The Old Man's 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 shadbush, white with flowers,     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     'Gainst his barred sides 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.