I.
"Stay, traveller, stay thy weary steed, The sultry hour of noon is near, Of rest thy way-worn limbs have need, Stay, then, and, taste its sweetness here. The mountain path which thou hast sped Is steep, and difficult to tread, And many a farther step 'twill cost, Ere thou wilt find another host; But if thou scorn'st not humble fare, Such as the pilgrim loves to share,-- Not luxury's enfeebling spoil, But bread secured by patient toil-- Then lend thine ear to my request, And be the old man's welcome guest. Thou seest yon aged willow tree, In all its summer pomp arrayed, 'Tis near, wend thither, then, with me, My cot is built beneath its shade; And from its roots clear waters burst To cool thy lip, and quench thy thirst:-- I love it, and if harm should, come To it, I think that I should weep; 'Tis as a guardian of my home, So faithfully it seems to keep Its watch above the spot where I Have lived so long, and mean to die. Come, pardon me for prating thus, But age, you know, is garrulous; And in life's dim decline, we hold Thrice dear whate'er we loved of old,-- The stream upon whose banks we played, The forest through whose shades we strayed, The spot to which from sober truth We stole to dream the dreams of youth, The single star of all Night's zone, Which we have chosen as our own, Each has its haunting memory Of things which never more may be."
II.
Thus spake an aged man to one Who manhood's race had just begun. His form of manhood's noblest length Was strung with manhood's stoutest strength, And burned within his eagle eye The blaze of tameless energy--Not tameless but untamed--for life Soon breaks the spirit with its strife And they who in their souls have nursed The brightest visions, are the first To learn how Disappointment's blight Strips life of its illusive light; How dreams the heart has dearest held Are ever first to be dispelled; How hope, and power, and love, and fame, Are each an idly sounding name, A phantom, a deceit, a wile, That woos and dazzles to beguile. But time had not yet tutored him, The youth of hardy heart and limb, Who quickly drew his courser's bit; For though too haughty to submit, In strife for mastery with men, Yet to a prayer, or a caress, His soul became all gentleness,-- An infant's hand might lead him then: So answered he,--"In sooth the way My steed and I have passed to-day, Is of such weary, winding length, As sorely to have tried our strength, And I will bless the bread and salt Of him who kindly bids me halt." Then springing lightly to the ground, His girth and saddle he unbound, And turning from the path aside, The steed and guest, the host and guide, Sought where the old man's friendly door Stood ever open to the poor: The poor--for seldom came the great, Or rich, the apers of their state, That simple, rude abode to see, Or claim its hospitality.
III.
From where the hermit's cottage stood, Beneath its huge old guardian tree,The gazer's wand'ring eye might see, Where, in its maze of field and wood, And stretching many a league away, A broad and smiling valley lay:-- Lay stilly calm, and sweetly fair, As if Death had not entered there; As if its flowers, so bright of bloom, Its birds, so gay of song and wing, Would never lose their soft perfume, Would never, never cease to sing. Fat flocks were in its glens at rest, Pure waters wandered o'er its breast, The sky was clear, the winds were still, Rich harvests grew on every hill, The sun in mid-day glory smiled, And nature slumbered as a child.
IV.
And now, their rustic banquet done, And sheltered from the noontide sun By the old willow's pleasant shade, The guest and host the scene surveyed; Marked how the mountain's mighty base The valley's course was seen to trace; Marked how its graceful azure crest Against the sky's blue arch was pressed, And how its long and rocky chain Was parted suddenly in twain, Where through a chasm, wide and deep, Potomac's rapid waters sweep, While rocks that press the mountain's brow, Nod o'er his waves far, far below;(1) Marked how those waves, in one broad blaze, Threw back the sun's meridian rays, And, flashing as they rolled along, Seemed all alive with light and song; Marked how green bower and garden showed Where rose the husbandman's abode, And how the village walls were seen To glimmer with a silvery sheen, Such as the Spaniard saw, of yore, Hang over Tenuchtitlan's walls, When maddened with the lust of gore, He came to desecrate her halls; To fire her temples, towers, and thrones, And turn her songs of peace to groans. They gazed, till from the hermit's eye A tear stole slow and silently; A tear, which Memory's hand had taken From a deep fountain long congealed; A tear, which showed how strongly shaken The heart must be, which thus revealed, Through time's dim shadows, gathering fast, Its recollections of the past; Then, as a sigh escaped his breast, Thus spake the hermit to his guest.
V.
"Thou seest how fair a scene is here; It seems as if 'twere planned above, And fashioned from some happier sphere, To be the home of peace and love. Yet man, too fond of strife, to dwell In meek contentment's calm repose, Will turn an Eden to a hell, And triumph in his brother's woes! And passion's lewd and lawless host, Delight to rave and revel most Where generous Nature stamps and strews Her fairest forms, and brightest hues: And Discord here has lit her brand, And Hatred nursed her savage brood, And stern Revenge, with crimson hand,Has written his foul deeds in blood. But those who loved and suffered then, Have given place to other men: Of all who live, to me alone The story, of their fate is known; Give heed, and I will tell it thee, Tho' mournful must the story be.
VI.
