On Chenoweth's Run.

I Thought of the road through the glen,     With its hawk's nest high in the pine;     With its rock, where the fox had his den,     'Mid tangles of sumach and vine,     Where she swore to be mine.     I thought of the creek and its banks,     Now glooming, now gleaming with sun;     The rustic bridge builded of planks,     The bridge over Chenoweth's Run,     Where I wooed her and won.     I thought of the house in the lane,     With its pinks and its sweet mignonette;     Its fence and the gate with the chain,     Its porch where the roses hung wet,     Where I kissed her and met.     Then I thought of the family graves,     Walled rudely with stone, in the West,     Where the sorrowful cedar-tree waves,     And the wind is a spirit distressed,     Where they laid her to rest.     And my soul, overwhelmed with despair,     Cried out on the city and mart!     How I longed, how I longed to be there,     Away from the struggle and smart,     By her and my heart!     By her and my heart in the West,     Laid sadly together as one;     On her grave for a moment to rest,     Far away from the noise and the sun,     On Chenoweth's Run.