Poems and prose writings :: :: University of Virginia Library

THE CHANGES OF HOME

—If it be life to wear within myself
This barrenness of spirit, and to be
My own soul's sepulchre.

Byron.

For hours she sate; and evermore her eye
Was busy in the distance, shaping things
That made her heart beat quick.

Wordsworth.

Pine not away for that which cannot be.

The pinner of warefield.

The Vale was beautiful; and, when a child,
I felt its sunny peace come warm and mild
To my young heart. Within high hills it slept,
Which o'er its rest their silent watches kept,
And gave it kindly shelter, as it lay
Like a fair, happy infant in its play.
The dancing leaves, the grain that gently bent
In early light, as soft winds o'er it went;
The new-fledged, panting bird, in low, short flight,
That filled my little bosom with delight,

Yet mixed with fear, lest that some unseen harm
Should spoil its just-born joy — all these a charm
Threw round my morn of being. — Here I've stood,
Where from its covert in the thick boughed wood,
The slender rill leaped forth, with its small voice,
Into the light, as seeming to rejoice
That it was free; and then it coursed away,
With grass, and reeds, and pebbles holding play.
It seemed the Vale of Youth! — of youth untried,
Youth in its innocence, and in its pride —
In its new life delighted; free from fears,
And griefs, and burdens, borne on coming years.
Such was the Vale. And then within it played
Edward, a child, and Jane, a little maid.
I see them now no more, where once they stood
Beside the brook, or 'neath the sloping wood.
The brook flows lonely on; o'er mimic mound
No longer made to leap with fairy bound.
Then, as they built the little dam and mill,
Their tongues went prattling with the prattling rill,
As if the babes and stream were playmates three,
With cheerful hearts, and singing merrily.
The tiny labor's o'er; the song is done
The children sang; the rill sings on alone.
How like eternity doth nature seem
To life of man — that short and fitful dream!
I look around me; no where can I trace
Lines of decay that mark our human race.

These are the murmuring waters, these the flowers
I mused o'er in my earlier, better hours.
Like sounds and scents of yesterday they come. —
Long years have past since this was last my home!
And I am weak, and toil-worn is my frame;
But all the vale shuts in is still the same:
'T is I alone am changed; they know me not:
I feel a stranger, or as one forgot.
The breeze that cooled my warm and youthful brow,
Breathes the same freshness on its wrinkles now.
The leaves that flung around me sun and shade,
While gazing idly on them as they played,
Are holding yet their frolic in the air;
The motion, joy, and beauty still are there —
But not for me! — I look upon the ground:
Myriads of happy faces throng me round,
Familiar to my eye; yet heart and mind
In vain would now the old communion find.
Ye were as living, conscious beings, then,
With whom I talked — but I have talked with men!
With uncheered sorrow, with cold hearts have met;
Seen honest minds by hardened craft beset;
Seen hope cast down, turn deathly pale its glow;
Seen virtue rare, but more of virtue's show.
Yet there was one true heart: that heart was thine,
Fond Emmeline — O God! it once was mine.
It beats no more. That fierce and cruel blow,
It struck me down, it laid my spirit low!

No feeble grief that sobs itself to rest,
Benumbing grief, and horrors filled my breast:
Dark death, and sorrow dark, and terror blind —
They made my soul to quail, they shook my mind —
O! all was wild — wild as the driving wind.
The storm went o'er me. Once again I stand
Amid God's works — his broad and lovely land.
It is not what it was — no, not to me;
I cannot feel, though lovely all I see;
A void is in my soul; my heart is dry:
They touch me not — these things of earth and sky.
E'en grief hath left me now; my nerves are steel;
Dim, pangless dreams my thoughts: — Would I could feel!
O, look on me in kindness, sky and earth;
We were companions almost from my birth.
Yet once more stir within me that pure love,
Which went with me by fountain, hill and grove.
Delights I ask not of ye; let me weep
Over your beauties; let your spirit sweep
Across this dull, still desert of the mind;
O, let me with you some small comfort find!
The world, the world has stript me of my joy.
Bless me once more; ye blest me when a boy.
Where are the human faces that I knew?
All changed; and even of the changed how few!
No tongue to give me welcome, bid me rest,
In sounds to stir the heart, like one new blest.

