Poor are the pilgrims on life's stony wayWho, turning from the beaten track astray,To some secluded spot, or quiet roof,Where once perchance they spent their happy youth;Who ne'er have felt at each familiar turn,With eyes that fill and hearts that throb and burn,The quiet charms of dear familiar waysThe half forgotten joys of other days.
How well do I recall that happy dayWhen turning from the noisy world awayBy quiet lanes that never failed to charm,I sought my home, the old deserted farm.It was a winsome day in early fall,A time when nature broodeth over allHer broad domain of fruitful fields and woods,And woos the wand'rer in her gayest moods.I heard the south wind whisper to the corn,Its pennons streamed and rustled back in scorn;Each grain field caught the sunbeams in their flightAnd shot them back in mellow amber light;In deeper shades the birches' silver sheenShed softest rays the emerald boughs between,The distant hills were robed in gold and dunAnd hazy skies subdued the summer sun;Fair orchards laden with their golden fruitAnd gardens rich in bursting pod and rootDiversified the scene, and to my eyesSeemed like a Peri's dream of Paradise.The merry harvesters were all a-field,(Keen are the scythes and sickles that they wield),With jocund song, the reaper and the mowerWent through the fields and garnered in the store,While ripe'ning nuts, from tall majestic treesCame down in showers before the merry breeze,Gay squirrels scolding frisked from limb to limbAnd woke the woods and swelled the harvest hymn;And as I journeyed through that pleasant laneWhere peace and plenty seemed to ever reign,I thought how sordid is our bitter strifeFor gold beside this quiet country life.
But now the dear old homestead comes in sightUpon the hill above me, on the right,—Ah! can it be the same, the grand old place,The mansion on the hill, that oft my faceIn childhood's happy days so eager spied,The home that was our father's joy and pride,That kin had held two hundred years and more,Since first the Pilgrims landed on this shore?Or is it that a flood of blinding tearsAnd all the growth and change of many yearsHave come between me and the dear old scene,And make my youthful palace seem so mean?O gold! that robs this world of half its wealthO lore! that cheats the soul of joy and health,I'd blot these weary years from heart and brainTo live that sweet delusion o'er again.But wherefore mourn, or sigh, or think it strange,Earth moves, time flies, man grows and all things change.
'Tis clearer now, I see the gable roofLook outward from the elm-tree's verdant woofLike some familiar face, and lower stillThe friendly wild-rose on the window sill,Where oft I sat when day and toil were o'er,And longed to roam the world on sea and shore,And dreamed of love and fame and cruel wars,Awhile the night wind whispered to the stars.Ah yes! I see the woodbine on the ell,The towering wellsweep that I knew so well,And on the barn the same old weather-vaneThat told of yore of sunshine and of rain.But half the quaint old roof has fallen inAnd winter blasts have worn its shingles thin,While each dejected window-sash complainsThat storms and stones have robbed it of its panes;Upon one hinge the front door grinds and squeaks,Like some poor human thing it plainly speaksOf sad neglect and summer suns and rainsThat make it old and fill its joints with pains.
Here is the ancient fire-place, broad and tall,How cheerful was its firelight on the wall;Here oft I sat on stormy winter nightsAnd watched the restless ever-changing lightsUpon the logs, or traced a tiny sparkFar up the dingy flue into the dark;'Twas by this stone that grandma used to sitUpon those winter eves and drowse and knit,While I would watch the stocking as it grewAnd count the stitches while the needles flew,And seated by the cosy kitchen hearthWe passed the hours in jest and merry laughThat mocked the fury of the howling storm—Then came the thought, how dear a place is home.
Some prudent squirrel leaves his winter storeUpon the landing of my chamber door,And rude rats scamper o'er the floor and hideBehind the dingy walls that were my pride;For vermin comes to gloat o'er man's decay,And haunt his home when he has passed away.But through the broken window dark with moldI see the dreamy hills I knew of old;And now it seemeth like a few short hoursSince first I scaled those silent mountain towers.—Majestic hills! I love thy purple range,I love thee now, and thou wilt never change.
Here is the barn,—Ah! what a place to playWhen mow and loft are filled with new-mown hay,And all the air is sweet with clover scent—To climb the beams and jump from bent to bent,Or search the hay-mows for a stolen nest;Of all the play-rooms known this is the best.And when I gaze adown yon winding lane,My age departs and youth comes back again.I see a barefoot boy in homely dress,The prince of that rich kingdom, happiness,A brimless palmleaf is his regal crown,His ruddy cheeks are tinged with russet brown,His sunny face could never wear a cloud,No rich estates could make him half so proud,His scepter is a leafless maple browse,His Majesty is driving home the cows.
How peaceful is yon meadows' stretch of green,In sunset light, the autumn hills between,Deep down beneath the grass, by reed and rockThe little brook sings to the meadow lark,Right merrily he sings the livelong dayTo cheer the weary farmer with his lay.What pain would fill his heart if father knewThat witch-grass claimed the fields where clover grew,That all the meadow hay was filled with swale,His cherished wood-lot stripped for tie and rail,That all the pasture-lots were choked with brush,The meadow lowlands grown to reed and rush;If he could see the ancient orchard's rowsOf stately trees uprooted by the blowsThat strip the rotting shingles from the shedAnd shake the crazy rafters overhead,That raze the gates and fences to the ground,And scatter direst desolation round;If he could see the gruesome foreign hordesThat gather round our old-time festal boards,Who swarm upon these farms and till our fieldsAnd turn our ancient looms and spinning-wheels;A folk who know no law but fire and steel,Who do not glory in the nation's weal,Who cannot speak or write our mother tongue,Who feel no thrill when freedom's songs are sung,A class who hate all forms of governmentAnd fill this happy land with discontent;Ah! well for him his humble life was takenBefore New England homesteads were forsaken.
'Tis eventide, the shades of night draw nearAnd one by one the silent stars appear,Those silver tapers that the angels holdAbove the clouds to view the sleeping wold,The night-winds faintly whisper as they pass,A cricket chirps beside me in the grass,The elm-tree gently stirs its countless leaves,And over all a benediction breathesMore deep than sleep, more tranquil than the calmsOf some far oasis with breathless palms,—But hark! upon the air so deep and stillRude breaks the sound of wheels upon the hill,The wheels that bear me from this sweet retreatBack to the city, rife with dust and heat.
Farewell! farewell! fair haven of my youth,Thou sweet abode of innocence and truth,And though my feet may leave thee far behind,No chance or change shall blot thee from my mind.And when at eve the city streets are hotFond memory shall lead me to this spot,Then for the din, the rumble and the grind,Mine ears shall hear the murmur of the wind;And when at last life's little day is spentAnd death shall claim this form, infirm and bent,I beg some friend to whom I once was dear,To break the turf and lay the poet here.Here 'neath the elm where every idle breathShall murmur low a requiem for death,Where first in spring the lilac sheds its bloomAnd last in fall the verdure gathers gloom;That men may know of all the classic groundWhere poets sleep, the leagued world around,I place New England high above the rest,I hold this spot the fairest and the best.
