Classic Poem

Though dear to me are Western charms,—
Rivers and lakes with outstretched arms,
And prairies broad and free,—
Yet dearer still my native land,
Her mountains, vales, and ocean strand,
With old, tried friends to grasp my hand,
And welcome me.

Yet mine 'tis not, undimmed, to find
The hearth where glowed affections kind,
'Mid hopes too bright for tears;
Those purer joys which thrilled my breast,
And gave to life its sweetest zest,
With her whose lip maternal blest
Mine earliest years!

Still unassailed by ruthless hand,
Oh, let that dear old mansion stand,
Though strangers tread its hearth!
And spare that elm, unbowed, unbroke,
Which still survives the lightning's stroke,
Crowning the hill, where curls the smoke
As at my birth.

Not far away, 'mid hillocks green,
The lettered stone, moss-grown, that's seen
Nodding o'er sacred dust,
Brings back to me the faded past,—
A mother's love, and kiss,—the last,—
With lessons kind, to which steadfast
I cling and trust.

With lingering step, and heart sincere,
There let me drop a filial tear,
In tears still seek relief.
Like Ocean's surge that restless heaves,
My days roll on; yet Memory weaves
Her twilight o'er the past, and leaves
A balm for grief.

Though mine's a grief no balm can heal,
I love old memories, and still feel
Their magic o'er me flung.
But list! from steepled church I hear
The old town-clock, deep-toned and clear,
That knells the hours from year to year
With iron tongue.

And there, adown the vale, I see
A noisy group, low roof, and tree,—
The spot to which I hied
In summer's heat and winter's snow,
A satchelled lad, who cared to know
Little of books, nor much, I trow,
That's wise beside.

There glides the brook, whose flowery bank
Was oft the scene of many a prank.
And feat attained at school;
And, like a spectre, near the hill
There stands the same old clicking mill,
Where many an idle urchin still
Disturbs the pool.

A truant there, beneath the spray
How oft I've angled all the day,
Or gathered pebbles rare!
Ay, waded half way to the chin
To build the crib, and drive them in,—
The startled brood, with silver fin,
Shy of the snare.

When woods were tinged with Autumn's hue,
Oft o'er the hills I've brushed the dew,
Ere flashed the morning's sun,
In search of treasures shaken down
By wind and frost,—nuts white and brown;
Or sought, in chase of game, renown
With mimic gun.

Around those haunts I loved so well
When but a child there breathes a spell,—
A spell that charms me yet,—
The stately elm 'neath which I played,
The frowning steep and wizard glade,
And, more than all, the wild cascade
With jewels set.

And yet there is one hallowed shrine
Around which holier memories twine,—
Twine with a name that's dear;
The name of one that's sainted now,
The nymph who heard mine earliest vow
With moistened eye, and sunny brow,
And listening ear.

But where are now those happy years,
Too blest to last, which time endears,
And faithful hearts embalm?
Those years, the mirthful and the free,
Alas! are lost for aye to me,—
Lost in the past, the dark Dead Sea,
Where all is calm!

Yet o'er that sea will ever flow
Heart-touching whispers, sweet and low,
Ay, sanctified to him
Who loves the past, yet hails afar
The seraph Hope, on golden car,
Bearing her lamp, a twinkling star,—
Twinkling, though dim.