There stands my home — no more my home; and they
Who loved me so — they, too, have past away.
The sun lies on the door-sill, where my book
I daily read, and fitted line and hook,
And shaped my bow; or dreamed myself a knight
By lady loved, by champion feared in fight.
— Gone's thy fantastic dream; thy lance is broke,
Thy helmet cleft! — No knight that struck the stroke.
'T was Time, who his strong hand upon thee laid,
Unhorsed thee, boy, and spoiled thee of thy maid.
Thus stood I yesterday; and years far gone,
Present and coming years to me were one;
And long have been so; for the musing see
Inward, and time they make eternity;
Or put the present distant, till it blends
With sad, past thoughts, or bright ones that hope sends.
While dreaming so, I saw an aged man
Draw near. He bowed and spoke; and I began —
“Canst tell me, friend, I pray, whose home may be
The ancient house beneath that old, gray tree?”
“They are a stranger race; and since they came
We've learned but little. — Spencer is the name.
'T was rumored round they better days had known;
And we, in pity, would have kindness shown —
Kindness of fellowship; not proffered aid,
To be with forced and humbling thanks repaid.

We saw they liked it not. A show of scorn
Was in their smile. O! they were higher born;
And sought out our retirement where to hide
Their fortune's fall.”
“They should have hid their pride;
Should have subdued it rather. 'T is a thorn
That frets the heart; a chain it is that's worn
On man's free motions, making him the slave
Of those he hates, because he dares not brave; —
The shrewd man's sober scorn, the idler's jeer;
Bound to the shame of which he lives in fear.”
“Ay! on its neighbour, too, it shuts the door,
As that is shut. It was not so before;
For there, with wife and son, did Dalton dwell.
'T was cheerful welcome then and kind farewell;
Farewell so kind — that dwelt so on the heart,
You'd wish to meet, were't but again to part.
— The pair within the silent grave are laid.”
“But he, their son? They had a son, you said?”
“A rich relation saw the boy had mind.
`Such minds a market in the world must find;' —
So said he. — `And the boy must learning have;
For learning, power, and wealth and honors gave.'
`Mind and a market! — Will he sell the child
As slaves are sold?' they ask. The uncle smiled.
`And does not Nathan teach to read and write,
To spell and cipher — letters to indite?

What's learning, then, that he must needs go seek
So far from home?' — `They call it Latin — Greek.'
Wisely all farther question they forebore;
And looked profound, though puzzled as before.
“The years past on. Kind, frequent letters came,
Which showed the man and boy in heart the same;
By a hard world not hardened, nor yet vain
That much he knew, nor proud with all his gain.
“And he his own green vale would see again,
And playmate boys, now turned to thoughtful men.
But ere the time, a fever, like a blast,
Swept through the vale; and fearful, sudden, fast,
It struck down young and old. — To see them fall,
But not the hand that smote them, shook us all.
It took the parents in their hopes and joy —
They went, and never saw again their boy.”
“But he?”
“Within his grief there lived a power,
Withheld him — that withholds him to this hour.
Though of his marriage first there went a tale,
Yet soon a mournful story reached our vale.
A cloud shut out the light that brightly shone,
Set him in darkness, sorrowing and alone.
Thy cheek is sudden pale! thine eye is dim!
Thou art not well!”
“Nay, on! say, what of him?”

