O, wayward stream!Return and to thy channel keep,Where thou hast droned in drowsy sleepFor full a century of years,And have our love without our fears.How have we loved thee, O, great stream!And thou hast been to us a themeAs pleasing as the sweetest dream,Why do you turn with sullen hate,All swollen in your drunken sate?Relent! Relent!Abate the currents that have bentThy body so enormously.O, backward to thy channel flowAnd stay thy riot and its woe.
O, wayward stream!Return and to thy channel keep,Where thou hast droned in drowsy sleepFor full a century of years,And have our love without our fears.How have we loved thee, O, great stream!And thou hast been to us a themeAs pleasing as the sweetest dream,Why do you turn with sullen hate,All swollen in your drunken sate?Relent! Relent!Abate the currents that have bentThy body so enormously.O, backward to thy channel flowAnd stay thy riot and its woe.
O, wayward stream!Return and to thy channel keep,Where thou hast droned in drowsy sleepFor full a century of years,And have our love without our fears.
O, wayward stream!
Return and to thy channel keep,
Where thou hast droned in drowsy sleep
For full a century of years,
And have our love without our fears.
How have we loved thee, O, great stream!And thou hast been to us a themeAs pleasing as the sweetest dream,Why do you turn with sullen hate,All swollen in your drunken sate?
How have we loved thee, O, great stream!
And thou hast been to us a theme
As pleasing as the sweetest dream,
Why do you turn with sullen hate,
All swollen in your drunken sate?
Relent! Relent!Abate the currents that have bentThy body so enormously.O, backward to thy channel flowAnd stay thy riot and its woe.
Relent! Relent!
Abate the currents that have bent
Thy body so enormously.
O, backward to thy channel flow
And stay thy riot and its woe.
But the flood was too big for one man to assuage;It continued to rise and to roar and to rage;It had gotten a start, and it now seemed too lateFor the great dancing master to check or abate.He realized that he had been in the wrongTo neglect to attend to the flood for so long.“At first I had seemed to enjoy it,” he said,“But, like dancing, the fiddler will have to be paid;Still, ’tis better,” said he, “not to let our hearts worry,For the flood will subside when it gets o’er its flurry.”Some complained that he’d uselessly raised their hope high,Then the “Oracle” said he would save them or die.He proposed that he build them a raft out of logs,And he worked for a while, but his fine dancing togsGot bedraggled—he’d fallen asprawl in the flood,Where he floundered around in the water and mud,Till they grappled him out. Oh! it seemed such a shame!He looked at his raiment, he spoke of his fame;He declared he just knew he looked worse than the houndThat had gone with the barn from the acre of ground.Then ev’ry one felt they had lost their last chance,Whilst the “Oracle” stood like a man in a trance—He had lost his fine book of dance-calls, with its verses,Morose from his losses, in silence or curses,He lamented the folly of building the raft,For misfortune had struck with a swift, heavy shaft,And his proud spirit broke when he saw that the floodHad bespattered his coat with the yellow clay mud.’Twas a humiliation, deserving compassion—Most people lose heart when they go out of fashion.So Simon, to comfort him, said, “Do not worry;The flood will subside when it gets o’er its flurry.”“And your rhymes,” said the wit, “They were mostly old rhymes;They were fine, to be sure, but ’tis better at timesTo write something new; on occasions like theseOne should write on the spot of the thing that he sees.”“For shame!” cried Neoma. She led him awayTo help the poor “Oracle” scrub off the clay;She rubbed him and scrubbed him and wheedled him ’round,Till he said he was glad that he didn’t get drowned.Now the house became flooded, and to the top floorThey were driven. In eddies the flood-waters toreAround through the hall and the parlor belowTill it burst through the windows to vent its o’erflow.The tuneful piano went waltzing aroundWith the tables for partners or what else it found,Till, dizzy at times, it would bump on the wall,When its vibrating strings gave a discordant brawlAs if in abandon it turned debauchéeTo sicken their heart with its sad revelry.They saw as they looked from the windows aboveThe bric-a-brac leaving, with emblems of love,An album, the old family Bible, and allOf Twilley’s fine pictures that hung on the wall.They saw them pass out of the windows below,Both single and double they filed in a rowOut into the world on the turbulent waveTo swim or to find there a watery grave;And last came that motto, the “God Bless Our Home,”Went floating away on the yellowish foam.That grieved the poor Twilley. He didn’t care muchFor pictures and albums or Bibles and such,But that “God Bless Our Home” was the pride of his heart;He always had thought it a piece of fine art;He had spent a whole Sunday in placing the shells,And had worked on it two or three days at odd spells—Smash! “Great Heavens!” asked Simon, “What can that all be?”“Oh, nothing,” said Twilley, “except a huge treeThat is raking its length ’gainst the house as it passesTo break a few more of the front window glasses.”Day and night they had kept the tired vigil while waiting,And hoping the waters would soon be abating;But nearer and nearer the high waters roseA space at a time as a risin’ flood grows;And if they were hungry, they thought not of that;If they wanted for sleep, still, they wide-awake sat.They feared that some madness would seize them while there,For they felt a great dreading of something so direThat menaced and seemed like the haunting of fate,And frowned with a visage as ugly as hate.The threats of the weak brought alarm to the stronger,For to some the suspense was unbearable longer,And a murmur was heard of a way that was brief,To end all in a plunge that would bring a relief;From the tense agony and the painful delayOf a hope against hope through the night and the day;For although it is true, there is hope while there’s breath,Still some rush to death while the endisbut death,As though anguish of thought finds its only surceaseTo yield quickly to death and its certain release.
