Classic Poem

A stranger in my native land,
I none but strangers see;
Not one who seeks to grasp my hand,
For none remember me.

Although received with chilling pride
In this my native clime,
I have not now a heart to chide
The changes wrought by time,

But still regard with tearful eye
The shadows of the past,
The home of youth, whose magic sky,
Though dimmed, is not o'ercast.

For I have seen beneath its roof
Full many a happy day,
And heard from saintly lips the proof
Of love that lasts for aye.

Yet nevermore shall I behold
The years which now have flown,
Whose wings were wrought with threads of gold
Bright as an angel's own.

But, yielding still to impulse strong
That binds me in its band,
I turn to mountains loved so long,
And kiss to them my hand;

And o'er paternal acres fair,
That stretch beneath the sun,
Still trace the shadows gliding there,
And mourn what time has done.

And yet I greet with joy the rill
That flows from out the cave,
And winds its way adown the hill,
Singing its ancient stave;

And bless the aged chestnut-tree,
Where oft at earliest dawn
I gathered wealth,—then wealth to me,—
Nor treat its gifts with scorn;

Nor shun the orchard, where of yore,
Beneath an autumn sky,
I shared so oft the golden store
That charmed my roving eye.

And thus, in passing o'er the lea,
I pause at many a spot,—
Haunts which it gives me joy to see,
Though changed is now my lot.

Ha! there's the vine, the wild grape-vine,
In which I sat and swung
With her whose arm stole into mine
In days when both were young.

Nor dreamed we then of happier hours,
Nor happier have I seen;
For then life's path was strewn with flowers,
And youth's bright sky serene.

And here once more old paths I tread
In meadow, grove, and glade,
And pause 'neath elms whose leafy head
Still casts a grateful shade.

In yonder glen the mountain-stream
Propels the old mill-wheel;
And in good faith, as still would seem,
The miller shares the meal.

Angling in depths to eddies wrought,
Below the mill-dam's foam,
How oft the dainty trout I've caught,
And borne in triumph home!

When Autumn with her golden hue
Enriched the woodland's crown,
How oft with fatal aim and true
I've brought the squirrel down;

Oft traced the pheasant to her glen,
And set the subtle snare,
In which when caught, like luckless men,
She dangled in the air!

Though skies may lower, the fitful gleams
Of earlier, happier days
Still come to me like pleasant dreams,
Tinged with celestial rays.

Yet, 'mid this vision of the past,
Not one of all my race
Remains to cheer this lone and last
Look at my native place.

And yet I love the sacred shrine
Of olden memories dear,
And, lingering, dream of joys once mine,
Though but a wanderer here;

In yonder churchyard trace the print
Of names I honor still,
And from them take the warning hint
Which time will soon fulfil.

Albeit familiar friends still live,
Who seem to bless me yet,
And who to me a welcome give
Which I can ne'er forget.

I mean the smiling brook that flows
To music's silver tone,
The rock and hill, and sweet wild-rose,
Whose love I'm proud to own.

Nor are they shadows dim to sight,
Whose lips still breathe of woe,
But stanch old friends, whose hearts are right,
True friends to me, I know.

None truer than the hills and plains,
The brooklet, tree, and flower,
And birds that sing in happy strains,
Unconscious of their power.

For Nature and her children speak
In language that's divine,
And calmly teach me to be meek,
And never to repine.