Classic Poem

A N aged man, whose head some seventy years
Had snow'd on freely, led the caravan; —
His sons and sons' sons, and their families,
Tall youths and sunny maidens — a glad group,
That glow'd in generous blood and had no care,
And little thought of the future — follow'd him; —
Some perch'd on gallant steeds, others, more slow,
The infants and the matrons of the flock,
In coach and jersey, — but all moving on
To the new land of promise, full of dreams
Of western riches, Mississippi-mad!
Then came the hands , some forty-five or more,
Their moderate wealth united — some in carts
Laden with mattresses; — on ponies some;
Others, more sturdy, following close afoot,
Chattering like jays, and keeping, as they went,
Good time to Juba's creaking violin.

I met and spoke them. The old patriarch,
The grandsire of that goodly family,
Told me his story, and a few brief words
Unfolded that of thousands. Discontent,
With a vague yearning for a better clime,
And richer fields than thine, old Carolina,
Led him to roam. Yet did he not complain
Of thee, dear mother — mother still to me,
Though now, like him, a wanderer from thy homes.
Thou hadst not chidden him, nor trampled down
His young ambition; — hadst not school'd his pride
By cold indifference; hadst not taught his heart
To doubt of its own hope, as of thy love,
Making self-exile duty. He knew thee not,
As I, by graves and sorrows. Thy bright sun
Had always yielded flowers and fruits to him,
And thy indulgence and continued smiles
Had made his pittance plenty — made his state
A proud one in the honors which thou gav'st,
Almost in's own despite. And yet he flies thee
For a wild country, where the unplough'd fields
Lie stagnant in their waste fertility,
And long for labor. His are sparkling dreams,
As fond as those of boyhood. Golden stores
They promise him in Mississippian vales,
Outshining all the past, compensating —
So thinks he idly — for the home he leaves,
The grave he should have chosen, and the walks,
And well-known fitness of his ancient woods.
Self-exiled, in his age he hath gone forth
To the abodes of strangers, — seeking wealth —
Not wealth, but money! Heavens! what wealth we give,
Daily, for money! What affections sweet —
What dear abodes — what blessing, happy joys —
What hopes, what hearts, what affluence, what ties,
In a mad barter where we lose our all,
For that which an old trunk, a few feet square,
May compass like our coffin! That old man
Can take no root again! He hath snapp'd off
The ancient tendrils, and in foreign clay
His branches will all wither. Yet he goes,
Falsely persuaded that a bloated purse
Is an affection — is a life — a lease,
Renewing life, with all its thousand ties
Of exquisite endearment — flowery twines,
That, like the purple parasites of March,
Shall wrap his aged trunk, and beautify
Even while they shelter. I could weep for him,
Thus banish'd by that madness of the mind,
But that mine own fate, not like his self-chosen,
Fills me with bitterer thoughts than of rebuke; —
He does not suffer from the lack of home,
And all the pity that I waste on him
Comes of my own privation. Let him go.

There is an exile which no laws provide for,
No crimes compel, no hate pursues; — not written
In any of the records! Not where one goes
To dwell in other regions — from his home
Removed, by taste, or policy, or lust,
Or the base cares of the mere creature need,
Or pride's impatience. Simple change of place
Is seldom exile, as it hath been call'd,
But idly. There's a truer banishment
To which such faith were gentle. 'Tis to be
An exile on the spot where you were born; —
A stranger on the hearth which saw your youth, —
Banish'd from hearts to which your heart is turn'd; —
Unbless'd by those, from whose o'erwatchful love
Your heart would drink all blessings: — 'Tis to be
In your own land — the native land whose soil
First gave you birth; whose air still nourishes, —
If that may nourish which denies all care
And every sympathy, — and whose breast sustains, —
A stranger — hopeless of the faded hours,
And reckless of the future; — a lone tree
To which no tendril clings — whose desolate boughs
Are scathed by angry winters, and bereft
Of the green leaves that cherish and adorn.