But the flood was too big for one man to assuage;It continued to rise and to roar and to rage;It had gotten a start, and it now seemed too lateFor the great dancing master to check or abate.He realized that he had been in the wrongTo neglect to attend to the flood for so long.“At first I had seemed to enjoy it,” he said,“But, like dancing, the fiddler will have to be paid;Still, ’tis better,” said he, “not to let our hearts worry,For the flood will subside when it gets o’er its flurry.”Some complained that he’d uselessly raised their hope high,Then the “Oracle” said he would save them or die.He proposed that he build them a raft out of logs,And he worked for a while, but his fine dancing togsGot bedraggled—he’d fallen asprawl in the flood,Where he floundered around in the water and mud,Till they grappled him out. Oh! it seemed such a shame!He looked at his raiment, he spoke of his fame;He declared he just knew he looked worse than the houndThat had gone with the barn from the acre of ground.Then ev’ry one felt they had lost their last chance,Whilst the “Oracle” stood like a man in a trance—He had lost his fine book of dance-calls, with its verses,Morose from his losses, in silence or curses,He lamented the folly of building the raft,For misfortune had struck with a swift, heavy shaft,And his proud spirit broke when he saw that the floodHad bespattered his coat with the yellow clay mud.’Twas a humiliation, deserving compassion—Most people lose heart when they go out of fashion.So Simon, to comfort him, said, “Do not worry;The flood will subside when it gets o’er its flurry.”“And your rhymes,” said the wit, “They were mostly old rhymes;They were fine, to be sure, but ’tis better at timesTo write something new; on occasions like theseOne should write on the spot of the thing that he sees.”“For shame!” cried Neoma. She led him awayTo help the poor “Oracle” scrub off the clay;She rubbed him and scrubbed him and wheedled him ’round,Till he said he was glad that he didn’t get drowned.Now the house became flooded, and to the top floorThey were driven. In eddies the flood-waters toreAround through the hall and the parlor belowTill it burst through the windows to vent its o’erflow.The tuneful piano went waltzing aroundWith the tables for partners or what else it found,Till, dizzy at times, it would bump on the wall,When its vibrating strings gave a discordant brawlAs if in abandon it turned debauchéeTo sicken their heart with its sad revelry.They saw as they looked from the windows aboveThe bric-a-brac leaving, with emblems of love,An album, the old family Bible, and allOf Twilley’s fine pictures that hung on the wall.They saw them pass out of the windows below,Both single and double they filed in a rowOut into the world on the turbulent waveTo swim or to find there a watery grave;And last came that motto, the “God Bless Our Home,”Went floating away on the yellowish foam.That grieved the poor Twilley. He didn’t care muchFor pictures and albums or Bibles and such,But that “God Bless Our Home” was the pride of his heart;He always had thought it a piece of fine art;He had spent a whole Sunday in placing the shells,And had worked on it two or three days at odd spells—Smash! “Great Heavens!” asked Simon, “What can that all be?”“Oh, nothing,” said Twilley, “except a huge treeThat is raking its length ’gainst the house as it passesTo break a few more of the front window glasses.”Day and night they had kept the tired vigil while waiting,And hoping the waters would soon be abating;But nearer and nearer the high waters roseA space at a time as a risin’ flood grows;And if they were hungry, they thought not of that;If they wanted for sleep, still, they wide-awake sat.They feared that some madness would seize them while there,For they felt a great dreading of something so direThat menaced and seemed like the haunting of fate,And frowned with a visage as ugly as hate.The threats of the weak brought alarm to the stronger,For to some the suspense was unbearable longer,And a murmur was heard of a way that was brief,To end all in a plunge that would bring a relief;From the tense agony and the painful delayOf a hope against hope through the night and the day;For although it is true, there is hope while there’s breath,Still some rush to death while the endisbut death,As though anguish of thought finds its only surceaseTo yield quickly to death and its certain release.
