The Clopton Chronicles

A Project of the Clopton Family Genealogical Society

 

 

 

THE SOUTHERN HOMES IN RUIN

By R. B. Vance, of North Carolina[1]

 

Many a gray-haired sire has died,

                As falls the oak, to rise no more,

Because his son, his prop, his pride,

                Breathed out his last all red with gore.

No more on earth, at morn, at eve,

                Shall age and youth, entwined as one-

Nor father, son, for either grieve-

                Life’s work, alas, for both is done!

 

Many a mother’s heart has bled

                While gazing on her darling child,

As in its tiny eyes she read

                The father’s image, kind and mild;

For ne’er again his voice will cheer

The widowed heart, which mourns him dead;

Nor kisses dry the scaling tear,

Fast falling on the orphan’s head!

 

Many a little form will stray

                Adown the glen and o’er the hill,

And watch, with wistful looks, the way

                For him whose step is missing still;

And when the twilight steals apace

                O’er mead, and brook, and lonely home,

And shadows cloud the dear, sweet face-

                The cry will be, “Oh, papa, come!”

 

 

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