Let us descend afar the summer road,
And note how in the crowded mart is kept
The sacred day. Along the harvest fields.
Throughout the stretching valley, smokes the air
With a long line of the impending dust,
Sultry and thick, until the Sunday garb
Of smoothest black becomes a suit of grey,
And the deep standing grain beside the road
Bows low with the collecting weight; while feet
Innumerous are plumping in the dust,
Deep as the fetlocks, as it were a snow;
And flying wheels fling from their tires and spokes
Invisible the choking cloud. Behold the inn,
Midway between the village and the town,
Where waves the starry flag across the way,
Swung from the house-top to the opposing tree,
A silken arch of triumph. O'er the porch
Swarm out and in, like bees about a hive,
The noisy people whom the keeper greets
With smile incessant and unfailing joke.
Lo, how the hot air reeks with the perfume
Of crushing mint, in potent glasses drowned,
And smoke of Cuban weed; or, stronger yet,
Of rank plant cultured in Kentuckian fields.
From either side the high and pendulous sign
The painted eagle looks, with spreading wings,
As if to sentinel the coming guest.
But 'neath his shade, with an unchecking rein.
Behold yon party pass! Olivia there,
Between her parents, sits with glowing cheeks.
Thus ride they on until, beyond the hill,
In the far smoky landscape, winding slow,
They catch with eager gaze the silvery line
Of tranquil Delaware; so distance-veiled,
The eye, unaided, scarcely notes the sail
Brooding in middle of receding plains.
Then bursts the glowing city on the view;
Waking a pleasurable sense which none
So deep in soul can feel as they who bring
The mind well stored with rural lore, and wear
At heart the freshness of the summer fields.
Thus, in lost ages of the long ago,
The rustic swains, girded with simple skins,
From Carmel's side or cedared Lebanon,
Beheld the gorgeous city at their feet,
What time the yearly festival enticed,
Its thousand banners swelling on the wind,
And every breeze with music jubilant,
And gates all wide. Or thus the pilgrim band,
Aweary with long travel, sore of feet,
Turning some point of the Abruzzian mount,
Beholds the plain, and Tiber winding dim,
And the long stretch of ancient aqueducts,
Striding like caravans the blue champaign;
Till, lo! the Roman capital appears,
Crowned with the dome which crowns the world! Anon,
The Schuylkill, sacred to the barge of mirth.
Its green banks consecrate to pleasure's paths,
Winds into sight with many a silvery curve;
And at the breast-work, with a ceaseless voice,
Rustles the music which its waters learned,
On mountain wilds remote, where Carbon's hills
Hear in their inmost heart the miner's stroke.
Behold the mound by art and nature reared.
“Fairmount!” in whose tall top the waters lie
Lifted as in a great baptismal font;
The height from whence the river deity
Pours, from his giant and refreshing urn,
The stream which slakes a grateful city's thirst.
But fancy this; for yet no statue there,
Worthy the place, above his liquid task
Stands to the four winds, beautiful and bright,
Gazing upon the city which he laves,
While the glad city gazes back to him.
Oh! wherefore rises not the marble pile
Above this green and consecrated height?
Not one, but many, one above the rest,
Looking like Allegheny o'er his hills.
Lo, how it bathes unnumbered miles of streets—
A great heart pulsing through far crystal veins—
Where, but a few short generations since,
The Indian stretched his lazy sombre length;
And the red deer stooped, undeterred, and drank,
Or, 'neath the chestnut or the walnut shade,
Cropped the rank grass at leisure. At the Bridge,
The horses sudden tramp the sounding planks;
Where passes oft the Connestoga team,
Ringing its own announcement of approach,
With shoulder-shaken bells—a monster wain,
Slow, rumbling, and which oft in winter sends
The shrilly creak from frosty wheels afar
How the white noon awakes to the report
Of all explosive engines known to man,
From the sharp cracker to the roaring bass
Of cannon, answering from square to square!
At every proclamation shaking earth,
And rattling every window; while the scent
Of wasted powder loads each breath inhaled,
As in some town resisting when besieged.
From street to street the party takes its way,
Gazing on the processions as they pass
With wondering admiration. There they see,
In costly uniform, the shining troops
Of armed volunteers; or there the long,
Proud lines of labour, honouring their trades,
Parading with bright banners; and the stout,
Brave firemen decked in helmet and in cape—
A conflagration pictured upon each—
Their costly engine wreathed about with flowers—
Drawing as 'twere a conqueror's car. No day,
Of all the year, is so alive as this;
No other day hath this calm city been
So driven from staid propriety, and waked
To such wild, joyous riot; save that time
When youthful feet ran boundless through the streets,
To fix the childish gaze on one who came
Welcomed with honour's highest, last excess—
The honour only rivaled by the love—
Taking his glorious way with roses strewn,
And under endless bannered arches, starred
With one proud name, still sacred—“La Fayette!”
And still the party wander down the street,
Oft gazing on the snowy marble pile;
Or stroll into the crowded squares, and walk
Beneath the shade of ancient forest trees,
Greeting them all as friends. Oh, wherefore, ye
Who hold the welfare of the town at heart,
And wield its destinies, will ye behold
The city, with its hot and rapid feet,
Trample the woods and blight the fields; nor leave
One ampler space where, on a day like this,
The thankful throng may walk abroad, and feel
The pleasure which it is to breathe the air
Which, unimpeded by the heated walls,
Takes health and freshness from the leaves it stirs,
And gives to whom inhales? Nor yet too late,
While those wide spaces—full of sun and shade,
And antique trees, with daily trembling filled
And apprehension of the approaching axe—
O'er Schuylkill spread their asking arms, and call
Aloud for your protection. Ere the street,
With frequent ringing of the builder's trowel,
Usurps their quiet depth, go boldly forth;
And, with your powerful wand of office, draw
The boundary line which none shall dare invade
And every tree, thus rescued, when the crowds
Of future generations walk beneath,
Shall whisper to their grateful ears your name;
And be a vernal monument, each year,
Renewing honour to the rescuer.