Classic Poem

A TALE.

Where yon grey rocks resist the flood
On Scotia's south'ren strand,
I saw, in melancholy mood,
A rustic vet'ran stand.

Silent he gaz'd on sea and shore;
High tower'd the village smoke,
The sun hard on his temples bore,
While thus he silence broke: —

" Here musing o'er the lapse of time,
Since thoughtless childhood play'd,
And ripening manhood's youthful prime
In stately steps had stray'd.

" Imagination fondly roves
Where eares and ills were few,
And pictures all our joys and loves,
And hope and fears anew.

The long lost youthful friend we view,
Bedeck'd with heart felt smiles,
And tendererities oft love review,
With all her witching wiles:

'Tis then we sigh for native plains,
With art their woods and towers;
Where soft content, with lulling strains,
Sings in her fairy bowers.

With caution now each step we tread,
And trace each haunt with care;
If youth is flown, and friends are fled;
Alas! she dwells not there.

Tho' fair each streamlet still does flow,
And wider spread the trees;
Yet by some cause they waken woe —
Ceas'd is their power to please!

" A stranger occupies the cot
Where first my being grew,
A rude, unpolish'd, selfish sot,
With all his gaping crew.

" One friend, that sigh'd for fortune large,
To foreign lands has sped;
A dearer left his lonely charge,
And laid him with the dead.

" Thoughts fond and vain the mind employ —
We're borne along the stream;
The bud of life is all a toy,
Its wane a weary dream.

" My first fond love in life's fair morn,
By luckless love undone,
Retiring far from public scorn,
Has rear'd her only son.

" Why left I what my soul held dear,
To sigh in crowds alone?
'Twas siren Hope sung in mine ear,
And, flattering, sooth'd me on.

" Dear Mary, tho' for fame and gold
The battle blade I've borne,
Lo, here I come, more poor, more old,
More wretched and forlorn.

" But shall not we join hand in hand,
Our wayward fate to bear,
And closer bind each former band,
And wipe each falling tear?

" Prosperity may well afford
A beam to glad the breast;
But ne'er could touch the tender chord,
Like mutual love distrest.

" Welcome ye distant hills and heath,
Tho' barren, rude, and bare;
My Mary's smile shall smooth each path,
And sooth the brow of care. "

Thus sung the soldier, worn with toil;
His country's shield and spear;
With mingl'd passions mark'd the soil,
Untrod for many a year.

Tho' pointed pebbles on the way
Assail'd his weary feet;
The wild bird carroll'd loud his lay,
And cheer'd him up the steep.

But when the destin'd booth he reach'd,
Where jutting crags were seen,
A silver lake its bosom stretch'd,
And wild woods waving green.

Quick beat his heart with fondest joy,
He gaz'd, he view'd them o'er;
His Mary, by his fav'rite boy,
Sat knitting near the door.

What tho' fleet time with paler hue
Her youthful bloom had foil'd,
Within her eye, of azure blue,
Content and kindness smil'd.

His manly visage soon she knew,
Tho' hack'd in wars alarms,
She rose, she gaz'd, and breathless flew
Into his longing arms.

As wept the father o'er his child,
Whose absence long he mourn'd;
Such joys might angels, undefil'd,
Feel when a soul's return'd.

There did he rest his weary'd frame,
And tell his tales of war;
His boy delights to hear the theme,
And marks each honest scar.

A father's fondest care is us'd,
Each virtue to commend,
Till, by degrees, he now has lost
The father in the friend.

Such are the hopes, the joys of age,
That cheer life's waning ray;
More sure than all that Stoic sage,
And letter'd pride display.