And by this road was borne,—
Betwixt sweet banks of fern,
And willow rows, and corn,—
He, who will return
Not, tho' others may,
The old, familiar way.
Two streams within these walls
For ever and ever flow;
Back and forth the current falls,
The long processions go;
A hundred years have flown,
The human tides pour on—
And shall, when you and I
Pass no more again.
Beneath the bending sky
Shall be no lack of men;
Never the road run bare,
Tho' other feet may fare.
HAWTHORNE IN BERKSHIRE
Mountains and valleys! dear ye are to me:
Your streams wild-wandering, ever-tranquil lakes,
And forests that make murmur like the sea;
And this keen air that from the hurt soul takes
Its pain and languor.—Doubly dear ye are
For many a lofty memory that throws
A splendor on these hights.—'Neath yon low star,
That like a dewdrop melts in heaven's rose,
Dwelt once a starry spirit; there he smote
Life from the living hills; a little while
He rested from the raging of the world.
