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diff --git a/29700.txt b/29700.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..19f438d --- /dev/null +++ b/29700.txt @@ -0,0 +1,15706 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Poetical Works of William Cullen Bryant, by +William Cullen Bryant + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Poetical Works of William Cullen Bryant + Household Edition + +Author: William Cullen Bryant + +Release Date: August 15, 2009 [EBook #29700] +[Last updated: October 21, 2020] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT *** + + + + +Produced by Chuck Greif, Patricia Ann Doyle Saumell and +the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at +http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + + + + + +POETICAL WORKS + +OF + +WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. + +_HOUSEHOLD EDITION._ + +[Illustration] + +NEW YORK: +D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, +1, 3, AND 5 BOND STREET. +LONDON: 16 LITTLE BRITAIN. +1880. + +ENTERED, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1854, by W. C. +BRYANT, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States +for the Southern District of New York. + +ENTERED, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1871, by W. C. +BRYANT, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. + +ENTERED, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1878, by D. APPLETON +& CO., in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. + + + + +WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. + + +The ancestry of William Cullen Bryant might have been inferred from the +character of his writings, which reflect whatever is best and noblest in +the life and thought of New England. It was a tradition that the first +Bryant of whom there is any account in the annals of the New World came +over in the Mayflower, but the tradition is not authenticated. What is +known of this gentleman, Mr. Stephen Bryant, is that he came over from +England, and that he was at Plymouth, Massachusetts, as early as 1632. +He married Abigail Shaw, who had emigrated with her father, and who bore +him several children between 1650 and 1665, it is to be presumed at +Plymouth, of which town he was chosen constable in 1663. Stephen Bryant +had a son named Ichabod, who was the father of Philip Bryant, who was +born in 1732. Philip Bryant married Silence Howard, the daughter of Dr. +Abiel Howard, of West Bridgewater, whose profession he adopted, being a +practitioner in medicine in North Bridgewater. He was the father of nine +children, one of whom, Peter Bryant, born in 1767, succeeded him in his +profession. Young Dr. Bryant became enamored of Miss Sarah Snell, the +daughter of Mr. Ebenezer Snell, of Bridgewater, who removed his family +to Cummington, whither he was followed by his future son-in-law, who +married the lady of his love in 1792. Two years later, on the 3d of +November, there was born to him a man-child, who was to win, and to +leave, + + "One of the few immortal names + That were not born to die." + +Dr. Bryant was proud of his profession; and in the hope, no doubt, that +his son would become a shining light therein, he perpetuated at his +christening the name of a great medical authority, who had departed this +life four years before--William Cullen. Dr. Bryant was the last of his +family to practise the healing art; for Nature, wiser than he, early +determined the future course of Master William Cullen Bryant. He was not +to be a doctor, but a poet. A poet, that is, if he lived to be anything; +for the chances were against his living at all. The lad was exceedingly +frail, and had a head the immensity of which troubled his anxious +father. How to reduce it to the normal size was a puzzle which Dr. +Bryant solved in a spring of clear, cold water, which burst out of the +ground on or near his homestead, and into which the child was immersed +every morning, head and all, by two of Dr. Bryant's students--kicking +lustily, we may be sure, at this matutinal dose of hydropathy. + +William Cullen Bryant came of Mayflower stock, his mother being a +descendant of John Alden; and the characteristics of his family +included some of the sterner qualities of the Puritans. Grandfather +Snell was a magistrate, and, without doubt a severe one, for the period +was not one which favored leniency to criminals. The whipping-post was +still extant in Massachusetts, and the poet remembered that it stood +about a mile from his early home at Cummington, and that he once saw a +young fellow of eighteen who had received forty lashes as a punishment +for a theft he had committed. It was, he thought, the last example of +corporal punishment inflicted by law in that neighborhood, though the +whipping-post remained in its place for several years, a possible terror +to future evildoers. "Spare the rod, spoil the child," was the Draconian +code then; and the rod, in the shape of a little bundle of birchen +twigs, bound together with a small cord, was generally suspended on a +nail against the wall in the kitchen, and was as much a part of the +necessary furniture as the crane that hung in the fireplace or the +shovel and tongs. + +Magistrate Snell was a disciplinarian of the stricter sort; and as he +and his wife resided with Dr. Bryant and his family, the latter stood in +awe of him, so much so that young William Cullen was prevented from +feeling anything like affection for him. It was an age of repression, +not to say oppression, for children, who had few rights that their +elders were bound to respect. To the terrors of the secular arm were +added the deeper terrors of the spiritual law, for the people of that +primitive period were nothing if not religious. The minister was the +great man, and his bodily presence was a restraint upon the unruly, and +the ruly too, for that matter. The lines of our ancestors did not fall +in pleasant places as far as recreations were concerned; for they were +few and far between, consisting, for the most part, of militia musters, +"raisings," corn-huskings, and singing-schools, diversified with the +making of maple sugar and cider. Education was confined to the three +R's, though the children of wealthy parents were sent to colleges as +they now are. It was not a genial social condition, it must be +confessed, to which William Cullen Bryant was born, though it might have +been worse but for his good father, who was in many respects superior to +his rustic neighbors. A broad-shouldered, muscular gentleman, proud of +his strength, his manners were gentle and reserved, his disposition was +serene, and he was fond of society. He was not without political +distinction, for he was elected to the Massachusetts House of +Representatives for several terms, and afterward to the State Senate, +and he associated with the cultivated circles of Boston both as a +legislator and a physician. + +William Cullen Bryant was fortunate in his father, who, if he was +disappointed when he found that his son was born to be a follower of +Apollo and not of AEsculapius, kept his disappointment to himself, and +encouraged the lad in his poetical attempts. We have the authority of +the poet himself that his father taught his youth the art of verse, and +that he offered him to the Muses in the bud of life. His first efforts +were several clever "Enigmas," in imitation of the Latin writers, a +translation from Horace, and a copy of verses which were written in his +twelfth year, to be recited at the close of the winter school, "in the +presence of the Master, the Minister of the parish, and a number of +private gentlemen." They were printed on the 18th of March, 1807, in the +_Hampshire Gazette_, from which these particulars are derived, and which +was favored with other contributions from the pen of "C. B." + +The juvenile poems of William Cullen Bryant are as clever as those of +Chatterton, Pope, and Cowley; but they are in no sense original, and it +would have been strange if they had been. There was no original writing +in America at the time they were written; and if there had been, it +would hardly have commended itself to the old-fashioned taste of Dr. +Bryant, to whom Pope was still a power in poetry, as Addison, no doubt, +was in prose. It was natural, therefore, that he should offer his boy to +the strait-laced Muses of Queen Anne's time; that the precocious boy +should lisp in heroic couplets, and that he should endeavor to be +satirical. Politics were running high in the first decade of the present +century, and the favorite bug-bear in New England was President +Jefferson, who in 1807 had laid an embargo on American shipping, in +consequence of the decrees of Napoleon, and the British orders in +council in relation thereto. This act was denounced, and by no one more +warmly than by Master Bryant, who made it the subject of a satire, which +was published in Boston in 1808. It was entitled "The Embargo; or, +Sketches of the Times," and was printed for the purchasers, who were +found in sufficient numbers to exhaust the first edition. It is said to +have been well received, but doubts were expressed as to whether the +author was really a youth of thirteen. His friends came to his rescue in +an "Advertisement," which was prefixed to a second edition of his +little _brochure_, published in the following year, and certified to his +age from their personal knowledge of himself and his family. They also +certified to his extraordinary talents, though they should prefer to +have him judged by his works, without favor or affection. They concluded +by stating that the printer was authorized to disclose their names and +places of residence. + +The early poetical exercises of William Cullen Bryant, like those of all +young poets, were colored by the books which he read. Among these were +the works of Pope, as I have already intimated, and, no doubt, the works +of Cowper and Thomson. The latter, if they were in the library of Dr. +Bryant, do not appear to have impressed his son at this time; nor, +indeed, does any English poet except Pope, so far as we can judge from +his contributions to the _Hampshire Gazette_, which were continued from +time to time. They were bookish and patriotic; one, which was written at +Cummington on the 8th of January, 1810, being "The Genius of Columbia;" +and another, "An Ode for the Fourth of July, 1812," to the tune of "Ye +Gentlemen of England." These productions are undeniably clever, but they +are not characteristic of their writer, nor of the nature which +surrounded his birthplace, with which he was familiar, and of which he +was a close observer, as his poetry was soon to disclose. + +He entered Williams College, in Williamstown, Mass., in his sixteenth +year, and remained there until 1812, distinguishing himself for aptness +and industry in classical learning and polite literature. At the end of +two years he withdrew, and commenced the study of law, first with Judge +Howe, of Worthington, and afterward with Mr. William Baylies, of +Bridgewater. So far he had written nothing but clever amateur verse; but +now, in his eighteenth year, he wrote an imperishable poem. The +circumstances under which it was composed have been variously stated, +but they agree in the main particulars, and are thus given in "The +Bryant Homestead Book" (1870), apparently on authentic information: "It +was here at Cummington, while wandering in the primeval forests, over +the floor of which were scattered the gigantic trunks of fallen trees, +mouldering for long years, and suggesting an indefinitely remote +antiquity, and where silent rivulets crept along through the carpet of +dead leaves, the spoil of thousands of summers, that the poem entitled +'Thanatopsis' was composed. The young poet had read the poems of Kirke +White, which, edited by Southey, were published about that time, and a +small volume of Southey's miscellaneous poems; and some lines of those +authors had kindled his imagination, which, going forth over the face of +the inhabitants of the globe, sought to bring under one broad and +comprehensive view the destinies of the human race in the present life, +and the perpetual rising and passing away of generation after generation +who are nourished by the fruits of its soil, and find a resting-place in +its bosom." We should like to know what lines in Southey and Kirke White +suggested "Thanatopsis," that they might be printed in letters of gold +hereafter. + +When the young poet quitted Cummington to begin his law studies, he left +the manuscript of this incomparable poem among his papers in the house +of his father, who found it after his departure. "Here are some lines +that our William has been writing," he said to a lady to whom he showed +them. She read them, and, raising her eyes to the face of Dr. Bryant, +burst into tears--a tribute to the genius of his son in which he was not +ashamed to join. Blackstone bade his Muse a long adieu before he turned +to wrangling courts and stubborn law; and our young lawyer intended to +do the same (for poetry was starvation in America seventy years ago), +but habit and nature were too strong for him. There is no difficulty in +tracing the succession of his poems, and in a few instances the places +where they were written, or with which they concerned themselves. +"Thanatopsis," for example, was followed by "The Yellow Violet," which +was followed by the "Inscription for the Entrance to a Wood," and the +song beginning "Soon as the glazed and gleaming snow." The exquisite +lines "To a Waterfowl" were written at Bridgewater, in his twentieth +year, where he was still pursuing the study of law, which appears to +have been distasteful to him. The concluding stanza sank deeply into a +heart that needed its pious lesson: + + "He who, from zone to zone, + Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, + _In the long way that I must tread alone,_ + _Will lead my steps aright._" + +The lawyer-poet had a long way before him, but he did not tread it +alone; for, after being admitted to the bar in Plymouth, and practising +for a time in Plainfield, near Cummington, he removed to Great +Barrington, in Berkshire, where he saw the dwelling of the Genevieve of +his chilly little "Song," his Genevieve being Miss Frances Fairchild of +that beautiful town, whom he married in his twenty-seventh year, and who +was the light of his household for nearly half a century. It was to her, +the reader may like to know, that he addressed the ideal poem beginning +"O fairest of the rural maids" (_circa_ 1825), "The Future Life" (1837), +and "The Life that Is" (1858); and her memory and her loss are tenderly +embalmed in one of the most touching of his later poems, "October, +1866." + +"Thanatopsis" was sent to the _North American Review_ (whether by its +author or his father we are not told), and with such a modest, not to +say enigmatical, note of introduction, that its authorship was left in +doubt. The _Review_ was managed by a club of young literary gentlemen, +who styled themselves "The North American Club," two of whose members, +Mr. Richard Henry Dana and Mr. Edward Tyrrel Channing, were considered +its editors. Mr. Dana read the poem carefully, and was so surprised at +its excellence that he doubted whether it was the production of an +American, an opinion in which his associates are understood to have +concurred. While they were hesitating about its acceptance, he was told +that the writer was a member of the Massachusetts Senate; and, the +Senate being then in session, he started immediately from Cambridge for +Boston. He reached the State House, and inquired for Senator Bryant. A +tall, middle-aged man, with a business-like look, was pointed out to +him. He was satisfied that he could not be the poet he sought, so he +posted back to Cambridge without an introduction. The story ends here, +and rather tamely; for the original narrator forgot, or perhaps never +knew, that Dr. Bryant was a member of the Senate, and that it was among +the possibilities that _he_ was the Senator with a similar name. +American poetry may be said to have commenced in 1817 with the September +number of the _North American Review_, which contained "Thanatopsis" and +the "Inscription for the Entrance of a Wood," the last being printed as +a "Fragment." Six months later, in March, 1818, the impression which +"Thanatopsis" created was strengthened by the appearance of the lines +"To a Waterfowl," and the "Version of a Fragment of Simonides." + +Mr. Bryant's literary life may now be said to have begun, though he +depended upon the practice of his profession for his daily bread. He +continued his contributions to the _North American Review_ in the shape +of prose papers on literary topics, and maintained the most friendly +relations with its conductors; notably so with Mr. Dana, who was seven +years his elder, and who possessed, like himself, the accomplishment of +verse. At the suggestion of this poetical and critical brother, he was +invited to deliver a poem before the Phi Beta Kappa Society at Harvard +College--an honor which is offered only to those who have already made a +reputation, and are likely to reflect credit on the Society as well as +on themselves. He accepted, and in 1821 wrote his first poem of any +length, "The Ages," which still remains the best poem of the kind that +was ever recited before a college society either in this country or in +England; grave, stately, thoughtful, presenting in animated, +picturesque stanzas a compact summary of the history of mankind. A young +Englishman of twenty-one--Thomas Babington Macaulay--delivered in the +same year a poem on "Evening," before the students of Trinity College, +Cambridge; and it is instructive to compare his conventional heroics +with the spirited Spenserian stanzas of William Cullen Bryant. + +The lines "To a Waterfowl," which were written at Bridgewater in 1815, +were followed by "Green River," "A Winter Piece," "The West Wind," "The +Burial-Place," "Blessed are they that mourn," "No man knoweth his +Sepulchre," "A Walk at Sunset," and "The Hymn to Death." + +These poems, which cover a period of six busy years, are interesting to +the poetic student as examples of the different styles of their writer, +and of the changing elements of his thoughts and feelings. "Green +River," for example, is a momentary revealment of his shy temperament +and his daily pursuits. Its glimpses of nature are charming, and his +wish to be beside its waters is the most natural one in the world. The +young lawyer is not complimentary to his clients, whom he styles "the +dregs of men," while his pen, which does its best to serve them, becomes +"a barbarous pen." He is dejected, but a visit to the river will restore +his spirits; for, as he gazes upon its lonely and lovely stream, + + "An image of that calm life appears + That won my heart in my greener years." + +"A Winter Piece" is a gallery of woodland pictures which anything of the +kind in the language. "A Walk at Sunset" is notable in that it is the +first poem in which we see (faintly, it must be confessed) the +aboriginal element, which was soon to become a prominent one in Mr. +Bryant's poetry. It was inseparable from the primeval forests of the New +World, but he was the first to perceive its poetic value. The "Hymn to +Death"--stately, majestic, consolatory--concludes with a touching +tribute to the worth of his good father, who died while he was writing +it, at the age of fifty-four. The year 1821 was an important one to Mr. +Bryant, for it witnessed the publication of his first collection of +verse, his marriage, and the death of his father. + +The next four years of Mr. Bryant's life were more productive than any +that had preceded them, for he wrote upward of thirty poems during that +time. The aboriginal element was creative in "The Indian Girl's Lament," +"An Indian Story," "An Indian at the Burial-Place of his Fathers," and, +noblest of all, "Monument Mountain;" the Hellenic element predominated +in "The Massacre at Scio" and "The Song of the Greek Amazon;" the +Hebraic element touched him lightly in "Rizpah" and the "Song of the +Stars;" and the pure poetic element was manifest in "March," "The +Rivulet" (which, by the way, ran through the grounds of the old +homestead at Cummington), "After a Tempest," "The Murdered Traveler," +"Hymn to the North Star," "A Forest Hymn," "O fairest of the rural +maids," and the exquisite and now most pathetic poem, "June." These +poems and others not specified here, if read continuously and in the +order in which they were composed, show a wide range of sympathies, a +perfect acquaintance with many measures, and a clear, capacious, +ever-growing intellect. They are all distinctive of the genius of their +author, but neither exhibits the full measure of his powers. We can say +of none of them, "The man who wrote this will never write any better." + +The publication of Mr. Bryant's little volume of verse was indirectly +the cause of his adopting literature as a profession. It was warmly +commended, and by no one more so than by Mr. Gulian C. Verplanck, in the +columns of the _New York American_. He was something of a literary +authority at the time, a man of fortune and college-bred, known in a +mild way as the author of an anniversary discourse delivered before the +New York Historical Society in 1818, of a political satire entitled "The +Bucktail Bards," and later of an "Essay on the Doctrine of Contracts." +Among his friends was Mr. Henry D. Sedgwick, a summer neighbor, so to +speak, of Mr. Bryant's, having a country-house at Stockbridge, a few +miles from Great Barrington, and a house in town, which was frequented +by the _literati_ of the day, such as Verplanck, Halleck, Percival, +Cooper, and others of less note. An admirer of Mr. Bryant, Mr. Sedgwick +set to work, with the assistance of Mr. Verplanck, to procure him +literary employment in New York, in order to enable him to escape his +hated bondage to the law; and he was appointed assistant editor of a +projected periodical called the _New York Review and Athenaeum Magazine_. +The at last enfranchised lawyer dropped his barbarous pen, closed his +law-books, and in the winter or spring of 1825 removed with his +household to New York. The projected periodical was started, as these +sanguine ventures always are, with fair hopes of success. It was well +edited, and its contributors were men of acknowledged ability. The June +number contained two poems which ought to have made a great hit. One was +"A Song of Pitcairn's Island;" the other was "Marco Bozzaris." There was +no flourish of trumpets over them, as there would be now; the writers +merely prefixed their initials, "B." and "H." The reading public of New +York were not ready for the _Review_, which had been projected for their +mental enlightenment; so, after about a year's struggle, it was merged +in the _New York Literary Gazette_, which began its mission about four +years before. This magazine shared the fate of its companion in a few +months, when it was consolidated with the _United States Literary +Gazette_, which in two months was swallowed up in the _United States +Review_. The honor of publishing and finishing the last was shared by +Boston and New York. Profit in these publications there was none, though +Bryant, Halleck, Willis, Dana, Bancroft, and Longfellow wrote for them. +Too good, or not good enough, they lived and died prematurely. Mr. +Bryant's success as a metropolitan man of letters was not brilliant so +far; but there were other walks than those of pure literature open to +him, as to others, and into one of the most bustling of these he entered +in his thirty-second year. In other words, he became one of the editors +of the _Evening Post_. Henceforth he was to live by journalism. + +Journalism, though an exacting pursuit, leaves its skillful followers a +little leisure in which to cultivate literature. It the heyday of those +ephemeral trifles, Annuals, and Mr. Bryant found time to edit one, with +the assistance of his friend Mr. Verplanck, and his acquaintance Mr. +Robert C. Sands (who, by the way, was one of the editors of the +_Commercial Advertiser_), and a very creditable work it was. His +contributions to "The Talisman" included some of his best poems. Poetry +was the natural expression of his genius--a fact which he could never +understand, for it always seemed to him that prose was the natural +expression of all mankind. His prose was, and always continued to be, +masterly. Its earliest examples, outside of his critical papers in the +_North American Review_ and other periodicals (and outside of the +_Evening Post_, of course), are two stories entitled "Medfield" and "The +Skeleton's Cave," contributed by him to "Tales of the Glauber Spa" +(1832)--a collection of original stories by Mr. James K. Paulding, Mr. +Verplanck, Mr. Sands, Mr. William Leggett, and Miss Catharine Sedgwick. +Three years before (1828) he had become the chief editor of the _Evening +Post_. Associated with him was Mr. Leggett, who had shown some talent as +a writer of sketches and stories, and who had failed, like himself, in +conducting a critical publication, for which his countrymen were not +ready. He made a second collection of his poems at this time (1832), a +copy of which was sent by Mr. Verplanck to Mr. Washington Irving, who +was then, what he had been for years, the idol of English readers, and +not without weight with the Trade. Would he see if some English house +would not reprint it? No leading publisher nibbled at it, not even +Murray, who was Mr. Irving's publisher; but an obscure bookseller named +Andrews finally agreed to undertake it, if Mr. Irving would put his +valuable name on the title-page as the editor. He was not acquainted +with Mr. Bryant, but he was a kind-hearted, large-souled gentleman, who +knew good poetry when he saw it, and he consented to "edit" the book. He +was not a success in the estimation of Andrews, who came to him one day, +by no means a merry Andrew, and declared that the book would ruin him +unless one or more changes were made in the text. What was amiss in it? +He turned to the "Song of Marion's Men," and stumbled over an obnoxious +couplet in the first stanza: + + "The British soldier trembles + When Marion's name is told." + +"That won't do at all, you know." The absurdity of the objection must +have struck the humorist comically; but as he wanted the volume +republished, he good-naturedly saved the proverbial valor of the British +soldier by changing the first line to + + "The foeman trembles in his camp," + +and the tempest in a teapot was over, as far as England was concerned. +Not as far as the United States was concerned, however; for when the +circumstance became known to Mr. Leggett, he excoriated Mr. Irving for +his subserviency to a bloated aristocracy, and so forth. Mr. John Wilson +reviewed the book in _Blackwood's Magazine_ in a half-hearted way, +patronizing the writer with his praise. + +The poems that Mr. Bryant wrote during the first seven years of his +residence in New York (some forty in number, not including translations) +exhibited the qualities which distinguished his genius from the +beginning, and were marked by characteristics which were rather acquired +than inherited. In other words, they were somewhat different from those +which were written at Great Barrington. The Hellenic element was still +visible in "The Greek Partisan" and "The Greek Boy," and the aboriginal +element in "The Disinterred Warrior." The large imagination of "The Hymn +to the North Star" was radiant in "The Firmament," and in "The Past." +Ardent love of nature found expressive utterance in "Lines on Revisiting +the Country," "The Gladness of Nature," "A Summer Ramble," "A Scene on +the Banks of the Hudson," and "The Evening Wind." The little book of +immortal dirges had a fresh leaf added to it in "The Death of the +Flowers," which was at once a pastoral of autumn and a monody over a +beloved sister. A new element appeared in "The Summer Wind," and was +always present afterward in Mr. Bryant's meditative poetry--the +association of humanity with nature--a calm but sympathetic recognition +of the ways of man and his presence on the earth. The power of +suggestion and of rapid generalization, which was the key-note of "The +Ages," lived anew in every line of "The Prairies," in which a series of +poems present themselves to the imagination as a series of pictures in a +gallery--pictures in which breadth and vigor of treatment and exquisite +delicacy of detail are everywhere harmoniously blended, and the unity of +pure Art is attained. It was worth going to the ends of the world to be +able to write "The Prairies." + +Confiding in the discretion of his associate Mr. Leggett, and anxious to +escape from his daily editorial labors, Mr. Bryant sailed for Europe +with his family in the summer of 1834. It was his intention to perfect +his literary studies while abroad, and to devote himself to the +education of his children; but his intention was frustrated, after a +short course of travel in France, Germany, and Italy, by the illness of +Mr. Leggett, whose mistaken zeal in the advocacy of unpopular measures +had seriously injured the _Evening Post_. He returned in haste early in +1836, and devoted his time and energies to restoring the prosperity of +his paper. Nine years passed before he ventured to return to Europe, +though he managed to visit certain portions of his own country. His +readers tracked his journeys through the letters which he wrote to the +_Evening Post_, and which were noticeable for justness of observation +and clearness of expression. A selection from Mr. Bryant's foreign and +home letters was published in 1852, under the title of "Letters of a +Traveler." + +The life of a man of letters is seldom eventful. There are, of course, +exceptions to the rule; for literature, like other polite professions, +is never without its disorderly followers. It is instructive to trace +their careers, which are usually short ones; but the contemplation of +the calm, well-regulated, self-respecting lives of the elder and wiser +masters is much more satisfactory. We pity the Maginns, and Mangans, and +Poes, whom we have always with us; but we admire and reverence such +writers as Wordsworth, and Thackeray, and Bryant, who dignify their high +calling. The last thirty years of the life of Mr. Bryant were devoid of +incidents, though one of them (1866) was not without the supreme +sorrow--death. He devoted himself to journalism as conscientiously as if +he still had his spurs to win, discussing all public questions with +independence and fearlessness; and from time to time, as the spirit +moved him, he added to our treasures of song, contributing to the +popular magazines of the period, and occasionally issuing these +contributions in separate volumes. He published "The Fountain and Other +Poems" in 1842; "The White-Footed Deer and Other Poems" in 1844; a +collected edition of his poems, with illustrations by Leutze, in 1846; +an edition in two volumes in 1855; "Thirty Poems" in 1866; and in 1876 a +complete illustrated edition of his poetical writings. To the honors +which these volumes brought him he added fresh laurels in 1870 and 1871 +by the publication of his translation of the "Iliad" and the +"Odyssey"--a translation which was highly praised both at home and +abroad, and which, if not the best that the English language is capable +of, is, in many respects, the best which any English-writing poet has +yet produced. + +There comes a day in the intellectual lives of most poets when their +powers cease to be progressive and productive, or are productive only in +the forms to which they have accustomed themselves, and which have +become mannerisms. It was not so with Mr. Bryant. He enjoyed the +dangerous distinction of proving himself a great poet at an early age; +he preserved this distinction to the last, for the sixty-four years +which elapsed between the writing of "Thanatopsis" and the writing of +"The Flood of Years" witnessed no decay of his poetic capacities, but +rather the growth and development of trains of thought and forms of +verse of which there was no evidence in his early writings. His +sympathies were enlarged as the years went on, and the crystal clearness +of his mind was colored with human emotions. + +To Bryant, beyond all other modern poets, the earth was a theatre upon +which the great drama of life was everlastingly played. The remembrance +of this fact is his inspiration in "The Fountain," "An Evening Revery," +"The Antiquity of Freedom," "The Crowded Street," "The Planting of the +Apple-Tree," "The Night Journey of a River," "The Sower," and "The Flood +of Years." The most poetical of Mr. Bryant's poems are, perhaps, "The +Land of Dreams," "The Burial of Love," "The May Sun sheds an Amber +Light," and "The Voice of Autumn;" and they were written in a succession +of happy hours, and in the order named. Next to these pieces, as +examples of pure poetry, should be placed "Sella" and "The Little People +of the Snow," which are exquisite fairy fantasies. The qualities by +which Mr. Bryant's poetry are chiefly distinguished are serenity and +gravity of thought; an intense though repressed recognition of the +mortality of mankind; an ardent love for human freedom; and unrivaled +skill in painting the scenery of his native land. He had no superior in +this walk of poetic art--it might almost be said no equal, for his +descriptions of nature are never inaccurate or redundant. "The +Excursion" is a tiresome poem, which contains several exquisite +episodes. Mr. Bryant knew how to write exquisite episodes, and to omit +the platitudes through which we reach them in other poets. + +It is not given to many poets to possess as many residences as Mr. +Bryant, for he had three--a town-house in New York, a country-house, +called "Cedarmere," at Roslyn, Long Island, and the old homestead of the +Bryant family at Cummington. He passed the winter months in New York, +and the summer and early autumn months at his country-houses. No +distinguished man in America was better known by sight than he. + + "O good gray head that all men knew" + +rose unbidden to one's lips as he passed his fellow-pedestrians in the +streets of the great city, active, alert, with a springing step and a +buoyant gait. He was seen in all weathers, walking down to his office in +the morning, and back to his house in the afternoon--an observant +antiquity, with a majestic white beard, a pair of sharp eyes, and a face +which, noticed closely, recalled the line of the poet: + + "A million wrinkles carved his skin." + +Mr. Bryant had a peculiar talent, in which the French excel--the talent +of delivering discourses upon the lives and writings of eminent men; and +he was always in request after the death of his contemporaries. + +Beginning with a eulogy on his friend Cole, the painter, who died in +1848, he paid his well-considered tributes to the memory of Cooper and +Irving, and assisted at the dedication in the Central Park of the Morse, +Shakespeare, Scott, and Halleck monuments. His addresses on those +occasions, and others that might be named, were models of justice of +appreciation and felicity of expression. His last public appearance was +at the Central Park, on the afternoon of May 29, 1878, at the unveiling +of a statue to Mazzini. It was an unusually hot day, and after +delivering his address, which was remarkable for its eloquence, he +accompanied General James Grant Wilson, an acquaintance of some years' +standing, to his residence in East Seventy-fourth street. General Wilson +reached his door with Mr. Bryant leaning on his arm; he took a step in +advance to open the inner door, and while his back was turned the poet +fell, striking his head on the stone platform of the front steps. It was +his death-blow; for, though he recovered his consciousness sufficiently +to converse a little, and was able to ride to his own house with General +Wilson, his fate was sealed. He lingered until the morning of the 12th +of June, when his capacious spirit passed out into the Unknown. Two days +later all that was mortal of him was buried beside the grave of his wife +at Roslyn. + +Such was the life and such the life-work of William Cullen Bryant. + +R. H. STODDARD. + + +TO THE READER. + + +The poems in this volume follow each other in the order in which they +were written, it being believed that this arrangement would be as +satisfactory to the reader as any classification founded on the nature +of the subjects or their mode of treatment. + + + + +CONTENTS. + + +POEMS: PAGE +The Ages 11 +Thanatopsis 21 +The Yellow Violet 23 +Inscription for the Entrance to a Wood 24 +Song 26 +To a Waterfowl 26 +Green River 27 +A Winter Piece 29 +The West Wind 33 +The Burial-place--A Fragment 34 +"Blessed are they that Mourn" 35 +"No Man knoweth his Sepulchre" 36 +A Walk at Sunset 37 +Hymn to Death 39 +The Massacre at Scio 43 +The Indian Girl's Lament 44 +Ode for an Agricultural Celebration 46 +Rizpah 47 +The Old Man's Funeral 49 +The Rivulet 50 +March 53 +Consumption 54 +An Indian Story 54 +Summer Wind 57 +An Indian at the Burial-place of his Fathers 58 +Song 61 +Hymn of the Waldenses 62 +Monument Mountain 63 +After a Tempest 66 +Autumn Woods 68 +Mutation 70 +November 70 +Song of the Greek Amazon 71 +To a Cloud 72 +The Murdered Traveller 73 +Hymn to the North Star 74 +The Lapse of Time 75 +Song of the Stars 77 +A Forest Hymn 79 +"Oh Fairest of the Rural Maids" 82 +"I broke the Spell that held me long" 83 +June 83 +A Song of Pitcairn's Island 86 +The Firmament 86 +"I cannot forget with what Fervid Devotion" 88 +To a Mosquito 89 +Lines on Revisiting the Country 91 +The Death of the Flowers 92 +Romero 93 +A Meditation on Rhode Island Coal 95 +The New Moon 98 +October 99 +The Damsel of Peru 100 +The African Chief 101 +Spring in Town 103 +The Gladness of Nature 105 +The Disinterred Warrior 106 +Midsummer 107 +The Greek Partisan 108 +The Two Graves 109 +The Conjunction of Jupiter and Venus 111 +A Summer Ramble 113 +A Scene on the Banks of the Hudson 115 +The Hurricane 116 +William Tell 118 +The Hunter's Serenade 118 +The Greek Boy 120 +The Past 121 +"Upon the Mountain's Distant Head" 123 +The Evening Wind 124 +"When the Firmament Quivers with Daylight's Young Beam" 125 +"Innocent Child and Snow-white Flower" 126 +To the River Arve 126 +To Cole, the Painter, departing for Europe 127 +To the Fringed Gentian 128 +The Twenty-second of December 129 +Hymn of the City 129 +The Prairies 130 +Song of Marion's Men 134 +The Arctic Lover 135 +The Journey of Life 137 + +TRANSLATIONS: + +Version of a Fragment of Simonides 138 +From the Spanish of Villegas 139 +Mary Magdalen. (From the Spanish of Bartolome Leonardo de Argensola) 139 +The Life of the Blessed. (From the Spanish of Luis Ponce de Leon) 140 +Fatima and Raduan. (From the Spanish) 142 +Love and Folly. (From La Fontaine) 143 +The Siesta. (From the Spanish) 144 +The Alcayde of Molina. (From the Spanish) 145 +The Death of Aliatar. (From the Spanish) 146 +Love in the Age of Chivalry. (From Peyre Vidal, the Troubadour) 148 +The Love of God. (From the Provencal of Bernard Rascas) 149 +From the Spanish of Pedro de Castro y Anaya 150 +Sonnet. (From the Portuguese of Semedo) 161 +Song. (From the Spanish of Iglesias) 151 +The Count of Greiers. (From the German of Uhland) 152 +The Serenade. (From the Spanish) 153 +A Northern Legend. (From the German of Uhland) 155 +The Paradise of Tears. (From the German of N. Mueller) 156 +The Lady of Castle Windeck. (From the German of Chamisso) 157 + +LATER POEMS: + +To the Apennines 159 +Earth 160 +The Knight's Epitaph 163 +The Hunter of the Prairies 165 +Seventy-six 166 +The Living Lost 168 +Catterskill Falls 169 +The Strange Lady 172 +"Earth's Children Cleave to Earth" 176 +The Hunter's Vision 176 +The Green Mountain Boys 178 +A Presentiment 179 +The Child's Funeral 180 +The Battle-field 181 +The Future Life 183 +The Death of Schiller 184 +The Fountain 185 +The Winds 188 +The Old Man's Counsel 191 +In Memory of William Leggett 193 +An Evening Revery 194 +The Painted Cup 196 +A Dream 197 +The Antiquity of Freedom 198 +The Maiden's Sorrow 200 +The Return of Youth 201 +A Hymn of the Sea 203 +Noon. (From an unfinished Poem) 205 +The Crowded Street 206 +The White-footed Deer 208 +The Waning Moon 210 +The Stream of Life 212 +The Unknown Way 212 +"Oh Mother of a Mighty Race" 214 +The Land of Dreams 215 +The Burial of Love 217 +"The May Sun sheds an Amber Light" 218 +The Voice of Autumn 219 +The Conqueror's Grave 220 +The Planting of the Apple-Tree 222 +The Snow-Shower 225 +A Rain-Dream 226 +Robert of Lincoln 229 +The Twenty-seventh of March 231 +An Invitation to the Country 232 +Song for New-Year's Eve 234 +The Wind and Stream 235 +The Lost Bird. (From the Spanish of Carolina Coronado de Perry) 236 +The Night-Journey of a River 237 +The Life that Is 240 +Song.