University of Virginia Library

THE HAPPY HOME.

There's a stream in Pennsylvania,
A wild romantic stream,
More musical, and beautiful,
Than fancy's wildest dream.
'Tis braided of a thousand strands,
The little silver rills,
Spun by the Naiads in their joy
Amongst the gay green hills.
The bright green hills, that proudly wear
The crest of Liberty,
Where winds, and streams, and singing birds
And animals are free.
And man—Oh! how his soul expands,
How free his footsteps are,
When out upon the bright green hills,
He breathes the morning air.
The morning air, that stirs the trees,
And wakes the early bird;
While in the glens the flowers look up
As if the sweet things heard.
While rising from his mossy lair
The deer goes forth in pride,
With quick bright eye, and breezy foot
Along the mountain's side.
The mountain-side, where deep ravines
Betray the heart within,
The iron heart, that still bears up
Where storm, and time have been.
While darkly o'er their rugged brows
The giant pine trees wave,
Unchang'd, while generations pass
From cradle, to the grave.—
Amongst these hills the stream I sing,
Flows gloriously along,
From everlasting hymning forth
Its everlasting song.
Where round the bases of the hills
It bathes their rock-built feet,
Its music hath a chiding tone
And seems more wild than sweet.
But in the green and shadowy vales
Oh, soft its anthem swells,
And floats like spirit melodies
Far up the haunted dells.
And oft the trembling waters sleep
In valley's fair and bright,
As Tempe, where the gods of Greece,
Found more than heaven's delight.
The waters sleep, and seem to dream
For troubled is their rest,
And earth, and heaven in broken gleams
Are mirror'd in its breast;
And softly from the dimpling waves
The dreamy murmurs rise,
As when from sleeping tenderness
Breathe words, half lost in sighs.
While sweetly through the listening vale
The balmy breezes sweep,
And with the voices of the stream,
A tender converse keep.
Amongst these valleys of delight
One most enchanting place,
Lies bosom'd in surrounding hills
Half lock'd in their embrace.
On one side brightly rolls the stream
Where cliffs on cliffs ascend,
And crags that wear the clouds of heaven
Seem o'er its course to bend;
And every where, from cleft, and knoll,
The blossom'd streamers fair
Float out, and shed their fragrant breath
Upon the mountain air.
And many a mossy shelf is spread
As for an elfin feast,
With cups, that shame the jewell'd gold
On regal tables placed;
Bright cups, and urns of every hue,
With limpid honey fill'd,
Or bending with the nectar drop
By nature's self distill'd.
And there the fairies of the dell
No race by fancy nurst,
But emerald coated humming birds
Allay their dainty thirst.
The fair, the bright, the beautiful,
The gentle, soft, and sweet,
The august, the magnificent,
Here all delight to meet.
And there are dwellers in this vale,
(And all along the stream,
Where'er a valley may be found
The scatter'd dwellings gleam.)
In years gone by there stood a cot
Within that valley fair,
With roof so gray, you might have deem'd
It had been always there.
In front, quite to the water's edge
Grew rose and lilac bowers,
And gardens lay on either side,
Enrich'd with choicest flowers.
All round, the little vale was fill'd
With agriculture's pride,
And bearing orchards climb'd far up
The swelling mountain-side.
Here dwelt a couple, with their wealth
Of sweet content, and peace,
And full, confiding, mutual love,
The very soul of bliss.
There lay no sorrow on their hearts,
No shadow on their way,
And pleasant toils, and sweet delights
Attended every day.
Their fertile fields, and decent cot
Afforded food and rest,
And health-imparting exercise,
Gave these the purest zest.
They had no cares beyond the hills
That fenced their covert home;
Each to the other was the world,
Why should they wish to roam?
One gentle daughter bloom'd alone
Within their shelter'd nest,
A rose-bud, with the dew of love
Lock'd trembling in its breast.
Her name was Rhoda, and she grew
A rose serenely fair,
With all the wealth that nature wins
From sun, and living air.
The impress of all loveliness
Was perfect on her face,
Her youthful form was beautiful
With every healthy grace.
The sun-beams saw her sporting free,
And lov'd her auburn hair,
And nestling in the silken curls,
Lay always smiling there.
And those who mark'd the brilliant thoughts
Within her dark blue eyes,
Might deem they saw the seraphim
Deep in the evening skies.
And tenderness, and purity,
Dwelt ever in her words,
That fill'd the heart with melody
Like songs of summer birds.
And as she plied her sportive toil,
Or train'd her fragrant flowers,
The gushing music of her heart
Gave gladness to the hours.
Her parents treasured in their home
Within a sacred nook,
A few choice tomes of ancient lore,
Beside the Holy Book.
All these, the noble girl had read,
And so her mind was stor'd
With pure exalted sentiments,
And knowledge of the Lord.
And when “Our Father” pass'd her lips
In prayer, at morn, and even,
She felt a child's strong confidence
In Him, who is “in heaven;”
Confiding wholly in his love,
And trusting to his care,
She grew a “lily of the field,”
A song “bird of the air.”
Her heart toward all living things
Oerflow'd with tenderness,
And every simple flower might claim,
A sister's dear caress.
The innocence of infancy
Lay in her spirit still,
Like dew all day within the cup
Of violet by the rill.
And girlhood's guileless trust and truth,
Like that meek violet's blue,
Inbraided with her very life,
Their spell around her threw.
Full oft her father made his prayer
That never to her breast,
The knowledge of the false cold world,
Should come, to break her rest.
For he had known the world too well,
With all its crooked ways;
Had met the homage paid to wealth,
And worn the scholar's bays.
And he had prov'd what all have prov'd,
Who deem her courts divine;
And turn'd in weariness of soul,
From her unholy shrine.
