The Old House Poem by Thomas Cogswell Upham

I.
When he, who bore a Father's name, his head,
At nature's bidding in the dust did lay,
A Mother's presence still its brightness shed
Around the place of childhood's early day.
It Still Was Home. At length my Mother died.
Sadly and low repose her ashes cold,
In peace and silence, near the Father's side.
Oh, then was snapped affection's link of gold,
But still we had a home, till the Old House Was Sold.

II.
There yet was something, where the heart could rest,
A bond of union, which could keep us one.
We could not deem, that we were all unblest,
Until the hour, when the Old House was gone.
But children now of exile and of grief,
And wandering far from distant place to place,
'Twill give the troubled heart some small relief,
The record of that ancient home to trace,
That image of the heart, which time can ne'er deface.

III.
And shall I pass along those steps no more?
No more the well known forms and voices greet?
Shall foreign footprints press the oft-trod floor,
And other hearts around that hearthstone beat?
Peace be upon them, whosoe'er they be,
(Fervent and calm, my sadden'd spirit prays,)
Peace be to them, as it hath been to me,
As pleas'd they throng around the evening blaze,
And blessings, well deserv'd, refresh their coming days.

IV.
Oh Evening Hearth! Capacious didst thou stand,
With welcome light; but whom, alas, shall tell
The thoughts, the hopes, the feelings of the band,
That gather'd round thee, and that lov'd thee well?
There hath the stranger's wondrous tale been said;
Around that hearth have songs of joy ascended;
There too, when woe its bitter cup hath shed,
Hath sorrowing voice with weeping voices blended.
But all those scenes are passed, and joy and sorrow ended.

V.
All gone! Not one remains to tell the tale,
The pleasures, dangers, toils of former years;
I look around, but ancient aspects fail,
And ancient voices reach no more mine ears.
And yet memorials claim my curious eye,
That have not lost upon the heart their sway;
They link me for a time to things gone by;
'Tis the last hour, and time hath no delay;
I give this parting look, and then am on my way.

VI.
Once more I tread the room; 'twas mine alone;
By special love and privilege possessed;
It held whate'er of wealth I called my own,
A bed, a chair, a table, and a chest.
Snug in the chest's apartments safe I stored
Many small things, the choice of childhood's time,
The fruits, which autumn gave, a various hoard;
With pictures, maps, historic tales, and rhyme;
Some leaves of Cowper's Task, and Milton's song sublime.

VII.
Here oft I mused in the reflective hour;
(For what is youth without its golden dreams?)
E'en then young fancy, in her early power,
Reveal'd the dazzling light of higher themes,
That brightly came, but perished in their birth.
Throw up the window! Let me look around,
And see once more, how fair my natal earth!
The spreading elm still shades the verdant ground;
With flowers and shrubs the plains, with woods the hills abound.

VIII.
Oh, yes! The summer flowers are yet in bloom;
The summer birds in air and woods are singing;
The bees are humming in the rich perfume;
And o'er the plains the heavy cart is ringing.
When early morning shone or eve drew near,
The milkmaid called the cows through yonder lane.
No more her morning song salutes the ear;
Nor to his early work goes forth again
TIMS with his glistening spade, or DICK that drove the wain.

IX.
This is the room, where oft I sat, when day,
As left the sun the busy haunts of men,
Gleam'd with his parting glow. In slow array
The mists ascending cloth'd the distant glen.
The silver moon, throned in the tranquil West,
Rejoicing, smil'd in her recover'd light.
Thus sat I long, with fancy's forms possess'd;
And mark'd the beetle's hum, and watch'd the flight
Of dim, mysterious bats, that thronged the early night.

X.
Here too, at dewy morn, the new-born joys
Of waking nature claim'd my youthful heart;
The lowing herd afar; the various voice
Of hymning birds, that plied their merry art;
The teamster's call, the ploughboy's whistle shrill;
While sounding loud, the water's distant roar
Came intermingled with the clanging mill.
Such were the sights and sounds, now known no more,
That nascent day could bring, or its decline restore.

XI.
'Tis Love, enshrin'd in Memory, that brings
So vividly to mind the scenes around;--
'Tis mighty Love, that gilds the humblest things,
And makes the spot we tread a hallowed ground,
Though rough with rocks perchance, with woods o'er-grown,
Oh, who, that ever felt its power to cheer,
And most of all, its early charm hath known,
Will blame, when ties are rent, its gushing tear,
And stigmatize the heart, that holds the Old House dear?

