Papers from Overlook-House

For his chief calling was upon his farm,
With rich fields open to the sun, amid
The dense surrounding forests, where the deer
Still lingered by the homes of laboring men.
He bore arms for his country. And he heard
The last guns fired at Yorktown for the free.

One little daughter played around his hearth;
Oft tracked his steps far in the furrowed field;
Looked up with guileless eye in his true face.
After each absence short, her merry shout
Of greeting at his coming, rose as sure
As sounds from those dark cedars on the shore,
When the winds rise and break their mirror there.

Oh happy child! She also learned the love
That places underneath her the strong arms
Of Him who held the children when on earth,
Journeying along his pathway to the cross.
She opened all her gentle Heaven-touched heart
To all the unknown teachings of her home.

The wild-flower's beauty passed into her thoughts,
And as she gazed, and saw in earth and sky,
In every form the love of God stream forth,
She knew of beauty that could never fade.
For He, from whom these emanations came,
Will never cease to be a God revealed.

Happy the child, for her fond parents both
Had souls to kindle with her sympathies.
They learned anew with her the blessed love,
Which makes the pure like children all their days.
With her pure mind repassed the former way,
Their age and youth blended at once in her.

There was a small church in the little town
Of Bristol, some miles distant, over which
A loving pastor ruled with watchful care.
He came from England, – and but few had known
That he was bishop, of that secret line
Which Ken, and other loyalists prolonged,
Prepared for any changes in the realm.
The good man loved his people at the ford.
The child's expanding mind had ample seals
Of his kind guidance. From his store of books
He culled the treasures for her thoughtful eye.

Another memorable influence,
To add refining grace, came from the town.
One, whose sweet beauty threw a woman's charm
Over a household, seeking health in air,
That rustles forest leaves, that sweeps the fields,
Came to their home, and was not useless there.

She threw round Ellen, in resplendent light,
What Ellen knew before, in fainter day.

The lady was so true in all her grace,
Such open nature, that the child, all heart,
Could think, could love, could be as one with her.
How sad, that the refinement of the world,
Should often be the cost of all that's true!

From the volcano's side the dreadful stream,
That buried the great city, pressed its way,
To every room of refuge. Prison ne'er
Gave bondage like those dark and awful homes.
Around each form came the encrusting clay:
Death at the moment. Dying ne'er so still.
In passing ages all the form was gone:
The dark clay held the shapes of what had been,
And when the beauteous city was exhumed,
Into those hollows, moulds of former life,
They poured the plaster, and regained the form,
Of men, or women, as they were at death.
So all that lives in nature, in the heart,
Is often, living, buried by the world,
By its dead stream. Dust only can remain.
And in its place the statue – outward all
The form of beauty – the pretense of soul.

How the child basked in all her loveliness!
Unconscious, she was moulded day by day,
Sweet buds that in her heart strove to unfold,
Had waited for that sun. And Ellen saw
Her mother in changed aspect. The soft charms
Of her new friend, revealed at once in her,
More of the woman's natural tenderness.

The gentle child, had not a single love
For all the varied scenes of bank and stream —
And these to her were almost all the earth,
But as each glory centered round her home.
If the descending sun threw down the light
Tinged with the mellow hues of autumn leaves,
Upon the waters till they shone as gold,
And yet diminished not the million flames
That burnt upon the trees, all unconsumed,
It was to her a joy. But deeper joy