“No more is known. Time has assuaging balm;
And time the tossing of the mind can calm.
But there's a silent grief that knows no close,
Till death has laid us down to long repose.
That sleep may now be his; or he may go
In search of rest; no rest on earth to know.
“But why so sad? Why should a stranger grieve
When strangers mourn? O! all must mourn who live!”
“Thou sayest true. And grief makes strangers kin.
'T is thine from crime and sorrow man to win,
To preach, woe came with sin — was kindly given
To touch our hearts and lead us back to heaven:—
For such thy garb bespeaks thee; and though old,
Thine air, thy talk seem slowly to unfold
One who within this vale, in manhood's prime,
Lifted the lowly soul to thoughts sublime.”
“And, stranger, who art thou, that, in such tones,
Greet'st me as one who old acquaintance owns?
Thy face is as a book I cannot read;
Nor does thy voice my spirit backward lead,
Stirring old thoughts.”
“Nay, nay, thou look'st in vain!
This face — it bears the sea's and desert's stain;
And yet, both boy and man, I'm in thy mind.
Canst nothing here of Harry Dalton find?”

He looked again. A gleam of joy arose,
An instant gleam, then sank in sad repose;
For lines he saw of trouble, more than age —
That words of grief were written on the page.
Then laughing eyes and cheeks of youthful glow
Came to his mind, and grief that it was so
That joy and youth so soon away should go.
He gave his hand, but nothing either said,
And slowly turning, homeward silent led.
At our repast words few and low we spoke:
Silence, it seemed, not lightly to be broke.
But soon upon our thoughtful minds there stole,
Converse that gently won the saddened soul.
Then towards the village we together walked,
And of old friends and places much we talked.
And who had died, who left them he would tell;
And who still in their fathers' mansions dwell.
We reached a shop. No lettered sign displayed
The owner's name, or told the world his trade.
But on its door cracked, rusty hinges swung;
And there a hook or well worn horseshoe hung.
The trough was dry; the bellows gave no blast;
The hearth was cold; no sparks flew red and fast;
Labor's strong arm had rested. Where was he,
Brawny and bare, who toiled, and sang so free?

But soon we came where sat an aged man.
His thin and snow-white locks the breezes fan,
While he his long staff fingered, as he spoke
In sounds so low, they scarce the stillness broke.
“Good father!” said my guide. He raised his head,
As asking who had spoke; yet nothing said.
“The present is a dream to his worn brain;
And yet his mind does things long past retain.”
My friend then questioned him of former days,
Mingling with what he asked some little praise.
His old eyes cleared; a smile around them played,
As on my friend his shaking hand he laid,
And spoke of early prowess. Friends he named;
And some he praised: — they were but few he blamed.
“Dost thou remember Dalton?” asked my guide.
“Dalton? Full well! His little son beside.—
A waggish boy! — It will not from my thought —
His curious look as I my iron wrought.
And, as the fiery mass took shape, his smile
Made me forget my labor for awhile.
Before he left us, and when older grown,
He told of one who out from heaven was thrown,
Who forged huge bolts of thunder when he fell;
One-eyed his workmen, and his shop a hell;
So, called me Vulcan.”

“Vulcan! — John! art thou?
What! long-armed John, with moist and smutty brow?”
He gazed on me, half wondering and half lost.
Something it could not grasp his mind had crossed.
A moment's struggle in his face betrayed
The effort of the brain; and then he said,
Eager and quick — “What! come? — Where, where's the boy?
And looks the same? 'T will give his parents joy?”
Then talked he to himself. His eyes grew dead;
He felt his hands; nor did he raise his head,
Nor miss us as we parted, on our way
Along the street where the close village lay.
To pass the doors where I had welcomed been,
And none but unknown voices hear within;
Strange, wondering faces at those windows see,
Once lightly tapped, and then a nod for me! —
To walk full cities, and yet feel alone —
From day to day to listen to the moan
Of mourning trees — 't was sadder here unknown!
The village past, we came where stood aloof
An aged cot with low and broken roof.
The sun upon its walls in quiet slept;
Close by its door the stream in silence crept;
No rustling birds were heard among the trees,
Which high and silent stood as slept the breeze.

