Classic Poem

I DO remember me
Of two old elm-trees' shade,
With mosses sprinkled on their feet,
Where my young childhood play'd,
While the rocks above their head
Look'd down so stern and gray,
And the merry, crystal brooklet
Went singing on its way.

Thus, side by side, they flourish'd
With intertwining crown,
And through their broad, embracing arms
The prying moon look'd down;
And as I fondly linger'd there,
A musing child, alone,
I deem'd my secret heart she read
From her far silver throne.

I well remember me
Of all their wealth of leaves,
When Summer in her radiant loom
The burning solstice weaves,
And how with firm endurance
They braved the adverse sky,
Like Belisarius, doom'd to meet
His country's wintry eye.

Through varied climes I've wander'd,
Where stranger streamlets run,
Where flaunts the proud magnolia tree
Beneath a southern sun,
Or where the sparse and stinted pine
Uplifts its sombre form,
The vassal of the arctic cloud
And of the polar storm;

Or where the lakes, like oceans,
Their deep, blue waters spread,
Or where sublime Niagara smites
The admirer's soul with dread;
I've seen the vast cathedral's pile,
The pencil's wondrous art;
Yet still those old, green trees I bore
Depictured on my heart.
I sought my native village
When years had held their sway,
But many a column of its trust
Lay wreck'd in mouldering clay;
The stately and the white-hair'd men
Whose wisdom was its stay,
For them I ask'd, and Echo's voice
Responded, " Where are they? "

I sought the thrifty matron
Whose busy wheel was heard
When early beams of morning
Awoke the chirping bird;
Strange faces from her casement look'd,
Strange voices fill'd her cot,
And neath the very vine she train'd
Her memory was forgot.

I left a youthful matron,
Her children round her knee;
Those babes had changed to bearded men,
And coldly look'd on me;
While she, with all her bloom and grace,
Did in the churchyard lie;
Yet still those towering elms upbore
Their kingly canopy.

Though we, who 'neath their shadow
Pursued our childish play,
Now find amid our sunny locks
The sprinkled tint of gray;
Though still the region of our birth
Must many a change betide,
Long may those sacred elms retain
Their glorious strength and pride.