The meeting-house is but a dream: It vanished like the snow That arches the corroding stream And mingles with its flow. The graveyard, just across the way, Across the way remains; Its mould has fattened on decay And losses are its gains. Its rolling verdure rests the eye— A sea with foamless waves; And vanished generations lie Beneath its billowy graves. The parsonage is standing yet With more than local fame; A century's rains its roof have wet— "The Gilman House" its name. Here Parson Gilman honors scorned, And here he multiplied; And here he mourned, as Jacob mourned When lovely Rachel died. Why should I mention lesser names The world has never heard? Their piety the stars outflames— These saints uncalendared. As heaven is high and earth is round, And vast the deep's abyss, The circling sun has rarely found A fairer scene than this. The storied "ledge" climbs high behind, The fields drop low before; Beyond are islands silver-lined Where warring waters pour. Old manse, of kindred long bereft, My life its limit nears; Thy age is youth, to thee are left Another hundred years. Thy company are memories, The ghosts that throng the night, The warriors in phantom guise That storm the rocky height. For thee the red man lives once more; He hunts for human game, And frightened hamlets melt before The tomahawk and flame. But here the living come with me To find where life was given, And here the sainted dead to see The door that led to Heaven. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ALL FOOLS' CALENDER by DONALD (GRADY) DAVIDSON CLAY BISON IN A CAVE by CLARENCE MAJOR AN AMERICAN IN BANGKOK by KAREN SWENSON GOOD-BYE DOROTHY GAYLE: THE ROAD TO BUFFALO by KAREN SWENSON KATHMANDU GUEST HOUSE by KAREN SWENSON |