| |
| BY the wayside, on a mossy stone, | |
| Sat a hoary pilgrim sadly musing; | |
| Oft I marked him sitting there alone, | |
| All the landscape like a page perusing; | |
| Poor, unknown, | 5 |
| By the wayside, on a mossy stone. | |
| |
| Buckled knee and shoe, and broad-rimmed hat, | |
| Coat as ancient as the form ’t was folding, | |
| Silver buttons, queue, and crimped cravat, | |
| Oaken staff his feeble hand upholding, | 10 |
| There he sat! | |
| Buckled knee and shoe, and broad-rimmed hat. | |
| |
| Seemed it pitiful he should sit there, | |
| No one sympathizing, no one heeding, | |
| None to love him for his thin gray hair, | 15 |
| And the furrows all so mutely pleading | |
| Age and care; | |
| Seemed it pitiful he should sit there. | |
| |
| It was summer, and we went to school, | |
| Dapper country lads and little maidens, | 20 |
| Taught the motto of the “Dunce’s Stool,”— | |
| Its grave import still my fancy ladens, | |
| “HERE’S A FOOL!” | |
| It was summer, and we went to school. | |
| |
| Still, in sooth, our tasks we seldom tried, | 25 |
| Sportive pastime only worth our learning, | |
| But we listened when the old man sighed, | |
| And that lesson to our hearts went burning, | |
| And we cried; | |
| Still, in sooth, our tasks we seldom tried. | 30 |
| |
| When the stranger seemed to mark our play, | |
| (Some of us were joyous, some sad-hearted), | |
| I remember well,—too well,—that day! | |
| Oftentimes the tears unbidden started, | |
| Would not stay,— | 35 |
| When the stranger seemed to mark our play. | |
| |
| When we cautiously adventured nigh | |
| We could see his lip with anguish quiver: | |
| Yet no word he uttered, but his eye | |
| Seemed in mournful converse with the river | 40 |
| Murmuring by, | |
| When we cautiously adventured nigh. | |
| |
| One sweet spirit broke the silent spell,— | |
| Ah, to me her name was always heaven! | |
| She besought him all his grief to tell, | 45 |
| (I was then thirteen, and she eleven), | |
| Isabel! | |
| One sweet spirit broke the silent spell. | |
| |
| Softly asked she with a voice divine, | |
| “Why so lonely hast thou wandered hither; | 50 |
| Hast no home?—then come with me to mine; | |
| There ’s our cottage, let me lead thee thither; | |
| Why repine?” | |
| Softly asked she with a voice divine. | |
| |
| “Angel,” said he sadly, “I am old: | 55 |
| Earthly hope no longer hath a morrow, | |
| Yet why I sit here thou shalt be told;” | |
| Then his eye betrayed a pearl of sorrow,— | |
| Down it rolled; | |
| “Angel,” said he sadly, “I am old! | 60 |
| |
| “I have tottered here to look once more | |
| On the pleasant scene where I delighted | |
| In the careless, happy days of yore, | |
| Ere the garden of my heart was blighted | |
| To the core; | 65 |
| I have tottered here to look once more! | |
| |
| “All the picture now to me how dear! | |
| E’en this gray old rock where I am seated | |
| Seems a jewel worth my journey here; | |
| Ah, that such a scene should be completed | 70 |
| With a tear! | |
| All the picture now to me how dear! | |
| |
| “Old stone school-house!—it is still the same! | |
| There ’s the very step so oft I mounted; | |
| There ’s the window creaking in its frame, | 75 |
| And the notches that I cut and counted | |
| For the game: | |
| Old stone school-house!—it is still the same! | |
| |
| “In the cottage yonder I was born; | |
| Long my happy home—that humble dwelling; | 80 |
| There the fields of clover, wheat, and corn, | |
| There the spring with limpid nectar swelling; | |
| Ah, forlorn! | |
| In the cottage yonder I was born. | |
| |
| “Those two gateway sycamores you see | 85 |
| Then were planted, just so far asunder | |
| That long well-pole from the path to free, | |
| And the wagon to pass safely under; | |