But the flood was too big for one man to assuage;It continued to rise and to roar and to rage;It had gotten a start, and it now seemed too lateFor the great dancing master to check or abate.He realized that he had been in the wrongTo neglect to attend to the flood for so long.“At first I had seemed to enjoy it,” he said,“But, like dancing, the fiddler will have to be paid;Still, ’tis better,” said he, “not to let our hearts worry,For the flood will subside when it gets o’er its flurry.”
But the flood was too big for one man to assuage;
It continued to rise and to roar and to rage;
It had gotten a start, and it now seemed too late
For the great dancing master to check or abate.
He realized that he had been in the wrong
To neglect to attend to the flood for so long.
“At first I had seemed to enjoy it,” he said,
“But, like dancing, the fiddler will have to be paid;
Still, ’tis better,” said he, “not to let our hearts worry,
For the flood will subside when it gets o’er its flurry.”
Some complained that he’d uselessly raised their hope high,Then the “Oracle” said he would save them or die.He proposed that he build them a raft out of logs,And he worked for a while, but his fine dancing togsGot bedraggled—he’d fallen asprawl in the flood,Where he floundered around in the water and mud,Till they grappled him out. Oh! it seemed such a shame!He looked at his raiment, he spoke of his fame;He declared he just knew he looked worse than the houndThat had gone with the barn from the acre of ground.
Some complained that he’d uselessly raised their hope high,
Then the “Oracle” said he would save them or die.
He proposed that he build them a raft out of logs,
And he worked for a while, but his fine dancing togs
Got bedraggled—he’d fallen asprawl in the flood,
Where he floundered around in the water and mud,
Till they grappled him out. Oh! it seemed such a shame!
He looked at his raiment, he spoke of his fame;
He declared he just knew he looked worse than the hound
That had gone with the barn from the acre of ground.
Then ev’ry one felt they had lost their last chance,Whilst the “Oracle” stood like a man in a trance—He had lost his fine book of dance-calls, with its verses,Morose from his losses, in silence or curses,He lamented the folly of building the raft,For misfortune had struck with a swift, heavy shaft,And his proud spirit broke when he saw that the floodHad bespattered his coat with the yellow clay mud.’Twas a humiliation, deserving compassion—Most people lose heart when they go out of fashion.
Then ev’ry one felt they had lost their last chance,
Whilst the “Oracle” stood like a man in a trance—
He had lost his fine book of dance-calls, with its verses,
Morose from his losses, in silence or curses,
He lamented the folly of building the raft,
For misfortune had struck with a swift, heavy shaft,
And his proud spirit broke when he saw that the flood
Had bespattered his coat with the yellow clay mud.
’Twas a humiliation, deserving compassion—
Most people lose heart when they go out of fashion.
So Simon, to comfort him, said, “Do not worry;The flood will subside when it gets o’er its flurry.”“And your rhymes,” said the wit, “They were mostly old rhymes;They were fine, to be sure, but ’tis better at timesTo write something new; on occasions like theseOne should write on the spot of the thing that he sees.”“For shame!” cried Neoma. She led him awayTo help the poor “Oracle” scrub off the clay;She rubbed him and scrubbed him and wheedled him ’round,Till he said he was glad that he didn’t get drowned.
So Simon, to comfort him, said, “Do not worry;
The flood will subside when it gets o’er its flurry.”
“And your rhymes,” said the wit, “They were mostly old rhymes;
They were fine, to be sure, but ’tis better at times
To write something new; on occasions like these
One should write on the spot of the thing that he sees.”
“For shame!” cried Neoma. She led him away
To help the poor “Oracle” scrub off the clay;
She rubbed him and scrubbed him and wheedled him ’round,
Till he said he was glad that he didn’t get drowned.
Now the house became flooded, and to the top floorThey were driven. In eddies the flood-waters toreAround through the hall and the parlor belowTill it burst through the windows to vent its o’erflow.The tuneful piano went waltzing aroundWith the tables for partners or what else it found,Till, dizzy at times, it would bump on the wall,When its vibrating strings gave a discordant brawlAs if in abandon it turned debauchéeTo sicken their heart with its sad revelry.
