Classic Poem

With all their virtues plain and stern,
The good old times have sped;
And now the wisdom which we learn
Turns giddy every head:
And yet 'tis wrong, I ween, to spurn
Our old ancestral dead.

Our Pilgrim sires were taught of God,
And solemn psalms they sung:
They trained their children with the rod,
And witch and wizard hung.
Yet, if they erred, 'tis nothing odd:
All err, both old and young.

They earned by toil whate'er they had,
Since Heaven ordained it so;
Nor with the fashions went they mad,
Nor cramped they waist or toe;
Nor like the lily, pale and sad,
Looked every belle and beau.

The girls were taught to spin and weave,
The boys to hold the plough:
'Twas then thought wise—and I believe
As wise it might be now—
If people would their scheming leave,
And live by sweat of brow.

The good old times were good enough,
Though times more polished dawn:
Men then were made of sterner stuff
Than those that now are born.
Though plain they were, and somewhat rough,
Yet why their virtues scorn?

In groups that grace the parlor wall,
How pleasant still to see
The dear old portraits, which recall
Our honored ancestry!—
Grandparents, uncles, aunts, and all,
Who danced us on the knee.

Oh, yes! I still remember well
My grandsire's aged look;
The witching tales he deigned to tell;
And how from sacred Book
He oft explained why Adam fell,
And man the right forsook.

He used to wear a broad-brimmed hat;
A buckle gemmed each knee.
The old arm-chair in which he sat
It cheers me still to see:
With powdered wig and cue, all that,
None looked so grave as he.

His was a high and manly brow,
With locks of silver gray:
He ne'er to Britain's pride would bow,
Nor for her king e'en pray;
Nor would he yield, like statesmen now,
His principles for pay.

But, strong of limb, and brave at heart,
He swung a brawny arm,
And promptly bore a hero's part
'Mid danger and alarm;
And, though oft pierced by Sorrow's dart,
His manner still was calm.

He loved to tell his history o'er,
And speak of War's dread crimes,
And laud the deeds he did of yore,
Which beat all modern times.
The worldly goods he left in store
All heirs could ask, save dimes!

Though poor, he was a patriot true;
Had fought in Freedom's cause;
And all he owed he paid when due,—
His debt to Nature's laws:
In fact, from earth have passed but few
With heart as free from flaws.

If 'midst old graves you choose to tramp,
You still may read in print,
Upon his headstone cold and damp,
This brief yet truthful hint:—
“Here lies a man of Nature's stamp,
The coinage of her mint.”

But what of her who wore a cap,
And hoop to swell her skirt?—
Dear grandam, who with many a chap,
When young, inclined to flirt;
And e'en in age, whate'er might hap,
Seemed girlish, prim, and pert.

Though seeming gay, she used to read
Her Bible with delight,
And deeply felt that mortals need
God's grace to keep them right:
Always, with heart that seemed to bleed,
She said her prayers at night.

She led a life none need despise,
Affectionate and kind;
And, under holy guidance wise,
Her duty sought to find;
And oft relieved, with pitying eyes,
The poor, the halt, the blind.

When very old, her length of nose
Hung sword-like o'er her chin.
Yet she was cheerful to life's close,
Though but a shadow thin;
Oft rocked my cradle, I suppose;
And loved to knit and spin.

The most I recollect of her
Is, how she used to try,
With pointed thread half lost in blur,
To hit her needle's eye;
And, though vexations would occur,
She ne'er indulged a sigh.

The good old lady has been dead
Some thirty years at least:
The stone is carved, that guards her head,
With cherubs gazing east;
And where she sleeps but few now tread:
The worm has had its feast.

Uncle, who was a favorite son,
For riches never toiled:
Though he in youth loved mirth and fun,
And sports that oft recoiled,
Yet what was wrong he aimed to shun,
And ne'er his morals soiled.

But, when parental power had lost
O'er him its kind control,
He rarely stopped to count the cost,
The worth of time or soul,
But onward floated, tempest-tost,
Where'er Life's wave might roll.

His head with many a vision swam:
The world he longed to see;
Or Greenland's isle, or land of Ham,
It mattered not, so he,
No longer tethered like the lamb,
Could rove unchecked and free.

Ere twenty-one, most foreign lands
'Tis said that he had seen.
Though fearful still of wedlock's bands,
At forty, as I ween,
He sometimes thought of joining hands:
What did the fellow mean?

However strange, the truth to say,
Love's vow at last he made,
And sealed it too, one eve in May,
With her who graced the glade;
And ever, from that happy day,
He led a life that's staid.

Whate'er may be by prudes required,
Who join in nuptial state,
He proved the model man desired,
And she the loving mate;
And, blest of Heaven, they ne'er grew tired
Of “little cares” or great.

But stronger grew the silken tie
As sped their happy years;
And, with their treasures laid on high,
They banished all their fears;
And, when at last they came to die,
Were mourned with many tears.

If half they say of aunt be true,
Her youthful charms were rare:
Her teeth were pearl, her eyes were blue,
And auburn was her hair;
Her lip a rosebud bathed in dew;
Her brow angelic, fair.

Never had maid a prettier hand,
Or daintier foot, than she;
Nor rosier cheek had zephyr fanned
Than hers, as all agree:
Her smile was like a seraph's bland,
Her footstep light and free.

With thumb and finger, you would think
Her waist that you could span.
She knew just when 'twould do to wink,
Or smile, behind her fan:
Ay, hers were charms whose magic link
'Twas hard to break, young man!

She dreamed of one—an idle dream—
Whose look her fancy pleased:
Though but a dream, she did not seem
By his indifference teased,
But clung to hope till hope's last gleam
Had left her heart diseased.

When rouge supplants the artless rose,
And life's a wintry sea,
None but an ancient maiden knows
How pleasant it must be
To hear a gentleman propose,
And see him bend the knee!

Ah! who can tell with what desire
Aunt wished her years were stayed,
When youth had lost its subtle fire,
And charms began to fade?
Yet ripening years saw her expire
A lily in the shade.

And thus have all of that dear throng,
Who cheered the ancestral hearth,
When I was young, and love was strong,
And pure as flowers at birth,
Now trod the lonely way that's long,
Nor more will visit earth.

When I return to earth's dull mould,
Perhaps some kindred dear
Will smile to hear my foibles told,
And think my portrait queer:
Nor matters it, if, when unrolled,
Life's record still be clear.