--"These Prairies Glow with Flowers" 241 +A Sick-Bed 242 +The Song of the Sower 244 +The New and the Old 249 +The Cloud on the Way 250 +The Tides 252 +Italy 253 +A Day-Dream 255 +The Ruins of Italica. (From the Spanish of Rioja) 257 +Waiting by the Gate 260 +Not Yet 262 +Our Country's Call 263 +The Constellations 265 +The Third of November, 1861 266 +The Mother's Hymn 267 +Sella 268 +The Fifth Book of Homer's Odyssey.--Translated 282 +The Little People of the Snow 297 +The Poet 306 +The Path 308 +The Return of the Birds 310 +"He hath put all Things under His Feet" 312 +My Autumn Walk 313 +Dante 315 +The Death of Lincoln 316 +The Death of Slavery 317 +Hymn.--"Receive thy Sight" 319 +A Brighter Day 320 +Among the Trees 321 +May Evening 325 +October, 1866 327 +The Order of Nature. (From Boethius de Consolatione) 329 +Tree-Burial 330 +A Legend of the Delawares 332 +A Lifetime 336 +The Two Travellers 341 +Christmas in 1875. (Supposed to be written by a Spaniard) 343 +The Flood of Years 344 +Our Fellow-Worshippers 348 + +NOTES 350 + + + + +POEMS. + + + + THE AGES + + + I. + + When to the common rest that crowns our days, + Called in the noon of life, the good man goes, + Or full of years, and ripe in wisdom, lays + His silver temples in their last repose; + When, o'er the buds of youth, the death-wind blows + And blights the fairest; when our bitter tears + Stream, as the eyes of those that love us close, + We think on what they were, with many fears + Lest goodness die with them, and leave the coming years. + + + II. + + And therefore, to our hearts, the days gone by, + When lived the honored sage whose death we wept, + And the soft virtues beamed from many an eye, + And beat in many a heart that long has slept-- + Like spots of earth where angel-feet have stepped, + Are holy; and high-dreaming bards have told + Of times when worth was crowned, and faith was kept, + Ere friendship grew a snare, or love waxed cold-- + Those pure and happy times--the golden days of old. + + + III. + + Peace to the just man's memory; let it grow + Greener with years, and blossom through the flight + Of ages; let the mimic canvas show + His calm benevolent features; let the light + Stream on his deeds of love, that shunned the sight + Of all but heaven, and in the book of fame + The glorious record of his virtues write + And hold it up to men, and bid them claim + A palm like his, and catch from him the hallowed flame. + + + IV. + + But oh, despair not of their fate who rise + To dwell upon the earth when we withdraw! + Lo! the same shaft by which the righteous dies, + Strikes through the wretch that scoffed at mercy's law + And trode his brethren down, and felt no awe + Of Him who will avenge them. Stainless worth, + Such as the sternest age of virtue saw, + Ripens, meanwhile, till time shall call it forth + From the low modest shade, to light and bless the earth. + + + V. + + Has Nature, in her calm, majestic march, + Faltered with age at last? does the bright sun + Grow dim in heaven? or, in their far blue arch, + Sparkle the crowd of stars, when day is done, + Less brightly? when the dew-lipped Spring comes on, + Breathes she with airs less soft, or scents the sky + With flowers less fair than when her reign begun? + Does prodigal Autumn, to our age, deny + The plenty that once swelled beneath his sober eye? + + + VI. + + Look on this beautiful world, and read the truth + In her fair page; see, every season brings + New change, to her, of everlasting youth; + Still the green soil, with joyous living things, + Swarms, the wide air is full of joyous wings, + And myriads, still, are happy in the sleep + Of ocean's azure gulfs, and where he flings + The restless surge. Eternal Love doth keep, + In his complacent arms, the earth, the air, the deep. + + + VII. + + Will then the merciful One, who stamped our race + With his own image, and who gave them sway + O'er earth, and the glad dwellers on her face, + Now that our swarming nations far away + Are spread, where'er the moist earth drinks the day, + Forget the ancient care that taught and nursed + His latest offspring? will he quench the ray + Infused by his own forming smile at first, + And leave a work so fair all blighted and accursed? + + + VIII. + + Oh, no! a thousand cheerful omens give + Hope of yet happier days, whose dawn is nigh. + He who has tamed the elements, shall not live + The slave of his own passions; he whose eye + Unwinds the eternal dances of the sky, + And in the abyss of brightness dares to span + The sun's broad circle, rising yet more high, + In God's magnificent works his will shall scan-- + And love and peace shall make their paradise with man. + + + IX. + + Sit at the feet of History--through the night + Of years the steps of virtue she shall trace, + And show the earlier ages, where her sight + Can pierce the eternal shadows o'er their face;-- + When, from the genial cradle of our race, + Went forth the tribes of men, their pleasant lot + To choose, where palm-groves cooled their dwelling-place, + Or freshening rivers ran; and there forgot + The truth of heaven, and kneeled to gods that heard them not. + + + X. + + Then waited not the murderer for the night, + But smote his brother down in the bright day, + And he who felt the wrong, and had the might, + His own avenger, girt himself to slay; + Beside the path the unburied carcass lay; + The shepherd, by the fountains of the glen, + Fled, while the robber swept his flock away, + And slew his babes. The sick, untended then, + Languished in the damp shade, and died afar from men. + + + XI. + + But misery brought in love; in passion's strife + Man gave his heart to mercy, pleading long, + And sought out gentle deeds to gladden life; + The weak, against the sons of spoil and wrong, + Banded, and watched their hamlets, and grew strong; + States rose, and, in the shadow of their might, + The timid rested. To the reverent throng, + Grave and time-wrinkled men, with locks all white, + Gave laws, and judged their strifes, and taught the way of right; + + + XII. + + Till bolder spirits seized the rule, and nailed + On men the yoke that man should never bear, + And drave them forth to battle. Lo! unveiled + The scene of those stern ages! What is there? + A boundless sea of blood, and the wild air + Moans with the crimsoned surges that entomb + Cities and bannered armies; forms that wear + The kingly circlet rise, amid the gloom, + O'er the dark wave, and straight are swallowed in its womb. + + + XIII. + + Those ages have no memory, but they left + A record in the desert--columns strown + On the waste sands, and statues fallen and cleft, + Heaped like a host in battle overthrown; + Vast ruins, where the mountain's ribs of stone + Were hewn into a city; streets that spread + In the dark earth, where never breath has blown + Of heaven's sweet air, nor foot of man dares tread + The long and perilous ways--the Cities of the Dead! + + + XIV. + + And tombs of monarchs to the clouds up-piled-- + They perished, but the eternal tombs remain-- + And the black precipice, abrupt and wild, + Pierced by long toil and hollowed to a fane;-- + Huge piers and frowning forms of gods sustain + The everlasting arches, dark and wide, + Like the night-heaven, when clouds are black with rain. + But idly skill was tasked, and strength was plied, + All was the work of slaves to swell a despot's pride. + + + XV. + + And Virtue cannot dwell with slaves, nor reign + O'er those who cower to take a tyrant's yoke; + She left the down-trod nations in disdain, + And flew to Greece, when Liberty awoke, + New-born, amid those glorious vales, and broke + Sceptre and chain with her fair youthful hands: + As rocks are shivered in the thunder-stroke. + And lo! in full-grown strength, an empire stands + Of leagued and rival states, the wonder of the lands. + + + XVI. + + Oh, Greece! thy flourishing cities were a spoil + Unto each other; thy hard hand oppressed + And crushed the helpless; thou didst make thy soil + Drunk with the blood of those that loved thee best; + And thou didst drive, from thy unnatural breast, + Thy just and brave to die in distant climes; + Earth shuddered at thy deeds, and sighed for rest + From thine abominations; after-times, + That yet shall read thy tale, will tremble at thy crimes! + + + XVII. + + Yet there was that within thee which has saved + Thy glory, and redeemed thy blotted name; + The story of thy better deeds, engraved + On fame's unmouldering pillar, puts to shame + Our chiller virtue; the high art to tame + The whirlwind of the passions was thy own; + And the pure ray, that from thy bosom came, + Far over many a land and age has shone, + And mingles with the light that beams from God's own throne. + + + XVIII. + + And Rome--thy sterner, younger sister, she + Who awed the world with her imperial frown-- + Rome drew the spirit of her race from thee, + The rival of thy shame and thy renown. + Yet her degenerate children sold the crown + Of earth's wide kingdoms to a line of slaves; + Guilt reigned, and woe with guilt, and plagues came down, + Till the North broke its floodgates, and the waves + Whelmed the degraded race, and weltered o'er their graves. + + + XIX. + + Vainly that ray of brightness from above, + That shone around the Galilean lake, + The light of hope, the leading star of love, + Struggled, the darkness of that day to break; + Even its own faithless guardians strove to slake, + In fogs of earth, the pure ethereal flame; + And priestly hands, for Jesus' blessed sake, + Were red with blood, and charity became, + In that stern war of forms, a mockery and a name. + + + XX. + + They triumphed, and less bloody rites were kept + Within the quiet of the convent-cell; + The well-fed inmates pattered prayer, and slept, + And sinned, and liked their easy penance well. + Where pleasant was the spot for men to dwell, + Amid its fair broad lands the abbey lay, + Sheltering dark orgies that were shame to tell, + And cowled and barefoot beggars swarmed the way, + All in their convent weeds, of black, and white, and gray. + + + XXI. + + Oh, sweetly the returning muses' strain + Swelled over that famed stream, whose gentle tide + In their bright lap the Etrurian vales detain, + Sweet, as when winter storms have ceased to chide, + And all the new-leaved woods, resounding wide, + Send out wild hymns upon the scented air. + Lo! to the smiling Arno's classic side + The emulous nations of the West repair, + And kindle their quenched urns, and drink fresh spirit there. + + + XXII. + + Still, Heaven deferred the hour ordained to rend + From saintly rottenness the sacred stole; + And cowl and worshipped shrine could still defend + The wretch with felon stains upon his soul; + And crimes were set to sale, and hard his dole + Who could not bribe a passage to the skies; + And vice, beneath the mitre's kind control, + Sinned gayly on, and grew to giant size, + Shielded by priestly power, and watched by priestly eyes. + + + XXIII. + + At last the earthquake came--the shock, that hurled + To dust, in many fragments dashed and strown, + The throne, whose roots were in another world, + And whose far-stretching shadow awed our own. + From many a proud monastic pile, o'erthrown, + Fear-struck, the hooded inmates rushed and fled; + The web, that for a thousand years had grown + O'er prostrate Europe, in that day of dread + Crumbled and fell, as fire dissolves the flaxen thread. + + + XXIV. + + The spirit of that day is still awake, + And spreads himself, and shall not sleep again; + But through the idle mesh of power shall break + Like billows o'er the Asian monarch's chain; + Till men are filled with him, and feel how vain, + Instead of the pure heart and innocent hands, + Are all the proud and pompous modes to gain + The smile of Heaven;--till a new age expands + Its white and holy wings above the peaceful lands. + + + XXV. + + For look again on the past years;--behold, + How like the nightmare's dreams have flown away + Horrible forms of worship, that, of old, + Held, o'er the shuddering realms, unquestioned sway: + See crimes, that feared not once the eye of day, + Rooted from men, without a name or place: + See nations blotted out from earth, to pay + The forfeit of deep guilt;--with glad embrace + The fair disburdened lands welcome a nobler race. + + + XXVI. + + Thus error's monstrous shapes from earth are driven; + They fade, they fly--but Truth survives their flight; + Earth has no shades to quench that beam of heaven; + Each ray that shone, in early time, to light + The faltering footstep in the path of right, + Each gleam of clearer brightness shed to aid + In man's maturer day his bolder sight, + All blended, like the rainbow's radiant braid, + Pour yet, and still shall pour, the blaze that cannot fade. + + + XXVII. + + Late, from this Western shore, that morning chased + The deep and ancient night, which threw its shroud + O'er the green land of groves, the beautiful waste, + Nurse of full streams, and lifter-up of proud + Sky-mingling mountains that o'erlook the cloud. + Erewhile, where yon gay spires their brightness rear, + Trees waved, and the brown hunter's shouts were loud + Amid the forest; and the bounding deer + Fled at the glancing plume, and the gaunt wolf yelled near. + + + XXVIII. + + And where his willing waves yon bright blue bay + Sends up, to kiss his decorated brim, + And cradles, in his soft embrace, the gay + Young group of grassy islands born of him, + And crowding nigh, or in the distance dim, + Lifts the white throng of sails, that bear or bring + The commerce of the world;--with tawny limb, + And belt and beads in sunlight glistening, + The savage urged his skiff like wild bird on the wing. + + + XXIX. + + Then all this youthful paradise around, + And all the broad and boundless mainland, lay + Cooled by the interminable wood, that frowned + O'er mount and vale, where never summer ray + Glanced, till the strong tornado broke his way + Through the gray giants of the sylvan wild; + Yet many a sheltered glade, with blossoms gay + Beneath the showery sky and sunshine mild, + Within the shaggy arms of that dark forest smiled. + + + XXX. + + There stood the Indian hamlet, there the lake + Spread its blue sheet that flashed with many an oar, + Where the brown otter plunged him from the brake, + And the deer drank: as the light gale flew o'er, + The twinkling maize-field rustled on the shore; + And while that spot, so wild, and lone, and fair, + A look of glad and guiltless beauty wore, + And peace was on the earth and in the air, + The warrior lit the pile, and bound his captive there. + + + XXXI. + + Not unavenged--the foeman, from the wood, + Beheld the deed, and, when the midnight shade + Was stillest, gorged his battle-axe with blood; + All died--the wailing babe--the shrinking maid + And in the flood of fire that scathed the glade, + The roofs went down; but deep the silence grew, + When on the dewy woods the day-beam played; + No more the cabin-smokes rose wreathed and blue, + And ever, by their lake, lay moored the bark canoe. + + + XXXII. + + Look now abroad--another race has filled + These populous borders--wide the wood recedes, + And towns shoot up, and fertile realms are tilled; + The land is full of harvests and green meads; + Streams numberless, that many a fountain feeds, + Shine, disembowered, and give to sun and breeze + Their virgin waters; the full region leads + New colonies forth, that toward the western seas + Spread, like a rapid flame among the autumnal trees. + + + XXXIII. + + Here the free spirit of mankind, at length, + Throws its last fetters off; and who shall place + A limit to the giant's unchained strength, + Or curb his swiftness in the forward race? + On, like the comet's way through infinite space. + Stretches the long untravelled path of light, + Into the depths of ages; we may trace, + Afar, the brightening glory of its flight, + Till the receding rays are lost to human sight. + + + XXXIV. + + Europe is given a prey to sterner fates, + And writhes in shackles; strong the arms that chain + To earth her struggling multitude of states; + She too is strong, and might not chafe in vain + Against them, but might cast to earth the train + That trample her, and break their iron net. + Yes, she shall look on brighter days and gain + The meed of worthier deeds; the moment set + To rescue and raise up, draws near--but is not yet. + + + XXXV. + + But thou, my country, thou shalt never fall, + Save with thy children--thy maternal care, + Thy lavish love, thy blessings showered on all-- + These are thy fetters--seas and stormy air + Are the wide barrier of thy borders, where, + Among thy gallant sons who guard thee well, + Thou laugh'st at enemies: who shall then declare + The date of thy deep-founded strength, or tell + How happy, in thy lap, the sons of men shall dwell? + + + + + THANATOPSIS. + + + To him who in the love of Nature holds + Communion with her visible forms, she speaks + A various language; for his gayer hours + She has a voice of gladness, and a smile + And eloquence of beauty, and she glides + Into his darker musings, with a mild + And healing sympathy, that steals away + Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts + Of the last bitter hour come like a blight + Over thy spirit, and sad images + Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall, + And breathless darkness, and the narrow house, + Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart;-- + Go forth, under the open sky, and list + To Nature's teachings, while from all around-- + Earth and her waters, and the depths of air-- + Comes a still voice--Yet a few days, and thee + The all-beholding sun shall see no more + In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground, + Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears, + Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist + Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim + Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again, + And, lost each human trace, surrendering up + Thine individual being, shalt thou go + To mix for ever with the elements, + To be a brother to the insensible rock + And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain + Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak + Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould. + + Yet not to thine eternal resting-place + Shalt thou retire alone, nor couldst thou wish + Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down + With patriarchs of the infant world--with kings, + The powerful of the earth--the wise, the good, + Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past, + All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills + Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun,--the vales + Stretching in pensive quietness between; + The venerable woods--rivers that move + In majesty, and the complaining brooks + That make the meadows green; and, poured round all, + Old Ocean's gray and melancholy waste,-- + Are but the solemn decorations all + Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun, + The planets, all the infinite host of heaven, + Are shining on the sad abodes of death, + Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread + The globe are but a handful to the tribes + That slumber in its bosom.--- Take the wings + Of morning, pierce the Barcan wilderness, + Or lose thyself in the continuous woods + Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound, + Save his own dashings--yet the dead are there: + And millions in those solitudes, since first + The flight of years began, have laid them down + In their last sleep--the dead reign there alone, + So shalt thou rest, and what if thou withdraw + In silence from the living, and no friend + Take note of thy departure? All that breathe + Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh + When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care + Plod on, and each one as before will chase + His favorite phantom; yet all these shall leave + Their mirth and their employments, and shall come + And make their bed with thee. As the long train + Of ages glide away, the sons of men, + The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes + In the full strength of years, matron and maid, + The speechless babe, and the gray-headed man-- + Shall one by one be gathered to thy side, + By those, who in their turn shall follow them. + + So live, that when thy summons comes to join + The innumerable caravan, which moves + To that mysterious realm, where each shall take + His chamber in the silent halls of death, + Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night, + Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed + By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave, + Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch + About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams. + + + + + THE YELLOW VIOLET. + + + When beechen buds begin to swell, + And woods the blue-bird's warble know. + The yellow violet's modest bell + Peeps from the last year's leaves below. + + Ere russet fields their green resume, + Sweet flower, I love, in forest bare, + To meet thee, when thy faint perfume + Alone is in the virgin air. + + Of all her train, the hands of Spring + First plant thee in the watery mould. + And I have seen thee blossoming + Beside the snow-bank's edges cold. + + Thy parent sun, who bade thee view + Pale skies, and chilling moisture sip, + Has bathed thee in his own bright hue, + And streaked with jet thy glowing lip. + + Yet slight thy form, and low thy seat, + And earthward bent thy gentle eye, + Unapt the passing view to meet, + When loftier flowers are flaunting nigh. + + Oft, in the sunless April day, + Thy early smile has stayed my walk; + But midst the gorgeous blooms of May, + I passed thee on thy humble stalk. + + So they, who climb to wealth, forget + The friends in darker fortunes tried. + I copied them--but I regret + That I should ape the ways of pride. + + And when again the genial hour + Awakes the painted tribes of light, + I'll not o'erlook the modest flower + That made the woods of April bright. + + + + + INSCRIPTION FOR THE ENTRANCE TO A WOOD. + + + Stranger, if thou hast learned a truth which needs + No school of long experience, that the world + Is full of guilt and misery, and hast seen + Enough of all its sorrows, crimes, and cares, + To tire thee of it, enter this wild wood + And view the haunts of Nature. The calm shade + Shall bring a kindred calm, and the sweet breeze + That makes the green leaves dance, shall waft a balm + To thy sick heart. Thou wilt find nothing here + Of all that pained thee in the haunts of men, + And made thee loathe thy life. The primal curse + Fell, it is true, upon the unsinning earth, + But not in vengeance. God hath yoked to guilt + Her pale tormentor, misery. Hence, these shades + Are still the abodes of gladness; the thick roof + Of green and stirring branches is alive + And musical with birds, that sing and sport + In wantonness of spirit; while below + The squirrel, with raised paws and form erect, + Chirps merrily. Throngs of insects in the shade + Try their thin wings and dance in the warm beam + That waked them into life. Even the green trees + Partake the deep contentment; as they bend + To the soft winds, the sun from the blue sky + Looks in and sheds a blessing on the scene. + Scarce less the cleft-born wild-flower seems to enjoy + Existence, than the winged plunderer + That sucks its sweets. The mossy rocks themselves, + And the old and ponderous trunks of prostrate trees + That lead from knoll to knoll a causey rude + Or bridge the sunken brook, and their dark roots, + With all their earth upon them, twisting high, + Breathe fixed tranquillity. The rivulet + Sends forth glad sounds, and tripping o'er its bed + Of pebbly sands, or leaping down the rocks, + Seems, with continuous laughter, to rejoice + In its own being. Softly tread the marge, + Lest from her midway perch thou scare the wren + That dips her bill in water. The cool wind, + That stirs the stream in play, shall come to thee. + Like one that loves thee nor will let thee pass + Ungreeted, and shall give its light embrace. + + + + + SONG. + + + Soon as the glazed and gleaming snow + Reflects the day-dawn cold and clear, + The hunter of the West must go + In depth of woods to seek the deer. + + His rifle on his shoulder placed, + His stores of death arranged with skill, + His moccasins and snow-shoes laced-- + Why lingers he beside the hill? + + Far, in the dim and doubtful light, + Where woody slopes a valley leave, + He sees what none but lover might, + The dwelling of his Genevieve. + + And oft he turns his truant eye, + And pauses oft, and lingers near; + But when he marks the reddening sky, + He bounds away to hunt the deer. + + + + + TO A WATERFOWL. + + + Whither, midst falling dew, + While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, + Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue + Thy solitary way? + + Vainly the fowler's eye + Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, + As, darkly seen against the crimson sky, + Thy figure floats along. + + Seek'st thou the plashy brink + Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, + Or where the rocking billows rise and sink + On the chafed ocean-side? + + There is a Power whose care + Teaches thy way along that pathless coast-- + The desert and illimitable air-- + Lone wandering, but not lost. + + All day thy wings have fanned, + At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere, + Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land, + Though the dark night is near. + + And soon that toil shall end; + Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest, + And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend, + Soon, o'er thy sheltered nest. + + Thou'rt gone, the abyss of heaven + Hath swallowed up thy form; yet, on my heart + Deeply has sunk the lesson thou hast given, + And shall not soon depart. + + He who, from zone to zone, + Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, + In the long way that I must tread alone, + Will lead my steps aright. + + + + + GREEN RIVER. + + + When breezes are soft and skies are fair, + I steal an hour from study and care, + And hie me away to the woodland scene, + Where wanders the stream with waters of green, + As if the bright fringe of herbs on its brink + Had given their stain to the waves they drink; + And they, whose meadows it murmurs through, + Have named the stream from its own fair hue. + Yet pure its waters--its shallows are bright + With colored pebbles and sparkles of light, + And clear the depths where its eddies play, + And dimples deepen and whirl away, + And the plane-tree's speckled arms o'ershoot + The swifter current that mines its root, + Through whose shifting leaves, as you walk the hill, + The quivering glimmer of sun and rill + With a sudden flash on the eye is thrown, + Like the ray that streams from the diamond-stone. + Oh, loveliest there the spring days come, + With blossoms, and birds, and wild-bees' hum; + The flowers of summer are fairest there, + And freshest the breath of the summer air; + And sweetest the golden autumn day + In silence and sunshine glides away. + + Yet, fair as thou art, thou shunnest to glide, + Beautiful stream! by the village side; + But windest away from haunts of men, + To quiet valley and shaded glen; + And forest, and meadow, and slope of hill, + Around thee, are lonely, lovely, and still, + Lonely--save when, by thy rippling tides, + From thicket to thicket the angler glides; + Or the simpler comes, with basket and book, + For herbs of power on thy banks to look; + Or haply, some idle dreamer, like me, + To wander, and muse, and gaze on thee, + Still--save the chirp of birds that feed + On the river cherry and seedy reed, + And thy own wild music gushing out + With mellow murmur of fairy shout, + From dawn to the blush of another day, + Like traveller singing along his way. + + That fairy music I never hear, + Nor gaze on those waters so green and clear, + And mark them winding away from sight, + Darkened with shade or flashing with light, + While o'er them the vine to its thicket clings, + And the zephyr stoops to freshen his wings, + But I wish that fate had left me free + To wander these quiet haunts with thee, + Till the eating cares of earth should depart, + And the peace of the scene pass into my heart; + And I envy thy stream, as it glides along + Through its beautiful banks in a trance of song. + + Though forced to drudge for the dregs of men, + And scrawl strange words with the barbarous pen, + And mingle among the jostling crowd, + Where the sons of strife are subtle and loud-- + I often come to this quiet place, + To breathe the airs that ruffle thy face, + And gaze upon thee in silent dream, + For in thy lonely and lovely stream + An image of that calm life appears + That won my heart in my greener years. + + + + + A WINTER PIECE. + + + The time has been that these wild solitudes, + Yet beautiful as wild, were trod by me + Oftener than now; and when the ills of life + Had chafed my spirit--when the unsteady pulse + Beat with strange flutterings--I would wander forth + And seek the woods. The sunshine on my path + Was to me as a friend. The swelling hills, + The quiet dells retiring far between, + With gentle invitation to explore + Their windings, were a calm society + That talked with me and soothed me. Then the chant + Of birds, and chime of brooks, and soft caress + Of the fresh sylvan air, made me forget + The thoughts that broke my peace, and I began + To gather simples by the fountain's brink, + And lose myself in day-dreams. While I stood + In Nature's loneliness, I was with one + With whom I early grew familiar, one + Who never had a frown for me, whose voice + Never rebuked me for the hours I stole + From cares I loved not, but of which the world + Deems highest, to converse with her. When shrieked + The bleak November winds, and smote the woods, + And the brown fields were herbless, and the shades. + That met above the merry rivulet. + Were spoiled, I sought, I loved them still; they seemed + Like old companions in adversity. + Still there was beauty in my walks; the brook, + Bordered with sparkling frost-work, was as gay + As with its fringe of summer flowers. Afar, + The village with its spires, the path of streams + And dim receding valleys, hid before + By interposing trees, lay visible + Through the bare grove, and my familiar haunts + Seemed new to me. Nor was I slow to come + Among them, when the clouds, from their still skirts, + Had shaken down on earth the feathery snow, + And all was white. The pure keen air abroad, + Albeit it breathed no scent of herb, nor heard + Love-call of bird nor merry hum of bee, + Was not the air of death, Bright mosses crept + Over the spotted trunks, and the close buds, + That lay along the boughs, instinct with life, + Patient, and waiting the soft breath of Spring, + Feared not the piercing spirit of the North. + The snow-bird twittered on the beechen bough, + And 'neath the hemlock, whose thick branches bent + Beneath its bright cold burden, and kept dry + A circle, on the earth, of withered leaves, + The partridge found a shelter. Through the snow + The rabbit sprang away. The lighter track + Of fox, and the raccoon's broad path, were there, + Crossing each other. From his hollow tree + The squirrel was abroad, gathering the nuts + Just fallen, that asked the winter cold and sway + Of winter blast, to shake them from their hold. + + But Winter has yet brighter scenes--he boasts + Splendors beyond what gorgeous Summer knows; + Or Autumn with his many fruits, and woods + All flushed with many hues. Come when the rains + Have glazed the snow and clothed the trees with ice, + While the slant sun of February pours + Into the bowers a flood of light. Approach! + The incrusted surface shall upbear thy steps, + And the broad arching portals of the grove + Welcome thy entering. Look! the massy trunks + Are cased in the pure crystal; each light spray, + Nodding and tinkling in the breath of heaven, + Is studded with its trembling water-drops, + That glimmer with an amethystine light. + But round the parent-stem the long low boughs + Bend, in a glittering ring, and arbors hide + The glassy floor. Oh! you might deem the spot + The spacious cavern of some virgin mine, + Deep in the womb of earth--where the gems grow, + And diamonds put forth radiant rods and bud + With amethyst and topaz--and the place + Lit up, most royally, with the pure beam + That dwells in them. Or haply the vast hall + Of fairy palace, that outlasts the night, + And fades not in the glory of the sun;-- + Where crystal columns send forth slender shafts + And crossing arches; and fantastic aisles + Wind from the sight in brightness, and are lost + Among the crowded pillars. Raise thine eye; + Thou seest no cavern roof, no palace vault; + There the blue sky and the white drifting cloud + Look in. Again the wildered fancy dreams + Of spouting fountains, frozen as they rose, + And fixed, with all their branching jets, in air, + And all their sluices sealed. All, all is light; + Light without shade. But all shall pass away + With the next sun. From numberless vast trunks + Loosened, the crashing ice shall make a sound + Like the far roar of rivers, and the eve + Shall close o'er the brown woods as it was wont. + + And it is pleasant, when the noisy streams + Are just set free, and milder suns melt off + The plashy snow, save only the firm drift + In the deep glen or the close shade of pines-- + 'Tis pleasant to behold the wreaths of smoke + Roll up among the maples of the hill, + Where the shrill sound of youthful voices wakes + The shriller echo, as the clear pure lymph, + That from the wounded trees, in twinkling drops, + Falls, mid the golden brightness of the morn, + Is gathered in with brimming pails, and oft, + Wielded by sturdy hands, the stroke of axe + Makes the woods ring. Along the quiet air, + Come and float calmly off the soft light clouds, + Such as you see in summer, and the winds + Scarce stir the branches. Lodged in sunny cleft, + Where the cold breezes come not, blooms alone + The little wind-flower, whose just opened eye + Is blue as the spring heaven it gazes at-- + Startling the loiterer in the naked groves + With unexpected beauty, for the time + Of blossoms and green leaves is yet afar. + And ere it comes, the encountering winds shall oft + Muster their wrath again, and rapid clouds + Shade heaven, and bounding on the frozen earth + Shall fall their volleyed stores, rounded like hail + And white like snow, and the loud North again + Shall buffet the vexed forest in his rage. + + + + + THE WEST WIND. + + + Beneath the forest's skirt I rest, + Whose branching pines rise dark and high, + And hear the breezes of the West + Among the thread-like foliage sigh. + + Sweet Zephyr! why that sound of woe? + Is not thy home among the flowers? + Do not the bright June roses blow, + To meet thy kiss at morning hours? + + And lo! thy glorious realm outspread-- + Yon stretching valleys, green and gay, + And yon free hill-tops, o'er whose head + The loose white clouds are borne away. + + And there the full broad river runs, + And many a fount wells fresh and sweet, + To cool thee when the mid-day suns + Have made thee faint beneath their heat. + + Thou wind of joy, and youth, and love; + Spirit of the new-wakened year! + The sun in his blue realm above + Smooths a bright path when thou art here. + + In lawns the murmuring bee is heard, + The wooing ring-dove in the shade; + On thy soft breath, the new-fledged bird + Takes wing, half happy, half afraid. + + Ah! thou art like our wayward race;-- + When not a shade of pain or ill + Dims the bright smile of Nature's face, + Thou lov'st to sigh and murmur still. + + + + + THE BURIAL-PLACE. + + A FRAGMENT. + + + Erewhile, on England's pleasant shores, our sires + Left not their churchyards unadorned with shades + Or blossoms, but indulgent to the strong + And natural dread of man's last home, the grave, + Its frost and silence--they disposed around, + To soothe the melancholy spirit that dwelt + Too sadly on life's close, the forms and hues + Of vegetable beauty. There the yew, + Green ever amid the snows of winter, told + Of immortality, and gracefully + The willow, a perpetual mourner, drooped; + And there the gadding woodbine crept about, + And there the ancient ivy. From the spot + Where the sweet maiden, in her blossoming years + Cut off, was laid with streaming eyes, and hands + That trembled as they placed her there, the rose + Sprung modest, on bowed stalk, and better spoke + Her graces, than the proudest monument. + There children set about their playmate's grave + The pansy. On the infant's little bed, + Wet at its planting with maternal tears, + Emblem of early sweetness, early death, + Nestled the lowly primrose. Childless dames, + And maids that would not raise the reddened eye-- + Orphans, from whose young lids the light of joy + Fled early--silent lovers, who had given + All that they lived for to the arms of earth, + Came often, o'er the recent graves to strew + Their offerings, rue, and rosemary, and flowers. + + The pilgrim bands who passed the sea to keep + Their Sabbaths in the eye of God alone, + In his wide temple of the wilderness, + Brought not these simple customs of the heart + With them. It might be, while they laid their dead + By the vast solemn skirts of the old groves, + And the fresh virgin soil poured forth strange flowers + About their graves; and the familiar shades + Of their own native isle, and wonted blooms, + And herbs were wanting, which the pious hand + Might plant or scatter there, these gentle rites + Passed out of use. Now they are scarcely known, + And rarely in our borders may you meet + The tall larch, sighing in the burial-place, + Or willow, trailing low its boughs to hide + The gleaming marble. Naked rows of graves + And melancholy ranks of monuments + Are seen instead, where the coarse grass, between, + Shoots up its dull green spikes, and in the wind + Hisses, and the neglected bramble nigh, + Offers its berries to the schoolboy's hand, + In vain--they grow too near the dead. Yet here, + Nature, rebuking the neglect of man, + Plants often, by the ancient mossy stone, + The brier-rose, and upon the broken turf + That clothes the fresher grave, the strawberry plant + Sprinkles its swell with blossoms, and lays forth + Her ruddy, pouting fruit.... + + + + + "BLESSED ARE THEY THAT MOURN." + + + Oh, deem not they are blest alone + Whose lives a peaceful tenor keep; + The Power who pities man, hath shown + A blessing for the eyes that weep. + + The light of smiles shall fill again + The lids that overflow with tears; + And weary hours of woe and pain + Are promises of happier years. + + There is a day of sunny rest + For every dark and troubled night: + And grief may hide an evening guest, + But joy shall come with early light. + + And thou, who, o'er thy friend's low bier, + Dost shed the bitter drops like rain, + Hope that a brighter, happier sphere + Will give him to thy arms again. + + Nor let the good man's trust depart, + Though life its common gifts deny,-- + Though with a pierced and bleeding heart + And spurned of men, he goes to die. + + For God hath marked each sorrowing day + And numbered every secret tear, + And heaven's long age of bliss shall pay + For all his children suffer here. + + + + + "NO MAN KNOWETH HIS SEPULCHRE." + + + When he, who, from the scourge of wrong, + Aroused the Hebrew tribes to fly, + Saw the fair region, promised long, + And bowed him on the hills to die; + + God made his grave, to men unknown, + Where Moab's rocks a vale infold, + And laid the aged seer alone + To slumber while the world grows old. + + Thus still, whene'er the good and just + Close the dim eye on life and pain, + Heaven watches o'er their sleeping dust + Till the pure spirit comes again. + + Though nameless, trampled, and forgot, + His servant's humble ashes lie, + Yet God hath marked and sealed the spot, + To call its inmate to the sky. + + + + + A WALK AT SUNSET. + + + When insect wings are glistening in the beam + Of the low sun, and mountain-tops are bright, + Oh, let me, by the crystal valley-stream, + Wander amid the mild and mellow light; + And while the wood-thrush pipes his evening lay, + Give me one lonely hour to hymn the setting day. + + Oh, sun! that o'er the western mountains now + Go'st down in glory! ever beautiful + And blessed is thy radiance, whether thou + Colorest the eastern heaven and night-mist cool, + Till the bright day-star vanish, or on high + Climbest and streamest thy white splendors from mid-sky. + + Yet, loveliest are thy setting smiles, and fair, + Fairest of all that earth beholds, the hues, + That live among the clouds, and flush the air, + Lingering and deepening at the hour of dews. + Then softest gales are breathed, and softest heard + The plaining voice of streams, and pensive note of bird. + + They who here roamed, of yore, the forest wide, + Felt, by such charm, their simple bosoms won; + They deemed their quivered warrior, when he died, + Went to bright isles beneath the setting sun; + Where winds are aye at peace, and skies are fair, + And purple-skirted clouds curtain the crimson air. + + So, with the glories of the dying day, + Its thousand trembling lights and changing hues, + The memory of the brave who passed away + Tenderly mingled;--fitting hour to muse + On such grave theme, and sweet the dream that shed + Brightness and beauty round the destiny of the dead. + + For ages, on the silent forests here, + Thy beams did fall before the red man came + To dwell beneath them; in their shade the deer + Fed, and feared not the arrow's deadly aim. + Nor tree was felled, in all that world of woods, + Save by the beaver's tooth, or winds, or rush of floods. + + Then came the hunter tribes, and thou didst look, + For ages, on their deeds in the hard chase, + And well-fought wars; green sod and silver brook + Took the first stain of blood; before thy face + The warrior generations came and passed, + And glory was laid up for many an age to last. + + Now they are gone, gone as thy setting blaze + Goes down the west, while night is pressing on, + And with them the old tale of better days, + And trophies of remembered power, are gone. + Yon field that gives the harvest, where the plough + Strikes the white bone, is all that tells their story now. + + I stand upon their ashes in thy beam, + The offspring of another race, I stand, + Beside a stream they loved, this valley-stream; + And where the night-fire of the quivered band + Showed the gray oak by fits, and war-song rung, + I teach the quiet shades the strains of this new tongue. + + Farewell! but thou shalt come again--thy light + Must shine on other changes, and behold + The place of the thronged city still as night-- + States fallen--new empires built upon the old-- + But never shalt thou see these realms again + Darkened by boundless groves, and roamed by savage men. + + + + + HYMN TO DEATH. + + + Oh! could I hope the wise and pure in heart + Might hear my song without a frown, nor deem + My voice unworthy of the theme it tries,-- + I would take up the hymn to Death, and say + To the grim power, The world hath slandered thee + And mocked thee. On thy dim and shadowy brow + They place an iron crown, and call thee king + Of terrors, and the spoiler of the world, + Deadly assassin, that strik'st down the fair, + The loved, the good--that breathest on the lights + Of virtue set along the vale of life, + And they go out in darkness. I am come, + Not with reproaches, not with cries and prayers, + Such as have stormed thy stern, insensible ear + From the beginning; I am come to speak + Thy praises. True it is, that I have wept + Thy conquests, and may weep them yet again, + And thou from some I love wilt take a life + Dear to me as my own. Yet while the spell + Is on my spirit, and I talk with thee + In sight of all thy trophies, face to face, + Meet is it that my voice should utter forth + Thy nobler triumphs; I will teach the world + To thank thee. Who are thine accusers?