Classic Poem

Come gentle reader, let us entwine arms with Memory, and wander back
through the avenues of life to childhood's sunny dell, and as we
return more leisurely pluck the wild flowers that grow beside the
pathway, and entwine them for Memory's garland, and inhale the
fragrance of by-gone years. O, there are rich treasures garnered up
in Memory's secret chambers, enclosed in the recesses of the soul, to
spring into life at the touch of her magic wand. Here let us sit on
this mossy stone, beneath this wide spread elm, and as its waving
branches fan our feverish cheeks, fold back the dim, misty curtains of
the past, the silent past, and hold communings with the years that are
gone. Listen to the murmur of yonder rippling stream, that breaks like
far off music upon the ear, and although half a century of years
have passed since I first stood upon its margin, and listened to its
dirge-like hum, no trace of age is left upon it. The silent years that
have swept over its surface, bearing away the generations of men, have
left this stream sporting and dancing on in all the freshness of youth
and beauty.

Here is the grassy knoll where we have stood tiptoe and reached our
tiny hands a little higher to catch the gorgeous butterfly that
floated through summer air on silken wings, and then clapped them with
joyous glee at our own disappointment, as it sailed higher up into the
blue air.

Then came the song of the warbling bird, the hum of the mountain bee,
and the rustling of the leaves as they were stirred by the gentle
summer breeze,--all making sweet melody in Nature's many voiced
harmonies.

Here we have sat for hours, wrapt in dreamy reverie, wondering why the
long, fleecy clouds that chased each other over the sun, should cast
such deep, broad shadows over so fair a landscape; little heeding that
they were emblematical of the shadows that coming years would cast
upon our pathway as we passed on in the journey of human life; but
oh, how often has the sun of hope been dimmed by the shadows of
disappointment.

But let us leave this sequestered spot and wander over other scenes
familiar to childhood's years.

Beneath yon large reservoir of water that flashes in the sun beams as
the summer winds heave its troubled bosom, formerly stretched out an
extensive meadow, where we used to stroll for amusement; or to gather
the rich, ripe strawberries that lay concealed beneath the thick,
tall grass that sighed before the breeze like the bosom of the ocean,
fanned by the winds of heaven. Here, too, we gathered sweet blue
violets, yellow buttercups, Ladies' traces and London pride, with all
the beautiful variety of simple meadow flowers, and entwined them into
pretty wreaths, or fragrant boquets. But the touch of time has rested
upon this spot, and his finger has left a deep impress upon it. The
sloping hills that surround it remain the same. The trees bear some
traces of decay, but here stand the thorn bushes that used to scatter
their showers of white blossoms around us like descending snow-flakes,
still filled with green leaves and small red apples, surrounded by the
prickly thorns that to all appearances are the same that we grasped
fifty years ago.

The sand-hills where the juvenile part of the neighborhood used to
congregate to celebrate the happy twilight hour in merry sports, have
literally passed away; having been shovelled up and transported to
the various places for many miles around, where the multiplicity of
chimnies mark the increasing population of the village, that passing
years have added to it.

As we pass the antiquated moss-covered bars that admit us into the
dear old orchard, and cross the little brook that bubbles on forever
in the same monotonous sound, requiring but one smooth round stepping
stone for a bridge, we sigh and feel that the change of years is upon
us, for here almost every thing speaks of decay. True the hills, the
ponds, the rocks (and I had almost said the speckled tortoise that has
crawled up to sun itself on their summit), remain the same.

Sit down on this dilapidated trunk, for the burden of years is upon
us; and as I glance upon this frame, I can scarcely realize it is the
same form that used to impress this spot with childish footprints.
This trunk was then a beautiful, stately tree, bearing its leafy
honors thick upon it, and laden with delicious golden fruit. But the
glory of the orchard has departed, and why should we linger any longer
in its confines, as it only awakens sad memories, and says in an
audible voice,

"Chance and change are busy ever."

The carriage road that passes through it, almost blinding us with
dust, was formerly a well beaten foot-path for the accommodation of
the neighborhood as they walked from one part of it to the other.
Let us follow the road up this steep aclivity, and enter the large
capacious door-yard which contained several rods of land, and was
surrounded by an old fashioned stone wall, which has been beaten by at
least seventy-five winters' storms; and the thick covering of green
moss upon it bespeaks its age.

The west end was crossed by a fence containing a small strip of land
for the purpose of raising early summer vegetables. Here now is
erected the splendid dwelling house of one of the wealthiest citizens
of the village, and the garden is converted into front yard, building
spot and back yard, containing all the usual necessary appendages to
a dwelling place, so that here all traces of former days have passed
from the spot, and only live inscribed upon the retentive tablet of
Memory. On the east end was another small enclosure where we used to
spend our leisure hours in the cultivation of flowers and medicinal
plants. Here the tall lilac waved its graceful head beneath our
bed-room window, and the morning sun, as he parted the rosy curtains
of the eastern sky and came forth rejoicing to run his glad race, and
pour a flood of golden light upon the earth, shot his first crimson
rays upon the thick curtains of morning glories that hung clustering
over our window, fragrant with their verdant leaves, and rich purple
blossoms, and causing the dew-drops to glisten like sparkling
diamonds, while the sweet odors of many scented flowers were borne
upon every passing breeze. But could we now recognize this spot? oh
no! the destroyer has been there, and there remains no trace of herb
or flower; an ell has been built on to that end of the house, and the
barn has been moved, so that our beautiful garden has been transformed
into a door yard, and all traces of beauty are obliterated. Crossing
the garden you next entered upon a large level lot covered with the
richest grass that annually used to fall before the sythe of the
mower, and descended by sloping hills to the above mentioned luxuriant
meadow; through which ran a quiet winding stream that used to afford
us an abundance of speckled trout and shining pickerel, to say nothing
about the many play hours spent upon its margin; but now the stream
is lost beneath the vast reservoir, and has washed away all traces
of flowers, strawberries and verdant grass that used to mark its
serpentine wanderings, by assuming a deeper green.

