"All the picture now to me how dear!
E'en this old gray rock where I am seated, Is a jewel worth my journey here;
Ah that such a scene must be completed With a tear! All the picture now to me how dear!
"Old stone school-house! it is still the same;
There's the very step I so oft mounted; There's the window creaking in its frame,
And the notches that I cut and counted For the game. Old stone school-house, it is still the same.
"In the cottage yonder I was born;
Long my happy home, that humble dwelling; There the fields of clover, wheat, and corn;
There the spring with limpid nectar swelling; Ah, forlorn! In the cottage yonder I was born.
"Those two gateway sycamores you see
Then were planted just so far asunder That long well-pole from the path to free,
And the wagon to pass safely under; Ninety-three! Those two gateway sycamores you see.
"There's the orchard where we used to climb
When my mates and I were boys together, Thinking nothing of the flight of time,
Fearing naught but work and rainy weather; Past its prime! There's the orchard where we used to climb.
"There the rude, three-cornered chestnut-rails,
Bound the pasture where the flocks were grazing Where, so sly, I used to watch for quails
In the crops of buckwheat we were raising; Traps and trails! There the rude, three-cornered chestnut-rails.
"There's the mill that ground our yellow grain;
Pond and river still serenely flowing; Cot there nestling in the shaded lane,
Where the lily of my heart was blowing,— Mary Jane! There's the mill that ground our yellow grain.
"There's the gate on which I used to swing,
Brook, and bridge, and barn, and old red stable; But alas! no more the morn shall bring
That dear group around my father's table; Taken wing! There's the gate on which I used to swing.
"I am fleeing,—all I loved have fled.
Yon green meadow was our place for playing That old tree can tell of sweet things said
When around it Jane and I were straying; She is dead! I am fleeing,—all I loved have fled.
"Yon white spire, a pencil on the sky,
Tracing silently life's changeful story, So familiar to my dim eye,
Points me to seven that are now in glory There on high! Yon white spire, a pencil on the sky.