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The Sliding Rock
Passing up the turnpike a few evenings since, I saw the workmen just finishing a drill in
the centre of the beautiful Sliding Rock, which, ever since Salem was settled, has been the
play-place of the children, in the upper part of the city. By the feet of many generations it was
worn as smooth as polished marble. I felt a pang, as the blast shivered it into pieces, and
echoed from the hills around. I have endeavored to commemorate the pleasant associations
connected with it by a few lines.
The Sliding Rock! that pleasant spot,
So dear in childhood's hour;
Say, can it ever be forgot,
While memory holds her power?
How smooth 'twas worn! Like glass, or steel,
Its polished surface shone;
No hobbly place the foot could feel,
Upon that slippery stone.
For boys and girls, with busy feet,
Its face kept ever bright;
There oft for play they loved to meet,
At morn, and noon, and night.
I see them now, at even-tide,
A merry, happy band;
I see them ready for a slide,
Upon its top they stand.
Now as the oldest takes the lead,
And glides across its face;
270
And then renew the race.
They seem as if with wings possest,
As up and down they go;
Without a pause, or moment's rest,
Above, and now below.
When hot and weary down they sit,
And watch the passers by;
With pleasant smiles their faces lit,
And pleasure in each eye;
They sit and watch the pasture gate,
Till it shall open wide
For yonder herd, that stand and wait,
Upon the green hill's side;
They count their number as they crowd
The path beneath their feet;
And hear their lowings, long and loud,
Far down the busy street.
The dusty traveller with his staff
There stops to watch their play;
Pleased with their sport and merry laugh;
Then passes on his way.
The loaded stage, with quickening speed,
Comes rumbling down the hill;
While every panting, smoking steed
New ardor seems to fill.
But now the travellers all are gone,
The shadows darker grow;
They leave, 'till morn, the sliding stone,
And to their homes they go.
The fire-flies gleam among the hay,
The stars are in the sky;
And, wearied with their pleasant play,
In slumbers sweet they lie.
Poem No. 564; July 1851
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