The west end of this enclosure was intersected by what used to be
called Virginia fence, then crossed into two separate places dividing
one into a sheep-pasture, the other into a large garden for the
cultivation of winter vegetables. In the pasture used to graze a large
flock of sheep, and the snowy lambs sported over the rocks and ran
down the hillside; does this remain the same?

The rocks have been removed out of their places, and in their stead
dwelling houses have been erected, and the busy hum of active life
there resounds, and the prattling of children is heard instead of the
bleating of lambs.

Crossing the stream upon the remains of an old dam, and passing the
extent of meadow, we entered upon a rich clover field, adjoining which
was the corn field, that in autumn used to be laden with yellow
corn and golden pumpkins. Contiguous to this was a delightful grove
composed of thrifty walnut trees, carefully cleared from under brush
and covered with verdant grass, and ornamented here and there with a
grassy hillock, that rendered it a pleasant retreat from the scorching
rays of the summer sun. The air was filled with the notes of the
feathered songsters that built their nests and warbled in their
branches, mingling their music with the rustling leaves and the murmur
of the distant spring that rippled near, for a gradual descent brought
us down to the spring lot, which, with the grove and the swamp that
lay below, was used for pasturage. But let us pause and take a survey
of its present appearances. The beautiful trees have all fallen
before the woodman's axe, not one remaining as a link with their past
history; the old fence has been removed that divided it from the
cornfield, and surrounded by a new and beautiful one, it now forms a
part of a commodious Cemetery, is laid out into tasteful lots as the
last resting place of the dead.

Sweet spot; methinks it is meet for the weary children of earth to
slumber in this quiet place.

At its foot gurgles the quiet winding stream, and far away comes
the din and hum of active life, thronged with the busy crowd whose
restless feet are bearing them swiftly on to the end of life's
journey, where they must resign the cumbrous load and "join the pale
caravan in the realms of shade."

Descending from the grove on the western side, was a low, swampy piece
of ground, that had never yielded to cultivation, where we sometimes
used to jump from one hillock to another in search of swamp pinks and
cheeses which were to be found there in great abundance.

It was ever covered with low brush, of natural growth, and apparently
no change had passed over it from its creation, save the natural
springing up and decaying of its productions. And so, almost fifty
years ago, we left it, but how does it meet us upon our return? Art
has touched it with her handy work. It has been drained; the brush cut
from its surface, rich loam carted upon it, and now it presents the
appearance of a well cultivated garden, is covered with luxuriant
grass, and staked out into yards for the accommodation of families who
wish to lie down side by side, in the sleep of death. Many, already,
are beautified with flowers and shrubbery; and in some, already arises
the marble slab, pointing to the place where some weary pilgrim
reposes, free from all the earth calls good or great; for this, too,
is enclosed in the Cemetery.

But passing the entrance into the Cemetery, we will pass back by a
circuitous route, to the dear old home. The road, the hills, the
rocks, the trees, and many of the buildings are the same; but, oh, how
many and varied are the changes that strike the eye, and awaken in
the breast ten thousand bewildering remembrances. Truly has the human
heart been compared to a many stringed instrument, giving diversity of
sound as it is swept by different winds.

One of the most conspicuous changes, is the withdrawal of a large pond
of water that had been pent up by a high dam, over which the water
fell, over the bridge we are now crossing, roaring, casting up spray,
and then foaming and dancing off, into the meadow below.

Many of the buildings have changed their old fashioned coats of red
for the more modern one of white, which is the case with our own old
homestead. Opposite the house, or across the way, as we used to call
it (for the road was between), stood, what was ever called, the woods.
Here, in their season, we gathered the largest whortleberries, the
best walnuts, and the nicest black birch that were to be found all
the country round. And when we had wearied our limbs, and filled our
baskets, how often have we pulled over the tops of the smaller trees,
and seating ourselves upon some slender branch, enjoyed a real
juvenile ride upon horseback, each one having a particular tree
designated by the name of a horse.

Immediately opposite the house, stood a high hill, composed of jagged
rocks, behind which the sun ever sank to his cosy bed in the west, and
where I have watched the forked lightning play as the blackened cloud
gathered together, ominous of a portending storm, while the distant
thunder murmured behind their eternal summit. This stands the same,
and as you glance down the other side, you see the broad, black
river, still rolling at its base. But the woods--the bright green
woods--where are they? Echo answers, "where?" Supplanting the place
is a young thrifty orchard, and at the base of the hill is a finely
cultivated piece of land, and there is nothing but the everlasting
hills to tell us of the dear spot where we wandered in the halcyon
days of childhood; we cannot even exclaim with Cowper--

"I sat on the trees under which I had played."

Dear old trees! methinks, even now, I can hear your music, when fanned
by the summer breeze, or see you toss your surging branches, when
rocked by the autumnal gale. Well do I remember your cooling shade as
I walked beneath it to the district school house, which was situated
in one corner of the dear old orchard. There, too, has been a change;
the rocks upon which we used to play have been blown to atoms, and the
habitations of men occupy their places. Truly, all things are passing
away!