 | Lines in Pleasant Places |  |
26
HOME AGAIN.
A phalanx strong and true we come
To meet amid the scenes of home—
Again to mingle heart and heart,
As in life's early morning-start,
When, with stout nerve and earnest soul,
We parted for the distant goal.
And we have wandered long and far,
Led onward by Hope's guiding star;
Through ways diversely wide we've passed,
With varied fortunes on us cast;
Felt much of good and much of ill
From Fate's o'erbending skies distil;
But, though afar, we've ne'er forgot
Each olden well-belovéd spot,
And every hill and rock and stream
Has been recalled in many a dream,
And life's pursuits, of high or low,
Have paled no beam of filial glow,
That with renewing ray has burned
As oft the heart has homeward turned.
Fancy unchecked has roamed at will;
We've stood again on Breakfast Hill,
And felt the breezes round us blow,
As on May mornings long ago,
When, left our beds for phantom flowers
In early dawn's ungenial hours,
In aching hands and glowing noses
Has merged our hope of vernal roses!
Again we've come from Langdon's Rock,
In dreamy shoes, to Puddle Dock,
And plunged beneath the cooling waves
That ceaseless lave the Point of Graves,
Where, in eternal slumbers deep,
The “fathers of the hamlet sleep.”
To meet amid the scenes of home—
Again to mingle heart and heart,
As in life's early morning-start,
When, with stout nerve and earnest soul,
We parted for the distant goal.
And we have wandered long and far,
Led onward by Hope's guiding star;
Through ways diversely wide we've passed,
With varied fortunes on us cast;
Felt much of good and much of ill
From Fate's o'erbending skies distil;
But, though afar, we've ne'er forgot
Each olden well-belovéd spot,
And every hill and rock and stream
Has been recalled in many a dream,
And life's pursuits, of high or low,
Have paled no beam of filial glow,
That with renewing ray has burned
As oft the heart has homeward turned.
27
We've stood again on Breakfast Hill,
And felt the breezes round us blow,
As on May mornings long ago,
When, left our beds for phantom flowers
In early dawn's ungenial hours,
In aching hands and glowing noses
Has merged our hope of vernal roses!
Again we've come from Langdon's Rock,
In dreamy shoes, to Puddle Dock,
And plunged beneath the cooling waves
That ceaseless lave the Point of Graves,
Where, in eternal slumbers deep,
The “fathers of the hamlet sleep.”
We've walked once more in memory o'er
That sacred precinct Christian Shore,
And heard the hum of Walker's Mill,
And stood enrapt on Dennett's Hill,
Where the big fish perpetual glides,
On steady fin, through airy tides,
And seen that pond beneath us rest,
Upon whose placid, stormless breast
—In days full well remembered yet—
Our little sails in pride we set,
Nor deemed that, in the world's wide round,
A fairer sea could e'er be found,
Or mightier gales than those which bore
Our shallow ships from shore to shore!
Beyond its clear and glassy tide
Rock Pasture rests in pristine pride.
In memory only is it seen,
—In memory may it still be green,
As when, in days of ancient peace,
Old Mr. Mifflin reared his geese,
And Sherburne's Wharf, a spot revered,
In willowy garniture appeared,
And Cellar old and Great Rock gray
Saw rudimental men at play,—
For Innovation's iron hand
Has marred the features of the land,
And the Rock Pasture we are shown
Is not the one we erst have known!
Though other streams more wide may be,
Of import more and majesty,
Yet none from one can e'er bespeak
A warmer love than Walker's Creek.
That sacred precinct Christian Shore,
And heard the hum of Walker's Mill,
And stood enrapt on Dennett's Hill,
Where the big fish perpetual glides,
On steady fin, through airy tides,
And seen that pond beneath us rest,
Upon whose placid, stormless breast
—In days full well remembered yet—
Our little sails in pride we set,
Nor deemed that, in the world's wide round,
A fairer sea could e'er be found,
Or mightier gales than those which bore
Our shallow ships from shore to shore!
Beyond its clear and glassy tide
Rock Pasture rests in pristine pride.
28
—In memory may it still be green,
As when, in days of ancient peace,
Old Mr. Mifflin reared his geese,
And Sherburne's Wharf, a spot revered,
In willowy garniture appeared,
And Cellar old and Great Rock gray
Saw rudimental men at play,—
For Innovation's iron hand
Has marred the features of the land,
And the Rock Pasture we are shown
Is not the one we erst have known!
