The spirit of the age. [volume] (Woodstock, Vt.) 1840-1844, 1840-10-02


rs our sentiments. "-PhH. Times.
------------
For the Spirit ofthe Age.
TO ZAYDA.
For many years stand once more
Upon my native hills
The wild and spiritual wind,
The murm'ring forest Ills
With its perpetual music; Tall
And proud, they stand Still rests,
The heavens with its eternal blue,
Upon their kingly crests,
My childhood's days, my boyish hopes,
The longings and the fears,
The thoughts and hrisht-imaginings
Ofliie's unlettered years;
The very dreams, asleep, awake,
That fitted through my brain,
The dimcst, and most shadowy,
Come back to me again
With strange distinctncss, as to make
Til now, the scarce-markeG change,
Seem saddcr and more strange;
And now, as 'lwcre not me, the boy,
They cheated and bcguled,
look with pity and regret
Upon that foolish child.
The trees planted by the brook,
The maple and the oak,
Whose slender trunk the tempest bent,
And rank weeds used to choke;
Have grown so tall, and high and proud,
And lordly in their might,
They laugh to scorn the thundcr-cloud,
That broods DER them at night.
And nocks and herds beneath their arms,
That sway above the plain,
Find shelter from the summer sun,
And from the winter rain;
But more loved the trees, whose shade
Scarce Ind my boyish form,
Than these proud things, whose branches love
To daily with tho s'"-'".
And here, the cool and shaded spring,
Beneath the sloping hill,
Though choked with many rotten weed
Is bubbline sweety still;
The old tin-cup is gone, but yet,
Upon the moss 50 green,
The prints of bare and restless feet,
Are almost to he seen.
bend above its brim,-oh, yes
Its waters are the same,
ran to drink, when hot aud tired
With many childish game.
Its surface rpplcs still, above,
The pebbles, white below
But ah it mirrors not the face,
saw there, years ago.
The noisy brook, that used to dash,
In spring-time, down the hill,
That hurried DER my dam Of sods,
And turned my tiny mill -
The plough and spade another way,
Its ioaming course have led,
And high, the flax with flower ofblue,
Is growing in its bed.
And that proud stream, upon whose tide
From rise Of morn ill dark,
With more Than manhood's pride stecrcd
My frail and rolling bark;
Its current men have damcd and checked,
And on its banks, once green,
Is heard the jar of pondcrous wheels,
And many strange machine.
But there 1t stands, close by the way,
The same old house of wood,
Though scarce another should know,
That still the same hath stood;
The mountain-ash, with berry red,
Still by the window grows,
And still below the wall is seen
The lilacl and the rose.
There on the plot, before the door,
Through the long summer day
With hoop and top, and Kite and ball,
My brothers used to play;
And there, upon that old gray stone,
The youngest on his knee,
My father used to sit and laugh,
At all our childish glee.
And there, when all her tolls were DER,
Just as the sun went down,
My mother used to tell Il. tales
Of wars, and eagucred town:
Ofhcroes great and good, and men,
Who in their manhood's youth,
Gave up their lives to God and died,
In the great cause Of Truth.
or those who gathered, years ago,
Around that old, gray stone,
Two persisted, when the leaves grew pale,
Beneath the Autumn sun.
And those who still survive, of all,
That gay and thoughllcss band,
Changed, like the place that was their home,
Are scattered DER the land.
Nomatter. Onward sweeps the tide
Unseen and noiselcssly,
We float along, but to fulfil
Our beings destiny:
Drifting upon lis current, like
The sere and yellow leaves,
That Autumn scatters, when the wind
Through the dark forest gricves.
i bid my native hills farewell.
Yet, not long goodbye;
For, oitcn to their heights I'll come
To gaze upon the skyi
And many day, when care has hushcd
My spirits melody,
III ramble to their shades and dream,
Dear Z,yDA, dream Of thee.
DIED.