| Ninety-three! | |
| Those two gateway sycamores you see. | 90 |
| |
| “There ’s the orchard where we used to climb | |
| When my mates and I were boys together, | |
| Thinking nothing of the flight of time, | |
| Fearing naught but work and rainy weather; | |
| Past its prime! | 95 |
| There ’s the orchard where we used to climb! | |
| |
| “There the rude three-cornered chestnut rails, | |
| Round the pasture where the flocks were grazing, | |
| Where so sly I used to watch for quails | |
| In the crops of buckwheat we were raising, | 100 |
| Traps and trails, | |
| There the rude three-cornered chestnut rails. | |
| |
| “How in summer have I traced that stream, | |
| There through mead and woodland sweetly gliding, | |
| Luring simple trout with many a scheme | 105 |
| From the nooks where I have found them hiding; | |
| All a dream! | |
| How in summer have I traced that stream! | |
| |
| “There ’s the mill that ground our yellow grain; | |
| Pond and river still serenely flowing; | 110 |
| Cot, there nestling in the shaded lane, | |
| Where the lily of my heart was blowing,— | |
| Mary Jane! | |
| There ’s the mill that ground our yellow grain! | |
| |
| “There ’s the gate on which I used to swing, | 115 |
| Brook, and bridge, and barn, and old red stable: | |
| But, alas! the morn shall no more bring | |
| That dear group around my father’s table; | |
| Taken wing! | |
| There ’s the gate on which I used to swing! | 120 |
| |
| “I am fleeing!—all I loved are fled; | |
| Yon green meadow was our place for playing; | |
| That old tree can tell of sweet things said, | |
| When around it Jane and I were straying; | |
| She is dead! | 125 |
| I am fleeing!—all I loved are fled! | |
| |
| “Yon white spire—a pencil on the sky, | |
| Tracing silently life’s changeful story, | |
| So familiar to my dim old eye, | |
| Points me to seven that are now in glory | 130 |
| There on high! | |
| Yon white spire, a pencil on the sky. | |
| |
| “Oft the aisle of that old church we trod, | |
| Guided thither by an angel mother,— | |
| Now she sleeps beneath its sacred sod, | 135 |
| Sire and sisters, and my little brother; | |
| Gone to God! | |
| Oft the aisle of that old church we trod. | |
| |
| “There I heard of Wisdom’s pleasant ways; | |
| Bless the holy lesson!—but, ah, never | 140 |
| Shall I hear again those songs of praise, | |
| Those sweet voices silent now forever! | |
| Peaceful days! | |
| There I heard of Wisdom’s pleasant ways. | |
| |
| “There my Mary blest me with her hand, | 145 |
| When our souls drank in the nuptial blessing, | |
| Ere she hastened to the spirit land: | |
| Yonder turf her gentle bosom pressing: | |
| Broken band! | |
| There my Mary blest me with her hand. | 150 |
| |
| “I have come to see that grave once more, | |
| And the sacred place where we delighted, | |
| Where we worshipped in the days of yore, | |
| Ere the garden of my heart was blighted | |
| To the core; | 155 |
| I have come to see that grave once more. | |
| |
| “Haply, ere the verdure there shall fade, | |
| I, all withering with years, shall perish; | |
| With my Mary may I there be laid, | |
| Join forever—all the wish I cherish— | 160 |
| Her dear Shade!— | |
| Haply, ere the verdure there shall fade.” | |
| |
| “Angel,” said he sadly, “I am old! | |
| Earthly hope no longer hath a morrow; | |
| Now why I sit here thou hast been told.” | 165 |
| In his eye another pearl of sorrow,— | |
| Down it rolled; | |
| “Angel,” said he sadly, “I am old!” | |
| |
| By the wayside, on a mossy stone, | |
| Sat the hoary pilgrim, sadly musing; | 170 |
| Still I marked him sitting there alone, | |
| All the landscape like a page perusing; | |
| Poor, unknown, | |
| By the wayside, on a mossy stone. | |
| |
