Classic Poem

LEAVING H OME

I

Let us sit upon this stone,
With its grey moss overgrown,
While we talk about the past, —
For I'm left the very last
Of that simple, hardy race
Who first settled in this place;
At whose stroke the forest fell,
And the sound of Sabbath bell
Startled Desolation's brood
In the trackless solitude.

II

Half a century has roll'd,
With its burdens manifold,
Since I left my home so dear,
Came, a young adventurer, here.
Many faces Fortune wears
In the space of fifty years;
Strange mutations, smiles and frowns,
Unexpected ups and downs.
Oh, what crowds have crost the path
To the rendezvous of death!
Men, so mighty in their day,
Gone to nothingness away!
What great teachers and their schools!
Prophets time has proven fools!
Transcendental meteors high,
That have faded from the sky —
Tho' the fashion of a day,
Gone like shadows all away!

III

Fifty years have pass'd away,
Fifty years this very day,
Since I left, at Fortune's call,
Friends and Fatherland and all.
I was then a happy boy;
Earth, a scene of hope and joy.
I have now grown old and grey,
Yet it seems but yesterday.
Ev'ry circumstance comes back
O'er that long and weary track:
Friends, the loving and true-hearted,
Who have long in death departed,
Crowd around me in the dell,
Where I bade them all farewell.

IV

It was a lovely morn in spring;
The lark was high upon the wing,
The bonnie bells in clusters blue,
The gowan with its drop of dew,
The cowslip and the primrose pale,
Were forth in Cartha's lovely vale.
Ah! there they were, so chaste and meek,
Not silent, tho' they did not speak —
It seem'd to me as if they knew
I'd come to bid them all adieu;
For we had been companions dear,
And could not part without a tear.
And Cartha had a mournful voice —
She did not, as of old, rejoice;
And vale and mountain, flower and tree,
Were looking sadly upon me;
For, oh! there is a nameless tie —
A strange, mysterious sympathy —
Between us and material things,
Which into close communion brings
Our spirits with the unseen pow'r
Which looks from ev'ry tree and flow'r.
There was the bonnie bush of broom,
Just op'ning into golden bloom,
Beneath whose tassels, many a day,
I listen'd to the blackbird's lay;
Yonder the mountains looming through,
Benlomond tow'ring in the blue —
How kingly! tho' his forehead wears
The furrows of six thousand years.
Oh! how I lov'd those mountains grey,
Which pass not, like man's work, away,
But are forever seated there,
Old monarchs on their thrones of air.
And were they not the first to draw
From out my soul the sigh of awe,
Till down the mighty shadows came,
And lifted me aloft to them?
High seated with the monarchs there,
Above this little world of care,
My spirit burst the bonds of time,
And revel'd in the realms sublime;
And now it seem'd they closer drew,
As if to bid me sad adieu.

V

Things there are in mem'ry set,
Things we never can forget.
Still I see the very spot,
Close beside our lowly cot,
Where my grandsire, old and grey
(Blessed be his memory),
While upon his staff he bent,
Thus did bless me ere I went:

VI

A Grandfather's Blessing

Your journey's but beginning now,
While mine is nearly ending —
You're starting up the hill of life,
I to the grave descending;
With you 'tis bright and buoyant spring,
With me 'tis dark December,
And my injunctions, oh, my son!
I'd have you to remember.

I've seen, in threescore years and ten,
So many strange mutations,
So many sides of Fortune's face
To families and nations;
I've learn'd to know she can't be caught
By whip, by spur, or bridle;
She is not caught by running fast,
Nor yet by standing idle.

While she within your hopeful heart
Her wondrous tale rehearses,
In noting all, be sure and leave
A margin for reverses.
Should you be rich, trust not in wealth,
From you it may be taken,
But if you put your trust in God,
You'll never be forsaken.

Men toil to reach the earthly heights,
From which by death they're hurled,
Be your ambition what you'd not
Exchange for all the world.
Should you be poor, sit not and sigh,
Nor deem yourself neglected;
The kindest lift that e'er I got
Was when I least expected.

Grieve not at the decrees of fate,
Tho' they may be distressing —
A blessing's mixt with ev'ry woe,
A woe with ev'ry blessing;
The hollow's close beside the height;
Whenever much is given,
Something or other is withheld
To bring the balance even.

Look Fate and Fortune in the face,
In that there's worth and merit;
The greatest poverty on earth
Is poverty of spirit,
Have aye some object in your view,
And steadily pursue it,
Nor grow faint-hearted, come what may,
But like a man stick to it.

Hope not to find a good on earth
But what you'll have to pay for;
The fruit that drops into the mouth
Is aye devoid of flavor.
If you will lean on any man,
All Nature will upbraid you:
Then trust but to your own right arm,
And to the God that made you.

Strive manfully in ev'ry strait,
And after you have striven,
With hands unstain'd, with heart upright,
Leave the result to heaven.
Profess to be but what you are,
Avoid all affectation;
If you are truth's, you sit upon
A rock of deep foundation.

Be guided by your sense of right
Where Scripture may not aid you,
For that's the ray from heav'n direct,
The light from Him who made you.
Philosophers are all afloat
Upon a sea of troubles;
They dash like waves against the rocks,
And give birth but to bubbles.

They cannot tell us whence we came,
Or why we were sent hither,
But leave us hopeless, in the end,
To go we know not whither.
Trust not in knowledge — small indeed
Is all that we can gather —
But always ask the guidance of
The universal Father.

There's much which we must teach ourselves,
That is not taught at college;
Without a sympathetic soul,
How vain is all our knowledge!
Be charitable when you speak
Of man and human nature;
Who finds no worth in human hearts
Must be a worthless creature.

If you would have your brother's love,
Then you must love your brother;
Heart leaps to heart o'er all the world,
Affections draw each other.
Then cherish still within your breast
Affection's sacred blossom;
Strive to be rich enough to keep
A heart within your bosom.

Farewell! my son, we meet no more;
The angel death, which gathers
The green and ripe, must shortly come
To take me to my fathers.
Farewell! may heaven be the height,
To which you would aspire,
And think at times, when far away,
Upon your old grandsire.