The American common-place book of poetry with occasional notes |
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And fare thee well, my own green, quiet Vale.—Dana.
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 | The American common-place book of poetry |  |
56
And fare thee well, my own green, quiet Vale.—Dana.
The sun was nigh its set, when we were come
Once more where stood the good man's lowly home.
We sat beside the door; a gorgeous sight
Above our heads—the elm in golden light.
Thoughtful and silent for awhile—he then
Talked of my coming.—“Thou'lt not go 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.
Once more where stood the good man's lowly home.
We sat beside the door; a gorgeous sight
Above our heads—the elm in golden light.
Thoughtful and silent for awhile—he then
Talked of my coming.—“Thou'lt not go 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.”
“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 prest my hand, and prayed I might be blest,—
Where'er I went, that Heaven would give me rest.
As he each feeling of the heart could trace,
He prest 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 to me ever as at this calm hour.
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 to me ever as at this calm hour.
The tree tops now are glittering in the sun:
Away! 'Tis time my journey was begun.
Away! 'Tis 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!
Strange to the living, knowing but the dead;
57
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.
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.
And fare thee well, my own green, quiet vale.
| The American common-place book of poetry | |