SELECT POETRY.

Mount Ida Chronicle, Volume II, Issue 129, 18 August 1871, Page 2

SELECT POETRY.

JIM BLCDSO, or the PRAIRIE BELLE. Wall, no ! I can't tell where he lives, Because he don't live, you see ; Leastways, he's got out of the habit Of livin' like you and me. Whar have you been for the last three year That you haven't heard folks tell How Jimmy Bludso passed in his checka, The night of the Prairie Belle. He weren't no saint—them engineers Is all pretty much alikeOne wife at Natchez-under-tlie-Hill, And another one here at Pike. A keerless man in his talk was Jim, And an awkward man in a row— But he never funked and he never lied, I reckon he never knowed how. And this was all the religion he had— To treat his engine well; Never be passed on the river ; To mind the pilot's bell ; And if ever the Prairie Belle took fire, A thousand times he Bwore He'd hold her nozzle agin the bank Till the last soul got ashore. All boats has their day on the Mississip, And her day come atj.ast— The Movastar was a better boat, But the Belle she wouldn't be passed, And so she came tearing along that night— The oldest craft on the line— With a nigger squat on'her safety-valve, and her furnace crammed, rosin and pine. The tire burst out as she cleared the bar, And burnt a hole in the night, And quick as a flash she turned, and made For that wilier-bank 011 the right. There was running and cursing, but Jim yelled out Over all the infernal roar, " I'll hold her nozzle agin the bank, Till the last gal get's ashore. Through the hot black breath of that burnin' boat Jim Bludso's voice yas heard ; And they all had tru'Jt in his cussedness, And knowed he would keep his word. And, sure's you're born, they all got off Afore the smokestack fell— And Bludso's ghost went up alone 111 the smoke of the Prairie Belle. He weren't no saint—but at judgment I'd run my chance with Jim, 'Longside of some pious gentlemen That wouldn't shook hands with him. He seen his duty, a dead sure thing, And went for it thar and then ; And Christ ain't a goin' to be too hard 011 a man that died for men. LONGING. Sweet days ! dear hours ! now lost to me for ever ; Ah ! happy youth and blooming time ; Come, blessed Fancy, through my bosom quiver, And bring me back in dreams my golden prime. Float nigh, thou morning with thy gleam and glory, That woo'd me forth upon my way ; Ah j then life seem'd a beautiful bright story, No care, no grief, to cloud the broadening Dear innocence of childhood, shine around me Lost paradise of sinless hours ; ' Sweet hope, how strong the ties to earth that bound me— That sunny earth, that wilderness of flowers. How did I fold ye warm in my embraces, Friends of my youth, true heart to heart! Where are ye all, dear old familiar faces That once in every frolic bore a part?' Ah ! many now the darksome grave encloses; Each slumbers in his mother's arm : ' Ye hollow cheeks, bloom bright again with roses! , Once more, ye cold hearts, quicken and grow warm ! In vain! in vain! my yearning cannot waken The dead ones where they lowly lie : Swift fade the flowers of life, by rude winds shaken, And we—we slowly wither when they die. 0 sweet fair land, where flowers for ever blossom, Where time and death are all unknown ! 0 sweet fair land, far in thy happy bosom, Thither my yearning heart would seek its own! What though before mine eyes dark shades assemble, This night of time will soon be o'er ;~ Thou restful land, how do I yearn and tremble To reach thy Sabbath on the golden shore.