The cot wide open; yet there came no sound
Of busy steps: — 't was all in stillness bound:
Awful, yet lovely stillness, as a spell,
On this sweet rest and mellow sunshine fell.
And there, at the low door so fixed is one,
As if for years she'd borne with rain and sun,
All mindless of herself, and lost in thought
Which to her soul a far-off image brought.
About her shoulders hangs her long, white hair;
She clasps the post with fingers pale and spare,
And forward leans.
“What sees she in those hills?”
“'T is a vain fancy that her vision fills.
Or, rather, nothing sees she: Hope delayed,
Worn, feeble hope, which long her mind has swayed—
Born and to die in grief — the hope she knows;
A something gathered, midst her cherished woes,
From sad remembrances, from wishes vain —
Dim fiction of the mind to ease its pain.”
“Her name, I pray thee!”
“Dost thou wish to hear
Of two true lovers, Jane, and Edward Vere?”
“What, she! and look so old? — And can it be
That woe has done so well time's work with thee!”

“It struck her in her youth, as doth the blast
The opening flower; and then she withered fast.”
“I fain would know her story.”
“Soon 't is told —
Simple though sad; no mystery to unfold,
Save that one great, dread mystery — the mind,
Which thousands seek, but few in part can find.
“We'll rest us here, beneath this broad tree's shade;
The sun is hot upon the open glade.”
“A little farther! — Let us not obtrude
Upon her sorrows' holy solitude.”
“She marks us not: The curious passer-by,
Children who pause, and know not why they sigh —
Unheeded all by that fixed, gleamy eye.
But to her story.
“She and that fair boy
Shared with each other childhood's griefs and joy.
Their studies one. Then, as they homeward went
With busy looks, on little schemes intent,
Their earnest, happy voices might be heard
Along the lane where sang the evening bird.
— Why should I speak of what you know so well?
What chanced when you had left us let me tell.

“Time changes innocence to virtues strong,
Or mars the man with passions foul and wrong.
To warm and new emotions time gives life,
Fluttering the heart in strange yet pleasing strife,
Filling the quickened mind with visions fair —
Hues like bright clouds, that rest, like clouds, on air,
Deepening each feeling of the impassioned soul,
Round one loved object gathering then the whole.
So deepened, strengthened, formed, the love that grew
From childhood up, and bound in one the two.
So opened their fresh hearts, as to the sun
The young buds open: life was just begun.
For this it is to live — the stir to feel
Of hopes, fears, wishes, sadness, joy — the zeal
Which bands us one in life, death, woe and weal.
And life it is, when a soft, inward sense
Pervades our being, when we draw from hence
Delights unutterable, thoughts that throw
Unearthly brightness round this world below;
Making each common day, each common thing,
Something peculiar to our spirit bring.”
I saw in him a gentler sense that played
'Mid saddened thoughts on this once young, fair maid,
As plays the little child, unconscious why
The rich, black pall, and that long, tremulous sigh.
“Thy talk of love,” said I, “restores thy youth.
'T is true, decay, nor age awaits on truth;

And he who keeps a simple heart and kind,
May something there of early feelings find.
For in all innocent and tender hearts
A spirit dwells that cheerful thoughts imparts;
'Mong sorrows, sunny blessings it bestows
On those who think upon another's woes.”
My friend went on.
“At length drew near the time
That he must travel to some distant clime
In search of gain. `A few short years away,'
He fondly said, `and then the happy day;
And long, bright days — all bright, without a cloud! `—
They never came; and he is in his shroud.
She gazed up in his hopeful face and tried
To share his hope; then hung on him and sighed.
Her cheek turned pale, and her dark eye grew dim;
And then through tears again she 'd look on him.
In his full, clear, blue eye an answering tear
Spoke comfort; for it told that she was dear —
That love was strong as hope; that though it grew
'Mid thoughts less sad than her's, 't was no less true,
And that in his bold, free, and cheerful mind,
Her timid love its home would always find.
“The last day came — a long, sad, silent day,
It shone on two sick hearts. He must away.
Ah! then he felt how hard it is to go
From one so dear, and leave to lonely woe

