Poems of Nature, part 3, Reminiscent Poems | Page 4

of
the village burial-place;
Where, pondering how all human love and
hate
Find one sad level; and how, soon or late,
Wronged and
wrongdoer, each with meekened face,
And cold hands folded over a
still heart,
Pass the green threshold of our common grave,
Whither
all footsteps tend, whence none depart,
Awed for myself, and pitying
my race,
Our common sorrow, like a nighty wave,
Swept all my
pride away, and trembling I forgave!
1846.
TO MY SISTER,

WITH A COPY OF "THE SUPERNATURALISM OF NEW
ENGLAND."
The work referred to was a series of papers under this title, contributed
to the Democratic Review and afterward collected into a volume, in
which I noted some of the superstitions and folklore prevalent in New
England. The volume has not been kept in print, but most of its
contents are distributed in my Literary Recreations and Miscellanies.
Dear Sister! while the wise and sage
Turn coldly from my playful
page,
And count it strange that ripened age
Should stoop to
boyhood's folly;
I know that thou wilt judge aright
Of all which
makes the heart more light,
Or lends one star-gleam to the night
Of
clouded Melancholy.
Away with weary cares and themes!
Swing wide the moonlit gate of
dreams!
Leave free once more the land which teems
With wonders
and romances
Where thou, with clear discerning eyes,
Shalt rightly
read the truth which lies
Beneath the quaintly masking guise
Of
wild and wizard fancies.
Lo! once again our feet we set
On still green wood-paths, twilight wet,

By lonely brooks, whose waters fret
The roots of spectral beeches;

Again the hearth-fire glimmers o'er
Home's whitewashed wall and
painted floor,
And young eyes widening to the lore
Of faery-folks
and witches.
Dear heart! the legend is not vain
Which lights that holy hearth again,

And calling back from care and pain,
And death's funereal sadness,

Draws round its old familiar blaze
The clustering groups of happier
days,
And lends to sober manhood's gaze
A glimpse of childish
gladness.
And, knowing how my life hath been
A weary work of tongue and
pen,
A long, harsh strife with strong-willed men,
Thou wilt not

chide my turning
To con, at times, an idle rhyme,
To pluck a flower
from childhood's clime,
Or listen, at Life's noonday chime,
For the
sweet bells of Morning!
1847.
MY THANKS,
ACCOMPANYING MANUSCRIPTS PRESENTED TO A
FRIEND.
'T is said that in the Holy Land
The angels of the place have blessed

The pilgrim's bed of desert sand,
Like Jacob's stone of rest.
That down the hush of Syrian skies
Some sweet-voiced saint at
twilight sings
The song whose holy symphonies
Are beat by unseen
wings;
Till starting from his sandy bed,
The wayworn wanderer looks to see

The halo of an angel's head
Shine through the tamarisk-tree.
So through the shadows of my way
Thy smile hath fallen soft and
clear,
So at the weary close of day
Hath seemed thy voice of cheer.
That pilgrim pressing to his goal
May pause not for the vision's sake,

Yet all fair things within his soul
The thought of it shall wake:
The graceful palm-tree by the well,
Seen on the far horizon's rim;

The dark eyes of the fleet gazelle,
Bent timidly on him;
Each pictured saint, whose golden hair
Streams sunlike through the
convent's gloom;
Pale shrines of martyrs young and fair,
And
loving Mary's tomb;
And thus each tint or shade which falls,
From sunset cloud or waving
tree,
Along my pilgrim path, recalls
The pleasant thought of thee.
Of one in sun and shade the same,
In weal and woe my steady friend,


Whatever by that holy name
The angels comprehend.
Not blind to faults and follies, thou
Hast never failed the good to see,

Nor judged by one unseemly bough
The upward-struggling tree.
These light leaves at thy feet I lay,--
Poor common thoughts on
common things,
Which time is shaking, day by day,
Like feathers
from his wings;
Chance shootings from a frail life-tree,
To nurturing care but little
known,
Their good was partly learned of thee,
Their folly is my
own.
That tree still clasps the kindly mould,
Its leaves still drink the
twilight dew,
And weaving its pale green with gold,
Still shines the
sunlight through.
There still the morning zephyrs play,
And there at times the spring
bird sings,
And mossy trunk and fading spray
Are flowered with
glossy wings.
Yet, even in genial sun and rain,
Root, branch, and leaflet fail and
fade;
The wanderer on its lonely plain
Erelong shall miss its shade.
O friend beloved, whose curious skill
Keeps bright the last year's
leaves and flowers,
With warm, glad, summer thoughts to fill
The
cold, dark, winter hours
Pressed on thy heart, the leaves I bring
May well defy the wintry cold,

Until, in Heaven's eternal spring,
Life's fairer ones unfold.
1847.
REMEMBRANCE
WITH COPIES OF THE AUTHOR'S WRITINGS.
Friend of mine! whose lot was cast
With me in the distant past;


Where, like shadows flitting fast,
Fact and fancy, thought and theme,
Word and work, begin to seem

Like a half-remembered dream!
Touched by change have all things been,
Yet I think of thee as when

We had speech of lip and pen.
For the calm thy kindness lent
To a path of discontent,
Rough with
trial and dissent;
Gentle words where such were few,
Softening blame where blame
was true,
Praising where small praise was due;