Classic Poem

As one without a friend, one summer eve
I walked among the solemn woods alone.
The boughs hung lovely, and the gentle winds
Whispered a song monotonous and low,
That soothed my mind even while it made me sad.
The path I followed, by a turn abrupt,
Brought me to stand beside that humble roof,
Where the few scattered families that dwell
Among these mountains and deep forest shades
Meet weekly, to uplift the soul in prayer.
A few rude logs up-piled were all the walls,—
There were four windows and a door, not e'en
Adorn'd with rudest art; and in the midst
A pulpit,—cushioned not, nor overhung
With crimson folds of fringed drapery,
Nor graced with gilded volumes richly bound.
Amid the mountain pines the low roof stood,
And mountain hands had reared it; but it wore
An air of reverence.
Few paces onward,
O'ershadowed more by the green underwood,
Some slight raised mounds showed where the dead were laid.
No gravestone told who slept beneath the turf.
(Perchance the heart that deeply mourns, needs not
Such poor remembrancer.) The forest flowers
Themselves had fondly clustered there,—and white
Azalias with sweet breath stood round about,
Like fair young maidens mourning o'er their dead.
In some sweet solitude like this I would
That I might sleep my last long dreamless sleep!
Oh quiet resting place! Divine repose!
Let not my voice, I whispered, oh let not
My heedless step profane thy sanctity!
Still shall sweet summer smiling, linger here,
And wasteful winter lightly o'er thee pass;
Bright dews of morning jewel thee! and all
The silent stars watch over thee at night;
The mountains clasp thee lovingly within
Their giant arms, and ever round thee bow
The everlasting forests; for thou art
In thy simplicity a holy spot
And not unmeet for heavenly worshipper.