--Who? + The living!--they who never felt thy power, + And know thee not. The curses of the wretch + Whose crimes are ripe, his sufferings when thy hand + Is on him, and the hour he dreads is come, + Are writ among thy praises. But the good-- + Does he whom thy kind hand dismissed to peace, + Upbraid the gentle violence that took off + His fetters, and unbarred his prison-cell? + + Raise then the hymn to Death. Deliverer! + God hath anointed thee to free the oppressed + And crush the oppressor. When the armed chief, + The conqueror of nations, walks the world, + And it is changed beneath his feet, and all + Its kingdoms melt into one mighty realm-- + Thou, while his head is loftiest and his heart + Blasphemes, imagining his own right hand + Almighty, thou dost set thy sudden grasp + Upon him, and the links of that strong chain + Which bound mankind are crumbled; thou dost break + Sceptre and crown, and beat his throne to dust. + Then the earth shouts with gladness, and her tribes + Gather within their ancient bounds again. + Else had the mighty of the olden time, + Nimrod, Sesostris, or the youth who feigned + His birth from Libyan Ammon, smitten yet + The nations with a rod of iron, and driven + Their chariot o'er our necks. Thou dost avenge, + In thy good time, the wrongs of those who know + No other friend. Nor dost thou interpose + Only to lay the sufferer asleep, + Where he who made him wretched troubles not + His rest--thou dost strike down his tyrant too. + Oh, there is joy when hands that held the scourge + Drop lifeless, and the pitiless heart is cold. + Thou too dost purge from earth its horrible + And old idolatries;--from the proud fanes + Each to his grave their priests go out, till none + Is left to teach their worship; then the fires + Of sacrifice are chilled, and the green moss + O'ercreeps their altars; the fallen images + Cumber the weedy courts, and for loud hymns, + Chanted by kneeling multitudes, the wind + Shrieks in the solitary aisles. When he + Who gives his life to guilt, and laughs at all + The laws that God or man has made, and round + Hedges his seat with power, and shines in wealth,-- + Lifts up his atheist front to scoff at Heaven, + And celebrates his shame in open day, + Thou, in the pride of all his crimes, cutt'st off + The horrible example. Touched by thine, + The extortioner's hard hand foregoes the gold + Wrung from the o'er-worn poor. The perjurer, + Whose tongue was lithe, e'en now, and voluble + Against his neighbor's life, and he who laughed + And leaped for joy to see a spotless fame + Blasted before his own foul calumnies, + Are smit with deadly silence. He, who sold + His conscience to preserve a worthless life, + Even while he hugs himself on his escape, + Trembles, as, doubly terrible, at length, + Thy steps o'ertake him, and there is no time + For parley, nor will bribes unclench thy grasp. + Oft, too, dost thou reform thy victim, long + Ere his last hour. And when the reveller, + Mad in the chase of pleasure, stretches on, + And strains each nerve, and clears the path of life + Like wind, thou point'st him to the dreadful goal, + And shak'st thy hour-glass in his reeling eye, + And check'st him in mid course. Thy skeleton hand + Shows to the faint of spirit the right path, + And he is warned, and fears to step aside. + Thou sett'st between the ruffian and his crime + Thy ghastly countenance, and his slack hand + Drops the drawn knife. But, oh, most fearfully + Dost thou show forth Heaven's justice, when thy shafts + Drink up the ebbing spirit--then the hard + Of heart and violent of hand restores + The treasure to the friendless wretch he wronged. + Then from the writhing bosom thou dost pluck + The guilty secret; lips, for ages sealed, + Are faithless to their dreadful trust at length, + And give it up; the felon's latest breath + Absolves the innocent man who bears his crime; + The slanderer, horror-smitten, and in tears, + Recalls the deadly obloquy he forged + To work his brother's ruin. Thou dost make + Thy penitent victim utter to the air + The dark conspiracy that strikes at life, + And aims to whelm the laws; ere yet the hour + Is come, and the dread sign of murder given. + + Thus, from the first of time, hast thou been found + On virtue's side; the wicked, but for thee, + Had been too strong for the good; the great of earth + Had crushed the weak for ever. Schooled in guile + For ages, while each passing year had brought + Its baneful lesson, they had filled the world + With their abominations; while its tribes, + Trodden to earth, imbruted, and despoiled, + Had knelt to them in worship; sacrifice + Had smoked on many an altar, temple-roofs + Had echoed with the blasphemous prayer and hymn: + But thou, the great reformer of the world, + Tak'st off the sons of violence and fraud + In their green pupilage, their lore half learned-- + Ere guilt had quite o'errun the simple heart + God gave them at their birth, and blotted out + His image. Thou dost mark them flushed with hope, + As on the threshold of their vast designs + Doubtful and loose they stand, and strik'st them down. + + * * * * * + + Alas! I little thought that the stern power, + Whose fearful praise I sang, would try me thus + Before the strain was ended. It must cease-- + For he is in his grave who taught my youth + The art of verse, and in the bud of life + Offered me to the Muses. Oh, cut off + Untimely! when thy reason in its strength, + Ripened by years of toil and studious search, + And watch of Nature's silent lessons, taught + Thy hand to practise best the lenient art + To which thou gavest thy laborious days, + And, last, thy life. And, therefore, when the earth + Received thee, tears were in unyielding eyes + And on hard cheeks, and they who deemed thy skill + Delayed their death-hour, shuddered and turned pale + When thou wert gone. This faltering verse, which thou + Shalt not, as wont, o'erlook, is all I have + To offer at thy grave--this--and the hope + To copy thy example, and to leave + A name of which the wretched shall not think + As of an enemy's, whom they forgive + As all forgive the dead. Rest, therefore, thou + Whose early guidance trained my infant steps-- + Rest, in the bosom of God, till the brief sleep + Of death is over, and a happier life + Shall dawn to waken thine insensible dust. + + Now thou art not--and yet the men whose guilt + Has wearied Heaven for vengeance--he who bears + False witness--he who takes the orphan's bread, + And robs the widow--he who spreads abroad + Polluted hands in mockery of prayer, + Are left to cumber earth. Shuddering I look + On what is written, yet I blot not out + The desultory numbers; let them stand, + The record of an idle revery. + + + + + THE MASSACRE AT SCIO. + + + Weep not for Scio's children slain; + Their blood, by Turkish falchions shed, + Sends not its cry to Heaven in vain + For vengeance on the murderer's head. + + Though high the warm red torrent ran + Between the flames that lit the sky, + Yet, for each drop, an armed man + Shall rise, to free the land, or die. + + And for each corpse, that in the sea + Was thrown, to feast the scaly herds, + A hundred of the foe shall be + A banquet for the mountain-birds. + + Stern rites and sad shall Greece ordain + To keep that day along her shore, + Till the last link of slavery's chain + Is shattered, to be worn no more. + + + + + THE INDIAN GIRL'S LAMENT. + + + An Indian girl was sitting where + Her lover, slain in battle, slept; + Her maiden veil, her own black hair, + Came down o'er eyes that wept; + And wildly, in her woodland tongue, + This sad and simple lay she sung: + + "I've pulled away the shrubs that grew + Too close above thy sleeping head, + And broke the forest-boughs that threw + Their shadows o'er thy bed, + That, shining from the sweet southwest, + The sunbeams might rejoice thy rest. + + "It was a weary, weary road + That led thee to the pleasant coast, + Where thou, in his serene abode, + Hast met thy father's ghost; + Where everlasting autumn lies + On yellow woods and sunny skies. + + "'Twas I the broidered mocsen made, + That shod thee for that distant land; + 'Twas I thy bow and arrows laid + Beside thy still cold hand; + Thy bow in many a battle bent, + Thy arrows never vainly sent. + + "With wampum-belts I crossed thy breast, + And wrapped thee in the bison's hide, + And laid the food that pleased thee best, + In plenty, by thy side, + And decked thee bravely, as became + A warrior of illustrious name. + + "Thou'rt happy now, for thou hast passed + The long dark journey of the grave, + And in the land of light, at last, + Hast joined the good and brave; + Amid the flushed and balmy air, + The bravest and the loveliest there. + + "Yet, oft to thine own Indian maid + Even there thy thoughts will earthward stray-- + To her who sits where thou wert laid, + And weeps the hours away, + Yet almost can her grief forget, + To think that thou dost love her yet. + + "And thou, by one of those still lakes + That in a shining cluster lie, + On which the south wind scarcely breaks + The image of the sky, + A bower for thee and me hast made + Beneath the many-colored shade. + + "And thou dost wait and watch to meet + My spirit sent to join the blessed, + And, wondering what detains my feet + From that bright land of rest, + Dost seem, in every sound, to hear + The rustling of my footsteps near." + + + + + ODE FOR AN AGRICULTURAL CELEBRATION. + + + Far back in the ages, + The plough with wreaths was crowned; + The hands of kings and sages + Entwined the chaplet round; + Till men of spoil disdained the toil + By which the world was nourished, + And dews of blood enriched the soil + Where green their laurels flourished. + --Now the world her fault repairs-- + The guilt that stains her story; + And weeps her crimes amid the cares + That formed her earliest glory. + + The proud throne shall crumble, + The diadem shall wane, + The tribes of earth shall humble + The pride of those who reign; + And War shall lay his pomp away;-- + The fame that heroes cherish, + The glory earned in deadly fray + Shall fade, decay, and perish. + Honor waits, o'er all the earth, + Through endless generations, + The art that calls her harvest forth, + And feeds th' expectant nations. + + + + +RIZPAH. + +And he delivered them into the hands of the Gibeonites, and they hanged +them in the hill before the Lord; and they fell all seven together, and +were put to death in the days of the harvest, in the first days, in the +beginning of barley-harvest. + +And Rizpah, the daughter of Aiah, took sackcloth, and spread it for her +upon the rock, from the beginning of harvest until the water dropped +upon them out of heaven, and suffered neither the birds of the air to +rest upon them by day, nor the beasts of the field by night. 2 SAMUEL, +xxi. 10. + + + Hear what the desolate Rizpah said, + As on Gibeah's rocks she watched the dead. + The sons of Michal before her lay, + And her own fair children, dearer than they: + By a death of shame they all had died, + And were stretched on the bare rock, side by side. + And Rizpah, once the loveliest of all + That bloomed and smiled in the court of Saul, + All wasted with watching and famine now, + And scorched by the sun her haggard brow, + Sat mournfully guarding their corpses there, + And murmured a strange and solemn air; + The low, heart-broken, and wailing strain + Of a mother that mourns her children slain: + + "I have made the crags my home, and spread + On their desert backs my sackcloth bed; + I have eaten the bitter herb of the rocks, + And drunk the midnight dew in my locks; + I have wept till I could not weep, and the pain + Of the burning eyeballs went to my brain. + Seven blackened corpses before me lie, + In the blaze of the sun and the winds of the sky. + I have watched them through the burning day, + And driven the vulture and raven away; + And the cormorant wheeled in circles round, + Yet feared to alight on the guarded ground. + And when the shadows of twilight came, + I have seen the hyena's eyes of flame, + And heard at my side his stealthy tread, + But aye at my shout the savage fled: + And I threw the lighted brand to fright + The jackal and wolf that yelled in the night. + + "Ye were foully murdered, my hapless sons, + By the hands of wicked and cruel ones; + Ye fell, in your fresh and blooming prime, + All innocent, for your father's crime. + He sinned--but he paid the price of his guilt + When his blood by a nameless hand was spilt; + When he strove with the heathen host in vain, + And fell with the flower of his people slain, + And the sceptre his children's hands should sway + From his injured lineage passed away. + + "But I hoped that the cottage-roof would be + A safe retreat for my sons and me; + And that while they ripened to manhood fast, + They should wean my thoughts from the woes of the past; + And my bosom swelled with a mother's pride, + As they stood in their beauty and strength by my side, + Tall like their sire, with the princely grace + Of his stately form, and the bloom of his face. + + "Oh, what an hour for a mother's heart, + When the pitiless ruffians tore us apart! + When I clasped their knees and wept and prayed, + And struggled and shrieked to Heaven for aid, + And clung to my sons with desperate strength, + Till the murderers loosed my hold at length, + And bore me breathless and faint aside, + In their iron arms, while my children died. + They died--and the mother that gave them birth + Is forbid to cover their bones with earth. + + "The barley-harvest was nodding white, + When my children died on the rocky height, + And the reapers were singing on hill and plain, + When I came to my task of sorrow and pain. + But now the season of rain is nigh, + The sun is dim in the thickening sky, + And the clouds in sullen darkness rest + Where he hides his light at the doors of the west. + I hear the howl of the wind that brings + The long drear storm on its heavy wings; + But the howling wind and the driving rain + Will beat on my houseless head in vain: + I shall stay, from my murdered sons to scare + The beasts of the desert, and fowls of air." + + + + + THE OLD MAN'S FUNERAL. + + + I saw an aged man upon his bier, + His hair was thin and white, and on his brow + A record of the cares of many a year;-- + Cares that were ended and forgotten now. + And there was sadness round, and faces bowed, + And woman's tears fell fast, and children wailed aloud. + + Then rose another hoary man and said, + In faltering accents, to that weeping train: + "Why mourn ye that our aged friend is dead? + Ye are not sad to see the gathered grain, + Nor when their mellow fruit the orchards cast, + Nor when the yellow woods let fall the ripened mast. + + "Ye sigh not when the sun, his course fulfilled, + His glorious course, rejoicing earth and sky, + In the soft evening, when the winds are stilled, + Sinks where his islands of refreshment lie, + And leaves the smile of his departure, spread + O'er the warm-colored heaven and ruddy mountain head. + + "Why weep ye then for him, who, having won + The bound of man's appointed years, at last, + Life's blessings all enjoyed, life's labors done, + Serenely to his final rest has passed; + While the soft memory of his virtues, yet, + Lingers like twilight hues, when the bright sun is set? + + "His youth was innocent; his riper age + Marked with some act of goodness every day; + And watched by eyes that loved him, calm and sage, + Faded his late declining years away. + Meekly he gave his being up, and went + To share the holy rest that waits a life well spent. + + "That life was happy; every day he gave + Thanks for the fair existence that was his; + For a sick fancy made him not her slave, + To mock him with her phantom miseries. + No chronic tortures racked his aged limb, + For luxury and sloth had nourished none for him. + + "And I am glad that he has lived thus long, + And glad that he has gone to his reward; + Nor can I deem that Nature did him wrong, + Softly to disengage the vital cord. + For when his hand grew palsied, and his eye + Dark with the mists of age, it was his time to die." + + + + + THE RIVULET. + + + This little rill, that from the springs + Of yonder grove its current brings, + Plays on the slope awhile, and then + Goes prattling into groves again, + Oft to its warbling waters drew + My little feet, when life was new. + When woods in early green were dressed, + And from the chambers of the west + The warm breezes, travelling out, + Breathed the new scent of flowers about, + My truant steps from home would stray, + Upon its grassy side to play, + List the brown thrasher's vernal hymn, + And crop the violet on its brim, + With blooming cheek and open brow, + As young and gay, sweet rill, as thou. + + And when the days of boyhood came, + And I had grown in love with fame, + Duly I sought thy banks, and tried + My first rude numbers by thy side. + Words cannot tell how bright and gay + The scenes of life before me lay. + Then glorious hopes, that now to speak + Would bring the blood into my cheek, + Passed o'er me; and I wrote, on high, + A name I deemed should never die. + + Years change thee not. Upon yon hill + The tall old maples, verdant still, + Yet tell, in grandeur of decay, + How swift the years have passed away, + Since first, a child, and half afraid, + I wandered in the forest shade. + Thou, ever-joyous rivulet, + Dost dimple, leap, and prattle yet; + And sporting with the sands that pave + The windings of thy silver wave, + And dancing to thy own wild chime, + Thou laughest at the lapse of time. + The same sweet sounds are in my ear + My early childhood loved to hear; + As pure thy limpid waters run; + As bright they sparkle to the sun; + As fresh and thick the bending ranks + Of herbs that line thy oozy banks; + The violet there, in soft May dew, + Comes up, as modest and as blue; + As green amid thy current's stress, + Floats the scarce-rooted watercress; + And the brown ground-bird, in thy glen, + Still chirps as merrily as then. + + Thou changest not--but I am changed + Since first thy pleasant banks I ranged; + And the grave stranger, come to see + The play-place of his infancy, + Has scarce a single trace of him + Who sported once upon thy brim. + The visions of my youth are past-- + Too bright, too beautiful to last. + I've tried the world--it wears no more + The coloring of romance it wore. + Yet well has Nature kept the truth + She promised in my earliest youth. + The radiant beauty shed abroad + On all the glorious works of God, + Shows freshly, to my sobered eye, + Each charm it wore in days gone by. + + Yet a few years shall pass away, + And I, all trembling, weak, and gray, + Bowed to the earth, which waits to fold + My ashes in the embracing mould, + (If haply the dark will of Fate + Indulge my life so long a date), + May come for the last time to look + Upon my childhood's favorite brook. + Then dimly on my eye shall gleam + The sparkle of thy dancing stream; + And faintly on my ear shall fall + Thy prattling current's merry call; + Yet shalt thou flow as glad and bright + As when thou met'st my infant sight. + + And I shall sleep--and on thy side, + As ages after ages glide, + Children their early sports shall try, + And pass to hoary age and die. + But thou, unchanged from year to year, + Gayly shalt play and glitter here; + Amid young flowers and tender grass + Thy endless infancy shall pass; + And, singing down thy narrow glen, + Shalt mock the fading race of men. + + + + + MARCH. + + + The stormy March is come at last, + With wind, and cloud, and changing skies; + I hear the rushing of the blast, + That through the snowy valley flies. + + Ah, passing few are they who speak, + Wild, stormy month! in praise of thee; + Yet though thy winds are loud and bleak, + Thou art a welcome month to me. + + For thou, to northern lands, again + The glad and glorious sun dost bring, + And thou hast joined the gentle train + And wear'st the gentle name of Spring. + + And, in thy reign of blast and storm, + Smiles many a long, bright, sunny day, + When the changed winds are soft and warm, + And heaven puts on the blue of May. + + Then sing aloud the gushing rills + In joy that they again are free, + And, brightly leaping down the hills, + Renew their journey to the sea. + + The year's departing beauty hides + Of wintry storms the sullen threat; + But in thy sternest frown abides + A look of kindly promise yet. + + Thou bring'st the hope of those calm skies, + And that soft time of sunny showers, + When the wide bloom, on earth that lies, + Seems of a brighter world than ours. + + + + + CONSUMPTION. + + + Ay, thou art for the grave; thy glances shine + Too brightly to shine long; another Spring + Shall deck her for men's eyes--but not for thine-- + Sealed in a sleep which knows no wakening. + The fields for thee have no medicinal leaf, + And the vexed ore no mineral of power; + And they who love thee wait in anxious grief + Till the slow plague shall bring the fatal hour. + Glide softly to thy rest then; Death should come + Gently, to one of gentle mould like thee, + As light winds wandering through groves of bloom + Detach the delicate blossom from the tree. + Close thy sweet eyes, calmly, and without pain; + And we will trust in God to see thee yet again. + + + + + AN INDIAN STORY. + + + "I know where the timid fawn abides + In the depths of the shaded dell, + Where the leaves are broad and the thicket hides, + With its many stems and its tangled sides, + From the eye of the hunter well. + + "I know where the young May violet grows, + In its lone and lowly nook, + On the mossy bank, where the larch-tree throws + Its broad dark bough, in solemn repose, + Far over the silent brook. + + "And that timid fawn starts not with fear + When I steal to her secret bower; + And that young May violet to me is dear, + And I visit the silent streamlet near, + To look on the lovely flower." + + Thus Maquon sings as he lightly walks + To the hunting-ground on the hills; + 'Tis a song of his maid of the woods and rocks, + With her bright black eyes and long black locks, + And voice like the music of rills. + + He goes to the chase--but evil eyes + Are at watch in the thicker shades; + For she was lovely that smiled on his sighs, + And he bore, from a hundred lovers, his prize, + The flower of the forest maids. + + The boughs in the morning wind are stirred, + And the woods their song renew, + With the early carol of many a bird, + And the quickened tune of the streamlet heard + Where the hazels trickle with dew. + + And Maquon has promised his dark-haired maid, + Ere eve shall redden the sky, + A good red deer from the forest shade, + That bounds with the herd through grove and glade, + At her cabin-door shall lie. + + The hollow woods, in the setting sun, + Ring shrill with the fire-bird's lay; + And Maquon's sylvan labors are done, + And his shafts are spent, but the spoil they won + He bears on his homeward way. + + He stops near his bower--his eye perceives + Strange traces along the ground-- + At once to the earth his burden he heaves; + He breaks through the veil of boughs and leaves; + And gains its door with a bound. + + But the vines are torn on its walls that leant, + And all from the young shrubs there + By struggling hands have the leaves been rent, + And there hangs on the sassafras, broken and bent, + One tress of the well-known hair. + + But where is she who, at this calm hour, + Ever watched his coming to see? + She is not at the door, nor yet in the bower; + He calls--but he only hears on the flower + The hum of the laden bee. + + It is not a time for idle grief, + Nor a time for tears to flow; + The horror that freezes his limbs is brief-- + He grasps his war-axe and bow, and a sheaf + Of darts made sharp for the foe. + + And he looks for the print of the ruffian's feet + Where he bore the maiden away; + And he darts on the fatal path more fleet + Than the blast hurries the vapor and sleet + O'er the wild November day. + + 'Twas early summer when Maquon's bride + Was stolen away from his door; + But at length the maples in crimson are dyed, + And the grape is black on the cabin-side-- + And she smiles at his hearth once more. + + But far in the pine-grove, dark and cold, + Where the yellow leaf falls not, + Nor the autumn shines in scarlet and gold, + There lies a hillock of fresh dark mould, + In the deepest gloom of the spot. + + And the Indian girls, that pass that way, + Point out the ravisher's grave; + "And how soon to the bower she loved," they say, + "Returned the maid that was borne away + From Maquon, the fond and the brave." + + + + + SUMMER WIND. + + + It is a sultry day; the sun has drunk + The dew that lay upon the morning grass; + There is no rustling in the lofty elm + That canopies my dwelling, and its shade + Scarce cools me. All is silent, save the faint + And interrupted murmur of the bee, + Settling on the sick flowers, and then again + Instantly on the wing. The plants around + Feel the too potent fervors: the tall maize + Rolls up its long green leaves; the clover droops + Its tender foliage, and declines its blooms. + But far in the fierce sunshine tower the hills, + With all their growth of woods, silent and stern, + As if the scorching heat and dazzling light + Were but an element they loved. Bright clouds, + Motionless pillars of the brazen heaven-- + Their bases on the mountains--their white tops + Shining in the far ether--fire the air + With a reflected radiance, and make turn + The gazer's eye away. For me, I lie + Languidly in the shade, where the thick turf, + Yet virgin from the kisses of the sun, + Retains some freshness, and I woo the wind + That still delays his coming. Why so slow, + Gentle and voluble spirit of the air? + Oh, come and breathe upon the fainting earth + Coolness and life. Is it that in his caves + He hears me? See, on yonder woody ridge, + The pine is bending his proud top, and now + Among the nearer groves, chestnut and oak + Are tossing their green boughs about. He comes; + Lo, where the grassy meadow runs in waves! + The deep distressful silence of the scene + Breaks up with mingling of unnumbered sounds + And universal motion. He is come, + Shaking a shower of blossoms from the shrubs, + And bearing on their fragrance; and he brings + Music of birds, and rustling of young boughs, + And sound of swaying branches, and the voice + Of distant waterfalls. All the green herbs + Are stirring in his breath; a thousand flowers, + By the road-side and the borders of the brook, + Nod gayly to each other; glossy leaves + Are twinkling in the sun, as if the dew + Were on them yet, and silver waters break + Into small waves and sparkle as he comes. + + + + + AN INDIAN AT THE BURIAL-PLACE OF HIS + FATHERS. + + + It is the spot I came to seek-- + My father's ancient burial-place, + Ere from these vales, ashamed and weak, + Withdrew our wasted race. + It is the spot--I know it well--- + Of which our old traditions tell. + + For here the upland bank sends out + A ridge toward the river-side; + I know the shaggy hills about, + The meadows smooth and wide, + The plains, that, toward the southern sky, + Fenced east and west by mountains lie. + + A white man, gazing on the scene, + Would say a lovely spot was here, + And praise the lawns, so fresh and green, + Between the hills so sheer. + I like it not--I would the plain + Lay in its tall old groves again. + + The sheep are on the slopes around, + The cattle in the meadows feed, + And laborers turn the crumbling ground, + Or drop the yellow seed, + And prancing steeds, in trappings gay, + Whirl the bright chariot o'er the way. + + Methinks it were a nobler sight + To see these vales in woods arrayed, + Their summits in the golden light, + Their trunks in grateful shade, + And herds of deer that bounding go + O'er hills and prostrate trees below. + + And then to mark the lord of all, + The forest hero, trained to wars, + Quivered and plumed, and lithe and tall, + And seamed with glorious scars, + Walk forth, amid his reign, to dare + The wolf, and grapple with the bear. + + This bank, in which the dead were laid, + Was sacred when its soil was ours; + Hither the silent Indian maid + Brought wreaths of beads and flowers, + And the gray chief and gifted seer + Worshipped the god of thunders here. + + But now the wheat is green and high + On clods that hid the warrior's breast, + And scattered in the furrows lie + The weapons of his rest; + And there, in the loose sand, is thrown + Of his large arm the mouldering bone. + + Ah, little thought the strong and brave + Who bore their lifeless chieftain forth-- + Or the young wife that weeping gave + Her first-born to the earth, + That the pale race, who waste us now, + Among their bones should guide the plough. + + They waste us--ay--like April snow + In the warm noon, we shrink away; + And fast they follow, as we go + Toward the setting day-- + Till they shall fill the land, and we + Are driven into the Western sea. + + But I behold a fearful sign, + To which the white men's eyes are blind; + Their race may vanish hence, like mine, + And leave no trace behind, + Save ruins o'er the region spread, + And the white stones above the dead. + + Before these fields were shorn and tilled, + Full to the brim our rivers flowed; + The melody of waters filled + The fresh and boundless wood; + And torrents dashed and rivulets played, + And fountains spouted in the shade. + + Those grateful sounds are heard no more, + The springs are silent in the sun; + The rivers, by the blackened shore, + With lessening current run; + The realm our tribes are crushed to get + May be a barren desert yet. + + + + + SONG. + + + Dost thou idly ask to hear + At what gentle seasons + Nymphs relent, when lovers near + Press the tenderest reasons? + Ah, they give their faith too oft + To the careless wooer; + Maidens' hearts are always soft: + Would that men's were truer! + + Woo the fair one when around + Early birds are singing; + When, o'er all the fragrant ground, + Early herbs are springing: + When the brookside, bank, and grove, + All with blossoms laden, + Shine with beauty, breathe of love,-- + Woo the timid maiden. + + Woo her when, with rosy blush, + Summer eve is sinking; + When, on rills that softly gush, + Stars are softly winking; + When through boughs that knit the bower + Moonlight gleams are stealing; + Woo her, till the gentle hour + Wake a gentler feeling. + + Woo her when autumnal dyes + Tinge the woody mountain; + When the dropping foliage lies + In the weedy fountain; + Let the scene, that tells how fast + Youth is passing over, + Warn her, ere her bloom is past, + To secure her lover. + + Woo her when the north winds call + At the lattice nightly; + When, within the cheerful hall, + Blaze the fagots brightly; + While the wintry tempest round + Sweeps the landscape hoary, + Sweeter in her ear shall sound + Love's delightful story. + + + + + HYMN OF THE WALDENSES. + + + Hear, Father, hear thy faint afflicted flock + Cry to thee, from the desert and the rock; + While those, who seek to slay thy children, hold + Blasphemous worship under roofs of gold; + And the broad goodly lands, with pleasant airs + That nurse the grape and wave the grain, are theirs. + + Yet better were this mountain wilderness, + And this wild life of danger and distress-- + Watchings by night and perilous flight by day, + And meetings in the depths of earth to pray-- + Better, far better, than to kneel with them, + And pay the impious rite thy laws condemn. + + Thou, Lord, dost hold the thunder; the firm land + Tosses in billows when it feels thy hand; + Thou dashest nation against nation, then + Stillest the angry world to peace again. + Oh, touch their stony hearts who hunt thy sons-- + The murderers of our wives and little ones. + + Yet, mighty God, yet shall thy frown look forth + Unveiled, and terribly shall shake the earth. + Then the foul power of priestly sin and all + Its long-upheld idolatries shall fall. + Thou shalt raise up the trampled and oppressed, + And thy delivered saints shall dwell in rest. + + + + + MONUMENT MOUNTAIN. + + + Thou who wouldst see the lovely and the wild + Mingled in harmony on Nature's face, + Ascend our rocky mountains. Let thy foot + Fail not with weariness, for on their tops + The beauty and the majesty of earth, + Spread wide beneath, shall make thee to forget + The steep and toilsome way. There, as thou stand'st, + The haunts of men below thee, and around + The mountain-summits, thy expanding heart + Shall feel a kindred with that loftier world + To which thou art translated, and partake + The enlargement of thy vision. Thou shalt look + Upon the green and rolling forest-tops, + And down into the secrets of the glens, + And streams that with their bordering thickets strive + To hide their windings. Thou shalt gaze, at once, + Here on white villages, and tilth, and herds, + And swarming roads, and there on solitudes + That only hear the torrent, and the wind, + And eagle's shriek. There is a precipice + That seems a fragment of some mighty wall, + Built by the hand that fashioned the old world, + To separate its nations, and thrown down + When the flood drowned them. To the north, a path + Conducts you up the narrow battlement. + Steep is the western side, shaggy and wild + With mossy trees, and pinnacles of flint, + And many a hanging crag. But, to the east, + Sheer to the vale go down the bare old cliffs-- + Huge pillars, that in middle heaven upbear + Their weather-beaten capitals, here dark + With moss, the growth of centuries, and there + Of chalky whiteness where the thunderbolt + Has splintered them. It is a fearful thing + To stand upon the beetling verge, and see + Where storm and lightning, from that huge gray wall, + Have tumbled down vast blocks, and at the base + Dashed them in fragments, and to lay thine ear + Over the dizzy depth, and hear the sound + Of winds, that struggle with the woods below, + Come up like ocean murmurs. But the scene + Is lovely round; a beautiful river there + Wanders amid the fresh and fertile meads, + The paradise he made unto himself, + Mining the soil for ages. On each side + The fields swell upward to the hills; beyond, + Above the hills, in the blue distance, rise + The mountain-columns with which earth props heaven. + + There is a tale about these reverend rocks, + A sad tradition of unhappy love, + And sorrows borne and ended, long ago, + When over these fair vales the savage sought + His game in the thick woods. There was a maid, + The fairest of the Indian maids, bright-eyed, + With wealth of raven tresses, a light form, + And a gay heart. About her cabin-door + The wide old woods resounded with her song + And fairy laughter all the summer day. + She loved her cousin; such a love was deemed, + By the morality of those stern tribes, + Incestuous, and she struggled hard and long + Against her love, and reasoned with her heart, + As simple Indian maiden might. In vain. + Then her eye lost its lustre, and her step + Its lightness, and the gray-haired men that passed + Her dwelling, wondered that they heard no more + The accustomed song and laugh of her, whose looks + Were like the cheerful smile of Spring, they said, + Upon the Winter of their age. She went + To weep where no eye saw, and was not found + Where all the merry girls were met to dance, + And all the hunters of the tribe were out; + Nor when they gathered from the rustling husk + The shining ear; nor when, by the river's side, + They pulled the grape and startled the wild shades + With sounds of mirth. The keen-eyed Indian dames + Would whisper to each other, as they saw + Her wasting form, and say, _The girl will die_. + + One day into the bosom of a friend, + A playmate of her young and innocent years, + She poured her griefs. "Thou know'st, and thou alone," + She said, "for I have told thee, all my love, + And guilt, and sorrow. I am sick of life. + All night I weep in darkness, and the morn + Glares on me, as upon a thing accursed, + That has no business on the earth. I hate + The pastimes and the pleasant toils that once + I loved; the cheerful voices of my friends + Sound in my ear like mockings, and, at night, + In dreams, my mother, from the land of souls, + Calls me and chides me. All that look on me + Do seem to know my shame; I cannot bear + Their eyes; I cannot from my heart root out + The love that wrings it so, and I must die." + + It was a summer morning, and they went + To this old precipice. About the cliffs + Lay garlands, ears of maize, and shaggy skins + Of wolf and bear, the offerings of the tribe + Here made to the Great Spirit, for they deemed, + Like worshippers of the elder time, that God + Doth walk on the high places and affect + The earth-o'erlooking mountains. She had on + The ornaments with which her father loved + To deck the beauty of his bright-eyed girl, + And bade her wear when stranger warriors came + To be his guests. Here the friends sat them down, + And sang, all day, old songs of love and death, + And decked the poor wan victim's hair with flowers, + And prayed that safe and swift might be her way + To the calm world of sunshine, where no grief + Makes the heart heavy and the eyelids red. + Beautiful lay the region of her tribe + Below her--waters resting in the embrace + Of the wide forest, and maize-planted glades + Opening amid the leafy wilderness. + She gazed upon it long, and at the sight + Of her own village peeping through the trees, + And her own dwelling, and the cabin roof + Of him she loved with an unlawful love, + And came to die for, a warm gush of tears + Ran from her eyes. But when the sun grew low + And the hill shadows long, she threw herself + From the steep rock and perished. There was scooped, + Upon the mountain's southern slope, a grave; + And there they laid her, in the very garb + With which the maiden decked herself for death, + With the same withering wild-flowers in her hair. + And o'er the mould that covered her, the tribe + Built up a simple monument, a cone + Of small loose stones. Thenceforward all who passed, + Hunter, and dame, and virgin, laid a stone + In silence on the pile. It stands there yet. + And Indians from the distant West, who come + To visit where their fathers' bones are laid, + Yet tell the sorrowful tale, and to this day + The mountain where the hapless maiden died + Is called the Mountain of the Monument. + + + + + AFTER A TEMPEST. + + + The day had been a day of wind and storm, + The wind was laid, the storm was overpast, + And stooping from the zenith, bright and warm, + Shone the great sun on the wide earth at last. + I stood upon the upland slope, and cast + Mine eye upon a broad and beauteous scene, + Where the vast plain lay girt by mountains vast, + And hills o'er hills lifted their heads of green, + With pleasant vales scooped out and villages between. + + The rain-drops glistened on the trees around, + Whose shadows on the tall grass were not stirred, + Save when a shower of diamonds, to the ground, + Was shaken by the flight of startled bird; + For birds were warbling round, and bees were heard + About the flowers; the cheerful rivulet sung + And gossiped, as he hastened oceanward; + To the gray oak the squirrel, chiding, clung, + And chirping from the ground the grasshopper upsprung. + + And from beneath the leaves that kept them dry + Flew many a glittering insect here and there, + And darted up and down the butterfly, + That seemed a living blossom of the air, + The flocks came scattering from the thicket, where + The violent rain had pent them; in the way + Strolled groups of damsels frolicsome and fair; + The farmer swung the scythe or turned the hay, + And 'twixt the heavy swaths his children were at play. + + It was a scene of peace--and, like a spell, + Did that serene and golden sunlight fall + Upon the motionless wood that clothed the fell, + And precipice upspringing like a wall, + And glassy river and white waterfall, + And happy living things that trod the bright + And beauteous scene; while far beyond them all, + On many a lovely valley, out of sight, + Was poured from the blue heavens the same soft golden light. + + I looked, and thought the quiet of the scene + An emblem of the peace that yet shall be, + When o'er earth's continents, and isles between, + The noise of war shall cease from sea to sea, + And married nations dwell in harmony; + When millions, crouching in the dust to one, + No more shall beg their lives on bended knee, + Nor the black stake be dressed, nor in the sun + The o'erlabored captive toil, and wish his life were done. + + Too long, at clash of arms amid her bowers + And pools of blood, the earth has stood aghast, + The fair earth, that should only blush with flowers + And ruddy fruits; but not for aye can last + The storm, and sweet the sunshine when 'tis past. + Lo, the clouds roll away--they break--they fly, + And, like the glorious light of summer, cast + O'er the wide landscape from the embracing sky, + On all the peaceful world the smile of heaven shall lie. + + + + + AUTUMN WOODS. + + + Ere, in the northern gale, + The summer tresses of the trees are gone, + The woods of Autumn, all around our vale, + Have put their glory on. + + The mountains that infold, + In their wide sweep, the colored landscape round, + Seem groups of giant kings, in purple and gold, + That guard the enchanted ground. + + I roam the woods that crown + The uplands, where the mingled splendors glow, + Where the gay company of trees look down + On the green fields below. + + My steps are not alone + In these bright walks; the sweet southwest, at play, + Flies, rustling, where the painted leaves are strown + Along the winding way. + + And far in heaven, the while, + The sun, that sends that gale to wander here, + Pours out on the fair earth his quiet smile-- + The sweetest of the year. + + Where now the solemn shade, + Verdure and gloom where many branches meet; + So grateful, when the noon of summer made + The valleys sick with heat? + + Let in through all the trees + Come the strange rays; the forest depths are bright; + Their sunny colored foliage, in the breeze, + Twinkles, like beams of light. + + The rivulet, late unseen, + Where bickering through the shrubs its waters run, + Shines with the image of its golden screen, + And glimmerings of the sun. + + But 'neath you crimson tree, + Lover to listening maid might breathe his flame, + Nor mark, within its roseate canopy, + Her blush of maiden shame. + + Oh, Autumn! why so soon + Depart the hues that make thy forests glad, + Thy gentle wind and thy fair sunny noon, + And leave thee wild and sad! + + Ah! 