Personal Poems, Complete






CHALKLEY HALL.

     Chalkley Hall, near Frankford, Pa., was the residence of Thomas
     Chalkley, an eminent minister of the Friends' denomination. He was
     one of the early settlers of the Colony, and his Journal, which was
     published in 1749, presents a quaint but beautiful picture of a
     life of unostentatious and simple goodness. He was the master of a
     merchant vessel, and, in his visits to the west Indies and Great
     Britain, omitted no opportunity to labor for the highest interests
     of his fellow-men. During a temporary residence in Philadelphia, in
     the summer of 1838, the quiet and beautiful scenery around the
     ancient village of Frankford frequently attracted me from the heat
     and bustle of the city. I have referred to my youthful acquaintance
     with his writings in Snow-Bound.
     How bland and sweet the greeting of this breeze
     To him who flies
     From crowded street and red wall's weary gleam,
     Till far behind him like a hideous dream
     The close dark city lies
     Here, while the market murmurs, while men throng
     The marble floor
     Of Mammon's altar, from the crush and din
     Of the world's madness let me gather in
     My better thoughts once more.

     Oh, once again revive, while on my ear
     The cry of Gain
     And low hoarse hum of Traffic die away,
     Ye blessed memories of my early day
     Like sere grass wet with rain!

     Once more let God's green earth and sunset air
     Old feelings waken;
     Through weary years of toil and strife and ill,
     Oh, let me feel that my good angel still
     Hath not his trust forsaken.

     And well do time and place befit my mood
     Beneath the arms
     Of this embracing wood, a good man made
     His home, like Abraham resting in the shade
     Of Mamre's lonely palms.

     Here, rich with autumn gifts of countless years,
     The virgin soil
     Turned from the share he guided, and in rain
     And summer sunshine throve the fruits and grain
     Which blessed his honest toil.

     Here, from his voyages on the stormy seas,
     Weary and worn,
     He came to meet his children and to bless
     The Giver of all good in thankfulness
     And praise for his return.

     And here his neighbors gathered in to greet
     Their friend again,
     Safe from the wave and the destroying gales,
     Which reap untimely green Bermuda's vales,
     And vex the Carib main.

     To hear the good man tell of simple truth,
     Sown in an hour
     Of weakness in some far-off Indian isle,
     From the parched bosom of a barren soil,
     Raised up in life and power.

     How at those gatherings in Barbadian vales,
     A tendering love
     Came o'er him, like the gentle rain from heaven,
     And words of fitness to his lips were given,
     And strength as from above.

     How the sad captive listened to the Word,
     Until his chain
     Grew lighter, and his wounded spirit felt
     The healing balm of consolation melt
     Upon its life-long pain

     How the armed warrior sat him down to hear
     Of Peace and Truth,
     And the proud ruler and his Creole dame,
     Jewelled and gorgeous in her beauty came,
     And fair and bright-eyed youth.

     Oh, far away beneath New England's sky,
     Even when a boy,
     Following my plough by Merrimac's green shore,
     His simple record I have pondered o'er
     With deep and quiet joy.

     And hence this scene, in sunset glory warm,—
     Its woods around,
     Its still stream winding on in light and shade,
     Its soft, green meadows and its upland glade,—
     To me is holy ground.

     And dearer far than haunts where Genius keeps
     His vigils still;
     Than that where Avon's son of song is laid,
     Or Vaucluse hallowed by its Petrarch's shade,
     Or Virgil's laurelled hill.

     To the gray walls of fallen Paraclete,
     To Juliet's urn,
     Fair Arno and Sorrento's orange-grove,
     Where Tasso sang, let young Romance and Love
     Like brother pilgrims turn.

     But here a deeper and serener charm
     To all is given;
     And blessed memories of the faithful dead
     O'er wood and vale and meadow-stream have shed
     The holy hues of Heaven!

     1843.

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