Pocahontas and Other Poems (New York)/The New-England Village
THE NEW-ENGLAND VILLAGE.
Verdant and beautiful! How fair thy vales!
With what a smile thy gentle river glides,
While through the vale of interwoven boughs
Thy peaceful dwellings pleasantly look forth.
Yon hallow'd temple, crown'd with snowy spire,
Casts a lone shadow o'er the sacred spot
Where sleeps the white-hair'd shepherd mid his flock,
The loved of God and man. The statesman's head,
With all its gather'd mass of curious lore,
Lock'd up in marble; and the soldier's arm,
Strong for his country in her hour of need,
Are here, too, 'neath the turf. And there, amid
The lawns and gardens which their hands had dress'd,
The ancient fathers, with their numerous race,
Securely dwelt.
Yon mansion hath a voice
Of other days. Through the dim lapse of years
And rule of strangers, still around its halls
Flit cherish'd images of good old times,
When hospitality, with grasp sincere,
Led to her board the unexpected guest,
And, careless of the pomp of proud array
Or servitude of menials, warm'd the heart
To social joy.
I do remember, too,
How in my early years yon dome sent forth
The daughter in her bridal loveliness,
To wreathe fresh roses round a distant home,
And stately sons, all strong and bold, to take
Their untried portion in this tossing world.
From thence the father to an honour'd grave
Was borne; and there the mother of the flock,
Lovely and loved as in her day of bloom,
Sank meekly on her couch to rise no more:
And the sweet haunts of her sweet ministry
Have lost her name forever. Yet the vine
That gadding round her nursery-window climb'd,
Still lives unnurtured; and methinks its leaves
Thrill with the lore of hoarded memories,
Pleasant, yet mournful.
But that ancient race,
With whom our heart's deep reverence dwelt so long,
Methinks at such an hour they seem to stand
Again among us, even more palpably
Than those we call the living. Wait we not
At hush of eve for them? dreaming we hear
Their footsteps in the rustle of the leaves,
Or their low whisper, warning us to seek
A home not made with hands?
So may it be;
And to that home eternal every one
Who here were rapt in the frank fellowship
Of simpler days, and mourn its loss with tears,
Be gather'd, where no more the blight of ill,
Or fear of change, or sigh of pain shall steal
O'er the pure mingling of congenial souls.