Though other streams more wide may be,
Of import more and majesty,
Yet none from one can e'er bespeak
A warmer love than Walker's Creek.
And thou, remembered Sagamore!
Some fairy pencil traced thy shore,
With most artistic beauties rife
Ere sturdy nature gave it life;
The woods that skirt thy verdant side
Bow over thee in love and pride,
And lay their shadows there to rest
Upon the pillow of thy breast;
No sounds of harsh discordance press
To mar thy blesséd peacefulness;
The old pines murmur whisperingly
As if in earnest praise of thee;
And troops of brilliant loving birds
Sing their delight in joyous words,
Responsive to thine own sweet speech
That breaks in music on thy beach.
Among thy haunts again we've played,
Again along thy shore we've strayed,
And bowed like pilgrims at a shrine
Before thy beauties so divine!
Again our foreheads warm and glowing
Have felt thy crystal coolness flowing,
And love has strengthened in the beam
Reflected from thy shore and stream.
Some fairy pencil traced thy shore,
With most artistic beauties rife
Ere sturdy nature gave it life;
The woods that skirt thy verdant side
Bow over thee in love and pride,
And lay their shadows there to rest
Upon the pillow of thy breast;
No sounds of harsh discordance press
To mar thy blesséd peacefulness;
The old pines murmur whisperingly
As if in earnest praise of thee;
And troops of brilliant loving birds
Sing their delight in joyous words,
29
That breaks in music on thy beach.
Among thy haunts again we've played,
Again along thy shore we've strayed,
And bowed like pilgrims at a shrine
Before thy beauties so divine!
Again our foreheads warm and glowing
Have felt thy crystal coolness flowing,
And love has strengthened in the beam
Reflected from thy shore and stream.
And oft-remembered Frenchman's Lane
Comes up before the mind again,
With brooding shadows dark and dread,
From elms enlacing overhead;
And on a broad flat stone we read
The trace of that perfidious deed,
Where on this spot, long, long ago,
The Frenchman met his mortal woe.
Dread spot! where boys scarce dared to roam
Beyond the evening's early gloam,
For fear lest they might haply meet
The Frenchman in his winding-sheet.
O, glorious myth! that urchins scares,
And saves to Ham his sugar-pears!
Comes up before the mind again,
With brooding shadows dark and dread,
From elms enlacing overhead;
And on a broad flat stone we read
The trace of that perfidious deed,
Where on this spot, long, long ago,
The Frenchman met his mortal woe.
Dread spot! where boys scarce dared to roam
Beyond the evening's early gloam,
For fear lest they might haply meet
The Frenchman in his winding-sheet.
O, glorious myth! that urchins scares,
And saves to Ham his sugar-pears!
And sense and soul must all be dead
When we forget the Fountain Head,
That shrine to which our footsteps strayed,
For rest and solace in its shade,
When parched beneath the summer heat
We've coveted its treasures sweet,
And dipped our pails within the pool
Where bubbled up the waters cool,
In ceaseless, never-tiring flow,
And icy stillness from below,
The while the fife-bird poured his song
Upon the slumbering air along,
Till, taking captive Boyhood's ear,
It bowed in still delight to hear!
Full many a name on that old shrine
Was written in the days lang syne—
Few scarcely dreaming deeper fame
Than that which registered their name!
When we forget the Fountain Head,
That shrine to which our footsteps strayed,
For rest and solace in its shade,
When parched beneath the summer heat
30
And dipped our pails within the pool
Where bubbled up the waters cool,
In ceaseless, never-tiring flow,
And icy stillness from below,
The while the fife-bird poured his song
Upon the slumbering air along,
Till, taking captive Boyhood's ear,
It bowed in still delight to hear!
Full many a name on that old shrine
Was written in the days lang syne—
Few scarcely dreaming deeper fame
Than that which registered their name!
And memories, like railway trains,
Come freighted, full, of Portsmouth Plains—
That greater field, in Boyhood's view,
Than New Orleans or Waterloo!
With mighty deeds of arms 'tis rife,
And rattling drum and squeaking fife,
And Berri's bunns, and weary legs,
And apple-juice, and hard-boiled eggs!