A spirit yearning for its place of rest,
Of kindly sympathies — a lover's breast.
“And he is gone far o'er the foaming wave.
`Spare him ye dark, wild waters! Heaven him save!'
So prayed she; and the earnest prayer was heard.
A year past by; — he came before the third.
“Then from the sealed up heart, joy gushed once more,
For he had come — come from the stranger's shore,
To his own vale, and through the ocean's roar.
“Ah! sweet it is, to gaze upon the face
Long seen but by the mind, to fondly trace
Each look and smile again. — 'T is life renewed —
How fresh! How dim was that by memory viewed!
And, oh, how pines the soul; how doth it crave
Only a moment's look! 'T is in the grave —
That lovely face; no more to bless thine eyes.
Nay, wait, thou 'lt meet it soon in yonder skies.
“The throbbing pulse beats calm again; and they,
Too deeply happy to be loud or gay,
Through all their childhood's walks — the lane, the grove —
Along the silvery rill, would slowly move,
Mingling their hopes' bright lights, with soft'ning shades
That memory threw 'mong hill tops, streams, and glades;

For love is meditative; close it clings,
And thoughtful, to earth's simple, silent things.
“And thus they wandered; nearer heart to heart;
For they had known how hard it is to part;
To live in love, yet no communion hold —
Day following day, yet all we feel untold.
“And she would listening sit, and hear him speak
Of fierce and tawny Turk, and handsome Greek,
Of the young crescent moon on sullen brow —
The cross of Christ profaned and made to bow.
— And what! Shall he who hung above our head
That gentle light, see that whereon he bled,
Bend to the image of the thing he framed?
Throng to the cross! Our Saviour's cross is shamed!
“He spoke of men of far more distant climes,
Their idol worship stained with fearful crimes;
Of manners strange and dresses quaint would tell;
But most upon the sea he loved to dwell —
Its deep, mysterious voice, its maddened roar,
Its tall, strong waves, the white foam, and the shore,
The curse that on its gloomy spirit hung —
`Thou ne'er shalt sleep!' — through all its chambers rung;
Till closer to his side she'd trembling draw,
As if some dim and fearful thing she saw; —
So would this awful mystery fold her round:
She quailed as though she heard the very sound.

“ `And must you on the heaving sea again —
Mighty destroyer, deep, broad grave of men?'
`This once!' said he, — `no more!' — She raised her eyes
To his. — Her voice upon her pale lip dies.
Her first-felt sorrow came upon her mind,
And back she shrunk, as shrinks he whom they bind
Once more upon the rack — poor, weakened wretch!
Save him! — O, not again its fiery stretch!
“Sharp our first pangs; but in our minds is life;
Our hearts beat strong, and fit us for the strife;
A joyous sense still breathes amid our grief,
As shoots, in drooping boughs, a tender leaf.
But when woe comes again, our spirits yield,
Our hearts turn faint, we cannot lift the shield;
There is no strength in all our bones; we fall,
And call for mercy — trembling, prostrate, call.
“The sun was down, and softened was the glow
On cloud and hill — but now a joyous show.
Quiet the air. Its light the young moon sent
On this sad pair as up the vale they went.
— O! gentle is thy silver ray, fair moon.
Meet guide art thou for those to part so soon.
There's pity in thy look; and we below
Do love thee most, who feel the touch of woe.
“And up among the distant hills are they,
To meet the weekly coach upon its way.

