# Pocahontas and Other Poems (New York)/Visit to the Birthplace

VISIT TO THE BIRTHPLACE.
Bright summer's flush was on thee, clime beloved, When last I trod thy vales. Now, all around, Autumn her rainbow energy of tint Poureth o'er copse and forest, beautiful, Yet speaking of decay. The aspiring pine Wears his undying green; but the strong oak, Like smitten giant, casts his honours down, Strewing brown earth with emerald and gold. Yon lofty elms, the glory of our land, So lately drooping 'neath their weight of leaves, With proud, yet graceful elegance, to earth, Stand half in nakedness, and half in show Of gaudy colours. Hath some secret shaft Wounded the maple's breast, that thus it bends Like bleeding warrior, tinging all its robes With crimson? while in pity by its side, The pallid poplar, turning to the eye Its silver lining, moans at every breeze.
I roved in sadness through those alter'd scenes. The voice of man was painful. On the ear Idly and vague it fell, for tearful thought Wrought inward, mid the faded imagery Of early days.  See there, yon low-brow'd cot, Whose threshold oft my childish foot has cross'd
So merrily, whose hearth-stone shone so bright At eve, where with her skilful needle wrought The industrious matron, while our younger group Beguiled with fruit, and nuts, and storied page The winter's stormy hour: where is she now? Who coldly answers? dead!  Fast by its side A dearer mansion stands, where my young eyes First open'd on the light. That garden's bound, Where erst I roam'd delighted, deeming earth, With all its wealth, had naught so beautiful As its trim hedge of roses, and the ranks Of daffodils, with snowdrops at their feet, How small and changed it seems! The velvet turf, With its cool arbour, where I linger'd long Conning my little lesson, or, perchance, Eying the slowly-ripening peach, that lean'd Its downy cheek against the latticed wall, Or holding converse with the violet-buds, That were to me as sisters, giving back Sweet thoughts: say, is it not less green than when My childhood wander'd there?  Lo! by rude rocks O'ercanopied, the dome where science taught Her infant rudiments. First day of school! I well remember thee, just on the verge Of my fourth summer. Every face around How wonderful and new! The months moved on Majestically slow. Awe-struck, I mark'd The solemn schooldame in her chair of state, Much fearing lest her all-observant eye Might note me wandering from my patchwork task
Or spelling lesson. Yet that frigid realm Some sunbeams boasted, whose delicious warmth Lent nutriment to young amrbition's germes. "Head of the class!" what music in that sound, Link'd to my name; and then, the crowning joy, Homeward to bear, on shoulder neatly pinn'd, The bow of crimson satin, rich reward Of well-deserving, not too lightly won Or worn too meekly. Still ye need not scorn Our humble training, ye of modern times, Wiser and more accomplish'd. Learning's field, Indeed, was circumscribed, but its few plants Had such close pruning and strict discipline As giveth healthful root and hardy stalk, Perchance, enduring fruit.  Beneath yon roof— Our own no more—beneath my planted trees, Where unfamiliar faces now appear, She dwelt, whose hallow'd welcome was so dear; O Mother, Mother! all thy priceless love Is fresh before me, as of yesterday. Thy pleasant smile, the beauty of thy brow, Thine idol fondness for thine only one, The untold tenderness with which thy heart Embraced my firstborn infant, when my joys, Swelling to their full climax, bore it on, With its young look of wonder, to thy home, A stranger visitant. Fade, visions, fade! Ye make her vacant place too visible, Ye stir the sources of the bitter tear, When I would think of her eternal gain, And praise my God for her.
And now farewell, Dear native spot! with fairest landscapes deck'd, Of old romantic cliff, and crystal rill, And verdant soil, enrich'd with proudest wealth, Warm hearts and true.  Yet deem not I shall wear The mourner's weeds for thee. Another home Hath joys and duties. And, where'er my path On earth shall lead, I'll keep a nesting bough For hope, the song-bird, and, with cheerful step, Hold on my pilgrimage, remembering where Flowers have no autumn-languor, Eden's gate No flaming sword, to guard the tree of life.