'twere a lot too blest + Forever in thy colored shades to stray; + Amid the kisses of the soft southwest + To roam and dream for aye; + + And leave the vain low strife + That makes men mad--the tug for wealth and power-- + The passions and the cares that wither life, + And waste its little hour. + + + + + MUTATION. + + + They talk of short-lived pleasure--be it so-- + Pain dies as quickly: stern, hard-featured pain + Expires, and lets her weary prisoner go. + The fiercest agonies have shortest reign; + And after dreams of horror, comes again + The welcome morning with its rays of peace. + Oblivion, softly wiping out the stain, + Makes the strong secret pangs of shame to cease: + Remorse is virtue's root; its fair increase + Are fruits of innocence and blessedness: + Thus joy, o'erborne and bound, doth still release + His young limbs from the chains that round him press. + Weep not that the world changes--did it keep + A stable, changeless state, 'twere cause indeed to weep. + + + + + NOVEMBER. + + + Yet one smile more, departing, distant sun! + One mellow smile through the soft vapory air, + Ere, o'er the frozen earth, the loud winds run, + Or snows are sifted o'er the meadows bare. + One smile on the brown hills and naked trees, + And the dark rocks whose summer wreaths are cast, + And the blue gentian-flower, that, in the breeze, + Nods lonely, of her beauteous race the last. + Yet a few sunny days, in which the bee + Shall murmur by the hedge that skirts the way, + The cricket chirp upon the russet lea, + And man delight to linger in thy ray. + Yet one rich smile, and we will try to bear + The piercing winter frost, and winds, and darkened air. + + + + + SONG OF THE GREEK AMAZON. + + + I buckle to my slender side + The pistol and the scimitar, + And in my maiden flower and pride + Am come to share the task of war. + And yonder stands the fiery steed, + That paws the ground and neighs to go, + My charger of the Arab breed-- + I took him from the routed foe. + + My mirror is the mountain-spring, + At which I dress my ruffled hair; + My dimmed and dusty arms I bring, + And wash away the blood-stain there. + Why should I guard from wind and sun + This cheek, whose virgin rose is fled? + It was for one--oh, only one-- + I kept its bloom, and he is dead. + + But they who slew him--unaware + Of coward murderers lurking nigh-- + And left him to the fowls of air, + Are yet alive--and they must die! + They slew him--and my virgin years + Are vowed to Greece and vengeance now. + And many an Othman dame, in tears, + Shall rue the Grecian maiden's vow. + + I touched the lute in better days, + I led in dance the joyous band; + Ah! they may move to mirthful lays + Whose hands can touch a lover's hand. + The march of hosts that haste to meet + Seems gayer than the dance to me; + The lute's sweet tones are not so sweet + As the fierce shout of victory. + + + + + TO A CLOUD. + + + Beautiful cloud! with folds so soft and fair, + Swimming in the pure quiet air! + Thy fleeces bathed in sunlight, while below + Thy shadow o'er the vale moves slow; + Where, midst their labor, pause the reaper train, + As cool it comes along the grain. + Beautiful cloud! I would I were with thee + In thy calm way o'er land and sea; + To rest on thy unrolling skirts, and look + On Earth as on an open book; + On streams that tie her realms with silver bands, + And the long ways that seam her lands; + And hear her humming cities, and the sound + Of the great ocean breaking round. + Ay--I would sail, upon thy air-borne car, + To blooming regions distant far, + To where the sun of Andalusia shines + On his own olive-groves and vines, + Or the soft lights of Italy's clear sky + In smiles upon her ruins lie. + But I would woo the winds to let us rest + O'er Greece, long fettered and oppressed, + Whose sons at length have heard the call that comes + From the old battle-fields and tombs, + And risen, and drawn the sword, and on the foe + Have dealt the swift and desperate blow, + And the Othman power is cloven, and the stroke + Has touched its chains, and they are broke. + Ay, we would linger, till the sunset there + Should come, to purple all the air, + And thou reflect upon the sacred ground + The ruddy radiance streaming round. + Bright meteor! for the summer noontide made! + Thy peerless beauty yet shall fade. + The sun, that fills with light each glistening fold, + Shall set, and leave thee dark and cold: + The blast shall rend thy skirts, or thou mayst frown + In the dark heaven when storms come down; + And weep in rain, till man's inquiring eye + Miss thee, forever, from the sky. + + + + + THE MURDERED TRAVELLER. + + + When Spring, to woods and wastes around, + Brought bloom and joy again, + The murdered traveller's bones were found, + Far down a narrow glen. + + The fragrant birch, above him, hung + Her tassels in the sky; + And many a vernal blossom sprung, + And nodded careless by. + + The red-bird warbled, as he wrought + His hanging nest o'erhead, + And fearless, near the fatal spot, + Her young the partridge led. + + But there was weeping far away, + And gentle eyes, for him, + With watching many an anxious day, + Were sorrowful and dim. + + They little knew, who loved him so, + The fearful death he met, + When shouting o'er the desert snow, + Unarmed, and hard beset;-- + + Nor how, when round the frosty pole + The northern dawn was red, + The mountain-wolf and wild-cat stole + To banquet on the dead; + + Nor how, when, strangers found his bones, + They dressed the hasty bier, + And marked his grave with nameless stones, + Unmoistened by a tear. + + But long they looked, and feared, and wept, + Within his distant home; + And dreamed, and started as they slept, + For joy that he was come. + + Long, long they looked--but never spied + His welcome step again, + Nor knew the fearful death he died + Far down that narrow glen. + + + + + HYMN TO THE NORTH STAR. + + + The sad and solemn night + Hath yet her multitude of cheerful fires; + The glorious host of light + Walk the dark hemisphere till she retires; + All through her silent watches, gliding slow, + Her constellations come, and climb the heavens, and go. + + Day, too, hath many a star + To grace his gorgeous reign, as bright as they: + Through the blue fields afar, + Unseen, they follow in his flaming way: + Many a bright lingerer, as the eve grows dim, + Tells what a radiant troop arose and set with him. + + And thou dost see them rise, + Star of the Pole! and thou dost see them set. + Alone, in thy cold skies, + Thou keep'st thy old unmoving station yet, + Nor join'st the dances of that glittering train, + Nor dipp'st thy virgin orb in the blue western main. + + There, at morn's rosy birth, + Thou lookest meekly through the kindling air, + And eve, that round the earth + Chases the day, beholds thee watching there; + There noontide finds thee, and the hour that calls + The shapes of polar flame to scale heaven's azure walls. + + Alike, beneath thine eye, + The deeds of darkness and of light are gone; + High toward the starlit sky + Towns blaze, the smoke of battle blots the sun, + The night storm on a thousand hills is loud, + And the strong wind of day doth mingle sea and cloud. + + On thy unaltering blaze + The half-wrecked mariner, his compass lost, + Fixes his steady gaze, + And steers, undoubting, to the friendly coast; + And they who stray in perilous wastes, by night, + Are glad when thou dost shine to guide their footsteps right. + + And, therefore, bards of old, + Sages and hermits of the solemn wood, + Did in thy beams behold + A beauteous type of that unchanging good, + That bright eternal beacon, by whose ray + The voyager of time should shape his heedful way. + + + + + THE LAPSE OF TIME. + + + Lament who will, in fruitless tears, + The speed with which our moments fly; + I sigh not over vanished years, + But watch the years that hasten by. + + Look, how they come--a mingled crowd + Of bright and dark, but rapid days; + Beneath them, like a summer cloud, + The wide world changes as I gaze. + + What! grieve that time has brought so soon + The sober age of manhood on! + As idly might I weep, at noon, + To see the blush of morning gone. + + Could I give up the hopes that glow + In prospect like Elysian isles; + And let the cheerful future go, + With all her promises and smiles? + + The future!--cruel were the power + Whose doom would tear thee from my heart, + Thou sweetener of the present hour! + We cannot--no--we will not part. + + Oh, leave me, still, the rapid flight + That makes the changing seasons gay, + The grateful speed that brings the night, + The swift and glad return of day; + + The months that touch, with added grace, + This little prattler at my knee, + In whose arch eye and speaking face + New meaning every hour I see; + + The years, that o'er each sister land + Shall lift the country of my birth, + And nurse her strength, till she shall stand + The pride and pattern of the earth: + + Till younger commonwealths, for aid, + Shall cling about her ample robe, + And from her frown shall shrink afraid + The crowned oppressors of the globe. + + True--time will seam and blanch my brow-- + Well--I shall sit with aged men, + And my good glass will tell me how + A grizzly beard becomes me then. + + And then, should no dishonor lie + Upon my head, when I am gray, + Love yet shall watch my fading eye, + And smooth the path of my decay. + + Then haste thee, Time--'tis kindness all + That speeds thy winged feet so fast: + Thy pleasures stay not till they pall, + And all thy pains are quickly past. + + Thou fliest and bear'st away our woes, + And as thy shadowy train depart, + The memory of sorrow grows + A lighter burden on the heart. + + + + + THE SONG OF THE STARS. + + + When the radiant morn of creation broke, + And the world in the smile of God awoke, + And the empty realms of darkness and death + Were moved through their depths by his mighty breath, + And orbs of beauty and spheres of flame + From the void abyss by myriads came-- + In the joy of youth as they darted away, + Through the widening wastes of space to play, + Their silver voices in chorus rang, + And this was the song the bright ones sang: + + "Away, away, through the wide, wide sky, + The fair blue fields that before us lie-- + Each sun with the worlds that round him roll, + Each planet, poised on her turning pole; + With her isles of green, and her clouds of white, + And her waters that lie like fluid light. + + "For the source of glory uncovers his face, + And the brightness o'erflows unbounded space, + And we drink as we go to the luminous tides + In our ruddy air and our blooming sides: + Lo, yonder the living splendors play; + Away, on our joyous path, away! + + "Look, look, through our glittering ranks afar, + In the infinite azure, star after star, + How they brighten and bloom as they swiftly pass! + How the verdure runs o'er each rolling mass! + And the path of the gentle winds is seen, + Where the small waves dance, and the young woods lean. + + "And see, where the brighter day-beams pour, + How the rainbows hang in the sunny shower; + And the morn and eve, with their pomp of hues, + Shift o'er the bright planets and shed their dews; + And 'twixt them both, o'er the teeming ground, + With her shadowy cone the night goes round! + + "Away, away! in our blossoming bowers, + In the soft airs wrapping these spheres of ours, + In the seas and fountains that shine with morn, + See, Love is brooding, and Life is born, + And breathing myriads are breaking from night, + To rejoice, like us, in motion and light. + + "Glide on in your beauty, ye youthful spheres, + To weave the dance that measures the years; + Glide on, in the glory and gladness sent + To the furthest wall of the firmament-- + The boundless visible smile of Him + To the veil of whose brow your lamps are dim." + + + + + A FOREST HYMN. + + + The groves were God's first temples. Ere man learned + To hew the shaft, and lay the architrave, + And spread the roof above them--ere he framed + The lofty vault, to gather and roll back + The sound of anthems; in the darkling wood, + Amid the cool and silence, he knelt down, + And offered to the Mightiest solemn thanks + And supplication. For his simple heart + Might not resist the sacred influences + Which, from the stilly twilight of the place, + And from the gray old trunks that high in heaven + Mingled their mossy boughs, and from the sound + Of the invisible breath that swayed at once + All their green tops, stole over him, and bowed + His spirit with the thought of boundless power + And inaccessible majesty. Ah, why + Should we, in the world's riper years, neglect + God's ancient sanctuaries, and adore + Only among the crowd, and under roofs + That our frail hands have raised? Let me, at least, + Here, in the shadow of this aged wood, + Offer one hymn--thrice happy, if it find + Acceptance in His ear. + + Father, thy hand + Hath reared these venerable columns, thou + Didst weave this verdant roof. Thou didst look down + Upon the naked earth, and, forthwith, rose + All these fair ranks of trees. They, in thy sun, + Budded, and shook their green leaves in thy breeze, + And shot toward heaven. The century-living crow + Whose birth was in their tops, grew old and died + Among their branches, till, at last, they stood, + As now they stand, massy, and tall, and dark, + Fit shrine for humble worshipper to hold + Communion with his Maker. These dim vaults, + These winding aisles, of human pomp or pride + Report not. No fantastic carvings show + The boast of our vain race to change the form + Of thy fair works. But thou art here--thou fill'st + The solitude. Thou art in the soft winds + That run along the summit of these trees + In music; thou art in the cooler breath + That from the inmost darkness of the place + Comes, scarcely felt; the barky trunks, the ground, + The fresh moist ground, are all instinct with thee. + Here is continual worship;--Nature, here, + In the tranquillity that thou dost love, + Enjoys thy presence. Noiselessly, around, + From perch to perch, the solitary bird + Passes; and yon clear spring, that, midst its herbs, + Wells softly forth and wandering steeps the roots + Of half the mighty forest, tells no tale + Of all the good it does. Thou hast not left + Thyself without a witness, in the shades, + Of thy perfections. Grandeur, strength, and grace + Are here to speak of thee. This mighty oak-- + By whose immovable stem I stand and seem + Almost annihilated--not a prince, + In all that proud old world beyond the deep, + E'er wore his crown as loftily as he + Wears the green coronal of leaves with which + Thy hand has graced him. Nestled at his root + Is beauty, such as blooms not in the glare + Of the broad sun. That delicate forest flower, + With scented breath and look so like a smile, + Seems, as it issues from the shapeless mould, + An emanation of the indwelling Life, + A visible token of the upholding Love, + That are the soul of this great universe. + + My heart is awed within me when I think + Of the great miracle that still goes on, + In silence, round me--the perpetual work + Of thy creation, finished, yet renewed + Forever. Written on thy works I read + The lesson of thy own eternity. + Lo! all grow old and die--but see again, + How on the faltering footsteps of decay + Youth presses--ever gay and beautiful youth + In all its beautiful forms. These lofty trees + Wave not less proudly that their ancestors + Moulder beneath them. Oh, there is not lost + One of earth's charms: upon her bosom yet, + After the flight of untold centuries, + The freshness of her far beginning lies + And yet shall lie. Life mocks the idle hate + Of his arch-enemy Death--yea, seats himself + Upon the tyrant's throne--the sepulchre, + And of the triumphs of his ghastly foe + Makes his own nourishment. For he came forth + From thine own bosom, and shall have no end. + + There have been holy men who hid themselves + Deep in the woody wilderness, and gave + Their lives to thought and prayer, till they outlived + The generation born with them, nor seemed + Less aged than the hoary trees and rocks + Around them;--and there have been holy men + Who deemed it were not well to pass life thus. + But let me often to these solitudes + Retire, and in thy presence reassure + My feeble virtue. Here its enemies, + The passions, at thy plainer footsteps shrink + And tremble and are still. O God! when thou + Dost scare the world with tempests, set on fire + The heavens with falling thunderbolts, or fill, + With all the waters of the firmament, + The swift dark whirlwind that uproots the woods + And drowns the villages; when, at thy call, + Uprises the great deep and throws himself + Upon the continent, and overwhelms + Its cities--who forgets not, at the sight + Of these tremendous tokens of thy power, + His pride, and lays his strifes and follies by? + Oh, from these sterner aspects of thy face + Spare me and mine, nor let us need the wrath + Of the mad unchained elements to teach + Who rules them. Be it ours to meditate, + In these calm shades, thy milder majesty, + And to the beautiful order of thy works + Learn to conform the order of our lives. + + + + + "OH FAIREST OF THE RURAL MAIDS." + + + Oh fairest of the rural maids! + Thy birth was in the forest shades; + Green boughs, and glimpses of the sky, + Were all that met thine infant eye. + + Thy sports, thy wanderings, when a child, + Were ever in the sylvan wild; + And all the beauty of the place + Is in thy heart and on thy face. + + The twilight of the trees and rocks + Is in the light shade of thy locks; + Thy step is as the wind, that weaves + Its playful way among the leaves. + + Thine eyes are springs, in whose serene + And silent waters heaven is seen; + Their lashes are the herbs that look + On their young figures in the brook. + + The forest depths, by foot unpressed, + Are not more sinless than thy breast; + The holy peace, that fills the air + Of those calm solitudes, is there. + + + + + "I BROKE THE SPELL THAT HELD ME LONG." + + + I broke the spell that held me long, + The dear, dear witchery of song. + I said, the poet's idle lore + Shall waste my prime of years no more, + For Poetry, though heavenly born, + Consorts with poverty and scorn. + + I broke the spell--nor deemed its power + Could fetter me another hour. + Ah, thoughtless! how could I forget + Its causes were around me yet? + For wheresoe'er I looked, the while, + Was Nature's everlasting smile. + + Still came and lingered on my sight + Of flowers and streams the bloom and light, + And glory of the stars and sun;-- + And these and poetry are one. + They, ere the world had held me long, + Recalled me to the love of song. + + + + + JUNE. + + + I gazed upon the glorious sky + And the green mountains round, + And thought that when I came to lie + At rest within the ground, + 'Twere pleasant, that in flowery June, + When brooks send up a cheerful tune, + And groves a joyous sound, + The sexton's hand, my grave to make, + The rich, green mountain-turf should break. + + A cell within the frozen mould, + A coffin borne through sleet, + And icy clods above it rolled, + While fierce the tempests beat-- + Away!--I will not think of these-- + Blue be the sky and soft the breeze, + Earth green beneath the feet, + And be the damp mould gently pressed + Into my narrow place of rest. + + There through the long, long summer hours, + The golden light should lie, + And thick young herbs and groups of flowers + Stand in their beauty by. + The oriole should build and tell + His love-tale close beside my cell; + The idle butterfly + Should rest him there, and there be heard + The housewife bee and humming-bird. + + And what if cheerful shouts at noon + Come, from the village sent, + Or songs of maids, beneath the moon + With fairy laughter blent? + And what if, in the evening light, + Betrothed lovers walk in sight + Of my low monument? + I would the lovely scene around + Might know no sadder sight nor sound. + + I know that I no more should see + The season's glorious show, + Nor would its brightness shine for me, + Nor its wild music flow; + But if, around my place of sleep, + The friends I love should come to weep, + They might not haste to go. + Soft airs, and song, and light, and bloom + Should keep them lingering by my tomb. + + These to their softened hearts should bear + The thought of what has been, + And speak of one who cannot share + The gladness of the scene; + Whose part, in all the pomp that fills + The circuit of the summer hills, + Is that his grave is green; + And deeply would their hearts rejoice + To hear again his living voice. + + + + + A SONG OF PITCAIRN'S ISLAND. + + + Come, take our boy, and we will go + Before our cabin-door; + The winds shall bring us, as they blow, + The murmurs of the shore; + And we will kiss his young blue eyes, + And I will sing him, as he lies, + Songs that were made of yore: + I'll sing, in his delighted ear, + The island lays thou lov'st to hear. + + And thou, while stammering I repeat, + Thy country's tongue shalt teach; + 'Tis not so soft, but far more sweet + Than my own native speech: + For thou no other tongue didst know, + When, scarcely twenty moons ago, + Upon Tahete's beach, + Thou cam'st to woo me to be thine, + With many a speaking look and sign. + + I knew thy meaning--thou didst praise + My eyes, my locks of jet; + Ah! well for me they won thy gaze, + But thine were fairer yet! + I'm glad to see my infant wear + Thy soft blue eyes and sunny hair, + And when my sight is met + By his white brow and blooming cheek, + I feel a joy I cannot speak. + + Come, talk of Europe's maids with me, + Whose necks and cheeks, they tell, + Outshine the beauty of the sea, + White foam and crimson shell. + I'll shape like theirs my simple dress, + And bind like them each jetty tress, + A sight to please thee well; + And for my dusky brow will braid + A bonnet like an English maid. + + Come, for the soft low sunlight calls, + We lose the pleasant hours; + 'Tis lovelier than these cottage walls,-- + That seat among the flowers. + And I will learn of thee a prayer, + To Him who gave a home so fair, + A lot so blest as ours-- + The God who made, for thee and me, + This sweet lone isle amid the sea. + + + + + THE FIRMAMENT. + + + Ay! gloriously thou standest there, + Beautiful, boundless firmament! + That, swelling wide o'er earth and air, + And round the horizon bent, + With thy bright vault, and sapphire wall, + Dost overhang and circle all. + + Far, far below thee, tall gray trees + Arise, and piles built up of old, + And hills, whose ancient summits freeze + In the fierce light and cold. + The eagle soars his utmost height, + Yet far thou stretchest o'er his flight. + + Thou hast thy frowns--with thee on high + The storm has made his airy seat, + Beyond that soft blue curtain lie + His stores of hail and sleet. + Thence the consuming lightnings break, + There the strong hurricanes awake. + + Yet art thou prodigal of smiles-- + Smiles, sweeter than thy frowns are stern. + Earth sends, from all her thousand isles, + A shout at their return. + The glory that comes down from thee, + Bathes, in deep joy, the land and sea. + + The sun, the gorgeous sun is thine, + The pomp that brings and shuts the day, + The clouds that round him change and shine, + The airs that fan his way. + Thence look the thoughtful stars, and there + The meek moon walks the silent air. + + The sunny Italy may boast + The beauteous tints that flush her skies, + And lovely, round the Grecian coast, + May thy blue pillars rise. + I only know how fair they stand + Around my own beloved land. + + And they are fair--a charm is theirs, + That earth, the proud green earth, has not, + With all the forms, and hues, and airs, + That haunt her sweetest spot. + We gaze upon thy calm pure sphere, + And read of Heaven's eternal year. + + Oh, when, amid the throng of men, + The heart grows sick of hollow mirth, + How willingly we turn us then + Away from this cold earth, + And look into thy azure breast, + For seats of innocence and rest! + + + + + "I CANNOT FORGET WITH WHAT FERVID + DEVOTION." + + + I cannot forget with what fervid devotion + I worshipped the visions of verse and of fame; + Each gaze at the glories of earth, sky, and ocean, + To my kindled emotions, was wind over flame. + + And deep were my musings in life's early blossom, + Mid the twilight of mountain-groves wandering long; + How thrilled my young veins, and how throbbed my full bosom, + When o'er me descended the spirit of song! + + 'Mong the deep-cloven fells that for ages had listened + To the rush of the pebble-paved river between, + Where the kingfisher screamed and gray precipice glistened, + All breathless with awe have I gazed on the scene; + + Till I felt the dark power o'er my reveries stealing, + From the gloom of the thicket that over me hung, + And the thoughts that awoke, in that rapture of feeling, + Were formed into verse as they rose to my tongue. + + Bright visions! I mixed with the world, and ye faded, + No longer your pure rural worshipper now; + In the haunts your continual presence pervaded, + Ye shrink from the signet of care on my brow. + + In the old mossy groves on the breast of the mountains, + In deep lonely glens where the waters complain, + By the shade of the rock, by the gush of the fountain, + I seek your loved footsteps, but seek them in vain. + + Oh, leave not forlorn and forever forsaken, + Your pupil and victim to life and its tears! + But sometimes return, and in mercy awaken + The glories ye showed to his earlier years. + + + + + TO A MOSQUITO. + + + Fair insect! that, with threadlike legs spread out, + And blood-extracting bill and filmy wing, + Dost murmur, as thou slowly sail'st about, + In pitiless ears full many a plaintive thing, + And tell how little our large veins would bleed, + Would we but yield them to thy bitter need. + + Unwillingly, I own, and, what is worse, + Full angrily men hearken to thy plaint; + Thou gettest many a brush, and many a curse, + For saying thou art gaunt, and starved, and faint; + Even the old beggar, while he asks for food, + Would kill thee, hapless stranger, if he could. + + I call thee stranger, for the town, I ween, + Has not the honor of so proud a birth,-- + Thou com'st from Jersey meadows, fresh and green, + The offspring of the gods, though born on earth; + For Titan was thy sire, and fair was she, + The ocean-nymph that nursed thy infancy. + + Beneath the rushes was thy cradle swung, + And when at length thy gauzy wings grew strong, + Abroad to gentle airs their folds were flung, + Rose in the sky and bore thee soft along; + The south wind breathed to waft thee on the way, + And danced and shone beneath the billowy bay. + + Calm rose afar the city spires, and thence + Came the deep murmur of its throng of men, + And as its grateful odors met thy sense, + They seemed the perfumes of thy native fen. + Fair lay its crowded streets, and at the sight + Thy tiny song grew shriller with delight. + + At length thy pinions fluttered in Broadway-- + Ah, there were fairy steps, and white necks kissed + By wanton airs, and eyes whose killing ray + Shone through the snowy veils like stars through mist; + And fresh as morn, on many a cheek and chin, + Bloomed the bright blood through the transparent skin. + + Sure these were sights to touch an anchorite! + What! do I hear thy slender voice complain? + Thou wailest when I talk of beauty's light, + As if it brought the memory of pain: + Thou art a wayward being--well--come near, + And pour thy tale of sorrow in my ear. + + What sayest thou--slanderer!--rouge makes thee sick? + And China bloom at best is sorry food? + And Rowland's Kalydor, if laid on thick, + Poisons the thirsty wretch that bores for blood? + Go! 'twas a just reward that met thy crime-- + But shun the sacrilege another time. + + That bloom was made to look at, not to touch; + To worship, not approach, that radiant white; + And well might sudden vengeance light on such + As dared, like thee, most impiously to bite. + Thou shouldst have gazed at distance and admired, + Murmured thy adoration, and retired. + + Thou'rt welcome to the town; but why come here + To bleed a brother poet, gaunt like thee? + Alas! the little blood I have is dear, + And thin will be the banquet drawn from me. + Look round--the pale-eyed sisters in my cell, + Thy old acquaintance, Song and Famine, dwell. + + Try some plump alderman, and suck the blood + Enriched by generous wine and costly meat; + On well-filled skins, sleek as thy native mud, + Fix thy light pump and press thy freckled feet. + Go to the men for whom, in ocean's halls, + The oyster breeds, and the green turtle sprawls. + + There corks are drawn, and the red vintage flows + To fill the swelling veins for thee, and now + The ruddy cheek and now the ruddier nose + Shall tempt thee, as thou flittest round the brow; + And when the hour of sleep its quiet brings, + No angry hands shall rise to brush thy wings. + + + + + LINES ON REVISITING THE COUNTRY. + + + I stand upon my native hills again, + Broad, round, and green, that in the summer sky + With garniture of waving grass and grain, + Orchards, and beechen forests, basking lie, + While deep the sunless glens are scooped between, + Where brawl o'er shallow beds the streams unseen. + + A lisping voice and glancing eyes are near, + And ever-restless feet of one, who, now, + Gathers the blossoms of her fourth bright year; + There plays a gladness o'er her fair young brow + As breaks the varied scene upon her sight, + Upheaved and spread in verdure and in light. + + For I have taught her, with delighted eye, + To gaze upon the mountains,--to behold, + With deep affection, the pure ample sky + And clouds along its blue abysses rolled, + To love the song of waters, and to hear + The melody of winds with charmed ear. + + Here, have I 'scaped the city's stifling heat, + Its horrid sounds, and its polluted air, + And, where the season's milder fervors beat, + And gales, that sweep the forest borders, bear + The song of bird and sound of running stream, + Am come awhile to wander and to dream. + + Ay, flame thy fiercest, sun! thou canst not wake, + In this pure air, the plague that walks unseen. + The maize-leaf and the maple-bough but take, + From thy strong heats, a deeper, glossier green. + The mountain wind, that faints not in thy ray, + Sweeps the blue steams of pestilence away. + + The mountain wind! most spiritual thing of all + The wide earth knows; when, in the sultry tune, + He stoops him from his vast cerulean hall, + He seems the breath of a celestial clime! + As if from heaven's wide-open gates did flow + Health and refreshment on the world below. + + + + + THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS. + + + The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, + Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sere. + Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the autumn leaves lie dead; + They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's tread; + The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrubs the jay, + And from the wood-top calls the crow through all the gloomy day. + + Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprang and stood + In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood? + Alas! they all are in their graves, the gentle race of flowers + Are lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and good of ours. + The rain is falling where they lie, but the cold November rain + Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely ones again. + + The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long ago, + And the brier-rose and the orchis died amid the summer glow; + But on the hills the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood, + And the yellow sun-flower by the brook in autumn beauty stood, + Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as falls the plague on men, + And the brightness of their smile was gone, from upland, glade, and glen. + + And now, when comes the calm mild day, as still such days will come, + To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home; + When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, + though all the trees' added are still, + And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill, + The south wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he bore, + And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more. + + And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty died, + The fair meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side. + In the cold moist earth we laid her, when the forests cast the leaf, + And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief: + Yet not unmeet it was that one, like that young friend of ours, + So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers. + + + + + ROMERO. + + + When freedom, from the land of Spain, + By Spain's degenerate sons was driven, + Who gave their willing limbs again + To wear the chain so lately riven; + Romero broke the sword he wore-- + "Go, faithful brand," the warrior said, + "Go, undishonored, never more + The blood of man shall make thee red. + I grieve for that already shed; + And I am sick at heart to know, + That faithful friend and noble foe + Have only bled to make more strong + The yoke that Spain has worn so long. + Wear it who will, in abject fear-- + I wear it not who have been free; + The perjured Ferdinand shall hear + No oath of loyalty from me." + Then, hunted by the hounds of power, + Romero chose a safe retreat, + Where bleak Nevada's summits tower + Above the beauty at their feet. + There once, when on his cabin lay + The crimson light of setting day, + When, even on the mountain's breast, + The chainless winds were all at rest, + And he could hear the river's flow + From the calm paradise below; + Warmed with his former fires again + He framed this rude but solemn strain: + + + I. + + "Here will I make my home--for here at least I see, + Upon this wild Sierra's side, the steps of Liberty; + Where the locust chirps unscared beneath the unpruned lime, + And the merry bee doth hide from man the spoil of the mountain-thyme; + Where the pure winds come and go, and the wild-vine strays at will, + An outcast from the haunts of men, she dwells with Nature still. + + + II. + + "I see the valleys, Spain! where thy mighty rivers run, + And the hills that lift thy harvests and vineyards to the sun, + And the flocks that drink thy brooks and sprinkle all the green, + Where lie thy plains, with sheep-walks seamed, and olive-shades between: + I see thy fig-trees bask, with the fair pomegranate near, + And the fragrance of thy lemon-groves can almost reach me here. + + + III. + + "Fair--fair--but fallen Spain! 