Legends and Memories of St John's Chapel -
Addressed to R. A. Riddick
by Major John W. Moore 

Part X - published in the Windsor Ledger Aug 24, 1899

Friend Bob, as I lonely sit
And think of the olden days,
My heart goes out to certain
Men deserving all our praise;
Men I knew well from my cradle,
Who went bravely through the fight
We all must wage down here below
In our search for the truth and light;
The light that leads from wrong and shame
And over-lives the slanderer's blame.

You can well imagine Bob,
How my heart reverts to those
Who were ever true and faithful
When the wrath of angry foes
Sought our injury and sorrow,
But were balked before the end,
And are sleeping now in regions
Where their meanness ought to mend;
God rest them all both friend and foes
In land where Peace eternal flows.

Alas for all our quarrels,
And hatreds so easy born
When our party divisions
Have asunder widely torn
Neighbors who before were friendly,
But in madness go astray
And malign so their opponents,
And the things they do not say;
How empty now seem ancient heats
Calling each other fools and cheats.

But after all, liberty
Is only born of toil and strife,
For Lands forever peaceful
Have no freedom in their life;
The men who live untrammelled lives
Are like the waves upon the sea,
They roar and are tempestuous
Or they healthful cease to be;
Only in struggle, heat and fire
Are men and nations lifted higher.

So again my own good friend,
Let us resume my long tale
Of the men and things of old,
But I fear that you will fail
To preserve your kind attention
If I spin on much longer,
For while your gracious courtesy
Couldn't possibly be stronger,
But each thing human has its limit
A tide too full no man could stem it.

But 'tis pleasant to recall
What we loved in former days
And we know that human hearts
Long to utter forth their praise
Of home and all its retinue,
When time and space have removed
Us from where in the days agone
We as boys were so well loved;
And so it is though far we roam
There's after all no place like home.

Good friend, that old home of mine!
Can I tell how dear to me
Were those thronging youthful days
I can yet the picture see
Of Love and Peace and flowing ease
In every happy soul,
While plenty crowned the happy scene
As the years would onward roll;
Ah golden hours of childhood's joy,
Who would not be again a boy?

There was always company
In that mansion old and fair,
Its many inmates made it
Such an home as then was rare;
For its resources were boundless
For recreation to all,
Who filled its spacious corridors
Whate'er weather might befall;
So one and all, we lived in peace
And watched our horizon on increase.

With horses in the stables,
And a pack of twenty hounds,
Besides of our guns and setters
Gave amusement with no bounds;
And when night had drawn the curtains,
Then delicious music ours,
With now and then a little dance
To beguile the passing hours;
Dear, happy scenes of vanished youth
How dear to me your grace and truth.

I can still recall my mother,
As I knew her ere the bloom,
Of her wondrous beauty faded
In the years of age and gloom;
She was as radiant then to me
As the brightest star on high;
She watched me with such tenderness
That could hear my faintest sigh;
She brought her husband large estate
But in herself a prize more great.

My sire, in his placid ways,
And his larger trusts and care,
Had not in our lighter aims,
So much interest to share;
But nothing brought her more delight
Than to see us all enjoy
Those dear old pastimes, that of old
Brightened life for girl and boy;
And like the old Virginia Reels
Put life and mettle in young heels.

Yet he never was austere;
'Twas only serenity
That clothed him o'er and made him
High above all levity;
And yet on rare occasions,
With his dearest only by,
Then his chaste and quiet humor
Shown in his own, kindly eye;
And then in his peculiar way
He was most charming if not gay.

His life was ever active,
Until age and growing pain
Had so impaired his forces,
That he ventured not again
To resume his works of mercy,
And his many trusts of yore,
But a charity unfailing
Still kept open wide the door---
That ne'er was shut ganist friend or foe
Who my mischance had come to woe.

'Twas perhaps "noblesse oblige"
Kept him from our lighter joys,
For he owed it to himself
That his growing girls and boys
Saw in all his mien and language
Not one thing in all their lives
That would make him less reverenced,
Or that matics could contrive
To twist into disparagement
And so unsulled on he went.

There were merry Christmas times
In those goodly days of old,
When friends and children gathered
Int the old familiar fold;
When fountain like o'er all the world
The yule-tide of gladness flowed,
And fuller love and rarer gifts
Upon us were then bestowed
When egg-nog and apple-toddy
Were relished by nigh everybody.

Have you forgotten neighbor,
Our Christmas hunts of yore,
Or the mistletoe suspended
O'er the unsuspected door?
And the kisses that we livied,
On those coy, sweet girls we loved
Ah how far from such demeanor,
Have we wiser people moved?
But I fear we're little better
by convention's sterne fetter.

It is true our grand children,
Still hang stockings by the fire,
Sweet maiden's eyes are beaming,
And the boys as much desire
To kiss those ruby lips of theirs,
As did we the boys of old;
But Alas a colder custom
Holds us all within the fold;
We give too much to empty show
And thus forlorn we all must go.

Alas we shall never more
See such good times come again,
They passed away for ever,
When our good old South was slain,
With the life and forms that marked us,
Fled the simple faith and trust,
That so linked us all together,
But Alas both moth and dust
Have invaded our high places,
And expelled our tender graces.