THE OLD MANS COUNSEL

Among our hills and valleys, I have known

Wise and grave men, who, while their diligent hands

Tended or gathered in the fruits of earth,

Were reverent learners in the solemn school

Of Nature. Not in vain to them were sent

Seed-time and harvest, or the vernal shower

That darkened the brown tilth, or snow that beat

On the white winter hills. Each brought, in turn,

Some truth, some lesson on the life of man,

Or recognition of the Eternal mind

Who veils his glory with the elements.

One such I knew long since, a white-haired man,

Pithy of speech, and merry when he would;

A genial optimist, who daily drew

From what he saw his quaint moralities.

Kindly he held communion, though so old,

With me a dreaming boy, and taught me much

That books tell not, and I shall ne’er forget.

The sun of May was bright in middle heaven,

And steeped the sprouting forests, the green hills,

And emerald wheat-fields, in his yellow light.

Upon the apple-tree, where rosy buds

Stood clustered, ready to burst forth in bloom,

The robin warbled forth his full clear note

For hours, and wearied not. Within the woods,

Whose young and half transparent leaves scarce cast

A shade, gay circles of anemones

Danced on their stalks; the shad-bush, white with flower,

Brightened the glens; the new-leaved butternut

And quivering poplar to the roving breeze

Gave a balsamic fragrance. In the fields

I saw the pulses of the gentle wind

On the young grass. My heart was touched with joy

At so much beauty, flushing every hour

Into a fuller beauty; but my friend,

The thoughtful ancient, standing at my side,

Gazed on it mildly sad. I asked him why.

"Well mayst thou join in gladness," he replied,

"With the glad earth, her springing plants and flowers,

And this soft wind, the herald of the green

Luxuriant summer. Thou art young like them,

And well mayst thou rejoice. But while the flight

Of seasons fills and knits thy spreading frame,

It withers mine, and thins my hair, and dims

These eyes, whose fading light shall soon be quenched

In utter darkness. Hearest thou that bird?"

I listened, and from midst the depth of woods

Heard the love-signal of the grouse, that wears

A sable ruff around his mottled neck;

Partridge they call him by our northern streams,

And pheasant by the Delaware. He beat

His barred sides with his speckled wings, and made

A sound like distant thunder; slow the strokes

At first, then fast and faster, till at length

They passed into a murmur and were still.

"There hast thou," said my friend, "a fitting type

Of human life. ’Tis an old truth, I know,

But images like these revive the power

Of long familiar truths. Slow pass our days

In childhood, and the hours of light are long

Betwixt the morn and eve; with swifter lapse

They glide in manhood, and in age they fly;

Till days and seasons flit before the mind

As flit the snow-flakes in a winter storm,

Seen rather than distinguished. Ah! I seem

As if I sat within a helpless bark,

By swiftly-running waters hurried on

To shoot some mighty cliff. Along the banks

Grove after grove, rock after frowning rock,

Bare sands and pleasant homes, and flowery nooks,

And isles and whirlpools in the stream, appear

Each after each, but the devoted skiff

Darts by so swiftly that their images

Dwell not upon the mind, or only dwell

In dim confusion; faster yet I sweep

By other banks, and the great gulf is near.

"Wisely, my son, while yet thy days are long,

And this fair change of seasons passes slow,

Gather and treasure up the good they yield-

All that they teach of virtue, of pure thoughts

And kind affections, reverence for thy God

And for thy brethren; so when thou shalt come

Into these barren years, thou mayst not bring

A mind unfurnished and a withered heart."

Long since that white-haired ancient slept- but still,

When the red flower-buds crowd the orchard-bough,

And the ruffed grouse is drumming far within

The woods, his venerable form again

Is at my side, his voice is in my ear.