Again hear how the music rings,
Where Myers thumbs the catgut strings,
Where, answering to the sounding fiddle,
'Tis “down outside and up the middle,”
And waves of flaming calico
In mighty surges come and go!
Again we see the grand display
Of many a famed “great training day,”
When soldiers brave, in “fixings” fair,
—And some by far the worse for wear—
Meet there in warlike trim to wait,
And show themselves and serve the state,—
The glory and the crowning pride
Of boys and men who stand outside!
Come freighted, full, of Portsmouth Plains—
That greater field, in Boyhood's view,
Than New Orleans or Waterloo!
With mighty deeds of arms 'tis rife,
And rattling drum and squeaking fife,
And Berri's bunns, and weary legs,
And apple-juice, and hard-boiled eggs!
Again hear how the music rings,
Where Myers thumbs the catgut strings,
Where, answering to the sounding fiddle,
'Tis “down outside and up the middle,”
And waves of flaming calico
In mighty surges come and go!
Again we see the grand display
Of many a famed “great training day,”
When soldiers brave, in “fixings” fair,
31
Meet there in warlike trim to wait,
And show themselves and serve the state,—
The glory and the crowning pride
Of boys and men who stand outside!
Spring Market!—how affection clings
To thee, best of remembered things!
Delightful 'twas in days of old,
Thy mighty commerce to behold,—
Where, spread around thy circuit wide,
Was seen the fertile country's pride,
That Naiads ere the morning's gleam
Had ferried down the rapid stream.
And vivid thoughts arise of her,
The awful ancient Marriner,
Before whose stern and chilling frown
All predatory schemes went down;
With whom the fruit-invested pence
Was sole atonement for offence.
There, trickling out from 'neath the hill,
Runs merrily that ceaseless rill,
That never from its fulness shrank
Though myriads from its bounty drank,
And wastes itself in icy flow
Upon the “flagrant” beach below.
How often has that iron bowl
Been blissful to his thirsty soul,
Who, bending double for the prize,
Has crushed his beaver o'er his eyes,
But compensated for his pain
By tasting of its sweets again.
Gray, honored, worn Venetian pile,
Which modern Goths have dared despoil!
Though statelier fabrics rear their forms
Upon thy site, my spirit warms
As it thy glories doth restore,
The pride of swift Piscataqua's shore.
Piscataqua! that mighty tide,
With all our youthful thoughts allied,
Yet rolls its eddying waves along,
Untiring, ceaseless, free, and strong,
As when with pole and hook and string
We fished for pollock by the “Spring.”
To thee, best of remembered things!
Delightful 'twas in days of old,
Thy mighty commerce to behold,—
Where, spread around thy circuit wide,
Was seen the fertile country's pride,
That Naiads ere the morning's gleam
Had ferried down the rapid stream.
And vivid thoughts arise of her,
The awful ancient Marriner,
Before whose stern and chilling frown
All predatory schemes went down;
With whom the fruit-invested pence
Was sole atonement for offence.
There, trickling out from 'neath the hill,
Runs merrily that ceaseless rill,
That never from its fulness shrank
Though myriads from its bounty drank,
And wastes itself in icy flow
Upon the “flagrant” beach below.
How often has that iron bowl
Been blissful to his thirsty soul,
Who, bending double for the prize,
Has crushed his beaver o'er his eyes,
But compensated for his pain
32
Gray, honored, worn Venetian pile,
Which modern Goths have dared despoil!
Though statelier fabrics rear their forms
Upon thy site, my spirit warms
As it thy glories doth restore,
The pride of swift Piscataqua's shore.
Piscataqua! that mighty tide,
With all our youthful thoughts allied,
Yet rolls its eddying waves along,
Untiring, ceaseless, free, and strong,
As when with pole and hook and string
We fished for pollock by the “Spring.”
And redolent with sulphury smell,
And resonant with gun and bell,
And luminous with fiery light
—The crown of Independence night—
The town Parade, with earnest strife,
Has lost no note of busy life:
The Court House—venerable pile—
In gentle dotage seems to smile;
The old Town Pump, with outstretched hand,
Like rigid sentinel doth stand;
Jefferson Hall sends back again
That olden patriotic strain,
That rose when high and low degree
Brought votive gifts to Liberty,
And, rallying, with earnest zeal,
Each twelvemonth saved the commonweal;
And old Paved Street, with riches dight,
Comes back upon the dreaming sight,
With every gorgeous hue displayed,
As when, upon the sea of trade,
To welcome all auspicious gales,
The hopeful merchant set his sales.
