Classic Poem

Fair Pennsylvania! than thy midland vales,
Lying 'twixt hills of green, and bound afar
By billowy mountains rolling in the blue,
No lovelier landscape meets the traveller's eye.
There Labour sows and reaps his sure reward,
And Peace and Plenty walk amid the glow
And perfume of full garners. I have seen
In lands less free, less fair, but far more known,
The streams which flow through history and wash
The legendary shores—and cleave in twain
Old capitals and towns, dividing oft
Great empires and estates of petty kings
And princes, whose domains full many a field,
Rustling with maize along our native West,
Out-measures and might put to shame! and yet
Nor Rhine, inebriate reeling through his hills,
Nor mighty Danube, marred with tyranny,
His dull waves moaning on Hungarian shores—
Nor rapid Po, his opaque waters pouring
Athwart the fairest, fruitfullest, and worst
Enslaved of European lands—nor Seine,
Winding uncertain through inconstant France—
Is half so fair as thy broad stream whose breast
Is gemmed with many isles, and whose proud name
Shall yet become among the names of rivers
A synonym of beauty—Susquehanna!
But where, fair land, thy smaller streams invite
With music among plenteous farms, I turn,
As to a parent's fond embrace, and lay,
Well pleased, my way-worn mantle by, and shed,
With grateful heart, from off my weary feet
The white dust gathered in the world's highway.
Here my young muse first learned to love and dream—
To love the simplest blossom by the road—
To dream such dreams as will not come again.
And for one hour of that unlettered time—
One hour of that wild music in the heart,
When Fancy, like the swallow's aimless wing,
Flitted eccentric through all moods of nature—
I would exchange, thrice told, this weary day.
Then were yon hills, still beautiful and blue,
Great as the Andes; and this rushy brook,
Which the light foot-board, fallen, turns aside,
A torrent voluble, with noisy falls
And gulfy pools profound; and yonder stream,
The fisher wades with ease to throw his bait
Into the larger ripple, was a river
To measure Jordan by! For then my thoughts
Were full of scriptural lore, oft-heard at morn,
And in the evening heard, until the place
Became a Palestine, while o'er the hills
The blue horizon compassed all the world.
Adieu to Fancy! Let me ope the gate,
Wide as the lane it bars, and cool my feet
Along the grassy path, and turn with joy,
As erst, to yonder chapel on the hill.
Lo! the calm Sabbath sanctifies the air,
And over all, from God's uplifted hand,
The silence falls, and, like a blessing, lies
The stillness on my spirit. The sweet sounds,
Which unprohibited from Eden time till now
Have charmed alike the day of toil and rest,
Alone assail the ear, making the quiet heard,
Soothing the soul as with a psalm! Yon bird
Which soars and falls, swinging its way thro' heaven
On airy billows, and this brook which sings
The better for the obstacles opposed.
As bards have done, together with the sounds
Of lesser note, which come from those small choirs
In leafy chapels closed, make to the ear
A music lovelier than the brazen notes
Blown through the serried pillars of cathedrals.
It is the Spring time: April violets glow
In wayside nooks, close clustering into groups,
Like shy elves hiding from the traveller's eye;
The mellow air, which from the woodland comes,
Is full of perfume shed from opening buds.
There the young maple, earlier putting forth,
In memory of the past dead Autumn gleams,
And waves its purple torch; and o'er the spring,
The willow its own sprouting in the pool
Hangs watching; while the dryad in its branches
Is dreaming of the hours when that fair maid,
The child and light of yonder cot, shall come
And, kneeling, laugh above her urn to see
Her sweet face wrinkled by prophetic waters.
The plough in this broad field with upthrown share,
There left at yester sunset, lies at rest
Along the midway furrow. Here the maize
Shall rustle through the summer; while near by
Already the live grain, which 'neath the snow
Slept the white winter through, sends up its green
And whispers in the sunshine.
Lo! anon,
From hillside homes and hamlets in the vale,
One after one, in Sabbath garb arrayed,
Their mantles breathing of deep oaken drawers
And antique chests, the people throng, and take
The various pathways which converging lead
Here to this quiet shrine among the elms.
Oh, happy hour, beloved of peace and heaven!
Around, and over all, the white calm lies
Flooded with perfume and mysterious light;
So sweet, so beautiful, it seems a day
Lost out of Eden! See, where children come,
Like hopes unchecked, still running in advance,
With innocent laughter, but not over loud,
Plucking the purple violets by the way;
While from their feet the butterfly, released
But yesterday from out his winter cell,
Darts up with devious flight, and, like a wisp,
Wavers across the meadow! Happy sounds.
By happier faces followed, still approach:
What round and ruddy cheeks are there, to which
Health, like the sun, with daily welcome comes.
Leaving the impress of his glowing hand!
