The Scholar Son. His hand my footsteps led. No more the dim unreal past I tread. O thou whose breathing form was once so dear, Whose cheering voice was music to my ear, Art thou not with me as my feet pursue The village paths so well thy boyhood knew, Along the tangled margin of the stream Whose murmurs blended with thine infant dream, Or climb the hill, or thread the wooded vale, Or seek the wave where gleams yon distant sail, Or the old homestead's narrowed bounds explore, Where sloped the roof that sheds the rains no more, Where one last relic still remains to tell Here stood thy home,--the memory-haunted well, Whose waters quench a deeper thirst than thine, Changed at my lips to sacramental wine,-- Art thou not with me, as I fondly trace The scanty records of thine honored race, Call up the forms that earlier years have known, And spell the legend of each slanted stone? With thoughts of thee my loving verse began, Not for the critic's curious eye to scan, Not for the many listeners, but the few Whose fathers trod the paths my fathers knew; Still in my heart thy loved remembrance burns; Still to my lips thy cherished name returns; Could I but feel thy gracious presence near Amid the groves that once to thee were dear Could but my trembling lips with mortal speech Thy listening ear for one brief moment reach! How vain the dream! The pallid voyager's track No sign betrays; he sends no message back. No word from thee since evening's shadow fell On thy cold forehead with my long farewell,-- Now from the margin of the silent sea, Take my last offering ere I cross to thee!