Classic Poem

Along yon rugged road which, like a stream,
Bursts through the shadowy forest to the west—
Where many a wain, like a deep-laden barge,
Sweeps with the current following the sun—
Behold to-day, with toilsome course reversed,
One lonesome team is heading to the east.
Crouched 'neath the cover, pale and sick at heart,
Like wounded sufferers from a camp of war,
The dwindled household of the pioneer
Pursues its homeward way. And when the wheel
Sinks, in the black mire stalled, 'tis Baldwin's arm,
Now robbed of half its strength, impels it on.
And Master Ethan on the prairie-steed,
The gift of Arthur, slowly rides beside.
Too stern the battle for such souls as theirs.
At best, the forest is a stubborn foe,
Debating every inch it gives; but when
His pale ally from sudden ambush springs,
And deals from unseen hands the certain blow,
They must be stout, indeed, who still resist,
Preferring death to honourable retreat.
When the third eve upon their labouring way
Threatens impending darkness, and the fire
Lights up their lone and ill-provided camp,
Which the red sunset mocks along the sky,
And the tired horses crop the scanty grass;—
Lo, to the wondering languor of their looks,
A dreary figure o'er the summit toils,
Approaching slowly; and the shadowy shape
Looms strangely dusk against the crimson west,
Startling in this lone place the sickly eyes
That watch the coming form. What may it be?
The shape is human; yet the clearings lie
So separated by long miles of woods,
To meet a lonely traveller in such place,
And at such hour, the coolest reason deems
The chance as rare; and fancy half believes
Yon nearing shade the nightly walking ghost
Of some poor pilgrim who, beside the road,
Sat down, wayworn, and laid its life-load by.
And still it nears, and still amazement springs.
Its robes disordered and o'erspread with mire—
Its wild hair floating—and its wilder eyes
Fearless and staring—and the parted lips
Breathing no audible sound—make it, indeed,
A sight to send a shudder through the soul,
And start the brow's cold dew. But hark, a cry
Of recognition thrills the twilight air,
And Amy's arms are round the matron's neck.
Oh, love, thy thorns outnumber all thy flowers;
And oft the frenzied eye-glance tells, as now,
How thy sharp, cheating garland wounds the brain!
Thy clearest streams oft wind to gulfs of wo—
Thy morning clouds of beauty end in storm—
Thy sheltering myrtles call the lightning down—
Thy violet by-ways tend to fields of briers—
Thy dove oft proves a vulture—and, in short,
So deeply art thou leagued with old Despair,
Who sittest ever on a throne of tombs,
Thy brightest path leads nearest to his realm.
The heavy weeks toil past. June rules the sky.
When now, in middle of the afternoon,
The great white sun impends above the west,
Flooding the valley with his dreamy light—
Where farm, and village, and star-glittering spires
Shine like the enchanted realm of peace—behold,
On yonder brow beyond the crossing roads,
The little wagon rises, and stands still.
The weary horses droop; the harness hangs,
Along their lank sides, roughly and awry;
The careless rein drops, coiling, to the ground;
The dusty wain is loose and out of joint;
The cover soiled and warped. A dreary sight!
And not less woful, in their way-worn garbs,
The melancholy group whose tearful eyes
Take in the landscape dearest to their hearts.
And while they gaze, their joy is half rebuked
With wonder why they left so fair a spot.
Yonder, within its little knot of trees,
The sacred homestead smiles; and, there, the fields
Which called them to the harvest; but, alas,
The stranger in their native doorway stands,
His scythes along yon clover-pasture sweep,
And all the acres hold his waving crops.
The unknown mower wipes his reeking blade,
And, whistling, whets its sun-reflecting side;
The pleasant odour steals along the breeze,
Sweet as from out the hay-fields of the past;
The cow-boy, singing on the distant slope,
Turns home the tinkling herd. There springs the smoke
From long-remembered hearths. Some stranger smith
Awakes the ringing anvil; and from far,
The giant hammer of the stream-worked forge
Throbs through the air its old familiar beat.
There gleams the chapel on its Sabbath-hill,
Where now some foreign pastor wakes the desk;
And in the lowland, by the winding stream,
Flashes the mill-wheel; but who tends the mill?
Here, by the highway, the elm-shaded school
Lulls the soft air with murmurs; but within
What faithful master fills the sovereign chair?
Such are the sights and such the thoughts that rise
Till each heart throbs with mingled joy and pain.
Their feet, forgetful of long travel past,
Receive new impulse, and descend the road,
Taking fresh vigour; as if e'en the dust,
Which held their footprints in their younger years.
Gave back the lightness of those brighter days.
So great a draft the westward-going line
Made on the happy vale, to fill the gap,
From various sides, came in the stranger crowd
Usurping fields and hearths. The homeward few
Gaze wistfully to meet one well-known face.
As yet but unfamiliar, curious looks,
Greet their return until their little wain
Drags its slow course toward the wayside inn,
The centre of the vale; when to their side,
With wondering eyes and questions on his lips,
One old-time friend, with many welcoming words
Assails the group, and guides it to his gate.
And there his good wife, with astonished tears,
Receives the way-worn pilgrims; while, outside,
The rattling bars admit the ungeared team.