'tis with a swelling heart, + That I think on all thou mightst have been, and look at what thou art; + But the strife is over now, and all the good and brave, + That would have raised thee up, are gone, to exile or the grave. + Thy fleeces are for monks, thy grapes for the convent feast, + And the wealth of all thy harvest-fields for the pampered lord and priest. + + + IV. + + "But I shall see the day--it will come before I die-- + I shall see it in my silver hairs, and with an age-dimmed eye; + When the spirit of the land to liberty shall bound, + As yonder fountain leaps away from the darkness of the ground: + And to my mountain-cell, the voices of the free + Shall rise as from the beaten shore the thunders of the sea." + + + + + A MEDITATION ON RHODE ISLAND COAL. + + + "Decolor, obscurus, vilis, non ille repexam + Cesariem regum, non candida virginis ornat + Colla, nec insigni splendet per cingula morsu + Sed nova si nigri videas miracula saxi, + Tune superat pulchroa cultus et quicquid Eois + Indus litoribus rubra scrutatur in alga." + + CLAUDIAN. + + + I sat beside the glowing grate, fresh heaped + With Newport coal, and as the flame grew bright + --The many-colored flame--and played and leaped, + I thought of rainbows, and the northern light, + Moore's Lalla Rookh, the Treasury Report, + And other brilliant matters of the sort. + + And last I thought of that fair isle which sent + The mineral fuel; on a summer day + I saw it once, with heat and travel spent, + And scratched by dwarf-oaks in the hollow way. + Now dragged through sand, now jolted over stone-- + A rugged road through rugged Tiverton. + + And hotter grew the air, and hollower grew + The deep-worn path, and horror-struck, I thought, + Where will this dreary passage lead me to? + This long dull road, so narrow, deep, and hot? + I looked to see it dive in earth outright; + I looked--but saw a far more welcome sight. + + Like a soft mist upon the evening shore, + At once a lovely isle before me lay, + Smooth, and with tender verdure covered o'er, + As if just risen from its calm inland bay; + Sloped each way gently to the grassy edge, + And the small waves that dallied with the sedge. + + The barley was just reaped; the heavy sheaves + Lay on the stubble-field; the tall maize stood + Dark in its summer growth, and shook its leaves, + And bright the sunlight played on the young wood-- + For fifty years ago, the old men say, + The Briton hewed their ancient groves away. + + I saw where fountains freshened the green land, + And where the pleasant road, from door to door, + With rows of cherry-trees on either hand, + Went wandering all that fertile region o'er-- + Rogue's Island once--but when the rogues were dead, + Rhode Island was the name it took instead. + + Beautiful island! then it only seemed + A lovely stranger; it has grown a friend. + I gazed on its smooth slopes, but never dreamed + How soon that green and quiet isle would send + The treasures of its womb across the sea, + To warm a poet's room and boil his tea. + + Dark anthracite! that reddenest on my hearth, + Thou in those island mines didst slumber long; + But now thou art come forth to move the earth, + And put to shame the men that mean thee wrong: + Thou shalt be coals of fire to those that hate thee, + And warm the shins of all that underrate thee. + + Yea, they did wrong thee foully--they who mocked + Thy honest face, and said thou wouldst not burn; + Of hewing thee to chimney-pieces talked, + And grew profane, and swore, in bitter scorn, + That men might to thy inner caves retire, + And there, unsinged, abide the day of fire. + + Yet is thy greatness nigh. I pause to state, + That I too have seen greatness--even I-- + Shook hands with Adams, stared at La Fayette, + When, barehead, in the hot noon of July, + He would not let the umbrella be held o'er him, + For which three cheers burst from the mob before him. + + And I have seen--not many months ago-- + An eastern Governor in chapeau bras + And military coat, a glorious show! + Ride forth to visit the reviews, and ah! + How oft he smiled and bowed to Jonathan! + How many hands were shook and votes were won! + + 'Twas a great Governor; thou too shalt be + Great in thy turn, and wide shall spread thy fame + And swiftly; furthest Maine shall hear of thee, + And cold New Brunswick gladden at thy name; + And, faintly through its sleets, the weeping isle + That sends the Boston folks their cod shall smile. + + For thou shalt forge vast railways, and shalt heat + The hissing rivers into steam, and drive + Huge masses from thy mines, on iron feet, + Walking their steady way, as if alive, + Northward, till everlasting ice besets thee, + And South as far as the grim Spaniard lets thee. + + Thou shalt make mighty engines swim the sea, + Like its own monsters--boats that for a guinea + Will take a man to Havre--and shalt be + The moving soul of many a spinning-jenny, + And ply thy shuttles, till a bard can wear + As good a suit of broadcloth as the mayor. + + Then we will laugh at winter when we hear + The grim old churl about our dwellings rave: + Thou, from that "ruler of the inverted year," + Shalt pluck the knotty sceptre Cowper gave, + And pull him from his sledge, and drag him in, + And melt the icicles from off his chin. + + + + + THE NEW MOON. + + + When, as the garish day is done, + Heaven burns with the descended sun, + 'Tis passing sweet to mark, + Amid that flush of crimson light, + The new moon's modest bow grow bright, + As earth and sky grow dark. + + Few are the hearts too cold to feel + A thrill of gladness o'er them steal, + When first the wandering eye + Sees faintly, in the evening blaze, + That glimmering curve of tender rays + Just planted in the sky. + + The sight of that young crescent brings + Thoughts of all fair and youthful things-- + The hopes of early years; + And childhood's purity and grace, + And joys that like a rainbow chase + The passing shower of tears. + + The captive yields him to the dream + Of freedom, when that virgin beam + Comes out upon the air; + And painfully the sick man tries + To fix his dim and burning eyes + On the sweet promise there. + + Most welcome to the lover's sight + Glitters that pure, emerging light; + For prattling poets say, + That sweetest is the lovers' walk, + And tenderest is their murmured talk, + Beneath its gentle ray. + + And there do graver men behold + A type of errors, loved of old, + Forsaken and forgiven; + And thoughts and wishes not of earth + Just opening in their early birth, + Like that new light in heaven. + + + + + OCTOBER. + + + Ay, thou art welcome, heaven's delicious breath! + When woods begin to wear the crimson leaf, + And suns grow meek, and the meek suns grow brief, + And the year smiles as it draws near its death. + Wind of the sunny south! oh, still delay + In the gay woods and in the golden air, + Like to a good old age released from care, + Journeying, in long serenity, away. + In such a bright, late quiet, would that I + Might wear out life like thee, mid bowers and brooks, + And, dearer yet, the sunshine of kind looks, + And music of kind voices ever nigh; + And when my last sand twinkled in the glass, + Pass silently from men, as thou dost pass. + + + + + THE DAMSEL OF PERU. + + + Where olive-leaves were twinkling in every wind that blew, + There sat beneath the pleasant shade a damsel of Peru. + Betwixt the slender boughs, as they opened to the air, + Came glimpses of her ivory neck and of her glossy hair; + And sweetly rang her silver voice, within that shady nook, + As from the shrubby glen is heard the sound of hidden brook. + + 'Tis a song of love and valor, in the noble Spanish tongue, + That once upon the sunny plains of old Castile was sung; + When, from their mountain-holds, on the Moorish rout below, + Had rushed the Christians like a flood, and swept away the foe. + Awhile that melody is still, and then breaks forth anew + A wilder rhyme, a livelier note, of freedom and Peru. + + For she has bound the sword to a youthful lover's side, + And sent him to the war the day she should have been his bride, + And bade him bear a faithful heart to battle for the right, + And held the fountains of her eyes till he was out of sight. + Since the parting kiss was given, six weary months are fled, + And yet the foe is in the land, and blood must yet be shed. + + A white hand parts the branches, a lovely face looks forth, + And bright dark eyes gaze steadfastly and sadly toward the north. + Thou look'st in vain, sweet maiden, the sharpest sight would fail + To spy a sign of human life abroad in all the vale; + For the noon is coming on, and the sunbeams fiercely beat, + And the silent hills and forest-tops seem reeling in the heat. + + That white hand is withdrawn, that fair sad face is gone, + But the music of that silver voice is flowing sweetly on, + Not as of late, in cheerful tones, but mournfully and low,-- + A ballad of a tender maid heart-broken long ago, + Of him who died in battle, the youthful and the brave, + And her who died of sorrow, upon his early grave. + + And see, along that mountain-slope, a fiery horseman ride; + Mark his torn plume, his tarnished belt, the sabre at his side. + His spurs are buried rowel-deep, he rides with loosened rain, + There's blood upon his charger's flank and foam upon the mane. + He speeds him toward the olive-grove, along that shaded hill! + God shield the helpless maiden there, if he should mean her ill! + + And suddenly that song has ceased, and suddenly I hear + A shriek sent up amid the shade, a shriek--but not of fear. + For tender accents follow, and tender pauses speak + The overflow of gladness, when words are all too weak; + "I lay my good sword at thy feet, for now Peru is free, + And I am come to dwell beside the olive-grove with thee." + + + + + THE AFRICAN CHIEF. + + + Chained in the market-place he stood, + A man of giant frame, + Amid the gathering multitude + That shrunk to hear his name-- + All stern of look and strong of limb, + His dark eye on the ground:-- + And silently they gazed on him, + As on a lion bound. + + Vainly, but well that chief had fought, + He was a captive now, + Yet pride, that fortune humbles not, + Was written on his brow. + The scars his dark broad bosom wore + Showed warrior true and brave; + A prince among his tribe before, + He could not be a slave. + + Then to his conqueror he spake: + "My brother is a king; + Undo this necklace from my neck, + And take this bracelet ring, + And send me where my brother reigns, + And I will fill thy hands + With store of ivory from the plains, + And gold-dust from the sands." + + "Not for thy ivory nor thy gold + Will I unbind thy chain; + That bloody hand shall never hold + The battle-spear again. + A price that nation never gave + Shall yet be paid for thee; + For thou shalt be the Christian's slave, + In lands beyond the sea." + + Then wept the warrior chief, and bade + To shred his locks away; + And one by one, each heavy braid + Before the victor lay. + Thick were the platted locks, and long, + And closely hidden there + Shone many a wedge of gold among + The dark and crisped hair. + + "Look, feast thy greedy eye with gold + Long kept for sorest need; + Take it--thou askest sums untold-- + And say that I am freed. + Take it--my wife, the long, long day, + Weeps by the cocoa-tree, + And my young children leave their play, + And ask in vain for me." + + "I take thy gold, but I have made + Thy fetters fast and strong, + And ween that by the cocoa-shade + Thy wife will wait thee long." + Strong was the agony that shook + The captive's frame to hear, + And the proud meaning of his look + Was changed to mortal fear. + + His heart was broken--crazed his brain: + At once his eye grew wild; + He struggled fiercely with his chain, + Whispered, and wept, and smiled; + Yet wore not long those fatal bands, + And once, at shut of day, + They drew him forth upon the sands, + The foul hyena's prey. + + + + + SPRING IN TOWN. + + + The country ever has a lagging Spring, + Waiting for May to call its violets forth, + And June its roses; showers and sunshine bring, + Slowly, the deepening verdure o'er the earth; + To put their foliage out, the woods are slack, + And one by one the singing-birds come back. + + Within the city's bounds the time of flowers + Comes earlier. Let a mild and sunny day, + Such as full often, for a few bright hours, + Breathes through the sky of March the airs of May, + Shine on our roofs and chase the wintry gloom-- + And lo! our borders glow with sudden bloom. + + For the wide sidewalks of Broadway are then + Gorgeous as are a rivulet's banks in June, + That overhung with blossoms, through its glen, + Slides soft away beneath the sunny noon, + And they who search the untrodden wood for flowers + Meet in its depths no lovelier ones than ours. + + For here are eyes that shame the violet, + Or the dark drop that on the pansy lies, + And foreheads, white, as when in clusters set, + The anemones by forest-mountains rise; + And the spring-beauty boasts no tenderer streak + Than the soft red on many a youthful cheek. + + And thick about those lovely temples lie + Locks that the lucky Vignardonne has curled, + Thrice happy man! whose trade it is to buy, + And bake, and braid those love-knots of the world; + Who curls of every glossy color keepest, + And sellest, it is said, the blackest cheapest. + + And well thou mayst--for Italy's brown maids + Send the dark locks with which their brows are dressed, + And Gascon lasses, from their jetty braids, + Crop half, to buy a ribbon for the rest; + But the fresh Norman girls their tresses spare, + And the Dutch damsel keeps her flaxen hair. + + Then, henceforth, let no maid nor matron grieve, + To see her locks of an unlovely hue, + Frouzy or thin, for liberal art shall give + Such piles of curls as Nature never knew. + Eve, with her veil of tresses, at the sight + Had blushed, outdone, and owned herself a fright. + + Soft voices and light laughter wake the street, + Like notes of woodbirds, and where'er the eye + Threads the long way, plumes wave, and twinkling feet + Fall light, as hastes that crowd of beauty by. + The ostrich, hurrying o'er the desert space, + Scarce bore those tossing plumes with fleeter pace. + + No swimming Juno gait, of languor born, + Is theirs, but a light step of freest grace,-- + Light as Camilla's o'er the unbent corn,-- + A step that speaks the spirit of the place, + Since Quiet, meek old dame, was driven away + To Sing Sing and the shores of Tappan Bay. + + Ye that dash by in chariots! who will care + For steeds or footmen now? ye cannot show + Fair face, and dazzling dress, and graceful air, + And last edition of the shape! Ah, no, + These sights are for the earth and open sky, + And your loud wheels unheeded rattle by. + + + + + THE GLADNESS OF NATURE. + + + Is this a time to be cloudy and sad, + When our mother Nature laughs around; + When even the deep blue heavens look glad, + And gladness breathes from the blossoming ground? + + There are notes of joy from the hang-bird and wren, + And the gossip of swallows through all the sky; + The ground-squirrel gayly chirps by his den, + And the wilding bee hums merrily by. + + The clouds are at play in the azure space + And their shadows at play on the bright-green vale, + And here they stretch to the frolic chase, + And there they roll on the easy gale. + + There's a dance of leaves in that aspen bower, + There's a titter of winds in that beechen tree, + There's a smile on the fruit, and a smile on the flower, + And a laugh from the brook that runs to the sea. + + And look at the broad-faced sun, how he smiles + On the dewy earth that smiles in his ray, + On the leaping waters and gay young isles; + Ay, look, and he'll smile thy gloom away. + + + + + THE DISINTERRED WARRIOR. + + + Gather him to his grave again, + And solemnly and softly lay, + Beneath the verdure of the plain, + The warrior's scattered bones away. + Pay the deep reverence, taught of old, + The homage of man's heart to death; + Nor dare to trifle with the mould + Once hallowed by the Almighty's breath. + + The soul hath quickened every part-- + That remnant of a martial brow, + Those ribs that held the mighty heart, + That strong arm--strong no longer now. + Spare them, each mouldering relic spare, + Of God's own image; let them rest, + Till not a trace shall speak of where + The awful likeness was impressed. + + For he was fresher from the hand + That formed of earth the human face, + And to the elements did stand + In nearer kindred than our race. + In many a flood to madness tossed, + In many a storm has been his path; + He hid him not from heat or frost, + But met them, and defied their wrath. + + Then they were kind--the forests here, + Rivers, and stiller waters, paid + A tribute to the net and spear + Of the red ruler of the shade. + Fruits on the woodland branches lay, + Roots in the shaded soil below; + The stars looked forth to teach his way; + The still earth warned him of the foe. + + A noble race! but they are gone, + With their old forests wide and deep, + And we have built our homes upon + Fields where their generations sleep. + Their fountains slake our thirst at noon, + Upon their fields our harvest waves, + Our lovers woo beneath their moon-- + Then let us spare, at least, their graves. + + + + + MIDSUMMER. + + + A power is on the earth and in the air + From which the vital spirit shrinks afraid, + And shelters him, in nooks of deepest shade, + From the hot steam and from the fiery glare. + Look forth upon the earth--her thousand plants + Are smitten; even the dark sun-loving maize + Faints in the field beneath the torrid blaze; + The herd beside the shaded fountain pants; + For life is driven from all the landscape brown; + The bird has sought his tree, the snake his den, + The trout floats dead in the hot stream, and men + Drop by the sun-stroke in the populous town; + As if the Day of Fire had dawned, and sent + Its deadly breath into the firmament. + + + + + THE GREEK PARTISAN. + + + Our free flag is dancing + In the free mountain air, + And burnished arms are glancing, + And warriors gathering there; + And fearless is the little train + Whose gallant bosoms shield it; + The blood that warms their hearts shall stain + That banner, ere they yield it. + --Each dark eye is fixed on earth, + And brief each solemn greeting; + There is no look nor sound of mirth, + Where those stern men are meeting. + + They go to the slaughter + To strike the sudden blow, + And pour on earth, like water, + The best blood of the foe; + To rush on them from rock and height, + And clear the narrow valley, + Or fire their camp at dead of night, + And fly before they rally. + --Chains are round our country pressed, + And cowards have betrayed her, + And we must make her bleeding breast + The grave of the invader. + + Not till from her fetters + We raise up Greece again, + And write, in bloody letters, + That tyranny is slain,-- + Oh, not till then the smile shall steal + Across those darkened faces, + Nor one of all those warriors feel + His children's dear embraces. + --Reap we not the ripened wheat, + Till yonder hosts are flying, + And all their bravest, at our feet, + Like autumn sheaves are lying. + + + + + THE TWO GRAVES. + + + 'Tis a bleak wild hill, but green and bright + In the summer warmth and the mid-day light; + There's the hum of the bee and the chirp of the wren + And the dash of the brook from the alder-glen. + There's the sound of a bell from the scattered flock, + And the shade of the beech lies cool on the rock, + And fresh from the west is the free wind's breath;-- + There is nothing here that speaks of death. + + Far yonder, where orchards and gardens lie, + And dwellings cluster, 'tis there men die, + They are born, they die, and are buried near, + Where the populous graveyard lightens the bier. + For strict and close are the ties that bind + In death the children of human-kind; + Yea, stricter and closer than those of life,-- + 'Tis a neighborhood that knows no strife. + They are noiselessly gathered--friend and foe-- + To the still and dark assemblies below. + Without a frown or a smile they meet, + Each pale and calm in his winding-sheet; + In that sullen home of peace and gloom, + Crowded, like guests in a banquet-room. + + Yet there are graves in this lonely spot, + Two humble graves,--but I meet them not. + I have seen them,--eighteen years are past + Since I found their place in the brambles last,-- + The place where, fifty winters ago + An aged man in his locks of snow, + And an aged matron, withered with years, + Were solemnly laid!--but not with tears. + For none, who sat by the light of their hearth, + Beheld their coffins covered with earth; + Their kindred were far, and their children dead, + When the funeral-prayer was coldly said. + + Two low green hillocks, two small gray stones, + Rose over the place that held their bones; + But the grassy hillocks are levelled again, + And the keenest eye might search in vain, + 'Mong briers, and ferns, and paths of sheep, + For the spot where the aged couple sleep. + + Yet well might they lay, beneath the soil + Of this lonely spot, that man of toil, + And trench the strong hard mould with the spade, + Where never before a grave was made; + For he hewed the dark old woods away, + And gave the virgin fields to the day; + And the gourd and the bean, beside his door, + Bloomed where their flowers ne'er opened before; + And the maize stood up, and the bearded rye + Bent low in the breath of an unknown sky. + + 'Tis said that when life is ended here, + The spirit is borne to a distant sphere; + That it visits its earthly home no more, + Nor looks on the haunts it loved before. + But why should the bodiless soul be sent + Far off, to a long, long banishment? + Talk not of the light and the living green! + It will pine for the dear familiar scene; + It will yearn, in that strange bright world, to behold + The rock and the stream it knew of old. + + 'Tis a cruel creed, believe it not! + Death to the good is a milder lot. + They are here,--they are here,--that harmless pair, + In the yellow sunshine and flowing air, + In the light cloud-shadows that slowly pass, + In the sounds that rise from the murmuring grass. + They sit where their humble cottage stood, + They walk by the waving edge of the wood, + And list to the long-accustomed flow + Of the brook that wets the rocks below, + Patient, and peaceful, and passionless, + As seasons on seasons swiftly press, + They watch, and wait, and linger around, + Till the day when their bodies shall leave the ground. + + + + + THE CONJUNCTION OF JUPITER AND VENUS. + + + I would not always reason. The straight path + Wearies us with the never-varying lines, + And we grow melancholy. I would make + Reason my guide, but she should sometimes sit + Patiently by the way-side, while I traced + The mazes of the pleasant wilderness + Around me. She should be my counsellor, + But not my tyrant. For the spirit needs + Impulses from a deeper source than hers, + And there are motions, in the mind of man, + That she must look upon with awe. I bow + Reverently to her dictates, but not less + Hold to the fair illusions of old time-- + Illusions that shed brightness over life, + And glory over Nature. Look, even now, + Where two bright planets in the twilight meet, + Upon the saffron heaven,--the imperial star + Of Jove, and she that from her radiant urn + Pours forth the light of love. Let me believe, + Awhile, that they are met for ends of good, + Amid the evening glory, to confer + Of men and their affairs, and to shed down + Kind influence. Lo! they brighten as we gaze, + And shake out softer fires! The great earth feels + The gladness and the quiet of the time. + Meekly the mighty river, that infolds + This mighty city, smooths his front, and far + Glitters and burns even the rocky base + Of the dark heights that bound him to the west; + And a deep murmur, from the many streets, + Rises like a thanksgiving. Put we hence + Dark and sad thoughts awhile--there's time for them + Hereafter--on the morrow we will meet, + With melancholy looks, to tell our griefs, + And make each other wretched; this calm hour, + This balmy, blessed evening, we will give + To cheerful hopes and dreams of happy days, + Born of the meeting of those glorious stars. + + Enough of drought has parched the year, and scared + The land with dread of famine. Autumn, yet, + Shall make men glad with unexpected fruits. + The dog-star shall shine harmless: genial days + Shall softly glide away into the keen + And wholesome cold of winter; he that fears + The pestilence, shall gaze on those pure beams, + And breathe, with confidence, the quiet air. + + Emblems of power and beauty! well may they + Shine brightest on our borders, and withdraw + Toward the great Pacific, marking out + The path of empire. Thus in our own land, + Ere long, the better Genius of our race, + Having encompassed earth, and tamed its tribes, + Shall sit him down beneath the farthest west, + By the shore of that calm ocean, and look back + On realms made happy. + + Light the nuptial torch, + And say the glad, yet solemn rite, that knits + The youth and maiden. Happy days to them + That wed this evening!--a long life of love, + And blooming sons and daughters! Happy they + Born at this hour, for they shall see an age + Whiter and holier than the past, and go + Late to their graves. Men shall wear softer hearts, + And shudder at the butcheries of war, + As now at other murders. + + Hapless Greece! + Enough of blood has wet thy rocks, and stained + Thy rivers; deep enough thy chains have worn + Their links into thy flesh; the sacrifice + Of thy pure maidens, and thy innocent babes, + And reverend priests, has expiated all + Thy crimes of old. In yonder mingling lights + There is an omen of good days for thee. + Thou shalt arise from midst the dust and sit + Again among the nations. Thine own arm + Shall yet redeem thee. Not in wars like thine + The world takes part. Be it a strife of kings,-- + Despot with despot battling for a throne,-- + And Europe shall be stirred throughout her realms, + Nations shall put on harness, and shall fall + Upon each other, and in all their bounds + The wailing of the childless shall not cease. + Thine is a war for liberty, and thou + Must fight it single-handed. The old world + Looks coldly on the murderers of thy race, + And leaves thee to the struggle; and the new,-- + I fear me thou couldst tell a shameful tale + Of fraud and lust of gain;--thy treasury drained, + And Missolonghi fallen. Yet thy wrongs + Shall put new strength into thy heart and hand, + And God and thy good sword shall yet work out, + For thee, a terrible deliverance. + + + + + A SUMMER RAMBLE. + + + The quiet August noon has come; + A slumberous silence fills the sky, + The fields are still, the woods are dumb, + In glassy sleep the waters lie. + + And mark yon soft white clouds that rest + Above our vale, a moveless throng; + The cattle on the mountain's breast + Enjoy the grateful shadow long. + + Oh, how unlike those merry hours, + In early June, when Earth laughs out, + When the fresh winds make love to flowers, + And woodlands sing and waters shout. + + When in the grass sweet voices talk, + And strains of tiny music swell + From every moss-cup of the rock, + From every nameless blossom's bell. + + But now a joy too deep for sound, + A peace no other season knows, + Hushes the heavens and wraps the ground, + The blessing of supreme repose. + + Away! I will not be, to-day, + The only slave of toil and care, + Away from desk and dust! away! + I'll be as idle as the air. + + Beneath the open sky abroad, + Among the plants and breathing things, + The sinless, peaceful works of God, + I'll share the calm the season brings. + + Come, thou, in whose soft eyes I see + The gentle meanings of thy heart, + One day amid the woods with me, + From men and all their cares apart. + + And where, upon the meadow's breast, + The shadow of the thicket lies, + The blue wild-flowers thou gatherest + Shall glow yet deeper near thine eyes. + + Come, and when mid the calm profound, + I turn, those gentle eyes to seek, + They, like the lovely landscape round, + Of innocence and peace shall speak. + + Rest here, beneath the unmoving shade, + And on the silent valleys gaze, + Winding and widening, till they fade + In yon soft ring of summer haze. + + The village trees their summits rear + Still as its spire, and yonder flock + At rest in those calm fields appear + As chiselled from the lifeless rock. + + One tranquil mount the scene o'erlooks-- + There the hushed winds their sabbath keep, + While a near hum from bees and brooks + Comes faintly like the breath of sleep. + + Well may the gazer deem that when, + Worn with the struggle and the strife, + And heart-sick at the wrongs of men, + The good forsakes the scene of life; + + Like this deep quiet that, awhile, + Lingers the lovely landscape o'er, + Shall be the peace whose holy smile + Welcomes him to a happier shore. + + + + + A SCENE ON THE BANKS OF THE HUDSON. + + + Cool shades and dews are round my way, + And silence of the early day; + Mid the dark rocks that watch his bed, + Glitters the mighty Hudson spread, + Unrippled, save by drops that fall + From shrubs that fringe his mountain wall; + And o'er the clear still water swells + The music of the Sabbath bells. + + All, save this little nook of land, + Circled with trees, on which I stand; + All, save that line of hills which lie + Suspended in the mimic sky-- + Seems a blue void, above, below, + Through which the white clouds come and go; + And from the green world's farthest steep + I gaze into the airy deep. + + Loveliest of lovely things are they, + On earth, that soonest pass away. + The rose that lives its little hour + Is prized beyond the sculptured flower. + Even love, long tried and cherished long, + Becomes more tender and more strong + At thought of that insatiate grave + From which its yearnings cannot save. + + River! in this still hour thou hast + Too much of heaven on earth to last; + Nor long may thy still waters lie, + An image of the glorious sky. + Thy fate and mine are not repose, + And ere another evening close, + Thou to thy tides shalt turn again, + And I to seek the crowd of men. + + + + + THE HURRICANE. + + + Lord of the winds! I feel thee nigh, + I know thy breath in the burning sky! + And I wait, with a thrill in every vein, + For the coming of the hurricane! + + And lo! on the wing of the heavy gales, + Through the boundless arch of heaven he sails; + Silent and slow, and terribly strong, + The mighty shadow is borne along, + Like the dark eternity to come; + While the world below, dismayed and dumb, + Through the calm of the thick hot atmosphere, + Looks up at its gloomy folds with fear. + + They darken fast; and the golden blaze + Of the sun is quenched in the lurid haze, + And he sends through the shade a funeral ray-- + A glare that is neither night nor day, + A beam that touches, with hues of death, + The clouds above and the earth beneath. + To its covert glides the silent bird, + While the hurricane's distant voice is heard + Uplifted among the mountains round, + And the forests hear and answer the sound. + + He is come! he is come! do ye not behold + His ample robes on the wind unrolled? + Giant of air! we bid thee hail!-- + How his gray skirts tops in the whirling gale; + How his huge and writhing arms are bent + To clasp the zone of the firmament, + And fold at length, in their dark embrace, + From mountain to mountain the visible space. + + Darker--still darker! the whirlwinds bear + The dust of the plains to the middle air: + And hark to the crashing, long and loud, + Of the chariot of God in the thunder-cloud! + You may trace its path by the flashes that start + From the rapid wheels where'er they dart, + As the fire-bolts leap to the world below, + And flood the skies with a lurid glow. + + What roar is that?--'tis the rain that breaks + In torrents away from the airy lakes, + Heavily poured on the shuddering ground, + And shedding a nameless horror round. + Ah! well-known woods, and mountains, and skies, + With the very clouds!--ye are lost to my eyes. + + I seek ye vainly, and see in your place + The shadowy tempest that sweeps through space, + A whirling ocean that fills the wall + Of the crystal heaven, and buries all + And I, cut off from the world, remain + Alone with the terrible hurricane. + + + + + WILLIAM TELL. + + + Chains may subdue the feeble spirit, but thee, + TELL, of the iron heart! they could not tame! + For thou wert of the mountains; they proclaim + The everlasting creed of liberty. + That creed is written on the untrampled snow, + Thundered by torrents which no power can hold, + Save that of God, when He sends forth His cold, + And breathed by winds that through the free heaven blow. + Thou, while thy prison-walls were dark around, + Didst meditate the lesson Nature taught, + And to thy brief captivity was brought + A vision of thy Switzerland unbound. + The bitter cup they mingled, strengthened thee + For the great work to set thy country free. + + + + + THE HUNTER'S SERENADE. + + + Thy bower is finished, fairest! + Fit bower for hunter's bride, + Where old woods overshadow + The green savanna's side. + I've wandered long, and wandered far, + And never have I met, + In all this lovely Western land, + A spot so lovely yet. + But I shall think it fairer + When thou art come to bless, + With thy sweet smile and silver voice, + Its silent loveliness. + + For thee the wild-grape glistens + On sunny knoll and tree, + The slim papaya ripens + Its yellow fruit for thee. + For thee the duck, on glassy stream, + The prairie-fowl shall die; + My rifle for thy feast shall bring + The wild-swan from the sky. + The forest's leaping panther, + Fierce, beautiful, and fleet, + Shall yield his spotted hide to be + A carpet for thy feet. + + I know, for thou hast told me, + Thy maiden love of flowers; + Ah, those that deck thy gardens + Are pale compared with ours. + When our wide woods and mighty lawns + Bloom to the April skies, + The earth has no more gorgeous sight + To show to human eyes. + In meadows red with blossoms, + All summer long, the bee + Murmurs, and loads his yellow thighs, + For thee, my love, and me. + + Or wouldst thou gaze at tokens + Of ages long ago-- + Our old oaks stream with mosses, + And sprout with mistletoe; + And mighty vines, like serpents, climb + The giant sycamore; + And trunks, o'erthrown for centuries, + Cumber the forest floor; + And in the great savanna, + The solitary mound, + Built by the elder world, o'erlooks + The loneliness around. + + Come, thou hast not forgotten + Thy pledge and promise quite, + With many blushes murmured, + Beneath the evening light. + Come, the young violets crowd my door, + Thy earliest look to win, + And at my silent window-sill + The jessamine peeps in. + All day the red-bird warbles + Upon the mulberry near, + And the night-sparrow trills her song + All night, with none to hear. + + + + + THE GREEK BOY. + + + Gone are the glorious Greeks of old, + Glorious in mien and mind; + Their bones are mingled with the mould, + Their dust is on the wind; + The forms they hewed from living stone + Survive the waste of years, alone, + And, scattered with their ashes, show + What greatness perished long ago. + + Yet fresh the myrtles there; the springs + Gush brightly as of yore; + Flowers blossom from the dust of kings, + As many an age before. + There Nature moulds as nobly now, + As e'er of old, the human brow; + And copies still the martial form + That braved Plataea's battle-storm. + + Boy! thy first looks were taught to seek + Their heaven in Hellas' skies; + Her airs have tinged thy dusky cheek, + Her sunshine lit thine eyes; + Thine ears have drunk the woodland strains + Heard by old poets, and thy veins + Swell with the blood of demigods, + That slumber in thy country's sods. + + Now is thy nation free, though late; + Thy elder brethren broke-- + Broke, ere thy spirit felt its weight-- + The intolerable yoke. + And Greece, decayed, dethroned, doth see + Her youth renewed in such as thee: + A shoot of that old vine that made + The nations silent in its shade. + + + + + THE PAST. + + + Thou unrelenting Past! + Strong are the barriers round thy dark domain, + And fetters, sure and fast, + Hold all that enter thy unbreathing reign. + + Far in thy realm withdrawn, + Old empires sit in sullenness and gloom, + And glorious ages gone + Lie deep within the shadow of thy womb. + + Childhood, with all its mirth, + Youth, Manhood, Age that draws us to the ground, + And last, Man's Life on earth, + Glide to thy dim dominions, and are bound. + + Thou hast my better years; + Thou hast my earlier friends, the good, the kind, + Yielded to thee with tears-- + The venerable form, the exalted mind. + + My spirit yearns to bring + The lost ones back--yearns with desire intense, + And struggles hard to wring + Thy bolts apart, and pluck thy captives thence. + + In vain; thy gates deny + All passage save to those who hence depart; + Nor to the streaming eye + Thou giv'st them back--nor to the broken heart. + + In thy abysses hide + Beauty and excellence unknown; to thee + Earth's wonder and her pride + Are gathered, as the waters to the sea; + + Labors of good to man, + Unpublished charity, unbroken faith, + Love, that midst grief began, + And grew with years, and faltered not in death. + + Full many a mighty name + Lurks in thy depths, unuttered, unrevered; + With thee are silent fame, + Forgotten arts, and wisdom disappeared. + + Thine for a space are they-- + Yet shalt thou yield thy treasures up at last: + Thy gates shall yet give way, + Thy bolts shall fall, inexorable Past! + + All that of good and fair + Has gone into thy womb from earliest time, + Shall then come forth to wear + The glory and the beauty of its prime. + + They have not perished--no! + Kind words, remembered voices once so sweet, + Smiles, radiant long ago, + And features, the great soul's apparent seat. + + All shall come back; each tie + Of pure affection shall be knit again; + Alone shall Evil die, + And Sorrow dwell a prisoner in thy reign. + + And then shall I behold + Him, by whose kind paternal side I sprung, + And her, who, still and cold, + Fills the next grave--the beautiful and young. + + + + + "UPON THE MOUNTAIN'S DISTANT HEAD." + + + Upon the mountain's distant head, + With trackless snows forever white, + Where all is still, and cold, and dead, + Late shines the day's departing light. + + But far below those icy rocks, + The vales, in summer bloom arrayed, + Woods full of birds, and fields of flocks, + Are dim with mist and dark with shade. + + 'Tis thus, from warm and kindly hearts, + And eyes where generous meanings burn, + Earliest the light of life departs, + But lingers with the cold and stern. + + + + + THE EVENING WIND. + + + Spirit that breathest through my lattice, thou + That cool'st the twilight of the sultry day, + Gratefully flows thy freshness round my brow; + Thou hast been out upon the deep at play, + Riding all day the wild blue waves till now, + Roughening their crests, and scattering high their spray, + And swelling the white sail. I welcome thee + To the scorched land, thou wanderer of the sea! + + Nor I alone; a thousand bosoms round + Inhale thee in the fulness of delight; + And languid forms rise up, and pulses bound + Livelier, at coming of the wind of night; + And, languishing to hear thy grateful sound, + Lies the vast inland stretched beyond the sight. + Go forth into the gathering shade; go forth, + God's blessing breathed upon the fainting earth! + + Go, rock the little wood-bird in his nest, + Curl the still waters, bright with stars, and rouse + The wide old wood from his majestic rest, + Summoning from the innumerable boughs + The strange, deep harmonies that haunt his breast: + Pleasant shall be thy way where meekly bows + The shutting flower, and darkling waters pass, + And where the o'ershadowing branches sweep the grass. + + The faint old man shall lean his silver head + To feel thee; thou shalt kiss the child asleep, + And dry the moistened curls that overspread + His temples, while his breathing grows more deep; + And they who stand about the sick man's bed, + Shall joy to listen to thy distant sweep, + And softly part his curtains to allow + Thy visit, grateful to his burning brow. + + Go--but the circle of eternal change, + Which is the life of Nature, shall restore, + With sounds and scents from all thy mighty range, + Thee to thy birthplace of the deep once more; + Sweet odors in the sea-air, sweet and strange, + Shall tell the home-sick mariner of the shore; + And, listening to thy murmur, he shall deem + He hears the rustling leaf and running stream. + + + + + "WHEN THE FIRMAMENT QUIVERS WITH + DAYLIGHT'S YOUNG BEAM." + + + When the firmament quivers with daylight's young beam, + And the woodlands awaking burst into a hymn, + And the glow of the sky blazes back from the stream, + How the bright ones of heaven in the brightness grow dim! + + Oh! 