Household Verses :: :: University of Virginia Library

There lingers still a charm, a grace,
By kindred spirits known and felt,
About each hallowed dwelling-place,
Where genius and where worth have dwelt;
It casts a silent spell around,
And makes that region classic ground.

E'en on some by-gone battle plain,
False glory's votary owns this spell;
And, heedless of the thousands slain,
The hero's triumphs loves to tell;
Unmindful that the wreath he wears
Is stained by human blood and tears!

But when, in Nature's calm recess,
We, musing, tread the verdant sod,
O'er-arched by sylvan loveliness,
Where goodness, genius, taste have trod,
Their memory—and the spot may claim,
An homage purer far than fame.

For this, when man decrees the palm,
May oft be won by deeds of wrong:
Honours more lasting, and more calm,
To virtuous memories belong;
And such may Truth itself award
To Amwell's gentle, blameless Bard.

Nor is it a fallacious test—
His was a fame not soon to cease,
That thus its influence is confest
Where all is loveliness and peace:
For Nature, in her sweetest haunts,
Heeds not false glory's proudest vaunts.

And thus it was I thought of thee,
Poet of Amwell! while I traced
Thy once-loved home, which seemed to be
By many a varied beauty graced;
Yet, while I felt their magic thrall,
Thou wert, thyself, the charm of all.

It was thy taste which erst had planned
The caverned grot, the mossy sod;
All round confessed thy forming hand,
Thy feet each winding walk had trod;—
Until the scene appeared to me
A poem—vocal still of thee!

And well its music harmonized
With every sound that silence stirred,
For not one harsher sound surprised,
Than hum of bee, or song of bird;
Each leaf, descending from its spray,
Fell softly, as thy gentlest lay.

And, while I mused, I could but feel
How suited to thy song—the scene!
Both similar in their appeal,
Pure, simple, natural, and serene:
Not the less meet to be admired,
Because by such a home inspired.

Nor, as I oftentimes have thought,
Since there to be a guest was mine,
Could ever poet's fame be fraught
With sweeter recompence than thine:
To live—in verse of spotless worth!
And—in the haunts that gave it birth!

For filial love, with watchful care,
Still o'er that peaceful spot holds sway,
And orders all things as they were
In her own poet's earlier day:
Within—without, no change may be,
Which could efface one thought of thee!

And, in a world of ceaseless change,
Honour to one, whose filial love
No novelties can so estrange,
As faithless to the past to prove;
But, with affection's stedfast aim,
Would keep her father's home—the same!