University of Virginia Library

My son! now thou has reached thy thirteenth year;
Thy childhood's yellow hair upon thy brow
Is darkening with thy growth, and thy young mind
Has gained maturity for sober thought,
Thy foot a firmness for so long a toil.
Come walk with me among the winding hills,
And trace this mountain river far away.
Bright is the day, the crystal heaven looks glad,
And autumn rests upon the colored woods
In deep and silent glory. As thou goest,
Let thy young mind be open to receive
Instruction from the fair and ample book
Of nature. Let thine eye be quick to scan
Her rich and varied beauty, that thy heart
May get a goodly lesson of deep truth
That shall be with thee till thy life shall end;
And that thy hoary hairs, if thou should'st tread
The cold, dull ways of age, may be a crown
Of glory on thy head. Through this sere mead
The unshaded stream runs glimmering in the sun
Without a flower to grace its winding brink,
Save the blue aster. Short the season since
These banks were thick with violets, the tall grass
Waved in the summer wind; the robin sung
His love-song in the shrubby dells around,
And brooding ground-bird from her nest uprose.
Now all is changed! but 'tis a pleasant thing,
When nature round is fading into age,
That some bright tokens of her youth remain;
It seems a strife betwixt the delicate flowers,
And frosts and tempests of the wintry year.

The stooping forest now invites our steps;
We enter where between two jutting rocks
The river breaks into the open glade.
How changed from summer's deep and massy shade
So grateful in its time! Not less so now
The tempered light that sleeps on all the ground.
The shadows of the trees are motionless;
The fallen leaves stir not; and those which fall
With a faint rustle, whirling meet the ground.
How innocent is Nature! Her wide realms
Are passionless and pure. No battle steed
Tramps o'er these wood-paths; here no warrior armed
With glistening steel and glancing plume is seen;
No petty strife 'twixt man and man are heard;
But all is peace and innocence and love.
The quiet flocks and herds around us graze,
And the wild dwellers of the forest keep
Each in the sphere that God designed for him;
Therefore, when thou art weary of thy toil,
Or if the wrongs of men in after years
Upon thy head weigh heavily, and bow
Thy spirit, come to these pure, quiet shades,
And peace shall come to thee, and bless thy heart.
And in the bosom of the lonely vale,
Where busy life intrudes not, thou mayest learn
A deep philosophy, and gather there
The spirit of a calm divinity,
Purer and holier than e'er was taught
In cloistered cell.

Trace back the thread of time
In thine imagination; trace it back
Even to the far beginning, when the earth
Rose out of chaos, and the hills grew green,
And forests budded in the blue sky first,
And Adam's sons went forth by hill and stream
And peopled the fair bosom of the earth.
Up the dim aisles of the departed years,
A solemn voice shall come bearing the tales
Of the past generations—tales of war,
And death, and love, and pleasure's giddy dance.
Perhaps this sloping mount, with broken rocks
All scattered o'er, where, in his mossy robe,
Sits old Decay, hoary with lapse of years,
Was once the site of a forgotten town;—
Where, in high halls, the merry dance went round,
And lovers sighed; and gathered there the band
Led forth by chiefs to battle. Perished now
Is all. The walls are fallen; the busy streets
Send forth glad sounds no more;—the palaces
Are crumbled, and the forms that dwelt among
The massy piles are gone; and 'mid the waste
Upshoot the mighty giants of the wood,
And all rests in the silence and the peace
Of sinless nature. Eloquent is all
The region round. The voices of the dead
Break with a deeper cadence on the ear
Amid the desolation of the scene.
Tread softly o'er the mould, for kindred dust
Here sleeps the sleep of ages. Stir it not;
Nor with irreverent footsteps dare profane
The earth where vanished generations rest.

Here tread aside where this descending brook
Pays a scant tribute to the mightier stream,
And all the summer long on silver feet
Glides lightly o'er the pebbles, sending out
A mellow murmur on the quiet air.
Just up the narrow glen in yonder glade,
Set like a nest amid embowering trees,
Lived, in my early days, an humble pair,
A mother and her daughter. She, the dame,
Had well nigh seen her threescore years and ten;
Her step was tremulous; slight was her frame,
And bowed with time and toil; the lines of care
Worn deep upon her brow. At shut of day
I've met her by the skirt of this old wood
Alone, and faintly murmuring to herself
Haply the history of her better days.
I knew that history once from youth to age;
It was a sad one. He who wedded her
Had wronged her love, and thick the darts of death
Had fallen among her children and her friends.
One solace for her age remained—a fair
And gentle daughter, with blue, pensive eyes,
And cheeks like summer roses. Her sweet songs
Rang like the thrush's warble in these woods,
And up the rocky dells. At noon and eve,
Her walk was o'er the hills, and by the founts
Of the deep forest. Oft she gathered flowers
In lone and desolate places, where the foot
Of other wanderers but seldom trod.
Once in my boyhood, when my truant steps
Had led me forth among the pleasant hills,
I met her in a shaded path that winds
Far through the spreading groves. The sun was low;
The shadow of the hills stretched o'er the vale,
And the still waters of the river lay
Black in the shade of twilight. As we met,
She stoop'd and pressed her friendly lips to mine;
And though I then was but a simple child,
Who ne'er had dreamed of love, or known its power,
I wondered at her beauty. Soon a sound
Of thunder, muttering low along the west,
Foretold a coming storm. My homeward path
Lay through the woods tangled with overgrowth.
A timid urchin then, I feared to go,
Which she observing, kindly led the way,
And left me when my dwelling was in sight.
I hastened on; but ere I reached the gate,
The rain fell fast, and the drenched fields around
Were glittering in the lightning's frequent flash.
But where was now Eliza? When the morn
Blushed on the summer hills, they found her dead
Beneath an oak rent by the thunderbolt.
Thick lay the splinters round, and one sharp shaft
Had pierced her snow white brow. And here she lies,
Where the green hill slopes towards the southern sky.
'Tis thirty summers since they laid her here;
The cottage where she dwelt is razed and gone;
Her kindred all are perished from the earth;
And this rude stone, which simply bears her name,
Is mouldering fast: and soon this quiet spot,
Held sacred now, will be like common ground.
Fit place is this for so much loveliness
To find its rest. It is a hallowed shrine
Where nature pays her tribute. Dewy spring
Sets the gay wild flowers thick around her grave;
The green boughs o'er her in the summer time
Sigh to the winds: the robin takes his perch
Hard by, and warbles to his sitting mate;
The brier-rose blossoms to the skies of June,
And hangs above her in the winter time
Its scarlet fruit. No rude foot ventures near;
The noisy school-boy keeps aloof; and he
Who hunts the fox when all the hills are white,
Here treads aside. Not seldom have I found
Around this headstone carefully entwined,
Garlands of flowers, I never knew by whom.
For two years past, I've missed them; doubtless one
Who held this dust most precious placed them there,
And sorrowing in secret many a year,
At last hath left the earth to be with her.