My untried muse shall no high tone assume, Nor strut in arms;--farewell my cap and plume: Brief be my verse, a task within my power, I tell my feelings in one happy hour; But what an hour was that! when from the main I reach'd this lovely valley once again! A glorious harvest fill'd my eager sight, Half shock'd, half waving in a flood of light; On that poor cottage roof where I was born The sun look'd down as in life's early morn. I gazed around, but not a soul appear'd, I listen'd on the threshold, nothing heard; I call'd my father thrice, but no one came; It was not fear or grief that shook my frame, But an o'erpowering sense of peace and home, Of toils gone by, perhaps of joys to come. The door invitingly stood open wide, I shook my dust, and set my staff aside. How sweet it was to breathe that cooler air, And take possession of my father's chair! Beneath my elbow, on the solid frame, Appear'd the rough initials of my name, Cut forty years before!--the same old clock Struck the same bell, and gave my heart a shock I never can forget. A short breeze sprung, And while a sigh was trembling on my tongue, Caught the old dangling almanacks behind, And up they flew, like banners in the wind; Then gently, singly, down, down, down, they went, And told of twenty years that I had spent Far from my native land:--that instant came A robin on the threshold; though so tame, At first he look'd distrustful, almost shy, And cast on me his coal-black stedfast eye, And seem'd to say (past friendship to renew) "Ah ha! old worn-out soldier, is it you?" Through the room ranged the imprison'd humble bee, And bomb'd, and bounced, and straggled to be free, Dashing against the panes with sullen roar, That threw their diamond sunlight on the floor; That floor, clean sanded, where my fancy stray'd O'er undulating waves the broom had made, Reminding me of those of hideous forms That met us as we pass'd the _Cape of Storms_, Where high and loud they break, and peace comes never; They roll and foam, and roll and foam for ever. But _here_ was peace, that peace which home can yield; The grasshopper, the partridge in the field, And ticking clock, were all at once become The substitutes for clarion, fife, and drum. While thus I mused, still gazing, gazing still On beds of moss that spread the window sill, I deem'd no moss my eyes had ever seen Had been so lovely, brilliant, fresh, and green, And guess'd some infant hand had placed it there, And prized its hue, so exquisite, so rare. Feelings on feelings mingling, doubling rose, My heart felt every thing but calm repose; I could not reckon minutes, hours, nor years, But rose at once, and bursted into tears; Then, like a fool, confused, sat down again, And thought upon the past with shame and pain; I raved at war and all its horrid cost, And glory's quagmire, where the brave are lost. On carnage, fire, and plunder, long I mused, And cursed the murdering weapons I had used.