THE HOUSE
Almost like a shrine, it stood,
A house of elegance and
class,
Older than a century,
A valued treasure from the past.
A structure of another culture,
Wisteria and Jasmine
gowned,
Ginger-breaded cupolas,
A broad porch that wrapped around.
Tall, red chimneys - more than one,
Suggesting warm and
cheery rooms,
With fireplaces, crackling, dancing,
Dispelling any thoughts
of gloom.
Sparkling, crystal chandeliers,
Peeking through the window
panes,
And in the evenings, often heard
Faint and gentle music
strains.
Stately, large, high-ceilinged rooms,
Almost too many to
keep track,
With handsome, tasteful furniture,
Smartly stained - richly
waxed.
If given the power of speech,
Oh, the tales this house
could tell,
But now it just stirs fantasies,
Which, perhaps, is just as
well.
For I can visualize and see,
Another era - another
time,
When the house was newly built,
And everything was 'oh, so
fine.'
With a family of gentility,
Of honor and
respect,
Devoted first of all to God,
Then to land and country next.
I see strong, young men in uniform,
Blowing farewell kisses
towards the porch,
And tearful ladies waving back,
As each man rides off
upon his horse.
I see brothers fighting brothers,
In a most awful Civil
War,
Protecting homes and families
And all that they adore.
Some men were lost; some men survived,
Some homes destroyed
beyond repair,
Other men and homes untouched,
Although all had scars to
bear.
I would guess this house so splendid,
Which now is such a
joy to see,
Was once a bloody battle ground,
It's just a guess ... looks
do deceive.
See that window in the tower,
I'll bet that's where the
look-out stayed,
From there he'd see for miles around,
And know which
ships were in the bay.
Check the flooring at the entry,
One section's totally
replaced,
Charred clear through by a rebel's torch,
When trying to burn
down the place.
And those posts now wreathed with flowers
Once held
muskets, fully charged,
Aimed by the ladies of the house,
Trained on
intruders in their yard.
In the cellar, secret rooms,
Used to hide escaping
slaves,
Behind that bush, an obscure exit,
Which got them out and on their
way.
Now you see a well-kept lawn,
Where once a powerful cannon
sat,
The whole house shook when it went off,
Responding to the foe's
attack.
From that tree, they hung a traitor,
I'm sure, a gruesome
sight to see,
The tree today is still intact,
Though taller now and fully
leaved.
Brush those vines back from the porch,
And bullet holes
appear,
And next to them, well scrubbed, of course,
Are ugly, bloodied
smears.
Most scars, it seems, well covered-up,
Not seen by gawking
folks,
Who only stand and look in awe,
At a lovely home on a gentle
slope.
Serenity personified,
Such a quiet, peaceful place,
No
one sure of its history,
But, my, how minds can race.
Oh, beautiful house of dubious past,
You challenge the
minds of men,
You tease their dreams and fantasies,
Over and over
again.
Virginia (Ginny) Ellis
Copyright June
2004 ~ Updated 2008
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The midi file is "Southern Women," played so beautifully by Margi Harrell.
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