But suddenly their tongues to whispers low
Drop, as their eyes look wondering on the stranger,
And into decorous columns, two by two,
They file before me with shy glances cast
From shadowy brims and snowy hoods turned back,
By matron care arranged. Some in their hands
Bear the small volume—book of praise or prayer;
And some with freedom-loving feet released
Printing the dusty path, their little shoes,
For Sunday polished, carry at the side,
To be resumed at yonder stile which gains
The highway near the church. And, following, soon
The larger people come; the youths and maids
Joining their steps as chance or fancy leads;
And, after these, stout men with faces brown,
And browner hands which on the plough-helves took,
Ungloved, the last week's sunshine. At their side
The matrons with fair brows but half-way cleared
Of household cares, which, oft accomplished, still
As oft recur, monotonous, only cheered
By virtuous sense of duty and the light
Of happy children, or encouraging words
Heard at the well-served meal; or better still,
Finding approval in their own calm hearts,
Whose gentle tempers round their daily toil
Shed music and a halo else unknown.
Here following still, with reverend steps and slow,
Their garments venerable with age, and out
Of joint with modern custom, come the sires
And mothers of the country, silver-haired.
One leans upon his cane, with knotted hands,
An oak long bowed and gnarled by tempests; one
Stands upright as a winter pine. To-day
He comes not in his long surtout of drab—
The coat of many capes and sweeping skirt,
Brushing the stubble, proof to winds rheumatic—
Now laid aside until November calls,
But in the spring-time garments of the past.
See what a brow is there, where Time delights
To place the warning record of the years!
Note the calm eye, grown mild with light of wisdom!
Assisted by his arm his partner, bowed,
Walks tottering, with a palsy-shaken head,
And mumbling to herself. Perchance she dreams,
Within her hazy brain, of that bright hour,
Now buried beneath half a century,
When on that selfsame arm she proudly leaned,
And, with the blush of youth upon her cheek,
Crossed this same pasture, and, returning, heard
And answered to another name. Her hopes
Of earth have all been realized—her dreams
Have, one by one, gone floating down the past,
Like bubbles in the sun, where envious years
Have touched them into nothing, and now point
Derision at the empty places. Thus
Full many a heart grows old, and spirit bowed,
In intellectual want—a poverty
Scarce second to the need of bread! For what,
When all the joys which stir our inward life,
And wake a pleasure in the blood, are dead
Or dying at their sources, can renew
Long past enjoyment, like the power of thought
Drawn from a wisdom gleaned in fields of knowledge?
And many a life, before its time, thus wilts
And withers to the root, and to each wind.
Adverse or fair, rustles its sad complaint.
Which else should sway with music. They should store,
Like bees in summer, for their winter want,
Nor leave improvidence to clip their wings.
Not so the form she leans on: unto him
Each sight and sound of Nature is a page
Full of fresh thought and pleasing contemplation.
A man not deep in books, but in research,
Among the hidden lore which round him lies
Most practical; and all the neighbourhood
Holds him an oracle, and reverence pays,
As well they may; for he, within these bounds,
Has held the keys of knowledge many a year,
Teaching in yonder rude house in the grove.
All these are of his scholars—first to last
Have laid their little books upon his knee,
And stumbled through their lessons undismayed,
Guided with kindness; and in every heart
Is Master Ethan filially remembered.
His son, a man of mild and easy mood—
A nature far more gentle than befits
One who must struggle with a stubborn soil—
Walks hearkening to his sire's discourse. And next
Lo, the staid matron, with emphatic step,
Whose every movement speaks her stately soul—
The undaunted mistress of her narrow realm,
With all th' amenities which goodness gives—
A woman fit for heroes to call mother!
With form less tall and full, the daughter comes,
Her blonde hair waving round her gentle brow—
A face to be remembered, and, methinks,
Not easily forgotten; for that eye,
So deep and blue, where starry truth abides,
As in the fabled well, once on your own
Falling, with its miraculous pure light,
Stays not upon the face, but to the heart
Looks in, as through a casement, and the soul
Then feels as if an angel, going by,
Had glanced within, and left its smile in passing!
And should your feet e'er wander to these vales,
The farms of Hazel-meadow, many a tongue
This picture shall attest, and, as they speak.
Mark if the sigh comes not with confirmation.
For there are hearts to which that face hath grown
A part and a necessity, as grows
A child unto the sunshine of a household;
And oft the neighbouring groves shall hear her name.
As some lone peasant takes his woodland way,
Recalling the bright summers of the past.
“Olivia!” they'll sigh, with slackened pace,
And all the leaves reply “Olivia!”
