As a matter of fact they did not go to Concord on the ox-sled, but to Still River, where they lived for a year in the house called the “Brick Ends,” belonging to the Lovejoy family. They then moved to Concord where Orchard House now stands as a memorial to the later years.
The odes addressed to Alcott by Thoreau and Lowell should be recalled in connection with these reminiscences of his later years:—
Here Alcott thought,—respect a wise man’s door! No kinder heart a mortal form e’er held; Its easy hinges ope forevermore At touch of all,—or fervid Youth or Eld.
A mounting sage was he, and could essay Bold flights of hope, that softly fed his tongue With honey; then flew swift that happy day, As tranced in joy on his pure themes we hung.
He knew the Scholar’s art; with insight spent On Plato’s sentence, that best poesy, And calm philosophy, his soul intent Cleared the grey film of Earth and Air and Sea.
He might have lapsed,—but Heaven him held along,— Or splendrous faded like some sunset dream; But long shall live! though this bare, humble song Gains not his dignity,—nor rounds its theme.
He’ll dwell (doubt not) in that fond, wished-for Land, Where the broad Concave’s stars unquailing bloom; The guest of angels, that consolers stand,— Sweetly forgot in light Earth’s lowly tomb.
Then may I wait, dear Alcott, of thy court, Or bear a mace in thy Platonic reign! Though sweet Philosophy be not my forte, Nor Mincio’s reed, nor Learning’s weary gain.
Hear him but speak, and you will feel The shadows of the Portico Over your tranquil spirit steal, To modulate all joy and woe To one subdued, subduing glow; Above our squabbling business hours, Like Phidian Jove’s, his beauty lowers, His nature satirizes ours; A form and front of Attic grace, He shames the higgling market-place, And dwarfs our more mechanic powers.
What throbbing verse can fitly render That face so pure, so trembling-tender? Sensation glimmers through its rest, It speaks unmanacled by words, As full of motion as a nest That palpitates with unfledged birds; ‘Tis likest to Bethesda’s stream, Forewarned through all its thrilling springs, White with the angel’s coming gleam, And rippled with his fanning wings.
Himself unshaken as the sky, His words, like whirlwinds, spin on high Systems and creeds pellmell together; ‘Tis strange as to a deaf man’s eye, While trees uprooted splinter by, The dumb turmoil of stormy weather; Less of iconoclast than shaper, His spirit, safe behind the reach Of the tornado of his speech, Burns calmly as a glowworm’s taper.