Descend yon hill, near woods so desolate, With upward gloom, and tangled undergrowths, And shadows mouldering in the brightest day. Near is the Indian spring's unmurmuring flow. The summit now is gladdened by the Church. You leave all village sounds, and are alone, On grass-worn paths your feet emit no sound. The thick damp air is full of dreary rest, And stillness there spreads out like the great night.
Upon the left, hidden by aged oaks, Is a small cedar grove; where broken winds Are organ-like with requiem o'er some graves. A low stone wall, and never-opened gate Protect the marble records of the dead.
To stand at sunny noon, or starry night Upon the arch, where you can yield the soul, Captive to nature's impress, power with peace, Is stillness from afar. The solitude Seems linked with some far distant, distant space In the broad universe, where worlds are not. Unrest with rest is there. We often call That peace, where thoughts are deep, but where the soul Moves as the great, great sea, in mighty waves. Here memories for tears, forgotten thoughts Come without seeking. Just as the winds of May Bring with unlaboring wings, from unknown fields, Sweet scents from flowers, and from the early grass.
The fearful man, who left the village store, Near to the cross roads, where the untutored tongue Supplies the gossip of the printed sheet, Has here beheld the mist-like, awful ghost. The rustic lover under midnight stars, Detained so long by Phebe's sorceries, His little speech taking so long to say, Has had his faith sore tried, as he has asked, Will I, next week, pass here alone, again? Far the most haunted spot lies yet beyond, Follow the road until you reach the Ford, There at the mouldering pile of wall and logs, Where once the floating raft was as a bridge, A pure white spirit oftentimes is seen. She sometimes wanders all along the shore; Sometimes from off the rocks, she seems to look For something in the waters. Then again Where the trees arch the road that skirts the bank, And night is like the darkness of a cave, This gentle spirit glides. Earth's sorrow yet, Its burden, weary burden, borne alone.
Sad is the story of her earthly life. You see that lonely house upon the green, With its broad porch beneath that sycamore. 'Tis now a pleasant undisturbed abode. There lingereth much of ancient time within: Long may it cling there in these days of change! Quaint are the rooms, irregular. The bright fire Glows from the corner fire-place. Often there I sit, and marvel o'er the shadowy past. It is a place of welcome. Loving hearts Extend the welcome. Angels welcome thus. Dear sisters, reading there the purest page, Planning some act of gentleness to wo, The selfishness of solitary life, Not finding place amid your daily thoughts, For you commune with that activity Of love most infinite, that once came down From the far Heaven, to human form on earth. The music of the true, the harmony Of highest thoughts, that have enthroned as kings The best in heart, and head of all our race, Have their great kindred echoes as you read. O as your prayers ascend, pray oft for me, And then I shall not lose the name of friend. The golden link that bindeth heart to heart Forever, is the Love and prayer in Christ. Since the Great Being gives me love at home, The Diamond payment for my worth of dust, Gives me that bright and daily light of earth, I'm bold, and covetous of Christian love.