Farewell! farewell! The hours we've stolen
From scenes of worldly strife and stir,
To live with poets, and with thee,
Their brother and interpreter,
Have brought us wealth;-as thou hast reaped,
We have not followed thee in vain,
But gathered, in one precious sheaf,
The pearly flower and golden grain.
For twelve bright hours, with thee we walked
Within a magic garden's bound,
Where trees, whose birth owned various climes,
Beneath one sky were strangely found.
First in the group, an ancient BEECH
His shapely arms abroad did fling,
Wearing old Autumn's russet crown
Among the lively tints of Spring.
Those pale brown leaves the winds of March
Made vocal 'mid the silent trees,
And spread their faint perfume abroad,
Like sad, yet pleasant memories.
Near it, the vigorous, noble FIR
Arose, with firm yet graceful mien;
Welcome for shelter or for shade,
A pyramid of living green.
And from the tender, vernal spray
The sunny air such fragrance drew,
As breathes from fields of strawberries wild,
All bathed in morning's freshest dew.
The OAK his branches richly green
Broad to the winds did wildly fling;-
The first in beauty and in power,
All bowed before the forest-king.
But ere its brilliant leaves were sere,
Or scattered by the Autumn wind,
Fierce lightnings struck its glories down,
And left a blasted trunk behind.
A youthful ELM its drooping boughs
In graceful beauty bent to earth,
As if to touch, with reverent love,
The kindly soil that gave it birth;-
And round it, in such close embrace,
Sweet honeysuckles did entwine,
We knew not if the south wind caught
Its odorous breath from tree or vine.
The CHESTNUT tall, with shining leaves
And yellow tassels covered o'er,
The sunny Summer's golden pride,
And pledge of Autumn's ruddy store,-
Though grander forms might near it rise,
And sweeter blossoms scent the air,-
Was still a favorite 'mongst the trees
That flourished in that garden fair.
All brightly clad in glossy green,
And scarlet berries gay to see,
We welcome next a constant friend,
The brilliant, cheerful HOLLY-TREE.
But twilight falls upon the scene;
Rich odors fill the evening air;
And, lighting up the dusky shades,
Gleam the MAGNOLIA'S blossoms fair.
The fire-fly, with its fairy lamp,
Flashes within its soft green bower;
The humming sphinx flits in and out,
To sip the nectar of its flower.
Now the charmed air, more richly fraught,
To steep our senses in delight,
Comes o'er us, as the ORANGE-TREE
In beauty beams upon our sight;
And, glancing through its emerald leaves,
White buds and golden fruits are seen;
Fit flowers to deck the bride's pale brow,
Fit fruit to offer to a queen.
But let me rest beneath the PINE,
And listen to the low, sad tone
Its music breathes, that o'er my soul
Comes like the ocean's solemn moan.
Erect it stands in graceful strength;
Its spire points upward to the sky;
And nestled in its sheltering arms
The birds of heaven securely lie.
And though no gaily painted bells,
Nor odor-bearing urns, are there,
When the west wind sighs through its boughs,
Let me inhale the balmy air!
The stately PALM in conscious pride
Lifts its tall column to the sky,
While round it fragrant air-plants cling,
Deep-stained with every gorgeous dye.
Linger with me a moment, where
The LOCUST trembles in the breeze,
In soft, transparent verdure drest,
Contrasting with the darker trees.
The humming-bird flies in among
Its boughs, with pure white clusters hung,
And honey-bees come murmuring, where
Its perfume on the air is flung.
A noble LAUREL meets our gaze,
Ere yet we leave these alleys green.
'Mongst many stately, fair, and sweet,
The DAPHNE ODORA stands a queen.
May 2, 1853.
AUNT MOLLY.
A REMINISCENCE OF OLD CAMBRIDGE.
In looking back upon my early days, one of the images that rises most vividly to my mind's eye is that of Miss Molly --, or Aunt Molly, as she was called by some of her little favorites, that is to say, about a dozen girls, and (not complimentary to the un_fair sex, to be sure) one boy. There was one, who, even to Miss Molly, was not a torment and a plague; and I must confess he was a pleasant specimen of the genus. At the time of which I speak, the great awkward barn of a school-house on the Common, near the Appian Way, had not reared its imposing front. In its place, in the centre of a grass-plot that was one of the very first to look green in spring, and kept its verdure through the heats of July, stood the brown, one-storied cottage which she owned, and in which the aged woman lived, alone. Her garden and clothes-yard behind the house were fenced in; but in front, the visitor to the cottage, unimpeded by gate or fence, turned up the pretty green slope directly from the street to the lowly door.
As I have started for a walk into the old times, and am not bound by any rule to stick to the point, I will here digress to say that the Episcopal Church (the Church, as it was simply called, when all the rest were "meeting-houses"), that tells the traveller what a pure and true taste was once present in Cambridge, and, by the contrast it presents to the architectural blunders that abound in the place, tells also what a want of it there is now,-this beautiful church stood most appropriately and tastefully surrounded by the green turf, unbroken by stiff gravel walks or coach sweep, and undivided from the public walk by a fence. Behind the church, and forming a part of its own grounds, (where now exist the elegances of School Court,) was an unappropriated field; and that spot was considered, by a certain little group of children, of six or seven years old, the most solitary, gloomy, mysterious place in their little world. When the colors of sunset had died out in the west, and the stillness and shadow of twilight were coming on, they used to "snatch a fearful joy" in seeing one of their number (whose mother had kindly omitted the first lesson usually taught to little girls, to be afraid of every thing) perform the feat of going slowly around the church, alone, stopping behind it to count a hundred. Her wonderful courage in actually protecting the whole group from what they called a "flock of cows," and in staking and patting the "mad dogs" that they were for ever meeting, was nothing to this going round the church!
But to return to the cottage, from which the pretty, rural trait of its standing in its unfenced green door-yard led me away to notice the same sort of rustic beauty where the church stood. We did not stop to knock at the outside door,-for Aunt Molly was very deaf, and if we had knocked our little knuckles off she would not have heard us,-but went in, and, passing along the passage, rapped at the door of the "common room," half sitting-room, half kitchen, and were admitted. Those who saw her for the first time, whether children or grown people, were generally afraid of her; for her voice, unmodulated, of course, by the ear, was naturally harsh, strong, and high-toned; and the sort of half laugh, half growl, that she uttered when pleased, might have suggested to an imaginative child the howl of a wolf. She had very large features, and sharp, penetrating black eyes, shaded by long, gray lashes, and surmounted by thick, bushy, gray eyebrows. I think that when she was scolding the school-boys, with those eyes fiercely "glowering" at them from under the shaggy gray thatch, she must have appeared to those who in their learned page had got as far as the Furies, like a living illustration of classic lore. Her cap and the make of her dress were peculiar, and suggestive of those days before, and at the time of, the Revolution, of which she loved to speak.