A Recollection

Here tread aside, where the descending brook
Pays a scant tribute to the mightier stream,
And all the summer long, on silver feet,
Glides lightly o'er the pebbles, sending out
A mellow murmur on the quiet air.
Just up this narrow glen, in yonder glade
Set, like a nest amid embowering trees,
Where the green grass, fresh as in early spring,
Spreads a bright carpet o'er the hidden soil,
Lived, in my early days, an humble pair,
A mother and her daughter. She, the dame,
Had well nigh seen her threescore years and ten.
Her step was tremulous; slight was her frame,
And bow'd with time and toil; the lines of care
Were deep upon her brow. At shut of day
I 've met her by the skirt of this old wood,
Alone, and faintly murmuring to herself,
Haply, the history of her better days.
I knew that history once, from youth to age: —
It was a sad one; he who wedded her
Had wrong'd her love, and thick the darts of death
Had fallen among her children and her friends.
One solace for her age remained, — a fair
And gentle daughter, with blue, pensive eyes,
And cheeks like summer roses. Her sweet songs
Rang like the thrasher's warble in these woods,
And up the rocky dells. At noon and eve,
Her walk was o'er the hills, and by the founts
Of the deep forest. Oft she gather'd flowers
In lone and desolate places, where the foot
Of other wanderers but seldom trod.
Once, in my boyhood, when my truant steps
Had led me forth among the pleasant hills,
I met her in a shaded path, that winds
Far through the spreading groves. The sun was low,
The shadow of the hills stretch'd o'er the vale,
And the still waters of the river lay
Black in the early twilight. As we met,
She stoop'd and press'd her friendly lips to mine,
And, though I then was but a simple child,
Who ne'er had dream'd of love, nor knew its power,
I wonder' d at her beauty. Soon a sound
Of thunder, muttering low, along the west,
Foretold a coming storm; my homeward path
Lay through the woods, tangled with undergrowth.
A timid urchin then, I fear'd to go,
Which she observing, kindly led the way,
And left me when my dwelling was in sight.
I hasten'd on; but, ere I reach'd the gate,
The rain fell fast, and the drench'd fields around
Were glittering in the lightning's frequent flash.
But where was now Eliza? When the morn
Blush'd on the summer hills, they found her dead,
Beneath an oak, rent by the thunderbolt.
Thick lay the splinters round, and one sharp shaft
Had pierced hersnow- white brow. And here she lies,
Where the green hill slopes toward the southern sky.
'Tis thirty summers since they laid her here;
The cottage where she dwelt is razed and gone;
Her kindred all are perish'd from the earth,
And this rude stone, that simply bears her name,
Is mouldering fast; and soon this quiet spot,
Held sacred now, will be like common ground.
Fit place is this for so much loveliness
To find its rest. It is a hallow'd shrine,
Where nature pays her tribute. Dewy spring
Sets the gay wild flowers thick around her grave;
The green boughs o'er her, in the summer-time,
Sigh to the winds; the robin takes his perch
Hard by, and warbles to his sitting mate;
The brier-rose blossoms to the sky of June,
And hangs above her in the winter days
Its scarlet fruit. No rude foot ventures near;
The noisy schoolboy keeps aloof, and he
Who hunts the fox, when all the hills are white,
Here treads aside. Not seldom have I found,
Around the head-stone carefully entwined,
Garlands of flowers, I never knew by whom.
For two years past I 've miss'd them; doubtless one
Who held this dust most precious, placed them there,
And, sorrowing in secret many a year,
At last hath left the earth to be with her.