They lingered till was heard a rumbling sound,
Which spread between the hills that lay around.
Soon rung the smart cracked whip; and then the cheer,
And quick, sharp tramp told the strong steeds were near.
'T was one imploring look; and then she fell
Upon his neck; they uttered no farewell —
One short, convulsive clasp, one heart-sick groan —
No other look — that one, weak, bitter moan, —
And then her arms fell from him. — All is o'er!
Poor woe-struck girl, she never clasped him more!
“The coach which bore him sank behind the hill.
The short, quick bustle past, the earth is still;
The agony is over; a dull haze
Hangs round her mind — upon the void her gaze.
A fearful calm is on that fair, sad brow!
O! who shall gently part its dark locks now,
Or press its saintly whiteness? — He is gone,
Who, blessing, kissed thee; — thou must go alone;
Alone must bear thy sorrows many an hour,
Widowed of all thy hopes — thy grief thy dower!
“She sought amid her daily cares for ease,
To lose all sense of self, and others please.
The heart lay heavy. With her grief was fear.
She thought a gloomy something always near,
That o'er her like a mighty prophet stood,
Uttering her doom — `For thee no more of good!
Thy joys are withered round thee! Read the date
Of all thy hopes! — Thou art set desolate!'

“A year went by. Another came and past.
`This third,' her friends would say, `must be the last:'
Spake of his coming, then, and how he'd look.
She turned more pale; her head she slowly shook,
And something muttered, as in talk with one
Whom no one saw; — then said — `It must be done!'
“And when the tale was told, the ship had sailed,
That nothing more was known — that hope had failed;
`It is fulfilled!' she said — `Prophetic Power,
Thou told'st me true! — 'T is come — the fated hour!'
“Her look was now like cold and changeless stone.
She left her home, for she would be alone;
Wandered the fields all o'er; and up the hill,
Where last they parted, stood at morning still,
And far along that region gazed, as she
In the blue distance saw the moving sea;
And of the far-off mountain-mist would frame
Long spars, and sails, and give the lost ship's name;
And watch with glee, to see how fast it neared;
Grow restless then — `It ne'er will come,' she feared.
“Soon rolls the mist away; and she is left,
Of sea, ship, lover, shaping hopes bereft.
Through glistening tears she'd look, and see them go;
Then to the vale, to dwell upon her woe,
And listen to the dark pine's murmuring,
Thinking the spirit of the sea did sing
Its sad, low song: — for, `Such,' would Edward say,
`Its mourning tones, where long sand-beaches lay.'

But when through naked trees the strong wind went,
Roaring and fierce, and their tossed arms were rent
With sullen mutterings, then a moaning sigh —
`Hear them!' she'd shriek, — `The waves run mountain high! —
They're mad! — They shake her in their wrath —
She's down! —
— Went to the bottom, said they? — Did all drown? —
He told me he would come, and I should be
His own, own wife! — There's mercy in the sea?'
“The spring was come again. — There is a grief
Finds soothing in the bud, and bird, and leaf.
A grief there is of deeper, withering power,
That feels death lurking in the springing flower —
That stands beneath the sun, yet circled round
By a strange darkness — stands amid the sound
Of happy things, and yet in silence bound; —
Moves in a fearful void amid the throng,
And deems that happy nature does it wrong;
Thinks joy unkind; feels it must walk alone,
That not on earth is one to hear its moan,
Or bring assuaging sympathies, or bind
A broken heart, or cheer a desert mind.
— And thus she walks in silent loneliness.
Sounds come, and lovely sights around her press;
Yet all in vain! She something sees and hears,
But feels not — dead to pangs, to joys, to fears;
Nor wishes aught. The mind all waste and worn,
Lives but to faintly know itself forlorn;

Remembrance of past joys well nigh forgot,
As if one changeless gloom had been her lot;
And, sure, had thought it strange that there should be
Blessings in store for one so poor as she.
“She wandered in this dull and fearful mood,
A shadow 'mong the shadows of the wood;
Would sit the livelong day and watch the stream,
And pore, when shed the moon its fainter beam,
In dreamy thought, upon the dreamy light.—
How few, of grief, have felt, can feel the might!
“Season of thought! The leaves are dropping now,
Tawny or red, from off their parent bough.
Nor longer plays their glossy green in air,
Over thy slender form and long dark hair.
Myriads of gay ones fluttered over thee;—
Thou now look'st up at that bare, silent tree.
Thou, too, art waste and silent:—in thy spring
The cold winds came, and struck thee blossoming!
Nor sound, nor life, nor motion in thy mind:
All lost to sense, what would thy spirit find?
“They led her home. She went; nor asked to stay.
The same to her, the wood, the house, the way.
The talk goes on — the laugh, the daily tasks:
She stands unmoved; she nothing heeds nor asks.
Above the fire, sea shells, from distant lands,
Once ranged by her, she feels with idle hands.
And what the soul's communion none could trace;—
No gleamings of the past in that still face!