Yet unattended by the swains gallant,
Nor yet free mingling with the joyous groups
Of neighbour-maidens, from her childhood known,
She keeps her Sabbath way; still cheerful, though
Her eyes are now more kin to tears than smiles
Nor are cold glances, sidelong looks unkind,
And jealous hate, accusing her of pride,
From former playmates cast upon her now;
But words all gentleness, and eyes all love,
Meet her where'er she turns, which kindly say,
If not in language, in each tone and act,
“We know, dear friend, the secret which you keep
And whence the fountain of that springing tear
The smile not wholly hides. We know the pain
Which cankers at that rose upon your cheek
We also grieve the absence which you grieve,
And mourn the distance 'twixt his heart and ours,
And pray for his return. Ships come and go,
The sea gives up its living, day by day,
And presently our Arthur shall return,
Full of brave life and wisdom—shall return,
Glowing with noble thoughts and filled with hope,
The promise of great actions. Then, beneath
The summer shade, or by the blazing hearth,
His voice shall cheer the noonday or the eve,
Recounting, with accustomed eloquence,
Rare tales of travel, intermixed with song.”
Such is the comfort in each look and word
Which soothes awhile her fancy, but not long;
For absence is a shadow which no light
Can utterly dispel—a prison door,
Before the spirit, made of grated bars,
Through which the brightest day can only send
A checkered sunshine. Here next, following, come
The happy members of the parson's household;
And last, with thoughtful care conning, perchance,
The plain, unwritten sermon of the day,
The parson walks, a man of fifty years,
Who half his life has laboured in this field,
Baptizing, marrying,—and burying oft
Where death had put asunder. His broad brow
The quiet storehouse is of wisdom, learned
From open nature, and vouchsafed from God.
All week he tends within his noisy mill,
Whose wheel now hangs and dreams o'er yonder stream,
And bends his brawny shoulders to the sacks
Which daily cross the threshold; or among
The ceaseless jar and whirr of rumbling stones,
And clattering hoppers, garrulous with grain,
He walks amid the misty meal, and plans
The solemn lesson for the coming Sabbath.
His heart is full of boundless sympathies:
The stranger and the friend, the erring or
The good, come not within his genial voice
Or smile, but they go hence with firm resolve
For happy change, or strengthened in the right.
The old or young, departing, bear away
The influence of his spirit in their hearts.
E'en as they bear the mill-dust on their garments
The sire of Arthur he, the youth who now
Wanders in foreign lands, by romance led,
Bearing the hearts and hopes of many hence;
But chiefly hers, long deemed by all his choice.
By various ways the people still come in:
Here on the hillside path, with swinging arms,
Weaving the air with visionary shuttles,
Gaunt Bowman mounts, ascending as on treadles—
Bowman, chief weaver of the vale; his wife
Close following, like himself, arrayed in suit
Of homemade russet. Down the dusty road
The vehicles, of various forms, approach:
The rattling wagon, out of joint and loose,
With temporary seats, and difficult
For unaccustomed riders; and the chaise
With rocking motion, easy as a chair,
Drawn by a jogging steed whose shoulders still
Feel the fresh record of the yester plough.
Some, rudely mounted as equestrians, come;
The switch held upward, like a sword; the horse,
With swinging head, blowing the foam in air:
And here, anon, the family steed is seen
Bearing a double burthen with slow pace.
How all the landscape, with the Sabbath scene,
Smiles with a bland and staid propriety!
About the chapel door, in easy groups,
The rustic people wait. Some trim the switch,
While some prognosticate of harvests full,
Or shake the dubious head, with arguments
Based on the winter's frequent snow and thaw,
The heavy rains, and sudden frosts severe.
Some, happily but few, deal scandal out,
With look askance pointing their victim. These
Are the rank tares in every field of grain—
These are the nettles stinging unaware—
The briers which wound and trip unheeding feet—
The noxious vines, growing in every grove!
Their touch is deadly, and their passing breath
Poison most venomous! Such have I known—
As who has not?—and suffered by the contact
Of these the husbandman takes certain note,
And in the proper season disinters
Their baneful roots; and, to the sun exposed,
The killing light of truth, leaves them to pine
And perish in the noonday! 'Gainst a tree,
With strong arms folded o'er a giant chest,
Stands Barton, to the neighbourhood chief smith;
His coat, unused to aught save Sunday wear,
Grown too oppressive by the morning walk,
Hangs on the drooping branch: so stands he oft
Beside the open door, what time the share
Is whitening at the roaring bellows' mouth.
There, too, the wheelwright—he, the magistrate—
In small communities a man of mark—
Stands with the smith, and holds such argument
As the unlettered but observing can;
Their theme some knot of scripture hard to solve.
And 'gainst the neighbouring bars two others fan,
Less fit the sacred hour, discussion hot
Of politics; a topic, which inflamed,
Knows no propriety of time or place.
There Oakes, the cooper, with rough brawny hand,
Descants at large, and, with a noisy ardour,
Rattles around his theme as round a cask;
While Hanson, heavy browed, with shoulders bent,
Bent with great lifting of huge stones—for he
A mason and famed builder is—replies
With tongue as sharp and dexterous as his trowel,
And sentences which like his hammer fall,
Bringing the flinty fire at every blow!
But soon the approaching parson ends in peace
The wordy combat, and all turn within.
Awhile rough shoes, some with discordant