University of Virginia Library

When an old son of Salem, after years
Of exile, in his native streets appears,
Behold, in his perplexed and eager glance,
What crowds of questions yearn for utterance!
Pray, can you tell me, friend, if hereabout
There lives a person by the name of Strout?
What has become of that queer winking man,
Called “Jaquish,” who could saw a load of tan?
Does the old green Gibraltar-cart still stop,
Up in Old Paved Street, at Aunt Hannah's shop?
Beside Cold Spring drop the sweet acorns still?
Do boys dig flagroot now beneath Legge's Hill?
When 'Lection-day brings round its rapturous joys,
Does Dr. Lang sell liquorice to the boys?
Is there a house still standing where they make
The regular old-fashioned 'Lection-cake?
Does “A True Grocer” his own merits praise?
Does Mister Joseph bake cold loaves some days?
Deputy Dutch and dog—do they still chase
The recreant debtor to his hiding-place?
Do children sometimes see with terror, still,
The midnight blaze of wood-wax on Witch Hill?
Or hail, far twinkling through the shades of night,
The cheering beam of Baker's Island Light?
Where is the old North Church that heard the tread
Of Sabbath-breaking troops from Marblehead?
Where—in what realm—do still these eyes behold,
As once, with childish gaze, in years of old,
They looked upon that holy, homely place,
The old square pews and each familiar face?
Where the old sounding-board, that hung mid-air,
A sword of Damocles, by a wooden hair?
Each urchin watched, with mingled hope and dread,
To see it fall plump on the parson's head.
And that dark hole beneath the pulpit stairs,
That still almost, at times, my memory scares.
What if the “tidy-man,” bad boy! should hale
Thy trembling body to that gloomy jail!
Where the knob-headed pole—the magic wand—
The dreaded ensign of his stern command?
Full many an urchin of the gallery crew
Feared that long sceptre—aye! and felt it too.
Little old man, thy image leads a train
Of funny recollections through the brain.
It marks a time when doubts began to grow,
If bodily shivers fanned the spirit's glow;
When filial feet, that could not touch the floor,
Dangled and kicked till the long hour was o'er,
The last prayer closed, and seats slammed down again
With what queer Hood might call a wooden Amen.
Gaunt organ-blower! how thy Sunday face
Threw o'er thee such a sanctimonious grace,
That strangers had been sometimes known to err,
And take the blower for the minister.
How in the pauses of his holy toil,
As if anointed with invisible oil,
He looked from out his cell complacent round,
Rapt with the memory of the solemn sound,
With large, contented eyes that seemed to say,—
“Have we not done the music well to-day?”

But still fresh questions crowd upon his mind,
And still sad answers he is doomed to find.
Yet while the pilgrim, roaming up and down
The streets and alleys of his native town,
So many a well-known object seeks in vain,
The sky, the sea, the rock-ribbed hills remain.
In the low murmur of the quivering breeze
That stirs the leaves of old ancestral trees,
The same maternal voice he still can hear
That breathed of old in childhood's dreaming ear;
The same maternal smile is in the sky
Whose tender greeting blessed his infant eye.
Though much has changed, and much has vanished quite,
The old town-pastures have not passed from sight.
Delectable mountains of his childhood! there
They stretch away into the summer air.
Still the bare rocks in golden lustres shine,
Still bloom the barberry and the columbine,
As when of old, on many a “Lecture-day,”
Through bush and swamp he took his winding way,
Toiled the long afternoon, then homeward steered,
With weary feet and visage berry-smeared.

Thus to some favorite haunt will each to-day,
At least in fond remembrance, find his way.
My thoughts, by some mysterious instinct, take
Their flight to that charmed spot we called The Neck;
Aye! round the Mother's neck I fondly cling;
Around her neck, like beads, my rhymes I string.
She will not scorn my offering, though it be
Like beads of flying foam, flung by the sea
Across the rocks, to gleam a moment there,
Then break and vanish in the summer air.

Then hail once more The Neck—the dear, old Neck!
What throngs of bright and peaceful memories wake
At that compendious name! what rapturous joy
Kindles the heart of an old Salem boy!
Within its gate a realm of shadows lay,—
A land of mystery stretching far away.
There with the ghostly past I talked,—with awe
The ancient Mother's august form I saw.
Oft in the Sabbath evening's quiet ray,
Down this old storied street we took our way
To where, beside the fresh, cool, spray-wet shore,
Old Colonel Hathorne's hospitable door
Invited us to rest; serenely there
The patriarch greeted us with musing air.
What but a bit of Eden could it be,—
That little garden close upon the sea?
Within red rose, and redder currants glow,—
Without, the white-lipped ocean whispers low.

I climb yon hill, and see, forevermore,
A spectral sail approach the wooded shore.
On Winter Island wharf I see them land,
A ghostly train comes forth upon the strand:
Reverent and brave, inflexible, sedate,
Founders and fathers of the Church and State.
A village springs to life,—a busy port;
It has its bustling wharves, its bristling fort.
Lo! Fish Street—destined one day to run down
To Water Street—now runs to Water-town.
Can fancy quite recall to-day the charms
Of those enchanting “Marble Harbor Farms”?
Are the “sweet single roses” still in bloom?
Still do the “strawberries” the air perfume?
And from the flowers and shrubs that clothe the ground
Does a “sweet smell of gardens” breathe around?
Well can we guess what charms the landscape wore
When first our fathers trod this silent shore;
And, sweetly locked in sheltering arms, that day,
Their shallop safe in “Summer Harbour” lay.
Such was the name they gave the spot when first
Upon their yearning eyes its beauty burst;
Till by a threefold, nay, a fourfold claim,
Salem showed right divine to be its name.
For Salem they were taught of old to pray;
To peace—to Salem—God had led their way;
A spark of strife at Conant's breath had died—
“In Salem now—in Peace—we dwell,” they cried.

Peace to my lingering song! and peace to thee,
City of Peace! of Pilgrim memory,
Sweet home and sacred shrine, old Salem town!
And add bright centuries to thy old renown!
No words could ever give fit thanks to thee
For all that thou hast given and been to me!
A child's warm blessing on thy fields and skies,
Thy rocky pastures dear to childhood's eyes,
Thy fresh blue waters and fair islands green,
Of many a youthful sport the favorite scene,
North Fields and South Fields, Castle Hill, Dark Lane,—
And Paradise, where Memory leads the train
Of her transfigured dead, whose relics lie
At rest where living waters murmur by,—
With thee my song shall close. O patient friends,
'T is well that here my broken music ends!
So its last moan the shattered sea-wave makes,
When on the monumental rock it breaks.
Haply may these poor words, my stammering tongue
Upon its native air hath freely flung,
To the rude clang of Memory's wayward lyre,
In some true heart awake a smouldering fire;
And re-enkindle there the faith sublime,
That hears through all earth's din the Eternal City's chime.