Classic Poem

The red sun sinks, and brings the noiseless eve
Within the orchard, ere he drops to rest,
The robin pours his vesper hymn — his voice
Closes the chorus of the day; while now,
Within the shadowy grove, the whip-poor-will
Takes up the song, and leads the nightly choir.
Through yonder lane one tall, frail figure moves —
Moves like a phantom, sighing where he goes —
While in the east the white moon, as in pity,
Watches his lingering steps. These are the fields
His once strong arm had cleared. In this same path —
Since when full half a century has flown —
He led his fair bride home. And these tall trees,
Whose high leaves whisper in the upper air,
He bore as saplings in his arms, and set
The roots, now spread so broad and deep. And here
His happy children played. But now, alas,
His feet intrude upon another's grounds;
And through yon garden, where the long-gone past
Oft heard his household singing mid the flowers,
The iron highway unrelenting cleaves —
Cleaves like an arrow through a heart forlorn —
Where soon the engine, with discordant wheels,
Shall scream and thunder by. He turns in pain,
And strides the new-mown fields — his fields no more —
And gains the little chapel. Its calm shape,
Unchanged, melts o'er his spirit like the smile
Of one whose tongue is ever tuned to peace;
And down the little garden of low tombs,
He walks once more among his cherished friends,
Brushing the dewy roses where they sleep.
Here feels at home — here breathes a freer air —
And in his deep heart hears the welcome given
Which strengthens and consoles. Long by one grave
He leans with tranquil tears; and stands as one
Who waits beside a happy palace-gate,
Hearing his comrade's gliding feet within,
And hearkens for the warder's opening key.
The warder lingers, but the feast will last;
And they who come to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Shall find the eternal banquet but begun.
With firmer steps the old man turns away —
Crosses the dewy pasture — threads the grove —
Till, at the woodland's edge, a sudden hand
Falls on his arm, and on his ear a voice
Familiar of the past: " This way, good friend,
For here is need of you! " And to her door
The dame of Oakland guides the willing feet.
" Step lightly and speak low! " and murmuring thus,
She leads across the time-worn sill. Her hand,
Palsied and shaking like a winter branch,
Points to the woful shape upon her couch.
" Behold, for thou art worthy to behold,
The frail form wrecked upon the reefs of wo! "
Whereat the other, sighing, deeply speaks:
" Good dame, 'tis well, the healing arts are yours,
You know what plants may medicine her ills. "
To which the crone: — " I know that sweet herb well;
Already she hath drained the bowl, and sleeps.
Believe me, friend, I am not wont to weep —
I thought my springs of pity all were dry —
And yet to-night mine eyes have known strange tears!
Speak low, she sleeps! Poor fool, I warned her oft!
Oh, double folly, thus to wander back,
To seek the thing which was not worth the finding!
But piteous Heaven, oft kinder than it seems,
Hath moved the wretch beyond her pure soul's reach
A few days past, in some wild tavern brawl,
And 'mong companions fit, he made a boast —
The boast that only fools and liars make —
When scarce the words had passed his scoundrel lips,
One nobler than the rest, with sudden hand,
Dealt the red stroke that saved a maiden's honour!
The son proved worthy the bad-guiding sire,
Whom, bloated like his swine, beside his still,
Death slaughtered at a blow! — a hideous sight!
Poor child, she sleeps! 'Tis but a half hour past
The hot delirium raged. A little while
She lay, and chided, with most piteous word,
The tardy lover; and, with broken sobs,
Told him the hardships of the lonely woods:
But even there, she said, were lovely spots,
And she had found them all — the rock, the glen,
And the deep sunless forest — charmed scenes,
Inviting all to love. Then, with a start,
And ghostly smile, like moonshine on her face,
She cried, " Oh, mother, cease to chide! he comes!
I knew that he would come." And darkly, then,
A sudden shadow passed across her brow;
And presently she whispered, " Why so pale?
Why stands he there with such despairing eyes!
There's blood upon his forehead! there's a wound
Which only I should bind! Come, let me twine
This 'kerchief there! Oh, look not thus! smile once,
And I forgive!" Whereat she swooned, and slept
As she sleeps now! " " You mean the sleep of death! "
The old man cries, and starts unto the couch.
" What other sleep could soothe? " replies the dame;
" The slumber which we know is poor at best,
And full of night-mares! — but her dreams are past! "
And now the veteran takes the clay-cold hand,
Smoothes back the troubled tresses from her brow,
And sighs, " 'tis well, " and by the bedside prays.
When through the vale the melancholy news
Of their return is spread, the rural hearts —
For simple hearts lie openest to the touch —
Are waked to pity; and the gathered group,
The leaders of the place, consult, devise,
And settle the benevolent plan. And now,
A little home, with moderate acres round,
Receives the worthy farmer and his plow,
Where soon his household smiles with health renewed.
The frail old Master, whose undimmed repute
Through many years had widened miles abroad,
Accepts the well-urged offer; and once more,
Content among the rosy girls and boys,
Resumes his morning and his evening walk.
His locks grow thinner, and his steps less firm,
But cheerily still he rules his small domain;
And e'en less frequent sounds his chiding voice,
While oft the unnoted fault goes by, and love
Out-rules the rusted rod. Behold, abroad
In summer-noon recess, what happier sight!
The glowing children with their laughter loud
Startle the scented air; and games begin,
Only to end what time the bell recalls.
How the glad foliage rustles overhead,
As if the angels hovered listening there,
Watching the innocent pastimes, likest that
In purity which cheers celestial groves!
The hour goes by, and still the urchins play; —
Another hour, and still another flies,
Until they deem a holiday is given.
And peering oft where, leaning on his desk,
The Master holds his wonted rest, they turn
And look with wonder in each other's eyes,
And then renew their games! Dear hearts, play on;
Your laughter cannot break his slumber now!
His hand of dust shall no more wake the bell;
A greater Ruler hath dismissed the school;
The weary Master takes recess in Heaven!
The circling theme is clasped where it began;
But, lingering still within this happy vale,
The bard reluctant stands. The pipe, attuned
To melancholy, yet prolongs the sound,
Like waves that murmur when the breeze is done.
Ye who have followed in the long-drawn path,
And borne with patient steps your pilgrim-staffs,
Nor dropt aside, way-worn, — forgive the guide,
If oft, enamoured of the tune he played,
He vaguely wandered — like an April brook,
Blind and oblivious, on its singing way —
Leading through tedious woods and briery fields;
And, like brave travellers from a various tour,
Forget the toil — the dull, inclement days —
Recalling only landscapes bright with sun.