Now the house became flooded, and to the top floor
They were driven. In eddies the flood-waters tore
Around through the hall and the parlor below
Till it burst through the windows to vent its o’erflow.
The tuneful piano went waltzing around
With the tables for partners or what else it found,
Till, dizzy at times, it would bump on the wall,
When its vibrating strings gave a discordant brawl
As if in abandon it turned debauchée
To sicken their heart with its sad revelry.
They saw as they looked from the windows aboveThe bric-a-brac leaving, with emblems of love,An album, the old family Bible, and allOf Twilley’s fine pictures that hung on the wall.They saw them pass out of the windows below,Both single and double they filed in a rowOut into the world on the turbulent waveTo swim or to find there a watery grave;And last came that motto, the “God Bless Our Home,”Went floating away on the yellowish foam.
They saw as they looked from the windows above
The bric-a-brac leaving, with emblems of love,
An album, the old family Bible, and all
Of Twilley’s fine pictures that hung on the wall.
They saw them pass out of the windows below,
Both single and double they filed in a row
Out into the world on the turbulent wave
To swim or to find there a watery grave;
And last came that motto, the “God Bless Our Home,”
Went floating away on the yellowish foam.
That grieved the poor Twilley. He didn’t care muchFor pictures and albums or Bibles and such,But that “God Bless Our Home” was the pride of his heart;He always had thought it a piece of fine art;He had spent a whole Sunday in placing the shells,And had worked on it two or three days at odd spells—Smash! “Great Heavens!” asked Simon, “What can that all be?”“Oh, nothing,” said Twilley, “except a huge treeThat is raking its length ’gainst the house as it passesTo break a few more of the front window glasses.”
That grieved the poor Twilley. He didn’t care much
For pictures and albums or Bibles and such,
But that “God Bless Our Home” was the pride of his heart;
He always had thought it a piece of fine art;
He had spent a whole Sunday in placing the shells,
And had worked on it two or three days at odd spells—
Smash! “Great Heavens!” asked Simon, “What can that all be?”
“Oh, nothing,” said Twilley, “except a huge tree
That is raking its length ’gainst the house as it passes
To break a few more of the front window glasses.”
Day and night they had kept the tired vigil while waiting,And hoping the waters would soon be abating;But nearer and nearer the high waters roseA space at a time as a risin’ flood grows;And if they were hungry, they thought not of that;If they wanted for sleep, still, they wide-awake sat.They feared that some madness would seize them while there,For they felt a great dreading of something so direThat menaced and seemed like the haunting of fate,And frowned with a visage as ugly as hate.
Day and night they had kept the tired vigil while waiting,
And hoping the waters would soon be abating;
But nearer and nearer the high waters rose
A space at a time as a risin’ flood grows;
And if they were hungry, they thought not of that;
If they wanted for sleep, still, they wide-awake sat.
They feared that some madness would seize them while there,
For they felt a great dreading of something so dire
That menaced and seemed like the haunting of fate,
And frowned with a visage as ugly as hate.
The threats of the weak brought alarm to the stronger,For to some the suspense was unbearable longer,And a murmur was heard of a way that was brief,To end all in a plunge that would bring a relief;From the tense agony and the painful delayOf a hope against hope through the night and the day;For although it is true, there is hope while there’s breath,Still some rush to death while the endisbut death,As though anguish of thought finds its only surceaseTo yield quickly to death and its certain release.
The threats of the weak brought alarm to the stronger,
For to some the suspense was unbearable longer,
And a murmur was heard of a way that was brief,
To end all in a plunge that would bring a relief;
From the tense agony and the painful delay
Of a hope against hope through the night and the day;
For although it is true, there is hope while there’s breath,
Still some rush to death while the endisbut death,
As though anguish of thought finds its only surcease
To yield quickly to death and its certain release.
Lord, help us and save us; we ask for no crown,But we do want the house till the flood shall go down.
Lord, help us and save us; we ask for no crown,But we do want the house till the flood shall go down.
Lord, help us and save us; we ask for no crown,
But we do want the house till the flood shall go down.
