
Jumbled in one gimcrack pile,
Form and beauty set at naught—
Such are built, such houses bought;
But there's none of such hodge-podge
In the make of Cricket Lodge.
It is but a lodge indeed—
Two end-gables, one end freed
From rigidity by sweep
Of a dormer-windowed deep
Rooftree—such where pigeons preen—
And the shingles stained moss-green.
Slate-gray colored is the house
(Just the shading of a mouse),
With a middle belt of red
(Like leaves where Cock Robin bled);
Red the Chimney, looking far
Seaward when the morning star
Hangs above the gleaming sea;
Westward when the splendid sun,
Glorifying sward and tree,
Fades away and day is done.
Inside no white wall offends.
Restful terra-cotta blends
With hues negative, and books
Lounge at ease in curtained nooks.
Who would not forego the gas
Of the city here to pass
Evening hours with the lamplight shed
Softly on the book you handle,
And when drowsy mount to bed
With a fragrant waxen candle?
How that brings back nights of old,
When, the last ghost-story told,
You went whistling to your room
Through the chill and silent gloom,
Swift to bed, and in the dark
Watched the last expiring spark,
And, ere yet you fell to sleep,
Saw a silvern moonbeam creep
Slanting across the floor—
Cuddled up and knew no more.
Here shall I enjoy again
Winter frore and sleety rain.
Let the winds blow shrill and cold,
Let the snows my lodge enfold;
By my ruddy fire I'll muse,
Or some favorite volume choose,
Snuggled like a nested hare
In my sleepy-hollow chair.
I have even set apart
Certain treasures of my heart
For re-feasting—Laurence Sterne's
“Journey,” “Don Quixote,” Burns,
Cowper's “Task,” George Herbert, Poe,
William Blake, Balzac, DeFoe,
Thackeray (sublimated fun!),
Noble, knightly Tennyson,
Wordsworth (even to “Peter Bell”),
Scott, “The Blessed Damozel,”
Shakespeare often, and a score
Of our own—but names no more.
One among the poems here,
Held than anything more dear,
For some Christmas night I'll leave—
Keat's loved “Saint Agnes Eve.”
Oh immortals, ye who dwell
In the meads of Asphodel,
May that fair youth be endued
With most sweet beatitude.
This, let come whatever may,
Shall be a memorial day.
Here's my fireplace, flanked by thick
Pilasters of honest brick
(So used by old-timey folk),
With a mantel top of oak,
And betwixt the columned piles
A tympanum of blue tiles,
With a center-piece where follows
Breaking clouds a flight of swallows.
That's my dream-piece—wing-and-wing
Swallows heralding the spring—
After winter's cold subjection
Life resurgent!—resurrection!
Ready now the grate is made;
Paper, wood, and coal are laid.
Scratch!—the phosphor is ignited.
Whirr!—and my first fire is lighted.
What shall be the incantation?—
Hear, kind heaven, my conjuration:
May she unto whom I cleave
Loyally and do believe
Noblest type of womanhood—
She who faithfully has stood
By my side and shared with me
For a score of years and three
Joy and sorrow, mirth and tears,
Here find life's declining years
Happier than the past has been.
On earth peace, good will toward men.
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