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THE OLD HOMESTEAD.

WHERE yonder elm its graceful foliage spreads,
And four tall poplars lift their spire-like heads,
As if from vulgar eyes the wreck to hide,
Of what they once adorned in stately pride;
There, where twin lilacs breathe sweet odors round,
And all with purple stars bestrew the ground,
The ruined Homestead, once so trimly gay,
Forsaken stands, and tottering to decay.
Those roofless chambers shelter yield no more:
On one frail hinge slow creaks the crazy door:
No smoke, aspiring, curls amid the trees,
And paneless casements clatter in the breeze.

That time-bowed stoop, of many a sad farewell,

And many a kindly welcoming could tell,

But years have flown since o'er its threshhold passed
The lonely, lingering footstep of the last.

If yet, perchance, some passing traveller dare
Tread the weak floor and mount the uncertain stair,
Outspreading far, a landscape wide he sees,
Groves, and green vallies, and embowering trees;
The distant village, and the nearer plain,
The bounteous orchard, and the ripening grain.

Sad contrast these with yon neglected fields,
Whose arid mould the scanty thistle yields;
Where, every vestige lost of rural toil,
The plough has ceased to turn the exhausted soil;
The scythe no longer sweeps the grassy lawn;
The very foot-way to the door is gone;
The song of industry, its busy tread,
The social converse-all, alike, are fled.

There ne'er again the host's convivial voice
Shall bid, with cordial greetings, to rejoice;
Nor careful housewife's kindly proffered hoard
Be spread to tempt the traveller to her board.
Those young, fresh hearts, those spirits lithe and gay,
With song and mirth who wore the hours away-

Along that floor, where oft the dance they led,
Shall ne'er again the lively measure tread;

To sprightly viol or romantic flute

The walls that echoed are forever mute;

Cold is the hearth-stone,-all is silent there,-
The noisy pastime and the peaceful prayer.

There, oft, at eve, the hoary-headed sire,

With conscious skill, would lead the evening choir;
Or, while the circle gathered reverent round,
With simple wisdom sacred texts expound.
'Neath yonder elm his summer seat he chose,
When day's long toil enhanced the late repose;
Slow from his pipe the cloudy fragrance rolled,
While sunset tinged the old green woods with gold:
No cares penurious stirred his peaceful breast;
His toil was duty, his reward was rest.
O'er yonder weed-grown patch his garden lay
Rich with the culture of each passing day:

Its pathways trim no more allure the feet,
The long, rank grass o'ertops the sylvan seat:

Those damp, green stones still mark the living spring,
But morn no more the accustomed step shall bring:
The sun looks lone the distant hills between,
And throws no human shadow o'er the scene.

One fair-haired urchin was the old man's joy:
Active and apt, a wild and wayward boy,
Who oft, with truant feet, at mid-day, hied
With rod and line, to pace the river side;
Or to the green wood with his gun repaired,
Or trapped the rabbit, or the partridge snared.
His buoyant steps no more those fields may press,
Nor welcome glad his late returnings bless.
Oft times, at night, a kindly shelter sought,
When storms some stranger to their fire-side brought,
The traveller's wondrous story charmed his ear,
And near the listener drew-and still more near;
Flushed with a new desire, the pleasing theme
Beguiled his day and filled his nightly dream;
Till, all elate remoter realms to see,
He, too, the stripling, must a traveller be:
O'er lands unknown, bright visions to pursue,
Still following hopes that still before him flew,
A world-wide wanderer, from his native shore,
The boy departed and returned no more.

In yonder attic, roofless now, and bare

To wintry storms alike, and summer air,

Where through the wainscot sprouts the poisonous weed,

And loathsome toad and bloated earth-worm feed,
There, with his books, the wrapt enthusiast sate;
His books, at once his solace and his fate;
The field-task finished ere the page was sought,-
More dear the solace as more hardly bought;
There, all unaided, save by that strong will
That mastering difficulties sought them still,
Imbued with classic love, he toiled alone,
And made the lore of ancient time his own.
Where, oft, the live-long night his taper burned,
As there intent the learned page he turned,-
Where, slowly pacing, oft his step was heard,

Lone echo answers to the midnight bird;

The breeze, that fanned his pale and patient brow,
Still wanders there, but all unheeded now;
The student's task is done; and wild flowers wave
And night dews fall around his early grave.

One stalwart youth, inured to manly toil,
Robust with labor, turned the healthful soil;
'Gainst the broad oak alike the axe could wield,
Or thresh the grain, or mow the ripened field.
Nor tasks like these his sole employ he made;
But gentler arts, with native skill, essayed:
Full well the viol's hidden charm he knew,
And o'er its strings no vulgar bow he drew.
The serious mood beseemed his humor best;
So grave his look it half repulsed a jest ;
Yet, oft, from him, to crown the social glee,
Came humorous joke, and racy repartee.
With grave suggestion, oddly misapplied,

He hit the mark, while seemed the aim far wide;
And while the rest with bursting laughter shook,
Reserved and shy, maintained his serious look.
A village lass at length his graver mood
To smiles converted, and his heart subdued.
To other scenes the new made bride he bore,

Nor cheered nor served the ancient homestead more.