For it seemed there were few who had thought from the firstThat the flood would go on till it came to the worst:The Cynic sat anxious, with face blanching white,His tremors betraying the state of his fright;The wit, who had jabbered his thin airy gibes,Now turned him to whining in whimpering dribes;And minus the old-time bravado he wore,Was the “Oracle” nervously pacing the floor.They were all much alike as they thought of their fate,But they counseled each other to stay there and wait.In the room where they danced on the evening beforeThe water was slushing above the hall door.It had followed them there as they moved up above,Persistently followed—they felt the house move!Their hearts then stood still, and the “Oracle” said,“Let us pray;” so the dancers knelt down while he prayed,As only a helpless, dependent one can.He ended his prayer in the way he began—“Lord help us and save us! We asked for no crown,But we do want the house till the flood should go down.”His praying seemed awkward to some, it is true,But the most of them thought that perhaps it would do,For the house was still standing when prayer was through,Still, they heard the house creaking—’twas leaning some, too—Then a yellow wave came with a swell, and it madeThe house groan as it turned half around, but it stayedFor a moment to get its true bearings just right,Then it plunged till the top floor alone was in sight,And swiftly it sped as it whirled down the stream,Sans captain or pilot, sans rudder or steam.And once the house tilted when bumping groundTill very far listed, but righted around;Then the smashing of timbers that made their hearts ache,And the strained and warped floors that seemed ready to breakMade them shudder and fly when the waters would swirlAs ever and ever they sped in a whirl,And the world seemed unsteady with nothing to stayWhile the hills flew in circles a distance away,And they all but gave up to the fate that had frownedAs they went with the house from the acre of ground.They were dumb. Not a soul but had ceased to complain;They felt they were doomed, and to struggle was vain.Some covered their faces and muffled their ears;Some trembled and shook as with palsy from fears.Like children they clung to each other and waitedIn terror and silence, as if they were fated,Or looked at each other wild-eyed and in wonder,And hurdling together were thrown asunderBy the surging and swirling of onrushing water,And were pent up and helpless as lambs for the slaughter.Then the dark moment passed and a hope came again;It came like the smile of the sun through the rain,For the current had turned and toward the south veering,They could see, with a joy, that the hills they were nearing;And the house was now slowing as onward it bore,While people came running to meet them on shore,As nearer and nearer the house-boat had veered,Where were all of the town folks who heard and had fearedThey were lost, and among them the care-worn mothers,The anxious old fathers and sisters and brothers.Then out from the shore came the same dinky “John”That the trusting old fiddler had rode away on,And strange though it seemed, there was Dan in the boatThat had weathered the storms and was still there afloat.Then the cheers of the dancers rang out to the shore,And ev’ry eye swam with the tears that it bore.The “Oracle” suddenly came to life, too,As often ’tis found where there’s hope people do;He shouted and waved with the wildest delight,When the recognized forms of his friends came in sight.He cried, “Oh, we’ve all had a lark of a time!We’ve been up to Twilley’s to dance to my rhyme,And water-bound there since we left the old town,We have danced day and night, and the most the way down;We grew tired of the place, and we thought we’d come home.All the dancers are with us—they wanted to come.As the stream was rough swimming and too deep to wade,We concluded to come on the trip the house made.How’s the folks at Dinwiddie? There’s no use to worry,The flood will subside when it gets o’er its flurry.”Though the moments had seemed to the dancers so frightened,Like so many hours, yet their hearts were so lightenedWith hope, that they took the bed-slats and rowed onWith a strange, nervous strength that seemed hardly their own,After all of the trials through which they had gone,And the dauntless bass-fiddler rowed swiftly the “John,”To help them to land near the dancers’ own town,Where some cried, and some danced with the crowds that came down,And many gave thanks with a quivering lip—They were safe! They were safe! from the perilous trip.There the house that the dancers had come in was moored,Where the tale of its marvelous venture still luredThe thousands long after the flood had declined,Till piece-meal from vandals and weather combined,It fell to decay, or was carried away.’Twas a favorite pastime on any fine dayFor the thoughtless to waltz through the house with a songAnd leaving to carry a relic along,Until nothing was left of the house that withstoodThe perils that came with the eighty-four flood.The tall trees are standing, still standing alone,Where they whisper each other the nights they have known,And if they seem lonely without the old house,Yet the birds in the evenings go there to carouse.There they chatter and sing in their merriest lay,And, like dancers, choose partners in much the same way;And the boatmen will tell how they sometimes have heardThere the singing of songs—not the notes of a bird—As though festive, gay spirits still hovered around,Late, late in the night on the acre of ground.
