28
"The Oldest House"
By the Rev. Phebe A. Hanaford 'Twas the year of grace in Salem town, Where the witches gain their world renown, Where the ghostly sights on Gallows Hill Made memories dread that haunt it still, That a sturdy yeoman of honest fame, And bearing a fair ancestral name, Built the old house that stands to-day, Though centuries long have passed away. Scarred and brown and wrinkled and bare, The old, old house, so worn and rare, On its chimney holds a great horseshoe, Built of flint hard bricks as firm as new. When the world was younger by ten score years, Ere it shared in the new-born hopes and fears Of the Coffyns, Macys and Gardners true, And of others like them with blood as blue. Their children scattered o'er the world so wide; Their numbers like the sand of the ocean side; Their names oft blended with many a name, That shines today on the scroll of fame; Emblazoned there for the deeds so high, Or words so true that they will not die. How dear to such hearts is the island fair, With its treasured memories clinging there! Relic of the legendary past, Long may its great oak timbers last! Awaken once more from its dreamless sleep, It has to our hearts an interest deep. The voice of the past through each low room sounds, The laughter of children in fancy resounds, And we think of our forefathers youthful and gay, In the joyous young prime of their own happy day. They loved and they played, and in wisdom they grew, As tiie long silent voices on earth were then new; And childhood was glad in those days as today, And manhood had aims, love's sceptre its sway, And the ties that are holy and blessed and sweet, Bound heart unto heart with reciprocal beat; And the mother love lasted as mother love can, 'Till silver locks crowned each woman and man.
