About Công Văn
The golden, climbing jasmine grows
Along the bright, clear Ouachita:
On each bewildered wind that blows,
Its sweet perfume there overflows,
And, eddying, floats afar.
It is a wild, sweet, simple flower,
Each leaf a glossy evergreen,—
And when the spring-rains softly shower,
Its jewelled ringlets, gold and green,
Float on the charmed air, between
The stately trees, that overlean
The sunny Ouachita.
Up each tall oak and sturdy ash,
And elm, along the Onachita,
Where dew-drops on the thick leaves plash,
Its flowers like beauty's glad eyes flash,
Each a bright golden star,—
Tempting the mad bees there to roam,
Great misers, adding to their store
Of honey, in their hollow home,
In that great branching sycamore,
Around whose knees the waters roar,
A dozen centuries or more,
On sunny Ouachita.
I love its simple flowers that gleam
Along the silver Ouachita:
I love the bright, clear, dancing stream,
For there I dreamed a happy dream,
Brief, as all such dreams are.
I met my little ANNIE there,
A dear, sweet, lovely, blushing maid,
A flower as delicate and fair
As those I twined with each dark braid
Of glossy hair, while far we strayed,
Wrapt in the green trees' pleasant shade,
By sunny Ouachita.
Her soft eyes, and her angel face,
Like sunshine, blessed the Ouachita:
And blushing in my fond embrace,
With childlike innocence and grace,
Trusting, she wandered far.
There, hand in hand, and heart in heart,
Two souls together knit in one,
We lingered daily, loth to part,
Nor noticed, as the green world spun
Unceasingly around the sun,
Time's river swiftly by us run,
Like rapid Ouachita.
How fondly did her soft arms twine
Around me on the Ouachita!
Her sweet lips chastely pressed to mine,
Her brown eyes radiant and divine,—
Each brighter than a star.
She was my heart, my soul, my all;
I loved her dearer than my life;
And ere the autumn leaves should fall,
Shorn by the sharp frost's glittering knife,
I hoped, escaping the world's strife,
To make her my own darling wife,
On sunny Ouachita.
Sadly, Ah! sadly by me glide
Thy waters, clear, cold Ouachita!
My Annie, my betrothed bride,
That summer, sickened, drooped, and died!
My Heaven lost its star.
A prayer for me was on her lips,—
The last she ever uttered here;
Her sweet eyes, dark in death's eclipse,
For me still glittered with a tear:
Why could I not be with thee, dear,
Or know that thou wast dying, near
The sunny Ouachita?
Thy woods are green, thy flowers are bright,
Thy waters sparkle, Ouachita!
Thy glades still gleam with goldeu light;
But day to me is like a night
Moonless, without a star.
Dear Annie! while above thy grave
I sing this melancholy strain,
The wild-flowers that upon it wave
Are watered with my eyes' warm rain,
Yet does one happy thought remain:—
WE SHALL BE ONE IN HEAVEN AGAIN,
As ON THE OUACHITA.