Papers from Overlook-House

So men aver, the quiet gliding ghost.

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.

This house, in ancient days a wayside inn,
Has sheltered men of mark. Here Washington
Rested his weary head without despair,
Before the sinking tide rose with bright waves
At Trenton, and the spot where Mercer fell.
Here youthful La Fayette was also seen,
Whose smile, benign in age, was joy to me,
As my loved Father, at our fire-side spake
To him, as the true Patriot speaks to those
Who win a nation's homage by their toils.
Here even now, on an age-colored pane,
The letters, diamond-cut, show Hancock's name.

The war had found the host of the Ford Inn
A happy man; no idler round a bar;