Where now, through broken chinks, with filmy ray,
Pale moonbeams gild the chamber of decay,
There once the maiden sought her pillowed rest,

Or sat retired in musing fancy blest:

Now to the tuneful thrush her ear inclined,

Now drew the truant rose branch through the blind;
As o'er yon woods slow rose the evening star,
With dreamy heart she touched the light guitar,
While by the sweet enchantment led more near,
The homeward rustic, wondering, paused to hear.
No witching melodies his feet delay

As duly now, he plods his evening way:
Though still the thrasher haunts those aged trees,
His songs no more the listening beauty please:
Where blushed the rose, along the lattice led,
The dismal ivy's ragged draperies spread;
Serena! loveliest of the group, how fast
The flower-like beauty of her blooming passed!
Oft was she seen at early summer morn,
Ere yet the dews forsook the trembling thorn,
Laden with spoils from field and flowery bed,
Warbling quick measures to her own light tread.
As then, arranged in tasteful order meet,
Each vase she filled with blooms and odors sweet,
While beaming smiles declared her artless joy,
How fitting seemed the delicate employ !
Around each graceful vase,-more graceful they,-
Her white hands hovered like twin doves at play;

While 'twixt her slender fingers peeping out,
Some wilful flower would seek its whereabout,
Or softly lean against her flowing hair,
As to the task she bent her forehead fair.
Caught by reflection was that glowing hue
With such soft blush that did her cheek imbue?
Caught by reflection from those flowers outspread,
The rich carnation, the camelia red,

Roses, with bursting buds, of sweetness rife,

Like her, just opening into riper life:

From these did she the soft suffusion win,

Or, from that lovelier flower, enshrined within?
Purer than lilies in the moon's cold ray,
Sweeter than violets in the lap of May,
Inborn, indigenous, untrained by art,
INNOCENCE, native to the virgin heart!
Crowned with a radiant bloom, all blooms above,
It bears a blossom, and we call it Love.
The flower enshrined within Serena's breast,
With transient joy her artless bosom blessed,
But all too soon, by falsehood chilled, no more
The flower divine its radiant love-bloom bore,
Life's mid-day heat too delicate to bide,
The bloom was blighted-and Serena died.

Where poisonous vines now spread their tendrils wide,
And leaves, o'erlapped, the parlor window hide,
O'erlooking thence the distant village green,
At early eve was oft the MATRON seen.
With busy needles glancing in the sun,

She knit the thread the morning's toil had spun ;
Or read, with voice subdued, some legend dear,
To one pleased listener, ever lingering near,-
A timid child, of pale, attenuate face,
And feeble frame-the youngest of the race.
In growth by nature stinted, he could ne'er
Partake the sport to active youth so dear;
And thus it followed, other joys denied,
He loved the legend at his mother's side.
For her, much striving of unquiet thought,
Above the calmness of her life was wrought.

From out the love, that feeble boy she bore,

Came anxious fears the future to explore.

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Should she be called away, who might bestow

The care on him that only mothers know?

Whose voice, like hers, his hours of illness soothe?
Whose hand like her's the restless pillow smooth?"
Thus ran her thoughts; but dimly, through such fears,
She saw the shadow of the coming years.
Ere fifteen summers crowned his youthful head,
The mourning mother left him with the dead.
A childless widow-last of all her race,
She lingered long, sole tenant of the place,
Prepared in meek submission-calm of mind,
Alike to follow, or remain, resigned;

She lingered long, and slowly, day by day,
Began the fine old homestead to decay;
Till tolled at last for her the funeral knell,
And then,-deserted,―all to ruin fell!

Now, oft, 'tis said, strange harmonies are heard,
When whispering leaves by midnight winds are stirred;
And shadowy forms and ghastly faces there,

Flit thwart the gloom, and through the casements glare.
The sturdy laborer mends his evening pace,

To shun the oft told horrors of the place;
And while his children, listening, crowd the hearth,
Recounts the terrors that betrayed his path.
He bids them shun that desolated ground,
Where sounds and shapes mysterious linger round;
And tells of ghost that walks the crumbling walls,
And voice, that oft the midnight traveller calls.

If ere, as close the shades of evening grey,
The village maiden chance to pass that way,
She hurries on with sidelong glance of fear,
And cowering fancy paints the phantom near.
Sacred no longer to a virtuous race,
Pale superstition has usurped the place.

Too sad the theme; yet memory loves to cast
Her tender, tearful glances o'er the past,
Lure back the vision of each old delight,

And, link by link, the circle reunite ;

Force from departed joys a luscious pain,

As withered roses, crushed, breathe sweets again.
Seen, like the sun, his beams when showers enshroud,
Reflected feebly through the sombrous cloud,
The vision dimly gleams. The years, turned back,
Retrace the foot-prints of their noiseless track.
While, as some sun-lit cliff o'erlooks the storm,
Serenely stands Faith's heaven-illumined form;
The faint obscure with smiles of promise cheers,
And points the moral of the circling years.
Ceaseless MUTATION; oldest law of earth,
Calling from slow decay the vigorous birth;
And, waxing, waning, still, from first to last,
The Future brightening as declines the Past.

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