'tis sad, in that moment of glory and song, + To see, while the hill-tops are waiting the sun, + The glittering band that kept watch all night long + O'er Love and o'er Slumber, go out one by one: + + Till the circle of ether, deep, ruddy, and vast, + Scarce glimmers with one of the train that were there; + And their leader, the day-star, the brightest and last, + Twinkles faintly and fades in that desert of air. + + Thus, Oblivion, from midst of whose shadow we came, + Steals o'er us again when life's twilight is gone; + And the crowd of bright names, in the heaven of fame, + Grow pale and are quenched as the years hasten on. + + Let them fade--but we'll pray that the age, in whose flight, + Of ourselves and our friends the remembrance shall die, + May rise o'er the world, with the gladness and light + Of the morning that withers the stars from the sky. + + + + + "INNOCENT CHILD AND SNOW-WHITE FLOWER." + + + Innocent child and snow-white flower! + Well are ye paired in your opening hour. + Thus should the pure and the lovely meet, + Stainless with stainless, and sweet with sweet. + + White as those leaves, just blown apart; + Are the folds of thy own young heart; + Guilty passion and cankering care + Never have left their traces there. + + Artless one! though thou gazest now + O'er the white blossom with earnest brow, + Soon will it tire thy childish eye; + Fair as it is, thou wilt throw it by. + + Throw it aside in thy weary hour, + Throw to the ground the fair white flower; + Yet, as thy tender years depart, + Keep that white and innocent heart. + + + + + TO THE RIVER ARVE. + + SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN AT A HAMLET NEAR THE FOOT OF + MONT BLANC. + + + Not from the sands or cloven rocks, + Thou rapid Arve! thy waters flow; + Nor earth, within her bosom, locks + Thy dark unfathomed wells below. + Thy springs are in the cloud, thy stream + Begins to move and murmur first + Where ice-peaks feel the noonday beam, + Or rain-storms on the glacier burst. + + Born where the thunder and the blast + And morning's earliest light are born, + Thou rushest swoln, and loud, and fast, + By these low homes, as if in scorn: + Yet humbler springs yield purer waves; + And brighter, glassier streams than thine, + Sent up from earth's unlighted caves, + With heaven's own beam and image shine. + + Yet stay; for here are flowers and trees; + Warm rays on cottage-roofs are here; + And laugh of girls, and hum of bees, + Here linger till thy waves are clear. + Thou heedest not--thou hastest on; + From steep to steep thy torrent falls; + Till, mingling with the mighty Rhone, + It rests beneath Geneva's walls. + + Rush on--but were there one with me + That loved me, I would light my hearth + Here, where with God's own majesty + Are touched the features of the earth. + By these old peaks, white, high, and vast, + Still rising as the tempests beat, + Here would I dwell, and sleep, at last, + Among the blossoms at their feet. + + + + + TO COLE, THE PAINTER, DEPARTING FOR EUROPE. + + + Thine eyes shall see the light of distant skies; + Yet, COLE! thy heart shall bear to Europe's strand + A living image of our own bright land, + Such as upon thy glorious canvas lies; + Lone lakes--savannas where the bison roves-- + Rocks rich with summer garlands--solemn streams-- + Skies, where the desert eagle wheels and screams-- + + Spring bloom and autumn blaze of boundless groves. + Fair scenes shall greet thee where thou goest--fair, + But different--everywhere the trace of men, + Paths, homes, graves, ruins, from the lowest glen + To where life shrinks from the fierce Alpine air. + Gaze on them, till the tears shall dim thy sight, + But keep that earlier, wilder image bright. + + + + + TO THE FRINGED GENTIAN. + + + Thou blossom bright with autumn dew, + And colored with the heaven's own blue, + That openest when the quiet light + Succeeds the keen and frosty night. + + Thou comest not when violets lean + O'er wandering brooks and springs unseen, + Or columbines, in purple dressed, + Nod o'er the ground-bird's hidden nest. + + Thou waitest late and com'st alone, + When woods are bare and birds are flown, + And frosts and shortening days portend + The aged year is near his end. + + Then doth thy sweet and quiet eye + Look through its fringes to the sky, + Blue--blue--as if that sky let fall + A flower from its cerulean wall. + + I would that thus, when I shall see + The hour of death draw near to me, + Hope, blossoming within my heart, + May look to heaven as I depart. + + + + + THE TWENTY-SECOND OF DECEMBER. + + + Wild was the day; the wintry sea + Moaned sadly on New-England's strand, + When first the thoughtful and the free, + Our fathers, trod the desert land. + + They little thought how pure a light, + With years, should gather round that day; + How love should keep their memories bright, + How wide a realm their sons should sway. + + Green are their bays; but greener still + Shall round their spreading fame be wreathed, + And regions, now untrod, shall thrill + With reverence when their names are breathed. + + Till where the sun, with softer fires, + Looks on the vast Pacific's sleep, + The children of the pilgrim sires + This hallowed day like us shall keep. + + + + + HYMN OF THE CITY. + + + Not in the solitude + Alone may man commune with Heaven, or see, + Only in savage wood + And sunny vale, the present Deity; + Or only hear his voice + Where the winds whisper and the waves rejoice. + + Even here do I behold + Thy steps, Almighty!--here, amidst the crowd + Through the great city rolled, + With everlasting murmur deep and loud-- + Choking the ways that wind + 'Mongst the proud piles, the work of human kind. + + Thy golden sunshine comes + From the round heaven, and on their dwellings lies + And lights their inner homes; + For them thou fill'st with air the unbounded skies, + And givest them the stores + Of ocean, and the harvests of its shores. + + Thy Spirit is around, + Quickening the restless mass that sweeps along; + And this eternal sound-- + Voices and footfalls of the numberless throng-- + Like the resounding sea, + Or like the rainy tempest, speaks of Thee. + + And when the hour of rest + Comes, like a calm upon the mid-sea brine, + Hushing its billowy breast-- + The quiet of that moment too is thine; + It breathes of Him who keeps + The vast and helpless city while it sleeps. + + + + + THE PRAIRIES. + + + These are the gardens of the Desert, these + The unshorn fields, boundless and beautiful, + For which the speech of England has no name-- + The Prairies. I behold them for the first, + And my heart swells, while the dilated sight + Takes in the encircling vastness. Lo! they stretch, + In airy undulations, far away, + As if the ocean, in his gentlest swell, + Stood still, with all his rounded billows fixed, + And motionless forever.--Motionless?-- + No--they are all unchained again. The clouds + Sweep over with their shadows, and, beneath, + The surface rolls and fluctuates to the eye; + Dark hollows seem to glide along and chase + The sunny ridges. Breezes of the South! + Who toss the golden and the flame-like flowers, + And pass the prairie-hawk that, poised on high, + Flaps his broad wings, yet moves not--ye have played + Among the palms of Mexico and vines + Of Texas, and have crisped the limpid brooks + That from the fountains of Sonora glide + Into the calm Pacific--have ye fanned + A nobler or a lovelier scene than this? + Man hath no power in all this glorious work: + The hand that built the firmament hath heaved + And smoothed these verdant swells, and sown their slopes + With herbage, planted them with island groves, + And hedged them round with forests. Fitting floor + For this magnificent temple of the sky-- + With flowers whose glory and whose multitude + Rival the constellations! The great heavens + Seem to stoop down upon the scene in love,-- + A nearer vault, and of a tenderer blue, + Than that which bends above our eastern hills. + + As o'er the verdant waste I guide my steed, + Among the high rank grass that sweeps his sides + The hollow beating of his footstep seems + A sacrilegious sound. I think of those + Upon whose rest he tramples. Are they here-- + The dead of other days?--and did the dust + Of these fair solitudes once stir with life + And burn with passion? Let the mighty mounds + That overlook the rivers, or that rise + In the dim forest crowded with old oaks, + Answer. A race, that long has passed away, + Built them;--a disciplined and populous race + Heaped, with long toil, the earth, while yet the Greek + Was hewing the Pentelicus to forms + Of symmetry, and rearing on its rock + The glittering Parthenon. These ample fields + Nourished their harvests, here their herds were fed, + When haply by their stalls the bison lowed, + And bowed his maned shoulder to the yoke. + All day this desert murmured with their toils, + Till twilight blushed, and lovers walked, and wooed + In a forgotten language, and old tunes, + From instruments of unremembered form, + Gave the soft winds a voice. The red man came-- + The roaming hunter tribes, warlike and fierce, + And the mound-builders vanished from the earth. + The solitude of centuries untold + Has settled where they dwelt. The prairie-wolf + Hunts in their meadows, and his fresh-dug den + Yawns by my path. The gopher mines the ground + Where stood their swarming cities. All is gone; + All--save the piles of earth that hold their bones, + The platforms where they worshipped unknown gods, + The barriers which they builded from the soil + To keep the foe at bay--till o'er the walls + The wild beleaguerers broke, and, one by one, + The strongholds of the plain were forced, and heaped + With corpses. The brown vultures of the wood + Flocked to those vast uncovered sepulchres, + And sat unscared and silent at their feast. + Haply some solitary fugitive, + Lurking in marsh and forest, till the sense + Of desolation and of fear became + Bitterer than death, yielded himself to die. + Man's better nature triumphed then. Kind words + Welcomed and soothed him; the rude conquerors + Seated the captive with their chiefs; he chose + A bride among their maidens, and at length + Seemed to forget--yet ne'er forgot--the wife + Of his first love, and her sweet little ones, + Butchered, amid their shrieks, with all his race. + + Thus change the forms of being. Thus arise + Races of living things, glorious in strength, + And perish, as the quickening breath of God + Fills them, or is withdrawn. The red man, too, + Has left the blooming wilds he ranged so long, + And nearer to the Rocky Mountains, sought + A wilder hunting-ground. The beaver builds + No longer by these streams, but far away, + On waters whose blue surface ne'er gave back + The white man's face--among Missouri's springs, + And pools whose issues swell the Oregon-- + He rears his little Venice. In these plains + The bison feeds no more. Twice twenty leagues + Beyond remotest smoke of hunter's camp, + Roams the majestic brute, in herds that shake + The earth with thundering steps--yet here I meet + His ancient footprints stamped beside the pool. + + Still this great solitude is quick with life. + Myriads of insects, gaudy as the flowers + They flutter over, gentle quadrupeds, + And birds, that scarce have learned the fear of man, + Are here, and sliding reptiles of the ground, + Startlingly beautiful. The graceful deer + Bounds to the wood at my approach. The bee, + A more adventurous colonist than man, + With whom he came across the eastern deep, + Fills the savannas with his murmurings, + And hides his sweets, as in the golden age, + Within the hollow oak. I listen long + To his domestic hum, and think I hear + The sound of that advancing multitude + Which soon shall fill these deserts. From the ground + Comes up the laugh of children, the soft voice + Of maidens, and the sweet and solemn hymn + Of Sabbath worshippers. The low of herds + Blends with the rustling of the heavy grain + Over the dark brown furrows. All at once + A fresher wind sweeps by, and breaks my dream, + And I am in the wilderness alone. + + + + + SONG OF MARION'S MEN. + + + Our band is few but true and tried, + Our leader frank and bold; + The British soldier trembles + When Marion's name is told. + Our fortress is the good greenwood, + Our tent the cypress-tree; + We know the forest round us, + As seamen know the sea. + We know its walls of thorny vines, + Its glades of reedy grass, + Its safe and silent islands + Within the dark morass. + + Woe to the English soldiery + That little dread us near! + On them shall light at midnight + A strange and sudden fear: + When, waking to their tents on fire, + They grasp their arms in vain, + And they who stand to face us + Are beat to earth again; + And they who fly in terror deem + A mighty host behind, + And hear the tramp of thousands + Upon the hollow wind. + + Then sweet the hour that brings release + From danger and from toil: + We talk the battle over, + And share the battle's spoil. + The woodland rings with laugh and shout, + As if a hunt were up, + And woodland flowers are gathered + To crown the soldier's cup. + With merry songs we mock the wind + That in the pine-top grieves, + And slumber long and sweetly + On beds of oaken leaves. + + Well knows the fair and friendly moon + The band that Marion leads-- + The glitter of their rifles, + The scampering of their steeds. + 'Tis life to guide the fiery barb + Across the moonlight plain; + 'Tis life to feel the night-wind + That lifts the tossing mane. + A moment in the British camp-- + A moment--and away + Back to the pathless forest, + Before the peep of day. + + Grave men there are by broad Santee, + Grave men with hoary hairs; + Their hearts are all with Marion, + For Marion are their prayers. + And lovely ladies greet our band + With kindliest welcoming, + With smiles like those of summer, + And tears like those of spring. + For them we wear these trusty arms, + And lay them down no more + Till we have driven the Briton, + Forever, from our shore. + + + + + THE ARCTIC LOVER. + + + Gone is the long, long winter night; + Look, my beloved one! + How glorious, through his depths of light, + Rolls the majestic sun! + The willows, waked from winter's death, + Give out a fragrance like thy breath-- + The summer is begun! + + Ay, 'tis the long bright summer day: + Hark to that mighty crash! + The loosened ice-ridge breaks away-- + The smitten waters flash; + Seaward the glittering mountain rides, + While, down its green translucent sides, + The foamy torrents dash. + + See, love, my boat is moored for thee + By ocean's weedy floor-- + The petrel does not skim the sea + More swiftly than my oar. + We'll go where, on the rocky isles, + Her eggs the screaming sea-fowl piles + Beside the pebbly shore. + + Or, bide thou where the poppy blows, + With wind-flowers frail and fair, + While I, upon his isle of snow, + Seek and defy the bear. + Fierce though he be, and huge of frame, + This arm his savage strength shall tame, + And drag him from his lair. + + When crimson sky and flamy cloud + Bespeak the summer o'er, + And the dead valleys wear a shroud + Of snows that melt no more, + I'll build of ice thy winter home, + With glistening walls and glassy dome, + And spread with skins the floor. + + The white fox by thy couch shall play; + And, from the frozen skies, + The meteors of a mimic day + Shall flash upon thine eyes. + And I--for such thy vow--meanwhile + Shall hear thy voice and see thy smile. + Till that long midnight flies. + + + + + THE JOURNEY OF LIFE. + + + Beneath the waning moon I walk at night, + And muse on human life--for all around + Are dim uncertain shapes that cheat the sight, + And pitfalls lurk in shade along the ground, + And broken gleams of brightness, here and there, + Glance through, and leave unwarmed the death-like air. + + The trampled earth returns a sound of fear-- + A hollow sound, as if I walked on tombs; + And lights, that tell of cheerful homes, appear + Far off, and die like hope amid the glooms. + A mournful wind across the landscape flies, + And the wide atmosphere is full of sighs. + + And I, with faltering footsteps, journey on, + Watching the stars that roll the hours away, + Till the faint light that guides me now is gone, + And, like another life, the glorious day + Shall open o'er me from the empyreal height, + With warmth, and certainty, and boundless light. + + + + + TRANSLATIONS. + + + + + VERSION OF A FRAGMENT OF SIMONIDES. + + + The night winds howled, the billows dashed + Against the tossing chest, + As Danae to her broken heart + Her slumbering infant pressed. + + "My little child"--in tears she said-- + "To wake and weep is mine, + But thou canst sleep--thou dost not know + Thy mother's lot, and thine. + + "The moon is up, the moonbeams smile-- + They tremble on the main; + But dark, within my floating cell, + To me they smile in vain. + + "Thy folded mantle wraps thee warm, + Thy clustering locks are dry; + Thou dost not hear the shrieking gust, + Nor breakers booming high. + + "As o'er thy sweet unconscious face + A mournful watch I keep, + I think, didst thou but know thy fate, + How thou wouldst also weep. + + "Yet, dear one, sleep, and sleep, ye winds, + That vex the restless brine-- + When shall these eyes, my babe, be sealed + As peacefully as thine!" + + + + + FROM THE SPANISH OF VILLEGAS. + + + 'Tis sweet, in the green Spring, + To gaze upon the wakening fields around; + Birds in the thicket sing, + Winds whisper, waters prattle from the ground. + A thousand odors rise, + Breathed up from blossoms of a thousand dyes. + + Shadowy, and close, and cool, + The pine and poplar keep their quiet nook; + Forever fresh and full, + Shines, at their feet, the thirst-inviting brook; + And the soft herbage seems + Spread for a place of banquets and of dreams. + + Thou, who alone art fair, + And whom alone I love, art far away. + Unless thy smile be there, + It makes me sad to see the earth so gay; + I care not if the train + Of leaves, and flowers, and zephyrs go again. + + + + + MARY MAGDALEN. + + FROM THE SPANISH OF BARTOLOME LEONARDO DE ARGENSOLA. + + + Blessed, yet sinful one, and broken-hearted! + The crowd are pointing at the thing forlorn, + In wonder and in scorn! + Thou weepest days of innocence departed; + Thou weepest, and thy tears have power to move + The Lord to pity and love. + + The greatest of thy follies is forgiven, + Even for the least of all the tears that shine + On that pale cheek of thine. + Thou didst kneel down, to Him who came from heaven, + Evil and ignorant, and thou shalt rise + Holy, and pure, and wise. + + It is not much that to the fragrant blossom + The ragged brier should change, the bitter fir + Distil Arabian myrrh; + Nor that, upon the wintry desert's bosom, + The harvest should rise plenteous, and the swain + Bear home the abundant grain. + + But come and see the bleak and barren mountains + Thick to their tops with roses; come and see + Leaves on the dry dead tree. + The perished plant, set out by lining fountains, + Grows fruitful, and its beauteous branches rise, + Forever, toward the skies. + + + + + THE LIFE OF THE BLESSED. + + FROM THE SPANISH OF LUIS PONCE DE LEON. + + + Region of life and light! + Land of the good whose earthly toils are o'er! + Nor frost nor heat may blight + Thy vernal beauty, fertile shore, + Yielding thy blessed fruits for evermore. + + There, without crook or sling, + Walks the good shepherd; blossoms white and red + Round his meek temples cling; + And to sweet pastures led, + The flock he loves beneath his eye is fed. + + He guides, and near him they + Follow delighted, for he makes them go + Where dwells eternal May, + And heavenly roses blow, + Deathless, and gathered but again to grow. + + He leads them to the height + Named of the infinite and long-sought Good, + And fountains of delight; + And where his feet have stood + Springs up, along the way, their tender food. + + And when, in the mid skies, + The climbing sun has reached his highest bound, + Reposing as he lies, + With all his flock around, + He witches the still air with numerous sound. + + From his sweet lute flow forth + Immortal harmonies, of power to still + All passions born of earth, + And draw the ardent will + Its destiny of goodness to fulfil. + + Might but a little part, + A wandering breath of that high melody, + Descend into my heart, + And change it till it be + Transformed and swallowed up, oh love, in thee! + + Ah! then my soul should know, + Beloved! where thou liest at noon of day, + And from this place of woe + Released, should take its way + To mingle with thy flock and never stray. + + + + + FATIMA AND RADUAN. + + FROM THE SPANISH. + + + Diamante falso y fingido, + Engastado en pedernal, etc. + + "False diamond set in flint! hard heart in haughty breast! + By a softer, warmer bosom the tiger's couch is prest. + Thou art fickle as the sea, thou art wandering as the wind, + And the restless ever-mounting flame is not more hard to bind. + If the tears I shed were tongues, yet all too few would be + To tell of all the treachery that thou hast shown to me. + Oh! I could chide thee sharply--but every maiden knows + That she who chides her lover, forgives him ere he goes. + + "Thou hast called me oft the flower of all Granada's maids, + Thou hast said that by the side of me the first and fairest fades; + And they thought thy heart was mine, and it seemed to every one + That what thou didst to win my love, for love of me was done. + Alas! if they but knew thee, as mine it is to know, + They well might see another mark to which thine arrows go; + But thou giv'st me little heed--for I speak to one who knows + That she who chides her lover, forgives him ere he goes. + + "It wearies me, mine enemy, that I must weep and bear + What fills thy heart with triumph, and fills my own with care. + Thou art leagued with those that hate me, and ah! thou know'st I feel + That cruel words as surely kill as sharpest blades of steel. + 'Twas the doubt that thou wert false that wrung my heart with pain; + But, now I know thy perfidy, I shall be well again. + I would proclaim thee as thou art--but every maiden knows + That she who chides her lover, forgives him ere he goes." + + Thus Fatima complained to the valiant Raduan, + Where underneath the myrtles Alhambra's fountains ran. + The Moor was inly moved, and blameless as he was, + He took her white hand in his own, and pleaded thus his cause: + "Oh lady, dry those star-like eyes--their dimness does me wrong; + If my heart be made of flint, at least 'twill keep thy image long. + Thou hast uttered cruel words--but I grieve the less for those, + Since she who chides her lover, forgives him ere he goes." + + + + + LOVE AND FOLLY. + + FROM LA FONTAINE. + + + Love's worshippers alone can know + The thousand mysteries that are his; + His blazing torch, his twanging bow, + His blooming age are mysteries. + A charming science--but the day + Were all too short to con it o'er; + So take of me this little lay, + A sample of its boundless lore. + + As once, beneath the fragrant shade + Of myrtles fresh in heaven's pure air, + The children, Love and Folly, played, + A quarrel rose betwixt the pair. + Love said the gods should do him right-- + But Folly vowed to do it then, + And struck him, o'er the orbs of sight, + So hard he never saw again. + + His lovely mother's grief was deep, + She called for vengeance on the deed; + A beauty does not vainly weep, + Nor coldly does a mother plead. + A shade came o'er the eternal bliss + That fills the dwellers of the skies; + Even stony-hearted Nemesis, + And Rhadamanthus, wiped their eyes. + + "Behold," she said, "this lovely boy," + While streamed afresh her graceful tears-- + "Immortal, yet shut out from joy + And sunshine, all his future years. + The child can never take, you see, + A single step without a staff-- + The hardest punishment would be + Too lenient for the crime by half." + + All said that Love had suffered wrong, + And well that wrong should be repaid; + Then weighed the public interest long, + And long the party's interest weighed. + And thus decreed the court above: + "Since Love is blind from Folly's blow, + Let Folly be the guide of Love, + Where'er the boy may choose to go." + + + + + THE SIESTA. + + FROM THE SPANISH. + + Vientecico murmurador, + Que lo gozas y andas todo, etc. + + + Airs, that wander and murmur round, + Bearing delight where'er ye blow! + Make in the elms a lulling sound, + While my lady sleeps in the shade below. + + Lighten and lengthen her noonday rest, + Till the heat of the noonday sun is o'er. + Sweet be her slumbers! though in my breast + The pain she has waked may slumber no more. + + Breathing soft from the blue profound, + Bearing delight where'er ye blow, + Make in the elms a lulling sound, + While my lady sleeps in the shade below. + + Airs! that over the bending boughs, + And under the shade of pendent leaves, + Murmur soft, like my timid vows + Or the secret sighs my bosom heaves-- + + Gently sweeping the grassy ground, + Bearing delight where'er ye blow, + Make in the elms a lulling sound, + While my lady sleeps in the shade below. + + + + + THE ALCAYDE OF MOLINA. + + FROM THE SPANISH. + + + To the town of Atienza, Molina's brave Alcayde, + The courteous and the valorous, led forth his bold brigade. + The Moor came back in triumph, he came without a wound, + With many a Christian standard, and Christian captive bound. + He passed the city portals, with swelling heart and vain, + And toward his lady's dwelling he rode with slackened rein; + Two circuits on his charger he took, and at the third, + From the door of her balcony Zelinda's voice was heard. + "Now if thou wert not shameless," said the lady to the Moor, + "Thou wouldst neither pass my dwelling, nor stop before my door. + Alas for poor Zelinda, and for her wayward mood, + That one in love with peace should have loved a man of blood! + Since not that thou wert noble I chose thee for my knight, + But that thy sword was dreaded in tournay and in fight. + Ah, thoughtless and unhappy! that I should fail to see + How ill the stubborn flint and the yielding wax agree. + Boast not thy love for me, while the shrieking of the fife + Can change thy mood of mildness to fury and to strife. + Say not my voice is magic--thy pleasure is to hear + The bursting of the carbine, and shivering of the spear. + Well, follow thou thy choice--to the battle-field away, + To thy triumphs and thy trophies, since I am less than they. + Thrust thy arm into thy buckler, gird on thy crooked brand, + And call upon thy trusty squire to bring thy spears in hand. + Lead forth thy band to skirmish, by mountain and by mead, + On thy dappled Moorish barb, or thy fleeter border steed. + Go, waste the Christian hamlets, and sweep away their flocks, + From Almazan's broad meadows to Siguenza's rocks. + Leave Zelinda altogether, whom thou leavest oft and long, + And in the life thou lovest, forget whom thou dost wrong. + These eyes shall not recall thee, though they meet no more thine own, + Though they weep that thou art absent, and that I am all alone." + She ceased, and turning from him her flushed and angry cheek, + Shut the door of her balcony before the Moor could speak. + + + + + THE DEATH OF ALIATAR. + + FROM THE SPANISH. + + + 'Tis not with gilded sabres + That gleam in baldricks blue, + Nor nodding plumes in caps of Fez, + Of gay and gaudy hue-- + But, habited in mourning weeds, + Come marching from afar, + By four and four, the valiant men + Who fought with Aliatar. + All mournfully and slowly + The afflicted warriors come, + To the deep wail of the trumpet, + And beat of muffled drum. + + The banner of the Phoenix, + The flag that loved the sky, + That scarce the wind dared wanton with, + It flew so proud and high-- + Now leaves its place in battle-field, + And sweeps the ground in grief, + The bearer drags its glorious folds + Behind the fallen chief, + As mournfully and slowly + The afflicted warriors come, + To the deep wail of the trumpet, + And beat of muffled drum. + + Brave Aliatar led forward + A hundred Moors to go + To where his brother held Motril + Against the leaguering foe. + On horseback went the gallant Moor, + That gallant band to lead; + And now his bier is at the gate, + From which he pricked his steed. + While mournfully and slowly + The afflicted warriors come, + To the deep wail of the trumpet, + And beat of muffled drum. + + The knights of the Grand Master + In crowded ambush lay; + They rushed upon him where the reeds + Were thick beside the way; + They smote the valiant Aliatar, + They smote the warrior dead, + And broken, but not beaten, were + The gallant ranks he led. + Now mournfully and slowly + The afflicted warriors come, + To the deep wail of the trumpet, + And beat of muffled drum. + + Oh! what was Zayda's sorrow, + How passionate her cries! + Her lover's wounds streamed not more free + Than that poor maiden's eyes. + Say, Love--for didst thou see her tears-- + Oh, no! he drew more tight + The blinding fillet o'er his lids + To spare his eyes the sight. + While mournfully and slowly + The afflicted warriors come, + To the deep wail of the trumpet, + And beat of muffled drum. + + Nor Zayda weeps him only, + But all that dwell between + The great Alhambra's palace walls + And springs of Albaicin. + The ladies weep the flower of knights, + The brave the bravest here; + The people weep a champion, + The Alcaydes a noble peer. + While mournfully and slowly + The afflicted warriors come, + To the deep wail of the trumpet, + And beat of muffled drum. + + + + + LOVE IN THE AGE OF CHIVALRY. + + FROM PEYRE VIDAL, THE TROUBADOUR. + + + The earth was sown with early flowers, + The heavens were blue and bright-- + I met a youthful cavalier + As lovely as the light. + I knew him not--but in my heart + His graceful image lies, + And well I marked his open brow, + His sweet and tender eyes, + His ruddy lips that ever smiled, + His glittering teeth betwixt, + And flowing robe embroidered o'er, + With leaves and blossoms mixed. + He wore a chaplet of the rose; + His palfrey, white and sleek, + Was marked with many an ebon spot, + And many a purple streak; + Of jasper was his saddle-bow, + His housings sapphire stone, + And brightly in his stirrup glanced + The purple calcedon. + Fast rode the gallant cavalier, + As youthful horsemen ride; + "Peyre Vidal! know that I am Love," + The blooming stranger cried; + "And this is Mercy by my side, + A dame of high degree; + This maid is Chastity," he said, + "This squire is Loyalty." + + + + + THE LOVE OF GOD. + + FROM THE PROVENCAL OF BERNARD RASCAS. + + + All things that are on earth shall wholly pass away, + Except the love of God, which shall live and last for aye. + The forms of men shall be as they had never been; + The blasted groves shall lose their fresh and tender green; + The birds of the thicket shall end their pleasant song, + And the nightingale shall cease to chant the evening long; + The kine of the pasture shall feel the dart that kills, + And all the fair white flocks shall perish from the hills. + The goat and antlered stag, the wolf and the fox, + The wild-boar of the wood, and the chamois of the rocks, + And the strong and fearless bear, in the trodden dust shall lie; + And the dolphin of the sea, and the mighty whale, shall die. + And realms shall be dissolved, and empires be no more, + And they shall bow to death, who ruled from shore to shore; + And the great globe itself, so the holy writings tell, + With the rolling firmament, where the starry armies dwell, + Shall melt with fervent heat--they shall all pass away, + Except the love of God, which shall live and last for aye. + + + + + FROM THE SPANISH OF PEDRO DE CASTRO Y + ANAYA. + + + Stay rivulet, nor haste to leave + The lovely vale that lies around thee. + Why wouldst thou be a sea at eve, + When but a fount the morning found thee? + + Born when the skies began to glow, + Humblest of all the rock's cold daughters, + No blossom bowed its stalk to show + Where stole thy still and scanty waters. + + Now on the stream the noonbeams look, + Usurping, as thou downward driftest, + Its crystal from the clearest brook, + Its rushing current from the swiftest. + + Ah! what wild haste!--and all to be + A river and expire in ocean. + Each fountain's tribute hurries thee + To that vast grave with quicker motion. + + Far better 'twere to linger still + In this green vale, these flowers to cherish, + And die in peace, an aged rill, + Than thus, a youthful Danube, perish. + + + + + SONNET. + + FROM THE PORTUGUESE OF SEMEDO. + + + It is a fearful night; a feeble glare + Streams from the sick moon in the o'erclouded sky; + The ridgy billows, with a mighty cry, + Rush on the foamy beaches wild and bare; + No bark the madness of the waves will dare; + The sailors sleep; the winds are loud and high. + Ah, peerless Laura! for whose love I die, + Who gazes on thy smiles while I despair? + As thus, in bitterness of heart, I cried, + I turned, and saw my Laura, kind and bright, + A messenger of gladness, at my side; + To my poor bark she sprang with footstep light, + And as we furrowed Tago's heaving tide, + I never saw so beautiful a night. + + + + + SONG. + + FROM THE SPANISH OF IGLESIAS. + + + Alexis calls me cruel: + The rifted crags that hold + The gathered ice of winter, + He says, are not more cold. + + When even the very blossoms + Around the fountain's brim, + And forest-walks, can witness + The love I bear to him. + + I would that I could utter + My feelings without shame, + And tell him how I love him, + Nor wrong my virgin fame. + + Alas! to seize the moment + When heart inclines to heart, + And press a suit with passion, + Is not a woman's part. + + If man come not to gather + The roses where they stand, + They fade among their foliage; + They cannot seek his hand. + + + + + THE COUNT OF GREIERS. + + FROM THE GERMAN OF UHLAND. + + + At morn the Count of Greiers before his castle stands; + He sees afar the glory that lights the mountain-lands; + The horned crags are shining, and in the shade between + A pleasant Alpine valley lies beautifully green. + + "Oh, greenest of the valleys, how shall I come to thee! + Thy herdsmen and thy maidens, how happy must they be! + I have gazed upon thee coldly, all lovely as thou art, + But the wish to walk thy pastures now stirs my inmost heart." + + He hears a sound of timbrels, and suddenly appear + A troop of ruddy damsels and herdsmen drawing near: + They reach the castle greensward, and gayly dance across; + The white sleeves flit and glimmer, the wreaths and ribbons toss. + + The youngest of the maidens, slim as a spray of spring, + She takes the young count's fingers, and draws him to the ring; + They fling upon his forehead a crown of mountain flowers, + "And ho, young Count of Greiers! this morning thou art ours!" + + Then hand in hand departing, with dance and roundelay, + Through hamlet after hamlet, they lead the Count away. + They dance through wood and meadow, they dance across the linn, + Till the mighty Alpine summits have shut the music in. + + The second morn is risen, and now the third is come; + Where stays the Count of Greiers? has he forgot his home? + Again the evening closes, in thick and sultry air; + There's thunder on the mountains, the storm is gathering there. + + The cloud has shed its waters, the brook comes swollen down; + You see it by the lightning--a river wide and brown. + Around a struggling swimmer the eddies dash and roar, + Till, seizing on a willow, he leaps upon the shore. + + "Here am I cast by tempests far from your mountain-dell. + Amid our evening dances the bursting deluge fell. + Ye all, in cots and caverns, have 'scaped the water-spout, + While me alone the tempest overwhelmed and hurried out. + + "Farewell, with thy glad dwellers, green vale among the rocks! + Farewell the swift sweet moments, in which I watched thy flocks! + Why rocked they not my cradle in that delicious spot, + That garden of the happy, where Heaven endures me not? + + "Rose of the Alpine valley! I feel, in every vein, + Thy soft touch on my fingers; oh, press them not again! + Bewitch me not, ye garlands, to tread that upward track, + And thou, my cheerless mansion, receive thy master back." + + + + + THE SERENADE. + + FROM THE SPANISH. + + + If slumber, sweet Lisena! + Have stolen o'er thine eyes, + As night steals o'er the glory + Of spring's transparent skies; + + Wake, in thy scorn and beauty, + And listen to the strain + That murmurs my devotion, + That mourns for thy disdain. + + Here, by thy door at midnight, + I pass the dreary hour, + With plaintive sounds profaning + The silence of thy bower; + + A tale of sorrow cherished + Too fondly to depart, + Of wrong from love the flatterer + And my own wayward heart. + + Twice, o'er this vale, the seasons + Have brought and borne away + The January tempest, + The genial wind of May; + + Yet still my plaint is uttered, + My tears and sighs are given + To earth's unconscious waters, + And wandering winds of heaven. + + I saw, from this fair region, + The smile of summer pass, + And myriard frost-stars glitter + Among the russet grass. + + While winter seized the streamlets + That fled along the ground, + And fast in chains of crystal + The truant murmurers bound. + + I saw that to the forest + The nightingales had flown, + And every sweet-voiced fountain + Had hushed its silver tone. + + The maniac winds, divorcing + The turtle from his mate, + Raved through the leafy beeches, + And left them desolate. + + Now May, with life and music, + The blooming valley fills, + And rears her flowery arches + For all the little rills. + + The minstrel bird of evening + Comes back on joyous wings, + And, like the harp's soft murmur, + Is heard the gush of springs. + + And deep within the forest + Are wedded turtles seen, + Their nuptial chambers seeking, + Their chambers close and green. + + The rugged trees are mingling + Their flowery sprays in love; + The ivy climbs the laurel, + To clasp the boughs above. + + They change--but thou, Lisena, + Art cold while I complain: + Why to thy lover only + Should spring return in vain? + + + + + A NORTHERN LEGEND. + + FROM THE GERMAN OF UHLAND. + + + There sits a lovely maiden, + The ocean murmuring nigh; + She throws the hook, and watches; + The fishes pass it by. + + A ring, with a red jewel, + Is sparkling on her hand; + Upon the hook she binds it, + And flings it from the land. + + Uprises from the water + A hand like ivory fair. + What gleams upon its finger? + The golden ring is there. + + Uprises from the bottom + A young and handsome knight; + In golden scales he rises, + That glitter in the light. + + The maid is pale with terror-- + "Nay, Knight of Ocean, nay, + It was not thou I wanted; + Let go the ring, I pray." + + "Ah, maiden, not to fishes + The bait of gold is thrown; + Thy ring shall never leave me, + And thou must be my own." + + + + + THE PARADISE OF TEARS. + + FROM THE GERMAN OF N. MUeELLER. + + + Beside the River of Tears, with branches low, + And bitter leaves, the weeping-willows grow; + The branches stream like the dishevelled hair + Of women in the sadness of despair. + + On rolls the stream with a perpetual sigh; + The rocks moan wildly as it passes by; + Hyssop and wormwood border all the strand, + And not a flower adorns the dreary land. + + Then comes a child, whose face is like the sun, + And dips the gloomy waters as they run, + And waters all the region, and behold + The ground is bright with blossoms manifold. + + Where fall the tears of love the rose appears, + And where the ground is bright with friendship's tears, + Forget-me-not, and violets, heavenly blue, + Spring, glittering with the cheerful drops like dew. + + The souls of mourners, all whose tears are dried, + Like swans, come gently floating down the tide, + Walk up the golden sands by which it flows, + And in that Paradise of Tears repose. + + There every heart rejoins its kindred heart; + There in a long embrace that none may part, + Fulfilment meets desire, and that fair shore + Beholds its dwellers happy evermore. + + + + + THE LADY OF CASTLE WINDECK. + + FROM THE GERMAN OF CHAMISSO. + + + Rein in thy snorting charger! + That stag but cheats thy sight; + He is luring thee on to Windeck, + With his seeming fear and flight. + + Now, where the mouldering turrets + Of the outer gate arise, + The knight gazed over the ruins + Where the stag was lost to his eyes. + + The sun shone hot above him; + The castle was still as death; + He wiped the sweat from his forehead, + With a deep and weary breath. + + "Who now will bring me a beaker + Of the rich old wine that here, + In the choked-up vaults of Windeck, + Has lain for many a year?" + + The careless words had scarcely + Time from his lips to fall, + When the lady of Castle Windeck, + Came round the ivy-wall. + + He saw the glorious maiden + In her snow-white drapery stand, + The bunch of keys at her girdle, + The beaker high in her hand. + + He quaffed that rich old vintage; + With an eager lip he quaffed; + But he took into his bosom + A fire with the grateful draught. + + Her eyes' unfathomed brightness! + The flowing gold of her hair! + He folded his hands in homage, + And murmured a lover's prayer. + + She gave him a look of pity, + A gentle look of pain; + And, quickly as he had seen her, + She passed from his sight again. + + And ever, from that moment, + He haunted the ruins there, + A sleepless, restless wanderer, + A watcher with despair. + + Ghost-like and pale he wandered, + With a dreamy, haggard eye; + He seemed not one of the living, + And yet he could not die. + + 'Tis said that the lady met him, + When many years had past, + And kissing his lips, released him + From the burden of life at last. + + + + + LATER POEMS. + + + + + TO THE APENNINES. + + + Your peaks are beautiful, ye Apennines! + In the soft light of these serenest skies; + From the broad highland region, black with pines, + Fair as the hills of Paradise they rise, + Bathed in the tint Peruvian slaves behold + In rosy flushes on the virgin gold. + + There, rooted to the aerial shelves that wear + The glory of a brighter world, might spring + Sweet flowers of heaven to scent the unbreathed air, + And heaven's fleet messengers might rest the wing + To view the fair earth in its summer sleep, + Silent, and cradled by the glimmering deep. + + Below you lie men's sepulchres, the old + Etrurian tombs, the graves of yesterday; + The herd's white bones lie mixed with human mould, + Yet up the radiant steeps that I survey + Death never climbed, nor life's soft breath, with pain, + Was yielded to the elements again. + + Ages of war have filled these plains with fear; + How oft the hind has started at the clash + Of spears, and yell of meeting armies here, + Or seen the lightning of the battle flash + From clouds, that rising with the thunder's sound, + Hung like an earth-born tempest o'er the ground! + + Ah me! what armed nations--Asian horde, + And Libyan host, the Scythian and the Gaul + Have swept your base and through your passes poured, + Like ocean-tides uprising at the call + Of tyrant winds--against your rocky side + The bloody billows dashed, and howled, and died! + + How crashed the towers before beleaguering foes, + Sacked cities smoked and realms were rent in twain; + And commonwealths against their rivals rose, + Trode out their lives and earned the curse of Cain! + While, in the noiseless air and light that flowed + Round your fair brows, eternal Peace abode. + + Here pealed the impious hymn, and altar-flames + Rose to false gods, a dream-begotten throng, + Jove, Bacchus, Pan, and earlier, fouler names; + While, as the unheeding ages passed along, + Ye, from your station in the middle skies, + Proclaimed the essential Goodness, strong and wise. + + In you the heart that sighs for freedom seeks + Her image; there the winds no barrier know, + Clouds come and rest and leave your fairy peaks; + While even the immaterial Mind, below, + And Thought, her winged offspring, chained by power, + Pine silently for the redeeming hour. + + + + + EARTH. + + + A midnight black with clouds is in the sky; + I seem to feel, upon my limbs, the weight + Of its vast brooding shadow. All in vain + Turns the tired eye in search of form; no star + Pierces the pitchy veil; no ruddy blaze, + From dwellings lighted by the cheerful hearth, + Tinges the flowering summits of the grass. + No sound of life is heard, no village hum, + Nor measured tramp of footstep in the path, + Nor rush of wind, while, on the breast of Earth, + I lie and listen to her mighty voice: + A voice of many tones--sent up from streams + That wander through the gloom, from woods unseen + Swayed by the sweeping of the tides of air, + From rocky chasms where darkness dwells all day, + And hollows of the great invisible hills, + And sands that edge the ocean, stretching far + Into the night--a melancholy sound! + + O Earth! dost thou too sorrow for the past + Like man thy offspring? Do I hear thee mourn + Thy childhood's unreturning hours, thy springs + Gone with their genial airs and melodies, + The gentle generations of thy flowers, + And thy majestic groves of olden time, + Perished with all their dwellers? Dost thou wail + For that fair age of which the poets tell, + Ere yet the winds grew keen with frost, or fire + Fell with the rains or spouted from the hills, + To blast thy greenness, while the virgin night + Was guiltless and salubrious as the day? + Or haply dost thou grieve for those that die-- + For living things that trod thy paths awhile, + The love of thee and heaven--and now they sleep + Mixed with the shapeless dust on which thy herds + Trample and graze? I too must grieve with thee, + O'er loved ones lost. Their graves are far away + Upon thy mountains; yet, while I recline + Alone, in darkness, on thy naked soil, + The mighty nourisher and burial-place + Of man, I feel that I embrace their dust. + + Ha! how the murmur deepens! I perceive + And tremble at its dreadful import. Earth + Uplifts a general cry for guilt and wrong, + And heaven is listening. The forgotten graves + Of the heart-broken utter forth their plaint. + The dust of her who loved and was betrayed, + And him who died neglected in his age; + The sepulchres of those who for mankind + Labored, and earned the recompense of scorn; + Ashes of martyrs for the truth, and bones + Of those who, in the strife for liberty, + Were beaten down, their corses given to dogs, + Their names to infamy, all find a voice. + The nook in which the captive, overtoiled, + Lay down to rest at last, and that which holds + Childhood's sweet blossoms, crushed by cruel hands, + Send up a plaintive sound. From battle-fields, + Where heroes madly drave and dashed their hosts + Against each other, rises up a noise, + As if the armed multitudes of dead + Stirred in their heavy slumber. Mournful tones + Come from the green abysses of the sea-- + A story of the crimes the guilty sought + To hide beneath its waves. The glens, the groves, + Paths in the thicket, pools of running brook, + And banks and depths of lake, and streets and lanes + Of cities, now that living sounds are hushed, + Murmur of guilty force and treachery. + + Here, where I rest, the vales of Italy + Are round me, populous from early time, + And field of the tremendous warfare waged + 'Twixt good and evil. Who, alas! shall dare + Interpret to man's ear the mingled voice + That comes from her old dungeons yawning now + To the black air, her amphitheatres, + Where the dew gathers on the mouldering stones, + And fanes of banished gods, and open tombs, + And roofless palaces, and streets and hearths + Of cities dug from their volcanic graves? + I hear a sound of many languages, + The utterance of nations now no more, + Driven out by mightier, as the days of heaven + Chase one another from the sky. The blood + Of freemen shed by freemen, till strange lords + Came in their hour of weakness, and made fast + The yoke that yet is worn, cries out to heaven. + + What then shall cleanse thy bosom, gentle Earth, + From all its painful memories of guilt? + The whelming flood, or the renewing fire, + Or the slow change of time?