什么秘密魅力,长在我耳边低语,艾尔lures, attracts, compels, and chains me here, Where murmuring echoes call me to resign Their sacred haunts to sweeter lips than mine; Where silent pathways pierce the solemn shade, In whose still depths my feet have never strayed; Here, in the home where grateful children meet And I, half alien, take the stranger's seat, Doubting, yet hoping that the gift I bear May keep its bloom in this unwonted air? Hush, idle fancy, with thy needless art, Speak from thy fountains, O my throbbing heart! Say, shall I trust these trembling lips to tell The fireside tale that memory knows so well? How, in the days of Freedom's dread campaign, A home-bred schoolboy left his village plain, Slow faring southward, till his wearied feet Pressed the worn threshold of this fair retreat; How, with his comely face and gracious mien, He joined the concourse of the classic green, Nameless, unfriended, yet by nature blest With the rich tokens that she loves the best; The flowing locks, his youth's redundant crown, Smoothed o'er a brow unfurrowed by a frown; The untaught smile that speaks so passing plain A world all hope, a past without a stain; The clear-hued cheek, whose burning current glows Crimson in action, carmine in repose; Gifts such as purchase, with unminted gold, Smiles from the young and blessings from the old. Say, shall my hand with pious love restore The faint, far pictures time beholds no more? How the grave Senior, he whose later fame Stamps on our laws his own undying name, Saw from on high, with half paternal joy, Some spark of promise in the studious boy, And bade him enter, with benignant tone, Those stately precincts which he called his own, Where the fresh student and the youthful sage Read by one taper from the common page; How the true comrade, whose maturer date Graced the Urge honors of his ancient State, Sought his young friendship, which through every change No time could weaken, no remove estrange; How the great MASTER, reverend, solemn, wise, Fixed on his face those calm, majestic eyes, Full of grave meaning, where a child might read The Hebraist's patience and the Pilgrim's creed, But warm with flashes of parental fire That drew the stripling to his second sire; How kindness ripened, till the youth might dare Take the low seat beside his sacred chair, While the gray scholar, bending o'er the young, Spelled the square types of Abraham's ancient tongue, Or with mild rapture stooped devoutly o'er His small coarse leaf, alive with curious lore: Tales of grim judges, at whose awful beck Flashed the broad blade across a royal neck, Or learned dreams of Israel's long lost child Found in the wanderer of the western wild. Dear to his age were memories such as these, Leaves of his June in life's autumnal breeze; Such were the tales that won my boyish ear, Told in low tones that evening loves to hear. Thus in the scene I pass so lightly o'er, Trod for a moment, then beheld no more, Strange shapes and dim, unseen by other eyes, Through the dark portals of the past arise; I see no more the fair embracing throng, I hear no echo to my saddened song, No more I heed the kind or curious gaze, The voice of blame, the rustling thrill of praise; Alone, alone, the awful past I tread White with the marbles of the slumbering dead; One shadowy form my dreaming eyes behold That leads my footsteps as it led of old, One floating voice, amid the silence heard, Breathes in my ear love's long unspoken word: These are the scenes thy youthful eyes have known; My heart's warm pulses claim them as its own! The sapling, compassed in thy fingers' clasp, My arms scarce circle in their twice-told grasp, Vet in each leaf of yon o'ershadowing tree I read a legend that was traced by thee. Year after year the living: wave has beat These smooth-worn channels with its trampling feet, Yet in each line that scores the grassy sod I see the pathway where thy feet have trod. Though from the scene that hears my faltering lay. The few that loved thee long have passed away, Thy sacred presence all the landscape tills, Its groves and plains and adamantine hills! Ye who have known the sudden tears that flow, Sad tears, yet sweet, the dews of twilight woe, When, led by chance, your wandering eye has crossed Some poor memorial of the loved and lost, Bear with my weakness as I look around On the dear relics of this holy ground, These bowery cloisters, shadowed and serene, My dreams have pictured ere mine eyes have seen. And oh, forgive me, if the flower I brought Droops in my hand beside this burning thought; The hopes and fears that marked this destined hour, The chill of doubt,