For it seemed there were few who had thought from the firstThat the flood would go on till it came to the worst:The Cynic sat anxious, with face blanching white,His tremors betraying the state of his fright;The wit, who had jabbered his thin airy gibes,Now turned him to whining in whimpering dribes;And minus the old-time bravado he wore,Was the “Oracle” nervously pacing the floor.They were all much alike as they thought of their fate,But they counseled each other to stay there and wait.In the room where they danced on the evening beforeThe water was slushing above the hall door.It had followed them there as they moved up above,Persistently followed—they felt the house move!Their hearts then stood still, and the “Oracle” said,“Let us pray;” so the dancers knelt down while he prayed,As only a helpless, dependent one can.He ended his prayer in the way he began—“Lord help us and save us! We asked for no crown,But we do want the house till the flood should go down.”His praying seemed awkward to some, it is true,But the most of them thought that perhaps it would do,For the house was still standing when prayer was through,Still, they heard the house creaking—’twas leaning some, too—Then a yellow wave came with a swell, and it madeThe house groan as it turned half around, but it stayedFor a moment to get its true bearings just right,Then it plunged till the top floor alone was in sight,And swiftly it sped as it whirled down the stream,Sans captain or pilot, sans rudder or steam.And once the house tilted when bumping groundTill very far listed, but righted around;Then the smashing of timbers that made their hearts ache,And the strained and warped floors that seemed ready to breakMade them shudder and fly when the waters would swirlAs ever and ever they sped in a whirl,And the world seemed unsteady with nothing to stayWhile the hills flew in circles a distance away,And they all but gave up to the fate that had frownedAs they went with the house from the acre of ground.They were dumb. Not a soul but had ceased to complain;They felt they were doomed, and to struggle was vain.Some covered their faces and muffled their ears;Some trembled and shook as with palsy from fears.Like children they clung to each other and waitedIn terror and silence, as if they were fated,Or looked at each other wild-eyed and in wonder,And hurdling together were thrown asunderBy the surging and swirling of onrushing water,And were pent up and helpless as lambs for the slaughter.Then the dark moment passed and a hope came again;It came like the smile of the sun through the rain,For the current had turned and toward the south veering,They could see, with a joy, that the hills they were nearing;And the house was now slowing as onward it bore,While people came running to meet them on shore,As nearer and nearer the house-boat had veered,Where were all of the town folks who heard and had fearedThey were lost, and among them the care-worn mothers,The anxious old fathers and sisters and brothers.Then out from the shore came the same dinky “John”That the trusting old fiddler had rode away on,And strange though it seemed, there was Dan in the boatThat had weathered the storms and was still there afloat.Then the cheers of the dancers rang out to the shore,And ev’ry eye swam with the tears that it bore.The “Oracle” suddenly came to life, too,As often ’tis found where there’s hope people do;He shouted and waved with the wildest delight,When the recognized forms of his friends came in sight.He cried, “Oh, we’ve all had a lark of a time!We’ve been up to Twilley’s to dance to my rhyme,And water-bound there since we left the old town,We have danced day and night, and the most the way down;We grew tired of the place, and we thought we’d come home.All the dancers are with us—they wanted to come.As the stream was rough swimming and too deep to wade,We concluded to come on the trip the house made.How’s the folks at Dinwiddie? There’s no use to worry,The flood will subside when it gets o’er its flurry.”Though the moments had seemed to the dancers so frightened,Like so many hours, yet their hearts were so lightenedWith hope, that they took the bed-slats and rowed onWith a strange, nervous strength that seemed hardly their own,After all of the trials through which they had gone,And the dauntless bass-fiddler rowed swiftly the “John,”To help them to land near the dancers’ own town,Where some cried, and some danced with the crowds that came down,And many gave thanks with a quivering lip—They were safe! They were safe! from the perilous trip.There the house that the dancers had come in was moored,Where the tale of its marvelous venture still luredThe thousands long after the flood had declined,Till piece-meal from vandals and weather combined,It fell to decay, or was carried away.’Twas a favorite pastime on any fine dayFor the thoughtless to waltz through the house with a songAnd leaving to carry a relic along,Until nothing was left of the house that withstoodThe perils that came with the eighty-four flood.The tall trees are standing, still standing alone,Where they whisper each other the nights they have known,And if they seem lonely without the old house,Yet the birds in the evenings go there to carouse.There they chatter and sing in their merriest lay,And, like dancers, choose partners in much the same way;And the boatmen will tell how they sometimes have heardThere the singing of songs—not the notes of a bird—As though festive, gay spirits still hovered around,Late, late in the night on the acre of ground.
For it seemed there were few who had thought from the firstThat the flood would go on till it came to the worst:The Cynic sat anxious, with face blanching white,His tremors betraying the state of his fright;The wit, who had jabbered his thin airy gibes,Now turned him to whining in whimpering dribes;And minus the old-time bravado he wore,Was the “Oracle” nervously pacing the floor.They were all much alike as they thought of their fate,But they counseled each other to stay there and wait.
