TO AN OLD ROCK.

———

BY G. G. FOSTER.

———

Well! hands of friends have all been pressed—

My mother’s kiss is on my cheek—

My father’s hands and eyes have blessed

His first-born—though he could not speak!

And now I break the ties that bind

Me to the last of my own kind.

But yet, to thee, my old grey rock,

I hasten as in days of yore;

And memories sweet and pleasant flock

In throngs around me, as I pour

My last heart-gushes over thee,

Friend of my wayward infancy!

For oft ere yet my tongue expressed

The wild emotions of my soul,

And strange, proud feelings heaved my breast,

Like tides beneath the moon’s control,

I’ve wandered to this cool retreat,

The Spirit of the place to meet.

And often in the solemn night,

While kissing winds slept on the lake

Which murmurs at thy base, and light

And starry music kept awake

The thronging fires of thought within,

I’ve stolen to thee an hour to win

From all the carking care which rushed

Over my untamed spirit’s mood,

And leaned on thee, like infant hushed,

And felt, as thus secure I stood,

The god whose shrine was in my brain,

Return to his old haunts again!

And when the friends of youth grew cold,

And loving eyes were turned away,

And even Hope was growing old,

And all my heart-flowers withered—aye,

I turned to thee, my firm old rock,

And learned, like thee, to bear the shock.

But now, I go—Old Rock, farewell!

And thou my tiny lake, adieu!

Proud Hope my wandering steps impel

O’er yonder mountain calm and blue.

When fame is won and withered too,

Old friends! I will return to you.