“They marked, when spring returned and warmer days,
She stood, as now, on yonder hill her gaze.
They thought not what it meant, nor cared to know
The glimmerings of a mind whose light was low.
They saw, as up the hill the hot steeds came,
A strange and sudden shuddering take her frame.
She gave a childish laugh, and gleamed her eye.
The coach went down—they heard a scarce breathed sigh.
A shade past o'er her face, as quickly go
Shades flung from sailing clouds, on fields below;
Then all was clear and still; the unmeaning smile,
The senseless look returned, which fled awhile.
And thus her dreamy days, months, years are gone:
Not knowing why she looks, she yet looks on.
— We'll homeward now!”
Death is a mournful sight,
But what is death, to this dread, living blight!
Thou who didst form us with mysterious powers,
And give a conscious soul, and call it ours;
Thou who alone dost know the strife within,
Wilt kindly judge, nor name each weakness sin.
Thou art not man, who only sees in part,
Yet deals unsparing with a brother's heart;
For thou look'st in upon the struggling throng
That war—the good with ill—the weak with strong.

And those thy hand hath wrought of finer frame,
When grief o'erthrows the mind, thou wilt not blame;
But say, “It is enough!”—and pity show,—
“Thy pain shall turn to joy, thou child of woe!
Thy heart at rest, and dark mind cleared away,
Heaven's light shall dawn on thee, a calmer day.”
The sun was nigh its set, as we once more
With saddened spirits reached the good man's door.
And there we rested, with a gorgeous sight
Above our heads—the elm in golden light.
Thoughtful and silent for awhile—he then
Talked of my coming.—“Thou wilt not again
From thine own vale? And we will make thy home
Pleasant; and it shall glad thee to have come.”
Then of my garden and my house he spoke,
And well ranged orchard on the sunny slope;
And grew more bright and happy in his talk
Of social winter eve and summer walk.
And, while I listened, to my sadder soul
A sunnier, gentler sense in silence stole;
Nor had I heart to spoil the little plan
Which cheered the spirit of the kind old man.
At length I spake—
“No! here I must not stay.
I'll rest to-night—to-morrow go my way.”
He did not urge me.—Looking in my face,
As he each feeling of the heart could trace,

He pressed my hand, and prayed I might be blest,
Where'er I went—that heaven would give me rest.
The silent night has past into the prime
Of day—to thoughtful souls a solemn time.
For man has wakened from his nightly death
And shut up sense, to morning's life and breath.
He sees go out in heaven the stars that kept
Their glorious watch, while he, unconscious, slept,—
Feels God was round him, while he knew it not—
Is awed—then meets the world—and God's forgot.
So may I not forget thee, holy Power!
Be ever to me as at this calm hour.
The tree-tops now are glittering in the sun:
Away! 'T is time my journey was begun!
Why should I stay, when all I loved are fled,
Strange to the living, knowing but the dead!
A homeless wanderer through my early home;
Gone childhood's joy, and not a joy to come?
To pass each cottage, and to have it tell,
Here did thy mother, here a playmate dwell;
To think upon that lost one's girlish bloom,
And see that sickly smile, and mark her doom!
It haunts me now—her dim and wildered brain.
I would not look upon that eye again!
Let me go, rather, where I shall not find
Aught that my former self will bring to mind.

These old, familiar things, where'er I tread,
Are round me like the mansions of the dead.
No! wide and foreign lands shall be my range:
That suits the lonely soul, where all is strange.
Then, for the dashing sea, the broad, full sail!
And fare thee well, my own, green, quiet Vale.