XII.
Again the parlor's quiet floor I trace;
Its walls, with ancient prints suspended high;
Its mantle neat, with flower and branch to grace;
The parlor, safe from public scrutiny.
Here were the scenes and sessions more sedate,
Which thoughts less light and weightier judgements claim;
'Twas here we loved the hour to celebrate,
Which heard announced the village Pastor's name,
Or when the friends remote, or Angelina came.

XIII.
In fragments oft, and ever old in date,
On yonder shelf, some well-known books reposed;
The Pilgrim's Progress, and the Fourfold State,
And others, nameless now, which yet disclosed
The truths and hopes of Puritanic lore.
And near the Grandsire sat, with visage sage,
And spectacles in place; and long would pore
The serious thought, that stamp'd the homely page;
And drop the tear, perchance, for this degenerate age.

XIV.
Now pass along. 'Twas there the settle rude,
At weary eve, its form expanded wide;
And tall, upright, in yonder angle stood
The ancient clock, 'by long experience tried.'
No more at early morn its prompting sound
Shall send us forth to duty and to care.
No more at eve shall summon us around
The sober hearth, in pious acts to share.
'Twas in this spot we kneel'd; this was the place of prayer.

XV.
'Twas thus I passed from well-known room to room,
And scann'd the objects, which they gave to light;
'Tis true, the scrutiny possessed its gloom,
When memory showed them to the inner sight,
Inscribed with place, with feature, and with name,
As on that day, which changed my happy lot,
And called me hence. (Alas, too soon it came.)
'Twas thus I lingering marked each well known spot,
Nor kitchen was passed by; nor garret was forgot.

XVI.
The garret! and 'I name it,' placed sublime,
Above the parlor's pride, the kitchen's mirth,
The grateful Muse well knoweth, that her rhyme
Hath in the garret often had its birth.
What though the noisy mice rush gaily round?
What though insidious spiders weave their bed?
Hath not great Goldsmith there a lodging found?
And mighty Johnson oft reposed his head,
When for the sons of song no other couch was spread?

XVII.
Oft have I spent the studious hour retired
High in the garret. There, with book in hand,
Perchance, with wild poetic thoughts inspired,
I bade young fancy rove o'er sea and land.
E'en then Imagination, though a child,
Put forth her little wing, instinct with flame,
And soared afar to Scotia's mountains wild,
To cliffs and mounts, that bear the Alpine name,
Known in the Muses' song, and consecrate to fame.

XVIII.
Historians wise, with graphic pen, have traced
The fortunes, states and mighty nations share;
If right we deem, it would not be misplaced,
If private men and fortunes had their care.
Each heart, each home, itself a history makes;
Hath all the incidents a nation knows:
And much the sordid soul its bliss mistakes,
That hath no feeling for their joys and woes:
Sometimes in prosperous ways, then crushed by heavy blows.

XIX.
For the last time with saddened thoughts I tread
The chamber of the sick, the place of tears;
There, under dispensations just but dread,
Hath bowed the youthful form, the head of years:
The wonted brightness from the eye hath passed;
The burning lip hath shown the bitter pain;
There Father, Mother, Sister, breathed their last;
And passed, to be no more on earth again;
Thrice was the arrow sped, and thrice our joys were slain.

XX.
Oh, Memory! The child of faithful love!
Enchantress of the soul! That with thy wand,
The very stone upon the grace can'st move,
And make the dead before my fancy stand!
The living and the dead are present now:
Once more we meet -- and here once more we part:
He, who hath taken all, will yet allow,
(Old Time, with spreading wing and pointed dart,)
This meeting of the soul, this homage of the heart.

XXI.
Time is indeed a robber. How he seizes
The dear companions of our better years:
Like one that comes and takes whate'er he pleases,
The old, the young, regardless of our tears.
Now smites he down the hardy form of man;
Now doth the stem of childhood's beauty sever;
One thing alone remains: 'tis all that can;
All else he smites -- but that attacketh never:
He hath no power o'er Love. Love flourish forever.

XXII.
Thus have I sung. Perchance 'tis my last song.
'Tis true, the faithful Muse hath been my friend.
But will she still her pensive notes prolong?
And shall I bid her still my steps attend?
I, who am all unworthy of her care;
Gray-headed now, and weary, growing old.
But who hath gained by yielding to despair?
I'll wipe my tears, with half my story told,
And take my Pilgrim staff, now the Old House is sold.