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(Excerpt)
AN OLD, old man! | |
| His hair is white as snow, | |
| His feeble footsteps slow, | |
| And the light in his eyes grown dim. | |
| An old, old man! | 5 |
| Yet they bow with reverence low, | |
| With respect they wait on him. | |
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| They gather to his side, | |
| And in his way they throng: | |
| Greet him with love and pride | 10 |
| The aged and the young. | |
| And the children leave their play | |
| As he passes on his way, | |
| And afar off they follow | |
| This old, old man. | 15 |
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| He has gone down to the rock | |
| That is lying by the shore; | |
| He hath silent sate him down; | |
| And the young man, whose strong arm | |
| Hath shielded him from harm, | 20 |
| Will not disturb the dream | |
| That his spirit hovers o’er; | |
| And the gathered throng beside him | |
| Group them on the shore. | |
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| Long he sits in silence, | 25 |
| The old, old man; | |
| While the waves with silvery reach | |
| Go curling up the beach, | |
| Or dash against the rocks in spray,— | |
| The huge rocks bedded deep | 30 |
| At the base of the proud steep, | |
| Where the green ridge of Manomet | |
| Grandly rises far away. | |
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| All the air is still, | |
| And every distant hill | 35 |
| Its summit veils in soft, misty blue; | |
| Across the wide-spread bay, | |
| Five-and-twenty miles away, | |
| The white cliffs of Cape Cod hang in air, | |
| As some mysterious hand, | 40 |
| Or enchanter’s lifted wand, | |
| Had suspended them, and charmed them there; | |
| And o’er all the waters wide, | |
| And the hills in summer pride, | |
| And the islands in the bay that rise, | 45 |
| And over Saquish-head | |
| And the Gurnet’s breakers dread, | |
| The mild, soft sunlight like a blessing lies. | |
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| The old man’s eyes grow bright | |
| With the light of bygone days; | 50 |
| His voice is strong and clear, | |
| His form no more is bowed, | |
| He stands erect and proud, | |
| And, dashing from his eye the indignant tear, | |
| He turns him to the crowd that wait expectant near, | 55 |
| And reverent on him gaze; | |
| For they know that he has walked | |
| In all the Pilgrim ways. | |
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| “Mark it well!” he cries, | |
| “Mark it well! | 60 |
| This rock on which we stand: | |
| For here the honored feet | |
| Of our Fathers’ exiled band | |
| Pressed the land; | |
| And not the wide, wide world, | 65 |
| Not either hemisphere, | |
| Has a spot in its domain | |
| To freedom half so dear.” * * * * * | |
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