--that so, at last, + The horrid tale of perjury and strife, + Murder and spoil, which men call history, + May seem a fable, like the inventions told + By poets of the gods of Greece. O thou, + Who sittest far beyond the Atlantic deep, + Among the sources of thy glorious streams, + My native Land of Groves! a newer page + In the great record of the world is thine; + Shall it be fairer? Fear, and friendly Hope, + And Envy, watch the issue, while the lines, + By which thou shalt be judged, are written down. + + + + + THE KNIGHT'S EPITAPH. + + + This is the church which Pisa, great and free, + Reared to St. Catharine. How the time-stained walls, + That earthquakes shook not from their poise, appear + To shiver in the deep and voluble tones + Rolled from the organ! Underneath my feet + There lies the lid of a sepulchral vault. + The image of an armed knight is graven + Upon it, clad in perfect panoply-- + Cuishes, and greaves, and cuirass, with barred helm, + Grauntleted hand, and sword, and blazoned shield. + Around, in Gothic characters, worn dim + By feet of worshippers, are traced his name, + And birth, and death, and words of eulogy. + Why should I pore upon them? This old tomb, + This effigy, the strange disused form + Of this inscription, eloquently show + His history. Let me clothe in fitting words + The thoughts they breathe, and frame his epitaph: + + "He whose forgotten dust for centuries + Has lain beneath this stone, was one in whom + Adventure, and endurance, and emprise, + Exalted the mind's faculties and strung + The body's sinews. Brave he was in fight, + Courteous in banquet, scornful of repose, + And bountiful, and cruel, and devout, + And quick to draw the sword in private feud, + He pushed his quarrels to the death, yet prayed + The saints as fervently on bended knees + As ever shaven cenobite. He loved + As fiercely as he fought. He would have borne + The maid that pleased him from her bower by night + To his hill castle, as the eagle bears + His victim from the fold, and rolled the rocks + On his pursuers. He aspired to see + His native Pisa queen and arbitress + Of cities; earnestly for her he raised + His voice in council, and affronted death + In battle-field, and climbed the galley's deck, + And brought the captured flag of Genoa back, + Or piled upon the Arno's crowded quay + The glittering spoils of the tamed Saracen. + He was not born to brook the stranger's yoke, + But would have joined the exiles that withdrew + Forever, when the Florentine broke in + The gates of Pisa, and bore off the bolts + For trophies--but he died before that day. + + "He lived, the impersonation of an age + That never shall return. His soul of fire + Was kindled by the breath of the rude time + He lived in. Now a gentler race succeeds, + Shuddering at blood; the effeminate cavalier, + Turning his eyes from the reproachful past, + And from the hopeless future, gives to ease, + And love, and music, his inglorious life." + + + + + THE HUNTER OF THE PRAIRIES. + + + Ay, this is freedom!--these pure skies + Were never stained with village smoke: + The fragrant wind, that through them flies, + Is breathed from wastes by plough unbroke. + Here, with my rifle and my steed, + And her who left the world for me, + I plant me, where the red deer feed + In the green desert--and am free. + + For here the fair savannas know + No barriers in the bloomy grass; + Wherever breeze of heaven may blow, + Or beam of heaven may glance, I pass. + In pastures, measureless as air, + The bison is my noble game; + The bounding elk, whose antlers tear + The branches, falls before my aim. + + Mine are the river-fowl that scream + From the long stripe of waving sedge; + The bear that marks my weapon's gleam, + Hides vainly in the forest's edge; + In vain the she-wolf stands at bay; + The brinded catamount, that lies + High in the boughs to watch his prey, + Even in the act of springing, dies. + + With what free growth the elm and plane + Fling their huge arms across my way, + Gray, old, and cumbered with a train + Of vines, as huge, and old, and gray! + Free stray the lucid streams, and find + No taint in these fresh lawns and shades; + Free spring the flowers that scent the wind + Where never scythe has swept the glades. + + Alone the Fire, when frost-winds sere + The heavy herbage of the ground, + Gathers his annual harvest here, + With roaring like the battle's sound, + And hurrying flames that sweep the plain, + And smoke-streams gushing up the sky: + I meet the flames with flames again, + And at my door they cower and die. + + Here, from dim woods, the aged past + Speaks solemnly; and I behold + The boundless future in the vast + And lonely river, seaward rolled. + Who feeds its founts with rain and dew? + Who moves, I ask, its gliding mass, + And trains the bordering vines, whose blue + Bright clusters tempt me as I pass? + + Broad are these streams--my steed obeys, + Plunges, and bears me through the tide. + Wide are these woods--I thread the maze + Of giant stems, nor ask a guide. + I hunt till day's last glimmer dies + O'er woody vale and grassy height; + And kind the voice and glad the eyes + That welcome my return at night. + + + + + SEVENTY-SIX. + + + What heroes from the woodland sprung, + When, through the fresh-awakened land, + The thrilling cry of freedom rung, + And to the work of warfare strung + The yeoman's iron hand! + + Hills flung the cry to hills around, + And ocean-mart replied to mart, + And streams, whose springs were yet unfound, + Pealed far away the startling sound + Into the forest's heart. + + Then marched the brave from rocky steep, + From mountain-river swift and cold; + The borders of the stormy deep, + The vales where gathered waters sleep, + Sent up the strong and bold,-- + + As if the very earth again + Grew quick with God's creating breath, + And, from the sods of grove and glen, + Rose ranks of lion-hearted men + To battle to the death. + + The wife, whose babe first smiled that day, + The fair fond bride of yestereve, + And aged sire and matron gray, + Saw the loved warriors haste away, + And deemed it sin to grieve. + + Already had the strife begun; + Already blood, on Concord's plain, + Along the springing grass had run, + And blood had flowed at Lexington, + Like brooks of April rain. + + That death-stain on the vernal sward + Hallowed to freedom all the shore; + In fragments fell the yoke abhorred-- + The footstep of a foreign lord + Profaned the soil no more. + + + + + THE LIVING LOST. + + + Matron! the children of whose love, + Each to his grave, in youth have passed; + And now the mould is heaped above + The dearest and the last! + Bride! who dost wear the widow's veil + Before the wedding flowers are pale! + Ye deem the human heart endures + No deeper, bitterer grief than yours. + + Yet there are pangs of keener woe, + Of which the sufferers never speak, + Nor to the world's cold pity show + The tears that scald the cheek, + Wrung from their eyelids by the shame + And guilt of those they shrink to name, + Whom once they loved with cheerful will, + And love, though fallen and branded, still. + + Weep, ye who sorrow for the dead, + Thus breaking hearts their pain relieve, + And reverenced are the tears they shed, + And honored ye who grieve. + The praise of those who sleep in earth, + The pleasant memory of their worth, + The hope to meet when life is past, + Shall heal the tortured mind at last. + + But ye, who for the living lost + That agony in secret bear, + Who shall with soothing words accost + The strength of your despair? + Grief for your sake is scorn for them + Whom ye lament and all condemn; + And o'er the world of spirits lies + A gloom from which ye turn your eyes. + + + + + CATTERSKILL FALLS. + + + Midst greens and shades the Catterskill leaps, + From cliffs where the wood-flower clings; + All summer he moistens his verdant steeps, + With the sweet light spray of the mountain-springs, + And he shakes the woods on the mountain-side, + When they drip with the rains of autumn-tide. + + But when, in the forest bare and old, + The blast of December calls, + He builds, in the starlight clear and cold, + A palace of ice where his torrent falls, + With turret, and arch, and fretwork fair, + And pillars blue as the summer air. + + For whom are those glorious chambers wrought, + In the cold and cloudless night? + Is there neither spirit nor motion of thought + In forms so lovely, and hues so bright? + Hear what the gray-haired woodmen tell + Of this wild stream and its rocky dell. + + 'Twas hither a youth of dreamy mood, + A hundred winters ago, + Had wandered over the mighty wood, + When the panther's track was fresh on the snow, + And keen were the winds that came to stir + The long dark boughs of the hemlock-fir. + + Too gentle of mien he seemed and fair, + For a child of those rugged steeps; + His home lay low in the valley where + The kingly Hudson rolls to the deeps; + But he wore the hunter's frock that day, + And a slender gun on his shoulder lay. + + And here he paused, and against the trunk + Of a tall gray linden leant, + When the broad clear orb of the sun had sunk, + From his path in the frosty firmament, + And over the round dark edge of the hill + A cold green light was quivering still. + + And the crescent moon, high over the green, + From a sky of crimson shone, + On that icy palace, whose towers were seen + To sparkle as if with stars of their own, + While the water fell with a hollow sound, + 'Twixt the glistening pillars ranged around. + + Is that a being of life, that moves + Where the crystal battlements rise? + A maiden watching the moon she loves, + At the twilight hour, with pensive eyes? + Was that a garment which seemed to gleam + Betwixt the eye and the falling stream? + + 'Tis only the torrent tumbling o'er, + In the midst of those glassy walls, + Gushing, and plunging, and beating the floor + Of the rocky basin in which it falls. + 'Tis only the torrent--but why that start? + Why gazes the youth with a throbbing heart? + + He thinks no more of his home afar, + Where his sire and sister wait. + He heeds no longer how star after star + Looks forth on the night as the hour grows late. + He heeds not the snow-wreaths, lifted and cast + From a thousand boughs, by the rising blast. + + His thoughts are alone of those who dwell + In the halls of frost and snow, + Who pass where the crystal domes upswell + From the alabaster floors below, + Where the frost-trees shoot with leaf and spray, + And frost-gems scatter a silvery day. + + "And oh that those glorious haunts were mine!" + He speaks, and throughout the glen + Thin shadows swim in the faint moonshine, + And take a ghastly likeness of men, + As if the slain by the wintry storms + Came forth to the air in their earthly forms. + + There pass the chasers of seal and whale, + With their weapons quaint and grim, + And hands of warriors in glittering mail, + And herdsmen and hunters huge of limb; + There are naked arms, with bow and spear, + And furry gauntlets the carbine rear. + + There are mothers--and oh how sadly their eyes + On their children's white brows rest! + There are youthful lovers--the maiden lies, + In a seeming sleep, on the chosen breast; + There are fair wan women with moonstruck air, + The snow-stars necking their long loose hair. + + They eye him not as they pass along, + But his hair stands up with dread, + When he feels that he moves with that phantom throng, + Till those icy turrets are over his head, + And the torrent's roar as they enter seems + Like a drowsy murmur heard in dreams. + + The glittering threshold is scarcely passed, + When there gathers and wraps him round + A thick white twilight, sullen and vast, + In which there is neither form nor sound; + The phantoms, the glory, vanish all, + With the dying voice of the waterfall. + + Slow passes the darkness of that trance, + And the youth now faintly sees + Huge shadows and gushes of light that dance + On a rugged ceiling of unhewn trees, + And walls where the skins of beasts are hung, + And rifles glitter on antlers strung. + + On a couch of shaggy skins he lies; + As he strives to raise his head, + Hard-featured woodmen, with kindly eyes, + Come round him and smooth his furry bed, + And bid him rest, for the evening star + Is scarcely set and the day is far. + + They had found at eve the dreaming one + By the base of that icy steep, + When over his stiffening limbs begun + The deadly slumber of frost to creep, + And they cherished the pale and breathless form, + Till the stagnant blood ran free and warm. + + + + + THE STRANGE LADY. + + + The summer morn is bright and fresh, the birds are darting by, + As if they loved to breast the breeze that sweeps the cool clear sky; + Young Albert, in the forest's edge, has heard a rustling sound, + An arrow slightly strikes his hand and falls upon the ground. + + A dark-haired woman from the wood comes suddenly in sight; + Her merry eye is full and black, her cheek is brown and bright; + Her gown is of the mid-sea blue, her belt with beads is strung, + And yet she speaks in gentle tones, and in the English tongue. + + "It was an idle bolt I sent, against the villain crow; + Fair sir, I fear it harmed thy hand; beshrew my erring bow!" + "Ah! would that bolt had not been spent! then, lady, might I wear + A lasting token on my hand of one so passing fair!" + + "Thou art a flatterer like the rest, but wouldst thou take with me + A day of hunting in the wild beneath the greenwood tree, + I know where most the pheasants feed, and where the red-deer herd, + And thou shouldst chase the nobler game, and I bring down the bird." + + Now Albert in her quiver lays the arrow in its place, + And wonders as he gazes on the beauty of her face: + "Those hunting-grounds are far away, and, lady, 'twere not meet + That night, amid the wilderness, should overtake thy feet." + + "Heed not the night; a summer lodge amid the wild is mine-- + 'Tis shadowed by the tulip-tree, 'tis mantled by the vine; + The wild-plum sheds its yellow fruit from fragrant thickets nigh, + And flowery prairies from the door stretch till they meet the sky. + + "There in the boughs that hide the roof the mock-bird sits and sings, + And there the hang-bird's brood within its little hammock swings; + A pebbly brook, where rustling winds among the hopples sweep, + Shall lull thee till the morning sun looks in upon thy sleep." + + Away, into the forest depths by pleasant paths they go, + He with his rifle on his arm, the lady with her bow, + Where cornels arch their cool dark boughs o'er beds of winter-green, + And never at his father's door again was Albert seen. + + That night upon the woods came down a furious hurricane, + With howl of winds and roar of streams, and beating of the rain; + The mighty thunder broke and drowned the noises in its crash; + The old trees seemed to fight like fiends beneath the lightning flash. + + Next day, within a mossy glen, 'mid mouldering trunks were found + The fragments of a human form upon the bloody ground; + White bones from which the flesh was torn, and locks of glossy hair; + They laid them in the place of graves, yet wist not whose they were. + + And whether famished evening wolves had mangled Albert so, + Or that strange dame so gay and fair were some mysterious foe, + Or whether to that forest-lodge, beyond the mountains blue, + He went to dwell with her, the friends who mourned him never knew. + + + + + LIFE. + + + Oh Life! I breathe thee in the breeze, + I feel thee bounding in my veins, + I see thee in these stretching trees, + These flowers, this still rock's mossy stains. + + This stream of odors flowing by + From clover-field and clumps of pine, + This music, thrilling all the sky, + From all the morning birds, are thine. + + Thou fill'st with joy this little one, + That leaps and shouts beside me here, + Where Isar's clay-white rivulets run + Through the dark woods like frighted deer. + + Ah! must thy mighty breath, that wakes + Insect and bird, and flower and tree, + From the low-trodden dust, and makes + Their daily gladness, pass from me-- + + Pass, pulse by pulse, till o'er the ground + These limbs, now strong, shall creep with pain, + And this fair world of sight and sound + Seem fading into night again? + + The things, oh LIFE! thou quickenest, all + Strive upward toward the broad bright sky, + Upward and outward, and they fall + Back to earth's bosom when they die. + + All that have borne the touch of death, + All that shall live, lie mingled there, + Beneath that veil of bloom and breath, + That living zone 'twixt earth and air. + + There lies my chamber dark and still, + The atoms trampled by my feet + There wait, to take the place I fill + In the sweet air and sunshine sweet. + + Well, I have had my turn, have been + Raised from the darkness of the clod, + And for a glorious moment seen + The brightness of the skirts of God; + + And knew the light within my breast, + Though wavering oftentimes and dim, + The power, the will, that never rest, + And cannot die, were all from him. + + Dear child! I know that thou wilt grieve + To see me taken from thy love, + Wilt seek my grave at Sabbath eve + And weep, and scatter flowers above. + + Thy little heart will soon be healed, + And being shall be bliss, till thou + To younger forms of life must yield + The place thou fill'st with beauty now. + + When we descend to dust again, + Where will the final dwelling be + Of thought and all its memories then, + My love for thee, and thine for me? + + + + + "EARTH'S CHILDREN CLEAVE TO EARTH." + + + Earth's children cleave to Earth--her frail + Decaying children dread decay. + Yon wreath of mist that leaves the vale + And lessens in the morning ray-- + Look, how, by mountain rivulet, + It lingers as it upward creeps, + And clings to fern and copsewood set + Along the green and dewy steeps: + Clings to the flowery kalmia, clings + To precipices fringed with grass, + Dark maples where the wood-thrush sings, + And bowers of fragrant sassafras. + Yet all in vain--it passes still + From hold to hold, it cannot stay, + And in the very beams that fill + The world with glory, wastes away, + Till, parting from the mountain's brow, + It vanishes from human eye, + And that which sprung of earth is now + A portion of the glorious sky. + + + + + THE HUNTER'S VISION. + + + Upon a rock that, high and sheer, + Rose from the mountain's breast, + A weary hunter of the deer + Had sat him down to rest, + And bared to the soft summer air + His hot red brow and sweaty hair. + + All dim in haze the mountains lay, + With dimmer vales between; + And rivers glimmered on their way + By forests faintly seen; + While ever rose a murmuring sound + From brooks below and bees around. + + He listened, till he seemed to hear + A strain, so soft and low, + That whether in the mind or ear + The listener scarce might know. + With such a tone, so sweet, so mild, + The watching mother lulls her child. + + "Thou weary huntsman," thus it said, + "Thou faint with toil and heat, + The pleasant land of rest is spread + Before thy very feet, + And those whom thou wouldst gladly see + Are waiting there to welcome thee." + + He looked, and 'twixt the earth and sky, + Amid the noontide haze, + A shadowy region met his eye, + And grew beneath his gaze, + As if the vapors of the air + Had gathered into shapes so fair. + + Groves freshened as he looked, and flowers + Showed bright on rocky bank, + And fountains welled beneath the bowers, + Where deer and pheasant drank. + He saw the glittering streams, he heard + The rustling bough and twittering bird. + + And friends, the dead, in boyhood dear + There lived and walked again, + And there was one who many a year + Within her grave had lain, + A fair young girl, the hamlet's pride-- + His heart was breaking when she died: + + Bounding, as was her wont, she came + Right toward his resting-place, + And stretched her hand and called his name + With that sweet smiling face. + Forward with fixed and eager eyes, + The hunter leaned in act to rise: + + Forward he leaned, and headlong down + Plunged from that craggy wall; + He saw the rocks, steep, stern, and brown, + An instant, in his fall; + A frightful instant--and no more, + The dream and life at once were o'er. + + + + + THE GREEN MOUNTAIN BOYS. + + + I. + + Here halt we our march, and pitch our tent + On the rugged forest-ground, + And light our fire with the branches rent + By winds from the beeches round. + Wild storms have torn this ancient wood, + But a wilder is at hand, + With hail of iron and rain of blood, + To sweep and waste the land. + + + II. + + How the dark wood rings with our voices shrill, + That startle the sleeping bird! + To-morrow eve must the voice be still, + And the step must fall unheard. + The Briton lies by the blue Champlain, + In Ticonderoga's towers, + And ere the sun rise twice again, + Must they and the lake be ours. + + + III. + + Fill up the bowl from the brook that glides + Where the fire-flies light the brake; + A ruddier juice the Briton hides + In his fortress by the lake. + Build high the fire, till the panther leap + From his lofty perch in flight, + And we'll strengthen our weary arms with sleep + For the deeds of to-morrow night. + + + + + A PRESENTIMENT. + + + "Oh father, let us hence--for hark, + A fearful murmur shakes the air; + The clouds are coming swift and dark;-- + What horrid shapes they wear! + A winged giant sails the sky; + Oh father, father, let us fly!" + + "Hush, child; it is a grateful sound, + That beating of the summer shower; + Here, where the boughs hang close around, + We'll pass a pleasant hour, + Till the fresh wind, that brings the rain, + Has swept the broad heaven clear again." + + "Nay, father, let us haste--for see, + That horrid thing with horned brow-- + His wings o'erhang this very tree, + He scowls upon us now; + His huge black arm is lifted high; + Oh father, father, let us fly!" + + "Hush, child;" but, as the father spoke, + Downward the livid firebolt came, + Close to his ear the thunder broke, + And, blasted by the flame, + The child lay dead; while dark and still + Swept the grim cloud along the hill. + + + + + THE CHILD'S FUNERAL. + + + Fair is thy sight, Sorrento, green thy shore, + Black crags behind thee pierce the clear blue skies; + The sea, whose borderers ruled the world of yore, + As clear and bluer still before thee lies. + + Vesuvius smokes in sight, whose fount of fire, + Outgushing, drowned the cities on his steeps; + And murmuring Naples, spire o'ertopping spire, + Sits on the slope beyond where Virgil sleeps. + + Here doth the earth, with flowers of every hue, + Prank her green breast when April suns are bright; + Flowers of the morning-red, or ocean-blue, + Or like the mountain-frost of silvery white. + + Currents of fragrance, from the orange-tree, + And sward of violets, breathing to and fro, + Mingle, and, wandering out upon the sea, + Refresh the idle boatsman where they blow. + + Yet even here, as under harsher climes, + Tears for the loved and early lost are shed; + That soft air saddens with the funeral-chimes, + Those shining flowers are gathered for the dead. + + Here once a child, a smiling playful one, + All the day long caressing and caressed, + Died when its little tongue had just begun + To lisp the names of those it loved the best. + + The father strove his struggling grief to quell, + The mother wept as mothers use to weep, + Two little sisters wearied them to tell + When their dear Carlo would awake from sleep. + + Within an inner room his couch they spread, + His funeral-couch; with mingled grief and love, + They laid a crown of roses on his head, + And murmured, "Brighter is his crown above." + + They scattered round him, on the snowy sheet, + Laburnum's strings of sunny-colored gems, + Sad hyacinths, and violets dim and sweet, + And orange-blossoms on their dark-green stems. + + And now the hour is come, the priest is there; + Torches are lit and bells are tolled; they go, + With solemn rites of blessing and of prayer, + To lay the little one in earth below. + + The door is opened; hark! that quick glad cry; + Carlo has waked, has waked, and is at play; + The little sisters laugh and leap, and try + To climb the bed on which the infant lay. + + And there he sits alive, and gayly shakes + In his full hands the blossoms red and white, + And smiles with winking eyes, like one who wakes + From long deep slumbers at the morning light. + + + + + THE BATTLE-FIELD. + + + Once this soft turf, this rivulet's sands, + Were trampled by a hurrying crowd, + And fiery hearts and armed hands + Encountered in the battle-cloud. + + Ah! never shall the land forget + How gushed the life-blood of her brave-- + Gushed, warm with hope and courage yet, + Upon the soil they fought to save. + + Now all is calm, and fresh, and still; + Alone the chirp of flitting bird, + And talk of children on the hill, + And bell of wandering kine, are heard. + + No solemn host goes trailing by + The black-mouthed gun and staggering wain; + Men start not at the battle-cry, + Oh, be it never heard again! + + Soon rested those who fought; but thou + Who minglest in the harder strife + For truths which men receive not now, + Thy warfare only ends with life. + + A friendless warfare! lingering long + Through weary day and weary year, + A wild and many-weaponed throng + Hang on thy front, and flank, and rear. + + Yet nerve thy spirit to the proof, + And blench not at thy chosen lot. + The timid good may stand aloof, + The sage may frown--yet faint thou not. + + Nor heed the shaft too surely cast, + The foul and hissing bolt of scorn; + For with thy side shall dwell, at last, + The victory of endurance born. + + Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again; + Th' eternal years of God are hers; + But Error, wounded, writhes in pain, + And dies among his worshippers. + + Yea, though thou lie upon the dust, + When they who helped thee flee in fear, + Die full of hope and manly trust, + Like those who fell in battle here. + + Another hand thy sword shall wield, + Another hand the standard wave, + Till from the trumpet's mouth is pealed + The blast of triumph o'er thy grave. + + + + + THE FUTURE LIFE. + + + How shall I know thee in the sphere which keeps + The disembodied spirits of the dead, + When all of thee that time could wither sleeps + And perishes among the dust we tread? + + For I shall feel the sting of ceaseless pain + If there I meet thy gentle presence not; + Nor hear the voice I love, nor read again + In thy serenest eyes the tender thought. + + Will not thy own meek heart demand me there? + That heart whose fondest throbs to me were given-- + My name on earth was ever in thy prayer, + And wilt thou never utter it in heaven? + + In meadows fanned by heaven's life-breathing wind, + In the resplendence of that glorious sphere, + And larger movements of the unfettered mind, + Wilt thou forget the love that joined us here? + + The love that lived through all the stormy past, + And meekly with my harsher nature bore, + And deeper grew, and tenderer to the last, + Shall it expire with life, and be no more? + + A happier lot than mine, and larger light, + Await thee there, for thou hast bowed thy will + In cheerful homage to the rule of right, + And lovest all, and renderest good for ill. + + For me, the sordid cares in which I dwell + Shrink and consume my heart, as heat the scroll; + And wrath has left its scar--that fire of hell + Has left its frightful scar upon my soul. + + Yet, though thou wear'st the glory of the sky, + Wilt thou not keep the same beloved name, + The same fair thoughtful brow, and gentle eye, + Lovelier in heaven's sweet climate, yet the same? + + Shalt thou not teach me, in that calmer home, + The wisdom that I learned so ill in this-- + The wisdom which is love--till I become + Thy fit companion in that land of bliss? + + + + + THE DEATH OF SCHILLER. + + + 'Tis said, when Schiller's death drew nigh, + The wish possessed his mighty mind, + To wander forth wherever lie + The homes and haunts of humankind. + + Then strayed the poet, in his dreams, + By Rome and Egypt's ancient graves; + Went up the New World's forest-streams, + Stood in the Hindoo's temple-caves; + + Walked with the Pawnee, fierce and stark, + The sallow Tartar, midst his herds, + The peering Chinese, and the dark + False Malay, uttering gentle words. + + How could he rest? even then he trod + The threshold of the world unknown; + Already, from the seat of God, + A ray upon his garments shone;-- + + Shone and awoke the strong desire + For love and knowledge reached not here, + Till, freed by death, his soul of fire + Sprang to a fairer, ampler sphere. + + + + + THE FOUNTAIN. + + + Fountain, that springest on this grassy slope, + Thy quick cool murmur mingles pleasantly, + With the cool sound of breezes in the beech, + Above me in the noontide. Thou dost wear + No stain of thy dark birthplace; gushing up + From the red mould and slimy roots of earth + Thou flashest in the sun. The mountain-air, + In winter, is not clearer, nor the dew + That shines on mountain-blossom. Thus doth God + Bring, from the dark and foul, the pure and bright. + + This tangled thicket on the bank above + Thy basin, how thy waters keep it green! + For thou dost feed the roots of the wild-vine + That trails all over it, and to the twigs + Ties fast her clusters. There the spice-bush lifts + Her leafy lances; the viburnum there, + Paler of foliage, to the sun holds up + Her circlet of green berries. In and out + The chipping-sparrow, in her coat of brown, + Steals silently lest I should mark her nest. + + Not such thou wert of yore, ere yet the axe + Had smitten the old woods. Then hoary trunks + Of oak, and plane, and hickory, o'er thee held + A mighty canopy. When April winds + Grew soft, the maple burst into a flush + Of scarlet flowers. The tulip-tree, high up, + Opened, in airs of June, her multitude + Of golden chalices to humming-birds + And silken-winged insects of the sky. + + Frail wood-plants clustered round thy edge in spring; + The liver-leaf put forth her sister blooms + Of faintest blue. Here the quick-footed wolf, + Passing to lap thy waters, crushed the flower + Of sanguinaria, from whose brittle stem + The red drops fell like blood. The deer, too, left + Her delicate footprint in the soft moist mould, + And on the fallen leaves. The slow-paced bear, + In such a sultry summer noon as this, + Stopped at thy stream, and drank, and leaped across. + + But thou hast histories that stir the heart + With deeper feeling; while I look on thee + They rise before me. I behold the scene + Hoary again with forests; I behold + The Indian warrior, whom a hand unseen + Has smitten with his death-wound in the woods, + Creep slowly to thy well-known rivulet, + And slake his death-thirst. Hark, that quick fierce cry + That rends the utter silence! 'tis the whoop + Of battle, and a throng of savage men + With naked arms and faces stained like blood, + Fill the green wilderness; the long bare arms + Are heaved aloft, bows twang and arrows stream; + Each makes a tree his shield, and every tree + Sends forth its arrow. Fierce the fight and short, + As is the whirlwind. Soon the conquerors + And conquered vanish, and the dead remain + Mangled by tomahawks. The mighty woods + Are still again, the frighted bird comes back + And plumes her wings; but thy sweet waters run + Crimson with blood. Then, as the sun goes down, + Amid the deepening twilight I descry + Figures of men that crouch and creep unheard, + And bear away the dead. The next day's shower + Shall wash the tokens of the fight away. + + I look again--a hunter's lodge is built, + With poles and boughs, beside thy crystal well, + While the meek autumn stains the woods with gold, + And sheds his golden sunshine. To the door + The red-man slowly drags the enormous bear + Slain in the chestnut-thicket, or flings down + The deer from his strong shoulders. Shaggy fells + Of wolf and cougar hang upon the walls, + And loud the black-eyed Indian maidens laugh, + That gather, from the rustling heaps of leaves, + The hickory's white nuts, and the dark fruit + That falls from the gray butternut's long boughs. + + So centuries passed by, and still the woods + Blossomed in spring, and reddened when the year + Grew chill, and glistened in the frozen rains + Of winter, till the white man swung the axe + Beside thee--signal of a mighty change. + Then all around was heard the crash of trees, + Trembling awhile and rushing to the ground, + The low of ox, and shouts of men who fired + The brushwood, or who tore the earth with ploughs; + The grain sprang thick and tall, and hid in green + The blackened hill-side; ranks of spiky maize + Rose like a host embattled; the buckwheat + Whitened broad acres, sweetening with its flowers + The August wind. White cottages were seen + With rose-trees at the windows; barns from which + Came loud and shrill the crowing of the cock; + Pastures where rolled and neighed the lordly horse, + And white flocks browsed and bleated. A rich turf + Of grasses brought from far o'ercrept thy bank, + Spotted with the white clover. Blue-eyed girls + Brought pails, and dipped them in thy crystal pool; + And children, ruddy-cheeked and flaxen-haired, + Gathered the glistening cowslip from thy edge. + + Since then, what steps have trod thy border! Here + On thy green bank, the woodman of the swamp + Has laid his axe, the reaper of the hill + His sickle, as they stooped to taste thy stream. + The sportsman, tired with wandering in the still + September noon, has bathed his heated brow + In thy cool current. Shouting boys, let loose + For a wild holiday, have quaintly shaped + Into a cup the folded linden-leaf, + And dipped thy sliding crystal. From the wars + Returning, the plumed soldier by thy side + Has sat, and mused how pleasant 'twere to dwell + In such a spot, and be as free as thou, + And move for no man's bidding more. At eve + When thou wert crimson with the crimson sky, + Lovers have gazed upon thee, and have thought + Their mingled lives should flow as peacefully + And brightly as thy waters. Here the sage, + Gazing into thy self-replenished depth, + Has seen eternal order circumscribe + And bound the motions of eternal change, + And from the gushing of thy simple fount + Has reasoned to the mighty universe. + + Is there no other change for thee, that lurks + Among the future ages? Will not man + Seek out strange arts to wither and deform + The pleasant landscape which thou makest green? + Or shall the veins that feed thy constant stream + Be choked in middle earth, and flow no more + For ever, that the water-plants along + Thy channel perish, and the bird in vain + Alight to drink? Haply shall these green hills + Sink, with the lapse of years, into the gulf + Of ocean waters, and thy source be lost + Amidst the bitter brine? Or shall they rise, + Upheaved in broken cliffs and airy peaks, + Haunts of the eagle and the snake, and thou + Gush midway from the bare and barren steep? + + + + + THE WINDS. + + + I. + + Ye winds, ye unseen currents of the air, + Softly ye played a few brief hours ago; + Ye bore the murmuring bee; ye tossed the air + O'er maiden cheeks, that took a fresher glow; + Ye rolled the round white cloud through depths of blue; + Ye shook from shaded flowers the lingering dew; + Before you the catalpa's blossoms flew, + Light blossoms, dropping on the grass like snow. + + II. + + What change is this! Ye take the cataract's sound; + Ye take the whirlpool's fury and its might; + The mountain shudders as ye sweep the ground; + The valley woods lie prone beneath your flight. + The clouds before you shoot like eagles past; + The homes of men are rocking in your blast; + Ye lift the roofs like autumn leaves, and cast, + Skyward, the whirling fragments out of sight. + + III. + + The weary fowls of heaven make wing in vain, + To escape your wrath; ye seize and dash them dead; + Against the earth ye drive the roaring rain; + The harvest-field becomes a river's bed; + And torrents tumble from the hills around, + Plains turn to lakes, and villages are drowned, + And wailing voices, midst the tempest's sound, + Rise, as the rushing waters swell and spread. + + IV. + + Ye dart upon the deep, and straight is heard + A wilder roar, and men grow pale, and pray; + Ye fling its floods around you, as a bird + Flings o'er his shivering plumes the fountain's spray. + See! to the breaking mast the sailor clings; + Ye scoop the ocean to its briny springs, + And take the mountain-billow on your wings, + And pile the wreck of navies round the bay. + + V. + + Why rage ye thus?