Classic Poem

The-winter speeds, yet, ere the spring comes in,
On many a tree which at the cross-roads stands,
And at the village tavern and the store,
And on the blacksmith's wall—in staring print,
Or in coarse written lines—unnumbered bills
Proclaim the dissolution near at hand.
There the choice farm and stock, or household wares
Are offered, and the day of vendue set;
And, ere from off the fields the last snow melts
From crops, another than the hand which sowed
Shall in the harvest reap,—the sales begin;
While Melancholy walks from door to door,
And with strange pleasure holds divided sway.
Already the great wains, with produce filled,
Have groaned their way unto the distant mart,
And in return brought back such various stores
As the long journey needs—the rifle, axe.
And ammunition for defence and game;
While evening oft beholds around the hearth,
As in those days when war convulsed the land,
The molten lead run into moulded balls,
Till every pouch is full and, with the horn,
Hangs waiting on the wall. At many a door
The new-bought wagon, with its cover white,
Stands with the long tongue ready for the team.
From house to house the auction goes by turns;
While flock the people in from miles around,
And bear at eve, well pleased, the purchase home
Thus oft the household goods, as to the winds
Blowing from fitful quarters, fly afar.
Like severed families, to meet no more;
And oft the sad wife, gazing where they go,
Needs dry the starting tear. The sales proceed;
The various round is well nigh done; and now
To Baldwin's dwelling comes the fatal day.
From loft to cellar, all the staid old house
Is made to pour its contents to the yard,
Until the feet most native to the stairs
Wake but a hollow, uncongenial sound,
Saddening, sepulchral—until each heart feels
As if the stranger, at the outer door.
Stood waiting with his wares. The brown old clock,
Slender and tall, with curious antique face,
Which stood for three-score years with hourly tongue,
Warning and cheering—or, if none would hear,
Like childish age, still garruling to itself—
Now passes silent through the mournful door,
Borne, carefully, foot first. The faithful wheels
Which, like the cat with purring voice of peace,
Sang as the flax from off the distaffs ran,
The mothers and the daughters stand outside,
Whirling to idle hands. The bureau old,
With deep and odorous drawers, where oft the rose
Scattered its leaves to scent the snow-white robes,
Is lightly thrummed upon, with careless fingers,
Or peered into, with calculating eyes,
Measuring its worth. And there the mirror tall,
Which now hath ta'en farewell of well known forms,
Reflects the stranger and the bustling scene.
See, how the crier's hard, unpitying look
Gloats o'er the medley mass, while all draw near!
Swift as a rattle flies his marvellous tongue,
While his quick eye, from face to face, darts round,
Catching the nod ere full consent approves.
And the rough joke, which wakes the crowd to mirth,
Adds a fresh blow unto the aching hearts
Of those who, piecemeal, see their home destroyed,
Part after part, as rafters to a flame,
With sound of desolation, falling in.
Among the heirlooms, note the aged pair,
Downcast as at a funeral, move about
With nervous stealth, taking a sad farewell
Of many a dumb old friend. The palsied dame
Among the curious children, shuffling, goes
From room to room, with wondering mournful eyes;
Or on the last chair, by the starving hearth,
Crouches, and gazes in the cheerless fire.
And Master Ethan, stifling many a sigh,
Affects the cheerful, and sets out the ware;
The while the matron, favouring the move,
Stirs chief amid the scene; and, frequent, chides
The tear upon Olivia's cheek, yet oft,
With hasty apron, clears her own blurred gaze
The day goes by; the evening quiet comes,
Where sadness half way dims their one poor light,
Until, to such rough temporary beds
As haste and need can make, they seek repose:
Some dreaming of the past, and some
Of the to-morrow's busy scene—of ties
Soon to be broken, and no more renewed;
While Fancy oft, before the expedition,
Flies like the horizon, and in forest depths
Pitches the evening tent. The starting-morn,
Full of bright sunshine, bursts upon the vale;
But in the broken home—their home no more—
A stranger foot hath passed, and led one hence,
Without a breath announcing to the air
His coming or departure; and the house,
From Master Ethan to the youngest there,
Is shadowed with a sudden gust of grief.
There lies the grandam, placid as in sleep,
Where she shall wake no more. The weary soul
Hath left its time-worn tenement of earth,
Shaking the dust from off its pilgrim feet
Against a sinful world, and passed to Heaven.
The news is spread, and all the wagons wait.
A few swift days fly o'er the dreary vale;
And, for the last time, to the chapel-yard
The pastor turns his steps, where follow, soon,
The mournful train. And now the grave is filled;
The last sad mound is shaped, as 'twere a seal
Signing the separation made in peace,
Or monument to the departing hour.