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 its 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.