There, like the guardian of the scene,
The North Church stands with solemn mien,
And reverent feelings cluster round
To sanctify the precious ground.
Its spire arises white and high,
Attracting upward still the eye,
A petrified perpetual saint—
A sermon preached in wood and paint!
That bell—the music of whose tone
What Portsmouth ear can e'er disown?—
Yet swings within its ancient tower,
And calls to praise, and calls the hour,
As erst in garrulous pride it swung,
With open mouth and prating tongue,
Like many a mortal we have known
Whose virtue is in sound alone.
And resonant with gun and bell,
And luminous with fiery light
—The crown of Independence night—
The town Parade, with earnest strife,
Has lost no note of busy life:
The Court House—venerable pile—
In gentle dotage seems to smile;
The old Town Pump, with outstretched hand,
Like rigid sentinel doth stand;
Jefferson Hall sends back again
That olden patriotic strain,
That rose when high and low degree
Brought votive gifts to Liberty,
And, rallying, with earnest zeal,
Each twelvemonth saved the commonweal;
And old Paved Street, with riches dight,
Comes back upon the dreaming sight,
33
As when, upon the sea of trade,
To welcome all auspicious gales,
The hopeful merchant set his sales.
There, like the guardian of the scene,
The North Church stands with solemn mien,
And reverent feelings cluster round
To sanctify the precious ground.
Its spire arises white and high,
Attracting upward still the eye,
A petrified perpetual saint—
A sermon preached in wood and paint!
That bell—the music of whose tone
What Portsmouth ear can e'er disown?—
Yet swings within its ancient tower,
And calls to praise, and calls the hour,
As erst in garrulous pride it swung,
With open mouth and prating tongue,
Like many a mortal we have known
Whose virtue is in sound alone.
An endless task it is to trace
Each olden, well-remembered place,
Or give our heart emotions tone—
The heart must treasure them alone.
There are they evermore portrayed,
The pictures that in youth were made:
The church, the school, the wood, the stream,
All, all return in memory's dream,
And friends and old delights we knew
Still live in retrospection's view.
And olden feeling is restored—
The pleasure beaming round the board
Reveals, in colors strong and clear,
The Spirit of the Past is here!
No figment of the brain alone,
But flesh and blood and nerve and bone.
The hands we clasp are sentient things;
That smile no ghostly radiance flings;
Those eyes are lit by friendship's beam,
That fades not out as fades a dream;
These hearts with living pulses beat;
These tongues with living tones are sweet;
Those waves of blue that yonder flow
Have nought ethereal in their glow;
The bright forms glancing by our side
Are objects of terrestrial pride,
Although, adoringly, we're given
To deem them less of earth than heaven.
Each olden, well-remembered place,
Or give our heart emotions tone—
The heart must treasure them alone.
There are they evermore portrayed,
The pictures that in youth were made:
The church, the school, the wood, the stream,
All, all return in memory's dream,
And friends and old delights we knew
Still live in retrospection's view.
34
The pleasure beaming round the board
Reveals, in colors strong and clear,
The Spirit of the Past is here!
No figment of the brain alone,
But flesh and blood and nerve and bone.
The hands we clasp are sentient things;
That smile no ghostly radiance flings;
Those eyes are lit by friendship's beam,
That fades not out as fades a dream;
These hearts with living pulses beat;
These tongues with living tones are sweet;
Those waves of blue that yonder flow
Have nought ethereal in their glow;
The bright forms glancing by our side
Are objects of terrestrial pride,
Although, adoringly, we're given
To deem them less of earth than heaven.
Then give to Love the sovereign power;
Let its blest influence rule the hour;
And, waked anew, may it impart
A warmer sunshine to the heart,
That shall, as once again we roam,
Relume the path that leads to Home!
Let its blest influence rule the hour;
And, waked anew, may it impart
A warmer sunshine to the heart,
That shall, as once again we roam,
Relume the path that leads to Home!
| Lines in Pleasant Places | |