For it seemed there were few who had thought from the first
That the flood would go on till it came to the worst:
The Cynic sat anxious, with face blanching white,
His tremors betraying the state of his fright;
The wit, who had jabbered his thin airy gibes,
Now turned him to whining in whimpering dribes;
And minus the old-time bravado he wore,
Was the “Oracle” nervously pacing the floor.
They were all much alike as they thought of their fate,
But they counseled each other to stay there and wait.
In the room where they danced on the evening beforeThe water was slushing above the hall door.It had followed them there as they moved up above,Persistently followed—they felt the house move!Their hearts then stood still, and the “Oracle” said,“Let us pray;” so the dancers knelt down while he prayed,As only a helpless, dependent one can.He ended his prayer in the way he began—“Lord help us and save us! We asked for no crown,But we do want the house till the flood should go down.”
In the room where they danced on the evening before
The water was slushing above the hall door.
It had followed them there as they moved up above,
Persistently followed—they felt the house move!
Their hearts then stood still, and the “Oracle” said,
“Let us pray;” so the dancers knelt down while he prayed,
As only a helpless, dependent one can.
He ended his prayer in the way he began—
“Lord help us and save us! We asked for no crown,
But we do want the house till the flood should go down.”
His praying seemed awkward to some, it is true,But the most of them thought that perhaps it would do,For the house was still standing when prayer was through,Still, they heard the house creaking—’twas leaning some, too—Then a yellow wave came with a swell, and it madeThe house groan as it turned half around, but it stayedFor a moment to get its true bearings just right,Then it plunged till the top floor alone was in sight,And swiftly it sped as it whirled down the stream,Sans captain or pilot, sans rudder or steam.
His praying seemed awkward to some, it is true,
But the most of them thought that perhaps it would do,
For the house was still standing when prayer was through,
Still, they heard the house creaking—’twas leaning some, too—
Then a yellow wave came with a swell, and it made
The house groan as it turned half around, but it stayed
For a moment to get its true bearings just right,
Then it plunged till the top floor alone was in sight,
And swiftly it sped as it whirled down the stream,
Sans captain or pilot, sans rudder or steam.
And once the house tilted when bumping groundTill very far listed, but righted around;Then the smashing of timbers that made their hearts ache,And the strained and warped floors that seemed ready to breakMade them shudder and fly when the waters would swirlAs ever and ever they sped in a whirl,And the world seemed unsteady with nothing to stayWhile the hills flew in circles a distance away,And they all but gave up to the fate that had frownedAs they went with the house from the acre of ground.
And once the house tilted when bumping ground
Till very far listed, but righted around;
Then the smashing of timbers that made their hearts ache,
And the strained and warped floors that seemed ready to break
Made them shudder and fly when the waters would swirl
As ever and ever they sped in a whirl,
And the world seemed unsteady with nothing to stay
While the hills flew in circles a distance away,
And they all but gave up to the fate that had frowned
As they went with the house from the acre of ground.
They were dumb. Not a soul but had ceased to complain;They felt they were doomed, and to struggle was vain.Some covered their faces and muffled their ears;Some trembled and shook as with palsy from fears.Like children they clung to each other and waitedIn terror and silence, as if they were fated,Or looked at each other wild-eyed and in wonder,And hurdling together were thrown asunderBy the surging and swirling of onrushing water,And were pent up and helpless as lambs for the slaughter.
They were dumb. Not a soul but had ceased to complain;
They felt they were doomed, and to struggle was vain.
Some covered their faces and muffled their ears;
Some trembled and shook as with palsy from fears.
Like children they clung to each other and waited
In terror and silence, as if they were fated,
Or looked at each other wild-eyed and in wonder,
And hurdling together were thrown asunder
By the surging and swirling of onrushing water,
And were pent up and helpless as lambs for the slaughter.
Then the dark moment passed and a hope came again;It came like the smile of the sun through the rain,For the current had turned and toward the south veering,They could see, with a joy, that the hills they were nearing;And the house was now slowing as onward it bore,While people came running to meet them on shore,As nearer and nearer the house-boat had veered,Where were all of the town folks who heard and had fearedThey were lost, and among them the care-worn mothers,The anxious old fathers and sisters and brothers.
Then the dark moment passed and a hope came again;
It came like the smile of the sun through the rain,
For the current had turned and toward the south veering,
They could see, with a joy, that the hills they were nearing;
And the house was now slowing as onward it bore,
While people came running to meet them on shore,
As nearer and nearer the house-boat had veered,
Where were all of the town folks who heard and had feared
They were lost, and among them the care-worn mothers,
The anxious old fathers and sisters and brothers.