And with the lady of his love,
A high-born maid was she,
He sought a dwelling, where the heart
Might tell its pulses free.
Where wild Ambition's eagle note
Could never break his rest;
Or Avarice's serpent chain of gold
Benumb, and crush the breast.
Where fashion should not hold her court
Of fancies false and vain,
And changeful as the wildest dreams
That haunt the maniac's brain.
Where in the pleasant ways of life
Stern Hauteur should not stand,
To crush the buds of human love
With her relentless hand.
And sweetly o'er his happy home
The circling years that sped,
Had left no grief marks on his heart,
No white hairs on his head.
The dwellers all along the stream
Far as his name was known,
Lov'd, honour'd, and rever'd the man
Who made their cause his own;
Who had a dole for every want,
A balm for every grief,
And sympathy for all the ills
That might not claim relief.
And many a high-bred traveller
Who rested in his cot,
Paid homage to his noble heart,
And envied him his lot.
And many a haughty spirit there
At Rhoda's feet confess'd,
The power of maiden loveliness
In unassuming vest.
And wonder'd at her gentle words,
And soul-entrancing grace;
And how so rich a flower had bloom'd,
In such a humble place.
But mostly at her dignity
Of action, voice, and eye,
Which might have grac'd the proudest star
Of ancient chivalry.
And some had said, it cannot be
That such a queenly maid,
Was born in this sequester'd cot,
And nurtur'd in this shade.
But when they ask'd her if she felt
No restless wish to stray,
And taste the homage which the world
Would be compell'd to pay?
She still replied, I feel no wish
To leave this home of love,
For out upon the world's cold waste
I should be like the dove,
That o'er the shoreless weltering flood
Sought rest, but sought in vain,
Until she came with weary wing
Back to the ark again.
Oh, no. The world has never given
The martyr at her shrine,
Such love, such peace, such sweet content,
As in this vale are mine.
I dwell amongst my sister flowers,
And when the spring birds come,
I join my merry song with their's,
And bid them welcome home.
I gather berries on the hills,
And when the fawns pass by,
I tell them they are scarce more free,
More fleet of foot, than I.
And I have sketch'd this lovely scene
From various points of view,
And always find some novel charm,
Some feature, rich and new.
I cultivate my garden flowers,
I train the scented vine,
I nurse and rear the useful plant,
And teach the beans to twine;
The needle, and the merry wheel
Are playthings in my hands,
And all the housewife's healthy art,
My ready skill commands.
I never knew a day too long,
Or pass'd a sleepless night;
Or ope'd a sad or languid eye
Upon the morning light.
Not one warm feeling of my heart
Has ever been conceal'd,
Nor have I ever known a wish
That might not be reveal'd.
But I am told that in the world
A veil, to hide the heart,
Is deem'd a necessary thing,
And worn with nicest art.
Ah, wherefore should I wish to win,
A homage false and brief,
While here I have a world of love
That fears no yellow leaf?
Then, tempt me not—Oh, tempt me not,
With restless wing to roam,
And search the desert for the flowers,
That bloom so fair at home.
My pleasant home! my happy home,
Beside the joyous stream;
I cannot dream in this dear home
Ambition's restless dream.
Then if they sorrow'd that a flower
So delicately fair,
So fragrant, and so rich in grace,
Should waste its sweetness there.
She answer'd, I have often mark'd
Amongst my garden bowers,
That meddling fingers bruise and stain
The most attractive flowers;
That admiration, while she bends
To taste the rich perfume,
Blights with the siroc of her breath
The bosom of the bloom.
And I have blest the buds that grow
By vales, and hills untrod,
Unseen, untouch'd by aught beside
The sun and wind, of God.
The jess'mine on the arid hill
Seeks not a happier lot,
Kind nature always lays the germ
In an appropriate spot.
The rose that loves the holy dew,
The sun-shine, and the shower,
Will never bloom so sweet and fair
In artificial bower.
Time, who by magic touch transforms
All things, beneath the sky,
Who never spared the beautiful,
Or pass'd the joyous by,
Who never yet hath paus'd to hear
The heart's most earnest prayer,
Or linger'd at the shrieking cry
Of agoniz'd despair,
Hath pass'd the vale of which I sing
With his transforming touch;
Its features hardly seem the same
It has been chang'd so much.
Upon the hills where slept the deer,
Beneath the gray old trees,
Bright harvests, sporting with the wind
Display their mimic seas.
And in the dells where hemlocks spread
Their still and pall-like shade,
And drooping o'er the spring bud's tomb
The pure white ghost-flower staid.
Where hellebore beside the stream,
Grew rank, with many a weed,
Are meadows now, and pastures green,
Where flocks, and cattle feed.
One hill with gently swelling slope
Sweeps down toward the tide;
And midway on its bosom fair,
In chaste and snowy pride,
Half veil'd in trees, and blossom'd vines,
A cottage front is seen,
Like the white bosom of a bird
Amid the leavy screen.
And there the angels peace, and truth,
And love and honour dwell,
And heart-warm hymns of gratitude
Go up with ceaseless swell.
There hospitality delights
To spread her grateful store,
And every weary pilgrim finds
A welcome at the door.
There rural elegance, and taste,
With cleanliness abide,
And wisdom, and intelligence
With modesty preside.
And this is Rhoda's happy home,
Where now a blessed wife,
She watches o'er the fair young buds
The treasures of her life.
And here her parents in their age
Claim each an easy chair,
And guide her in her pleasant tasks,
And bless her pious care.
And he, who in his hunter's dress,
First taught her heart to love;
Who for her sake forgot the world,
And every wish to rove.
He dwells within a paradise
Of pure and tranquil bliss,
To which, if sorrow comes at all,
She brings no bitterness.