TO THE WINDING CHARLES.
Thou wanderer, what longing hath
Thee peace on earth denied,
Ah, tell me: constant in no path,
Thy pensive currents glide.
From dim pursuit and mocking zest,
Would I could set thee free!
My soul hath its divine unrest,
Dear river, like to thee.
MY NEIGHBOR.[D]
Who art thou that nigh to me
Alone dost dwell, perpetually?
The latch against thy door is mute,
I have not heard thy kind salute,
And though I live here at the gate,
Have never known thy birth or state,
Nor seen thy wide colonial lands
With slaves obeying all commands,
Or children playing at thy knee;
Ah, neighbor mine, unneighborly!
The sun beats hard upon thy roof,
The tree’s cool shadow waves aloof;
Thou dost not heed, nor speak in ire,
Nor wound thy calm with vain desire.
The cones that patter as they fall,
The drifts that build thine outer wall,
The rains that glisten in the trace
Of thine inscription, dimmed apace,
The winds that blow, the birds that sing,—
Thou carest not for any thing!
Two centuries and more art thou
In solitude abiding; now
This town is other than thy town;
Its lanes are highways broad and brown;
The oaken houses of thy day,
And inns, and booths, are swept away.
Strange spires would meet thine eager eye,
New ships sail in, new banners fly;
And names are kept of them that fell
How beautiful thine endless rest!
The quiet conscience in thy breast,
Thy hidden place of peace, where pass
The ghost-like stirrings of the grass;
The long immunity from strife,
The tumult, love; the trouble, life;
The blossom at thy feet, to be
A thousand summers, dust like thee;
The winding-sheet, that white as worth,
Shuts all thy failings in the earth.
My silent neighbor! thou and I
Keep unobtrusive company.
For us each wild October weaves
The glistening clouds, the glowing leaves,
And March by March the robin sings,
Against the solemn porch of King’s,
His sweet good-morrow to us both.
O be not harsh with me, nor wroth,
That I, apart from all the throng,
Break, too, thy silence with a song!