Then out from the shore came the same dinky “John”That the trusting old fiddler had rode away on,And strange though it seemed, there was Dan in the boatThat had weathered the storms and was still there afloat.Then the cheers of the dancers rang out to the shore,And ev’ry eye swam with the tears that it bore.The “Oracle” suddenly came to life, too,As often ’tis found where there’s hope people do;He shouted and waved with the wildest delight,When the recognized forms of his friends came in sight.
Then out from the shore came the same dinky “John”
That the trusting old fiddler had rode away on,
And strange though it seemed, there was Dan in the boat
That had weathered the storms and was still there afloat.
Then the cheers of the dancers rang out to the shore,
And ev’ry eye swam with the tears that it bore.
The “Oracle” suddenly came to life, too,
As often ’tis found where there’s hope people do;
He shouted and waved with the wildest delight,
When the recognized forms of his friends came in sight.
He cried, “Oh, we’ve all had a lark of a time!We’ve been up to Twilley’s to dance to my rhyme,And water-bound there since we left the old town,We have danced day and night, and the most the way down;We grew tired of the place, and we thought we’d come home.All the dancers are with us—they wanted to come.As the stream was rough swimming and too deep to wade,We concluded to come on the trip the house made.How’s the folks at Dinwiddie? There’s no use to worry,The flood will subside when it gets o’er its flurry.”
He cried, “Oh, we’ve all had a lark of a time!
We’ve been up to Twilley’s to dance to my rhyme,
And water-bound there since we left the old town,
We have danced day and night, and the most the way down;
We grew tired of the place, and we thought we’d come home.
All the dancers are with us—they wanted to come.
As the stream was rough swimming and too deep to wade,
We concluded to come on the trip the house made.
How’s the folks at Dinwiddie? There’s no use to worry,
The flood will subside when it gets o’er its flurry.”
Though the moments had seemed to the dancers so frightened,Like so many hours, yet their hearts were so lightenedWith hope, that they took the bed-slats and rowed onWith a strange, nervous strength that seemed hardly their own,After all of the trials through which they had gone,And the dauntless bass-fiddler rowed swiftly the “John,”To help them to land near the dancers’ own town,Where some cried, and some danced with the crowds that came down,And many gave thanks with a quivering lip—They were safe! They were safe! from the perilous trip.
Though the moments had seemed to the dancers so frightened,
Like so many hours, yet their hearts were so lightened
With hope, that they took the bed-slats and rowed on
With a strange, nervous strength that seemed hardly their own,
After all of the trials through which they had gone,
And the dauntless bass-fiddler rowed swiftly the “John,”
To help them to land near the dancers’ own town,
Where some cried, and some danced with the crowds that came down,
And many gave thanks with a quivering lip—
They were safe! They were safe! from the perilous trip.
There the house that the dancers had come in was moored,Where the tale of its marvelous venture still luredThe thousands long after the flood had declined,Till piece-meal from vandals and weather combined,It fell to decay, or was carried away.’Twas a favorite pastime on any fine dayFor the thoughtless to waltz through the house with a songAnd leaving to carry a relic along,Until nothing was left of the house that withstoodThe perils that came with the eighty-four flood.
There the house that the dancers had come in was moored,
Where the tale of its marvelous venture still lured
The thousands long after the flood had declined,
Till piece-meal from vandals and weather combined,
It fell to decay, or was carried away.
’Twas a favorite pastime on any fine day
For the thoughtless to waltz through the house with a song
And leaving to carry a relic along,
Until nothing was left of the house that withstood
The perils that came with the eighty-four flood.
The tall trees are standing, still standing alone,Where they whisper each other the nights they have known,And if they seem lonely without the old house,Yet the birds in the evenings go there to carouse.There they chatter and sing in their merriest lay,And, like dancers, choose partners in much the same way;And the boatmen will tell how they sometimes have heardThere the singing of songs—not the notes of a bird—As though festive, gay spirits still hovered around,Late, late in the night on the acre of ground.
The tall trees are standing, still standing alone,
Where they whisper each other the nights they have known,
And if they seem lonely without the old house,
Yet the birds in the evenings go there to carouse.
There they chatter and sing in their merriest lay,
And, like dancers, choose partners in much the same way;
And the boatmen will tell how they sometimes have heard
There the singing of songs—not the notes of a bird—
As though festive, gay spirits still hovered around,
Late, late in the night on the acre of ground.