--no strife for liberty + Has made you mad; no tyrant, strong through fear, + Has chained your pinions till ye wrenched them free, + And rushed into the unmeasured atmosphere; + For ye were born in freedom where ye blow; + Free o'er the mighty deep to come and go; + Earth's solemn woods were yours, her wastes of snow, + Her isles where summer blossoms all the year. + + VI. + + O ye wild winds! a mightier Power than yours + In chains upon the shore of Europe lies; + The sceptred throng whose fetters he endures + Watch his mute throes with terror in their eyes; + And armed warriors all around him stand, + And, as he struggles, tighten every band, + And lift the heavy spear, with threatening hand, + To pierce the victim, should he strive to rise. + + VII. + + Yet oh, when that wronged Spirit of our race + Shall break, as soon he must, his long-worn chains, + And leap in freedom from his prison-place, + Lord of his ancient hills and fruitful plains, + Let him not rise, like these mad winds of air, + To waste the loveliness that time could spare, + To fill the earth with woe, and blot her fair + Unconscious breast with blood from human veins. + + VIII. + + But may he like the spring-time come abroad, + Who crumbles winter's gyves with gentle might, + When in the genial breeze, the breath of God, + The unsealed springs come spouting up to light; + Flowers start from their dark prisons at his feet, + The woods, long dumb, awake to hymnings sweet, + And morn and eve, whose glimmerings almost meet, + Crowd back to narrow bounds the ancient night + + + + + THE OLD MAN'S COUNSEL. + + + Among our hills and valleys, I have known + Wise and grave men, who, while their diligent hands + Tended or gathered in the fruits of earth, + Were reverent learners in the solemn school + Of Nature. Not in vain to them were sent + Seed-time and harvest, or the vernal shower + That darkened the brown tilth, or snow that beat + On the white winter hills. Each brought, in turn, + Some truth, some lesson on the life of man, + Or recognition of the Eternal mind + Who veils his glory with the elements. + + One such I knew long since, a white-haired man, + Pithy of speech, and merry when he would; + A genial optimist, who daily drew + From what he saw his quaint moralities. + Kindly he held communion, though so old, + With me a dreaming boy, and taught me much + That books tell not, and I shall ne'er forget. + + The sun of May was bright in middle heaven, + And steeped the sprouting forests, the green hills, + And emerald wheat-fields, in his yellow light. + Upon the apple-tree, where rosy buds + Stood clustered, ready to burst forth in bloom, + The robin warbled forth his full clear note + For hours, and wearied not. Within the woods, + Whose young and half transparent leaves scarce cast + A shade, gay circles of anemones + Danced on their stalks; the shad-bush, white with flowers, + Brightened the glens; the new-leaved butternut + And quivering poplar to the roving breeze + Gave a balsamic fragrance. In the fields + I saw the pulses of the gentle wind + On the young grass. My heart was touched with joy + At so much beauty, flushing every hour + Into a fuller beauty; but my friend, + The thoughtful ancient, standing at my side, + Gazed on it mildly sad. I asked him why. + + "Well mayst thou join in gladness," he replied, + "With the glad earth, her springing plants and flowers, + And this soft wind, the herald of the green + Luxuriant summer. Thou art young like them, + And well mayst thou rejoice. But while the flight + Of seasons fills and knits thy spreading frame, + It withers mine, and thins my hair, and dims + These eyes, whose fading light shall soon be quenched + In utter darkness. Hearest thou that bird?" + + I listened, and from midst the depth of woods + Heard the love-signal of the grouse, that wears + A sable ruff around his mottled neck; + Partridge they call him by our northern streams, + And pheasant by the Delaware. He beat + His barred sides with his speckled wings, and made + A sound like distant thunder; slow the strokes + At first, then fast and faster, till at length + They passed into a murmur and were still. + + "There hast thou," said my friend, "a fitting type + Of human life. 'Tis an old truth, I know, + But images like these revive the power + Of long familiar truths. Slow pass our days + In childhood, and the hours of light are long + Betwixt the morn and eve; with swifter lapse + They glide in manhood, and in age they fly; + Till days and seasons flit before the mind + As flit the snow-flakes in a winter storm, + Seen rather than distinguished. Ah! I seem + As if I sat within a helpless bark, + By swiftly-running waters hurried on + To shoot some mighty cliff. Along the banks + Grove after grove, rock after frowning rock, + Bare sands and pleasant homes, and flowery nooks, + And isles and whirlpools in the stream, appear + Each after each, but the devoted skiff + Darts by so swiftly that their images + Dwell not upon the mind, or only dwell + In dim confusion; faster yet I sweep + By other banks, and the great gulf is near. + + "Wisely, my son, while yet thy days are long, + And this fair change of seasons passes slow, + Gather and treasure up the good they yield-- + All that they teach of virtue, of pure thoughts + And kind affections, reverence for thy God + And for thy brethren; so when thou shalt come + Into these barren years, thou mayst not bring + A mind unfurnished and a withered heart." + + Long since that white-haired ancient slept--but still, + When the red flower-buds crowd the orchard-bough, + And the ruffed grouse is drumming far within + The woods, his venerable form again + Is at my side, his voice is in my ear. + + + + + IN MEMORY OF WILLIAM LEGGETT. + + + The earth may ring, from shore to shore, + With echoes of a glorious name, + But he, whose loss our tears deplore, + Has left behind him more than fame. + + For when the death-frost came to lie + On Leggett's warm and mighty heart, + And quench his bold and friendly eye, + His spirit did not all depart. + + The words of fire that from his pen + Were flung upon the fervid page, + Still move, still shake the hearts of men, + Amid a cold and coward age. + + His love of truth, too warm, too strong + For Hope or Fear to chain or chill, + His hate of tyranny and wrong, + Burn in the breasts he kindled still. + + + + + AN EVENING REVERY. + + + The summer day is closed--the sun is set: + Well they have done their office, those bright hours, + The latest of whose train goes softly out + In the red west. The green blade of the ground + Has risen, and herds have cropped it; the young twig + Has spread its plaited tissues to the sun; + Flowers of the garden and the waste have blown + And withered; seeds have fallen upon the soil, + From bursting cells, and in their graves await + Their resurrection. Insects from the pools + Have filled the air awhile with humming wings, + That now are still for ever; painted moths + Have wandered the blue sky, and died again; + The mother-bird hath broken for her brood + Their prison shell, or shoved them from the nest, + Plumed for their earliest flight. In bright alcoves, + In woodland cottages with barky walls, + In noisome cells of the tumultuous town, + Mothers have clasped with joy the new-born babe. + Graves by the lonely forest, by the shore + Of rivers and of ocean, by the ways + Of the thronged city, have been hollowed out + And filled, and closed. This day hath parted friends + That ne'er before were parted; it hath knit + New friendships; it hath seen the maiden plight + Her faith, and trust her peace to him who long + Had wooed; and it hath heard, from lips which late + Were eloquent of love, the first harsh word, + That told the wedded one her peace was flown. + Farewell to the sweet sunshine! One glad day + Is added now to Childhood's merry days, + And one calm day to those of quiet Age. + Still the fleet hours run on; and as I lean, + Amid the thickening darkness, lamps are lit, + By those who watch the dead, and those who twine + Flowers for the bride. The mother from the eyes + Of her sick infant shades the painful light, + And sadly listens to his quick-drawn breath. + + O thou great Movement of the Universe, + Or Change, or Flight of Time--for ye are one! + That bearest, silently, this visible scene + Into night's shadow and the streaming rays + Of starlight, whither art thou bearing me? + I feel the mighty current sweep me on, + Yet know not whither. Man foretells afar + The courses of the stars; the very hour + He knows when they shall darken or grow bright; + Yet doth the eclipse of Sorrow and of Death + Come unforewarned. Who next, of those I love, + Shall pass from life, or, sadder yet, shall fall + From virtue? Strife with foes, or bitterer strife + With friends, or shame and general scorn of men-- + Which who can bear?--or the fierce rack of pain-- + Lie within my path? Or shall the years + Push me, with soft and inoffensive pace, + Into the stilly twilight of my age? + Or do the portals of another life + Even now, while I am glorying in my strength, + Impend around me? Oh! beyond that bourne, + In the vast cycle of being which begins + At that dread threshold, with what fairer forms + Shall the great law of change and progress clothe + Its workings? Gently--so have good men taught-- + Gently, and without grief, the old shall glide + Into the new; the eternal flow of things, + Like a bright river of the fields of heaven, + Shall journey onward in perpetual peace. + + + + + THE PAINTED CUP. + + + The fresh savannas of the Sangamon + Here rise in gentle swells, and the long grass + Is mixed with rustling hazels. Scarlet tufts + Are glowing in the green, like flakes of fire; + The wanderers of the prairie know them well, + And call that brilliant flower the Painted Cup. + + Now, if thou art a poet, tell me not + That these bright chalices were tinted thus + To hold the dew for fairies, when they meet + On moonlight evenings in the hazel-bowers, + And dance till they are thirsty. Call not up, + Amid this fresh and virgin solitude, + The faded fancies of an elder world; + But leave these scarlet cups to spotted moths + Of June, and glistening flies, and humming-birds, + To drink from, when on all these boundless lawns + The morning sun looks hot. Or let the wind + O'erturn in sport their ruddy brims, and pour + A sudden shower upon the strawberry-plant, + To swell the reddening fruit that even now + Breathes a slight fragrance from the sunny slope. + + But thou art of a gayer fancy. Well-- + Let then the gentle Manitou of flowers, + Lingering amid the bloomy waste he loves, + Though all his swarthy worshippers are gone-- + Slender and small, his rounded cheek all brown + And ruddy with the sunshine; let him come + On summer mornings, when the blossoms wake, + And part with little hands the spiky grass, + And touching, with his cherry lips, the edge + Of these bright beakers, drain the gathered dew. + + + + + A DREAM. + + + I had a dream--a strange, wild dream-- + Said a dear voice at early light; + And even yet its shadows seem + To linger in my waking sight. + + Earth, green with spring, and fresh with dew, + And bright with morn, before me stood; + And airs just wakened softly blew + On the young blossoms of the wood. + + Birds sang within the sprouting shade, + Bees hummed amid the whispering grass, + And children prattled as they played + Beside the rivulet's dimpling glass. + + Fast climbed the sun: the flowers were flown, + There played no children in the glen; + For some were gone, and some were grown + To blooming dames and bearded men. + + 'Twas noon, 'twas summer: I beheld + Woods darkening in the flush of day, + And that bright rivulet spread and swelled, + A mighty stream, with creek and bay. + + And here was love, and there was strife, + And mirthful shouts, and wrathful cries, + And strong men, struggling as for life, + With knotted limbs and angry eyes. + + Now stooped the sun--the shades grew thin; + The rustling paths were piled with leaves, + And sunburnt groups were gathering in, + From the shorn field, its fruits and sheaves. + + The river heaved with sullen sounds; + The chilly wind was sad with moans; + Black hearses passed, and burial-grounds + Grew thick with monumental stones. + + Still waned the day; the wind that chased + The jagged clouds blew chiller yet; + The woods were stripped, the fields were waste; + The wintry sun was near his set. + + And of the young, and strong, and fair, + A lonely remnant, gray and weak, + Lingered, and shivered to the air + Of that bleak shore and water bleak. + + Ah! age is drear, and death is cold! + I turned to thee, for thou wert near, + And saw thee withered, bowed, and old, + And woke all faint with sudden fear. + + 'Twas thus I heard the dreamer say, + And bade her clear her clouded brow; + "For thou and I, since childhood's day, + Have walked in such a dream till now. + + "Watch we in calmness, as they rise, + The changes of that rapid dream, + And note its lessons, till our eyes + Shall open in the morning beam." + + + + + THE ANTIQUITY OF FREEDOM. + + + Here are old trees, tall oaks, and gnarled pines, + That stream with gray-green mosses; here the ground + Was never trenched by spade, and flowers spring up + Unsown, and die ungathered. It is sweet + To linger here, among the flitting birds + And leaping squirrels, wandering brooks, and winds + That shake the leaves, and scatter, as they pass, + A fragrance from the cedars, thickly set + With pale-blue berries. In these peaceful shades-- + Peaceful, unpruned, immeasurably old-- + My thoughts go up the long dim path of years, + Back to the earliest days of liberty. + + O FREEDOM! thou art not, as poets dream, + A fair young girl, with light and delicate limbs, + And wavy tresses gushing from the cap + With which the Roman master crowned his slave + When he took off the gyves. A bearded man, + Armed to the teeth, art thou; one mailed hand + Grasps the broad shield, and one the sword; thy brow, + Glorious in beauty though it be, is scarred + With tokens of old wars; thy massive limbs + Are strong with struggling. Power at thee has launched + His bolts, and with his lightnings smitten thee; + They could not quench the life thou hast from heaven; + Merciless Power has dug thy dungeon deep, + And his swart armorers, by a thousand fires, + Have forged thy chain; yet, while he deems thee bound, + The links are shivered, and the prison-walls + Fall outward; terribly thou springest forth, + As springs the flame above a burning pile, + And shoutest to the nations, who return + Thy shoutings, while the pale oppressor flies. + + Thy birthright was not given by human hands: + Thou wert twin-born with man. In pleasant fields, + While yet our race was few, thou sat'st with him, + To tend the quiet flock and watch the stars, + And teach the reed to utter simple airs. + Thou by his side, amid the tangled wood, + Didst war upon the panther and the wolf, + His only foes; and thou with him didst draw + The earliest furrow on the mountain-side, + Soft with the deluge. Tyranny himself, + Thy enemy, although of reverend look, + Hoary with many years, and far obeyed, + Is later born than thou; and as he meets + The grave defiance of thine elder eye, + The usurper trembles in his fastnesses. + + Thou shalt wax stronger with the lapse of years + But he shall fade into a feebler age-- + Feebler, yet subtler. He shall weave his snares + And spring them on thy careless steps, and clap + His withered hands, and from their ambush call + His hordes to fall upon thee. He shall send + Quaint maskers, wearing fair and gallant forms + To catch thy gaze, and uttering graceful words + To charm thy ear; while his sly imps, by stealth, + Twine round thee threads of steel, light thread on thread + That grow to fetters; or bind down thy arms + With chains concealed in chaplets. Oh! not yet + Mayst thou unbrace thy corslet, nor lay by + Thy sword; nor yet, O Freedom! close thy lids + In slumber; for thine enemy never sleeps, + And thou must watch and combat till the day + Of the new earth and heaven. But wouldst thou rest + Awhile from tumult and the frauds of men, + These old and friendly solitudes invite + Thy visit. They, while yet the forest-trees + Were young upon the unviolated earth, + And yet the moss-stains on the rock were new, + Beheld thy glorious childhood, and rejoiced. + + + + + THE MAIDEN'S SORROW. + + + Seven long years has the desert rain + Dropped on the clods that hide thy face; + Seven long years of sorrow and pain + I have thought of thy burial-place; + + Thought of thy fate in the distant West, + Dying with none that loved thee near, + They who flung the earth on thy breast + Turned from the spot without a tear. + + There, I think, on that lonely grave, + Violets spring in the soft May shower; + There, in the summer breezes, wave + Crimson phlox and moccasin-flower. + + There the turtles alight, and there + Feeds with her fawn the timid doe; + There, when the winter woods are bare, + Walks the wolf on the crackling snow. + + Soon wilt thou wipe my tears away; + All my task upon earth is done; + My poor father, old and gray, + Slumbers beneath the churchyard stone. + + In the dreams of my lonely bed, + Ever thy form before me seems, + All night long I talk with the dead, + All day long I think of my dreams. + + This deep wound that bleeds and aches, + This long pain, a sleepless pain-- + When the Father my spirit takes, + I shall feel it no more again. + + + + + THE RETURN OF YOUTH. + + + My friend, thou sorrowest for thy golden prime, + For thy fair youthful years too swift of flight; + Thou musest, with wet eyes, upon the time + Of cheerful hopes that filled the world with light-- + + Years when thy heart was bold, thy hand was strong, + And quick the thought that moved thy tongue to speak, + And willing faith was thine, and scorn of wrong + Summoned the sudden crimson to thy cheek. + + Thou lookest forward on the coming days, + Shuddering to feel their shadow o'er thee creep; + A path, thick-set with changes and decays, + Slopes downward to the place of common sleep; + And they who walked with thee in life's first stage, + Leave one by one thy side, and, waiting near, + Thou seest the sad companions of thy age-- + Dull love of rest, and weariness and fear. + + Yet grieve thou not, nor think thy youth is gone, + Nor deem that glorious season e'er could die. + Thy pleasant youth, a little while withdrawn, + Waits on the horizon of a brighter sky; + Waits, like the morn, that folds her wings and hides + Till the slow stars bring back her dawning hour; + Waits, like the vanished spring, that slumbering bides + Her own sweet time to waken bud and flower. + + There shall he welcome thee, when thou shalt stand + On his bright morning hills, with smiles more sweet + Than when at first he took thee by the hand, + Through the fair earth to lead thy tender feet. + He shall bring back, but brighter, broader still, + Life's early glory to thine eyes again, + Shall clothe thy spirit with new strength, and fill + Thy leaping heart with warmer love than then. + + Hast thou not glimpses, in the twilight here, + Of mountains where immortal morn prevails? + Comes there not, through the silence, to thine ear + A gentle rustling of the morning gales; + A murmur, wafted from that glorious shore, + Of streams that water banks forever fair, + And voices of the loved ones gone before, + More musical in that celestial air? + + + + + A HYMN OF THE SEA. + + + The sea is mighty, but a mightier sways + His restless billows. Thou, whose hands have scooped + His boundless gulfs and built his shore, thy breath, + That moved in the beginning o'er his face, + Moves o'er it evermore. The obedient waves + To its strong motion roll, and rise and fall. + Still from that realm of rain thy cloud goes up, + As at the first, to water the great earth, + And keep her valleys green. A hundred realms + Watch its broad shadow warping on the wind, + And in the dropping shower, with gladness hear + Thy promise of the harvest. I look forth + Over the boundless blue, where joyously + The bright crests of innumerable waves + Glance to the sun at once, as when the hands + Of a great multitude are upward flung + In acclamation. I behold the ships + Gliding from cape to cape, from isle to isle, + Or stemming toward far lands, or hastening home + From the Old World. It is thy friendly breeze + That bears them, with the riches of the land, + And treasure of dear lives, till, in the port, + The shouting seaman climbs and furls the sail. + + But who shall bide thy tempest, who shall face + The blast that wakes the fury of the sea? + O God! thy justice makes the world turn pale, + When on the armed fleet, that royally + Bears down the surges, carrying war, to smite + Some city, or invade some thoughtless realm, + Descends the fierce tornado. The vast hulks + Are whirled like chaff upon the waves; the sails + Fly, rent like webs of gossamer; the masts + Are snapped asunder; downward from the decks, + Downward are slung, into the fathomless gulf, + Their cruel engines; and their hosts, arrayed + In trappings of the battle-field, are whelmed + By whirlpools, or dashed dead upon the rocks. + Then stand the nations still with awe, and pause + A moment, from the bloody work of war. + + These restless surges eat away the shores + Of earth's old continents; the fertile plain + Welters in shallows, headlands crumble down, + And the tide drifts the sea-sand in the streets + Of the drowned city. Thou, meanwhile, afar + In the green chambers of the middle sea, + Where broadest spread the waters and the line + Sinks deepest, while no eye beholds thy work, + Creator! thou dost teach the coral-worm + To lay his mighty reefs. From age to age, + He builds beneath the waters, till, at last, + His bulwarks overtop the brine, and check + The long wave rolling from the southern pole + To break upon Japan. Thou bidd'st the fires, + That smoulder under ocean, heave on high + The new-made mountains, and uplift their peaks, + A place of refuge for the storm-driven bird. + The birds and wafting billows plant the rifts + With herb and tree; sweet fountains gush; sweet airs + Ripple the living lakes that, fringed with flowers, + Are gathered in the hollows. Thou dost look + On thy creation and pronounce it good. + Its valleys, glorious in their summer green, + Praise thee in silent beauty, and its woods, + Swept by the murmuring winds of ocean, join + The murmuring shores in a perpetual hymn. + + + + + NOON. + + FROM AN UNFINISHED POEM. + + + 'Tis noon. At noon the Hebrew bowed the knee + And worshipped, while the husbandmen withdrew + From the scorched field, and the wayfaring man + Grew faint, and turned aside by bubbling fount, + Or rested in the shadow of the palm. + + I, too, amid the overflow of day, + Behold the power which wields and cherishes + The frame of Nature. From this brow of rock + That overlooks the Hudson's western marge, + I gaze upon the long array of groves, + The piles and gulfs of verdure drinking in + The grateful heats. They love the fiery sun; + Their broadening leaves grow glossier, and their sprays + Climb as he looks upon them. In the midst, + The swelling river, into his green gulfs, + Unshadowed save by passing sails above, + Takes the redundant glory, and enjoys + The summer in his chilly bed. Coy flowers, + That would not open in the early light, + Push back their plaited sheaths. The rivulet's pool, + That darkly quivered all the morning long + In the cool shade, now glimmers in the sun; + And o'er its surface shoots, and shoots again, + The glittering dragon-fly, and deep within + Run the brown water-beetles to and fro. + + A silence, the brief sabbath of an hour, + Reigns o'er the fields; the laborer sits within + His dwelling; he has left his steers awhile, + Unyoked, to bite the herbage, and his dog + Sleeps stretched beside the door-stone in the shade. + Now the gray marmot, with uplifted paws, + No more sits listening by his den, but steals + Abroad, in safety, to the clover-field, + And crops its juicy blossoms. All the while + A ceaseless murmur from the populous town + Swells o'er these solitudes: a mingled sound + Of jarring wheels, and iron hoofs that clash + Upon the stony ways, and hammer-clang, + And creak of engines lifting ponderous bulks, + And calls and cries, and tread of eager feet, + Innumerable, hurrying to and fro. + Noon, in that mighty mart of nations, brings + No pause to toil and care. With early day + Began the tumult, and shall only cease + When midnight, hushing one by one the sounds + Of bustle, gathers the tired brood to rest. + + Thus, in this feverish time, when love of gain + And luxury possess the hearts of men, + Thus is it with the noon of human life. + We, in our fervid manhood, in our strength + Of reason, we, with hurry, noise, and care, + Plan, toil, and strive, and pause not to refresh + Our spirits with the calm and beautiful + Of God's harmonious universe, that won + Our youthful wonder; pause not to inquire + Why we are here; and what the reverence + Man owes to man, and what the mystery + That links us to the greater world, beside + Whose borders we but hover for a space. + + + + + THE CROWDED STREET. + + + Let me move slowly through the street, + Filled with an ever-shifting train, + Amid the sound of steps that beat + The murmuring walks like autumn rain. + + How fast the flitting figures come! + The mild, the fierce, the stony face; + Some bright with thoughtless smiles, and some + Where secret tears have left their trace. + + They pass--to toil, to strife, to rest; + To halls in which the feast is spread; + To chambers where the funeral guest + In silence sits beside the dead. + + And some to happy homes repair, + Where children, pressing cheek to cheek, + With mute caresses shall declare + The tenderness they cannot speak. + + And some, who walk in calmness here, + Shall shudder as they reach the door + Where one who made their dwelling dear, + Its flower, its light, is seen no more. + + Youth, with pale cheek and slender frame, + And dreams of greatness in thine eye! + Go'st thou to build an early name, + Or early in the task to die? + + Keen son of trade, with eager brow! + Who is now fluttering in thy snare? + Thy golden fortunes, tower they now, + Or melt the glittering spires in air? + + Who of this crowd to-night shall tread + The dance till daylight gleam again? + Who sorrow o'er the untimely dead? + Who writhe in throes of mortal pain? + + Some, famine-struck, shall think how long + The cold dark hours, how slow the light; + And some, who flaunt amid the throng, + Shall hide in dens of shame to-night. + + Each, where his tasks or pleasures call, + They pass, and heed each other not. + There is who heeds, who holds them all, + In His large love and boundless thought. + + These struggling tides of life that seem + In wayward, aimless course to tend, + Are eddies of the mighty stream + That rolls to its appointed end. + + + + + THE WHITE-FOOTED DEER. + + + It was a hundred years ago, + When, by the woodland ways, + The traveller saw the wild-deer drink, + Or crop the birchen sprays. + + Beneath a hill, whose rocky side + O'erbrowed a grassy mead, + And fenced a cottage from the wind, + A deer was wont to feed. + + She only came when on the cliffs + The evening moonlight lay, + And no man knew the secret haunts + In which she walked by day. + + White were her feet, her forehead showed + A spot of silvery white, + That seemed to glimmer like a star + In autumn's hazy night. + + And here, when sang the whippoorwill, + She cropped the sprouting leaves, + And here her rustling steps were heard + On still October eves. + + But when the broad midsummer moon + Rose o'er that grassy lawn, + Beside the silver-footed deer + There grazed a spotted fawn. + + The cottage dame forbade her son + To aim the rifle here; + "It were a sin," she said, "to harm + Or fright that friendly deer. + + "This spot has been my pleasant home + Ten peaceful years and more; + And ever, when the moonlight shines, + She feeds before our door. + + "The red-men say that here she walked + A thousand moons ago; + They never raise the war-whoop here, + And never twang the bow. + + "I love to watch her as she feeds, + And think that all is well + While such a gentle creature haunts + The place in which we dwell." + + The youth obeyed, and sought for game + In forests far away, + Where, deep in silence and in moss, + The ancient woodland lay. + + But once, in autumn's golden time + He ranged the wild in vain, + Nor roused the pheasant nor the deer, + And wandered home again. + + The crescent moon and crimson eve + Shone with a mingling light; + The deer, upon the grassy mead, + Was feeding full in sight. + + He raised the rifle to his eye, + And from the cliffs around + A sudden echo, shrill and sharp, + Gave back its deadly sound. + + Away, into the neighboring wood, + The startled creature flew, + And crimson drops at morning lay + Amid the glimmering dew. + + Next evening shone the waxing moon + As brightly as before; + The deer upon the grassy mead + Was seen again no more. + + But ere that crescent moon was old, + By night the red-men came, + And burnt the cottage to the ground, + And slew the youth and dame. + + Now woods have overgrown the mead, + And hid the cliffs from sight; + There shrieks the hovering hawk at noon, + And prowls the fox at night. + + + + + THE WANING MOON. + + + I've watched too late; the morn is near; + One look at God's broad silent sky! + Oh, hopes and wishes vainly dear, + How in your very strength ye die! + + Even while your glow is on the cheek, + And scarce the high pursuit begun, + The heart grows faint, the hand grows weak, + The task of life is left undone. + + See where, upon the horizon's brim, + Lies the still cloud in gloomy bars; + The waning moon, all pale and dim, + Goes up amid the eternal stars. + + Late, in a flood of tender light, + She floated through the ethereal blue, + A softer sun, that shone all night + Upon the gathering beads of dew. + + And still thou wanest, pallid moon! + The encroaching shadow grows apace; + Heaven's everlasting watchers soon + Shall see thee blotted from thy place. + + Oh, Night's dethroned and crownless queen! + Well may thy sad, expiring ray + Be shed on those whose eyes have seen + Hope's glorious visions fade away. + + Shine thou for forms that once were bright, + For sages in the mind's eclipse, + For those whose words were spells of might, + But falter now on stammering lips! + + In thy decaying beam there lies + Full many a grave on hill and plain, + Of those who closed their dying eyes + In grief that they had lived in vain. + + Another night, and thou among + The spheres of heaven shalt cease to shine, + All rayless in the glittering throng + Whose lustre late was quenched in thine. + + Yet soon a new and tender light + From out thy darkened orb shall beam, + And broaden till it shines all night + On glistening dew and glimmering stream. + + + + + THE STREAM OF LIFE. + + + Oh silvery streamlet of the fields, + That flowest full and free, + For thee the rains of spring return, + The summer dews for thee; + And when thy latest blossoms die + In autumn's chilly showers, + The winter fountains gush for thee, + Till May brings back the flowers. + + Oh Stream of Life! the violet springs + But once beside thy bed; + But one brief summer, on thy path, + The dews of heaven are shed. + Thy parent fountains shrink away, + And close their crystal veins, + And where thy glittering current flowed + The dust alone remains. + + + + + THE UNKNOWN WAY. + + + A burning sky is o'er me, + The sands beneath me glow, + As onward, onward, wearily, + In the sultry morn I go. + + From the dusty path there opens, + Eastward, an unknown way; + Above its windings, pleasantly, + The woodland branches play. + + A silvery brook comes stealing + From the shadow of its trees, + Where slender herbs of the forest stoop + Before the entering breeze. + + Along those pleasant windings + I would my journey lay, + Where the shade is cool and the dew of night + Is not yet dried away. + + Path of the flowery woodland! + Oh whither dost thou lead, + Wandering by grassy orchard-grounds, + Or by the open mead? + + Goest thou by nestling cottage? + Goest thou by stately hall, + Where the broad elm droops, a leafy dome, + And woodbines flaunt on the wall? + + By steeps where children gather + Flowers of the yet fresh year? + By lonely walks where lovers stray + Till the tender stars appear? + + Or haply dost thou linger + On barren plains and bare, + Or clamber the bald mountain-side + Into the thinner air?-- + + Where they who journey upward + Walk in a weary track, + And oft upon the shady vale + With longing eyes look back? + + I hear a solemn murmur, + And, listening to the sound, + I know the voice of the mighty Sea, + Beating his pebbly bound. + + Dost thou, oh path of the woodland! + End where those waters roar, + Like human life, on a trackless beach, + With a boundless Sea before? + + + + + "OH MOTHER OF A MIGHTY RACE." + + + Oh mother of a mighty race, + Yet lovely in thy youthful grace! + The elder dames, thy haughty peers, + Admire and hate thy blooming years. + With words of shame + And taunts of scorn they join thy name. + + For on thy cheeks the glow is spread + That tints thy morning hills with red; + Thy step--the wild-deer's rustling feet + Within thy woods are not more fleet; + Thy hopeful eye + Is bright as thine own sunny sky. + + Ay, let them rail--those haughty ones, + While safe thou dwellest with thy sons. + They do not know how loved thou art, + How many a fond and fearless heart + Would rise to throw + Its life between thee and the foe. + + They know not, in their hate and pride, + What virtues with thy children bide; + How true, how good, thy graceful maids + Make bright, like flowers, the valley-shades; + What generous men + Spring, like thine oaks, by hill and glen;-- + + What cordial welcomes greet the guest + By thy lone rivers of the West; + How faith is kept, and truth revered, + And man is loved, and God is feared, + In woodland homes, + And where the ocean border foams. + + There's freedom at thy gates and rest + For Earth's down-trodden and opprest, + A shelter for the hunted head, + For the starved laborer toil and bread. + Power, at thy bounds, + Stops and calls back his baffled hounds. + + Oh, fair young mother! on thy brow + Shall sit a nobler grace than now. + Deep in the brightness of the skies + The thronging years in glory rise, + And, as they fleet, + Drop strength and riches at thy feet. + + Thine eye, with every coming hour, + Shall brighten, and thy form shall tower; + And when thy sisters, elder born, + Would brand thy name with words of scorn, + Before thine eye, + Upon their lips the taunt shall die. + + + + + THE LAND OF DREAMS. + + + A mighty realm is the Land of Dreams, + With steeps that hang in the twilight sky, + And weltering oceans and trailing streams, + That gleam where the dusky valleys lie. + + But over its shadowy border flow + Sweet rays from the world of endless morn, + And the nearer mountains catch the glow, + And flowers in the nearer fields are born. + + The souls of the happy dead repair, + From their bowers of light, to that bordering land, + And walk in the fainter glory there, + With the souls of the living hand in hand. + + One calm sweet smile, in that shadowy sphere, + From eyes that open on earth no more-- + One warning word from a voice once dear-- + How they rise in the memory o'er and o'er! + + Far off from those hills that shine with day, + And fields that bloom in the heavenly gales + The Land of Dreams goes stretching away + To dimmer mountains and darker vales. + + There lie the chambers of guilty delight, + There walk the spectres of guilty fear, + And soft low voices, that float through the night, + Are whispering sin in the helpless ear. + + Dear maid, in thy girlhood's opening flower, + Scarce weaned from the love of childish play! + The tears on whose cheeks are but the shower + That freshens the blooms of early May! + + Thine eyes are closed, and over thy brow + Pass thoughtful shadows and joyous gleams, + And I know, by thy moving lips, that now + Thy spirit strays in the Land of Dreams. + + Light-hearted maiden, oh, heed thy feet! + O keep where that beam of Paradise falls: + And only wander where thou mayst meet + The blessed ones from its shining walls! + + So shalt thou come from the Land of Dreams, + With love and peace to this world of strife: + And the light which over that border streams + Shall lie on the path of thy daily life. + + + + + THE BURIAL OF LOVE. + + + Two dark-eyed maids, at shut of day, + Sat where a river rolled away, + With calm sad brows and raven hair, + And one was pale and both were fair. + + Bring flowers, they sang, bring flowers unblown, + Bring forest-blooms of name unknown; + Bring budding sprays from wood and wild, + To strew the bier of Love, the child. + + Close softly, fondly, while ye weep, + His eyes, that death may seem like sleep, + And fold his hands in sign of rest, + His waxen hands, across his breast. + + And make his grave where violets hide, + Where star-flowers strew the rivulet's side, + And bluebirds in the misty spring + Of cloudless skies and summer sing. + + Place near him, as ye lay him low, + His idle shafts, his loosened bow, + The silken fillet that around + His waggish eyes in sport he wound. + + But we shall mourn him long, and miss + His ready smile, his ready kiss, + The patter of his little feet, + Sweet frowns and stammered phrases sweet; + + And graver looks, serene and high, + A light of heaven in that young eye, + All these shall haunt us till the heart + Shall ache and ache--and tears will start. + + The bow, the band shall fall to dust, + The shining arrows waste with rust, + And all of Love that earth can claim, + Be but a memory and a name. + + Not thus his nobler part shall dwell + A prisoner in this narrow cell; + But he whom now we hide from men, + In the dark ground, shall live again: + + Shall break these clods, a form of light, + With nobler mien and purer sight, + And in the eternal glory stand, + Highest and nearest God's right hand. + + + + + "THE MAY SUN SHEDS AN AMBER LIGHT." + + + The May sun sheds an amber light + On new-leaved woods and lawns between; + But she who, with a smile more bright, + Welcomed and watched the springing green, + Is in her grave, + Low in her grave. + + The fair white blossoms of the wood + In groups beside the pathway stand; + But one, the gentle and the good, + Who cropped them with a fairer hand, + Is in her grave, + Low in her grave. + + Upon the woodland's morning airs + The small birds' mingled notes are flung; + But she, whose voice, more sweet than theirs, + Once bade me listen while they sung, + Is in her grave, + Low in her grave. + + That music of the early year + Brings tears of anguish to my eyes; + My heart aches when the flowers appear; + For then I think of her who lies + Within her grave, + Low in her grave. + + + + + THE VOICE OF AUTUMN. + + + There comes, from yonder height, + A soft repining sound, + Where forest-leaves are bright, + And fall, like flakes of light, + To the ground. + + It is the autumn breeze, + That, lightly floating on, + Just skims the weedy leas, + Just stirs the glowing trees, + And is gone. + + He moans by sedgy brook, + And visits, with a sigh, + The last pale flowers that look, + From out their sunny nook, + At the sky. + + O'er shouting children flies + That light October wind, + And, kissing cheeks and eyes, + He leaves their merry cries + Far behind, + + And wanders on to make + That soft uneasy sound + By distant wood and lake, + Where distant fountains break + From the ground. + + No bower where maidens dwell + Can win a moment's stay; + Nor fair untrodden dell; + He sweeps the upland swell, + And away! + + Mourn'st thou thy homeless state? + O soft, repining wind! + That early seek'st and late + The rest it is thy fate + Not to find. + + Not on the mountain's breast, + Not on the ocean's shore, + In all the East and West: + The wind that stops to rest + Is no more. + + By valleys, woods, and springs, + No wonder thou shouldst grieve + For all the glorious things + Thou touchest with thy wings + And must leave. + + + + + THE CONQUEROR'S GRAVE. + + + Within this lowly grave a Conqueror lies, + And yet the monument proclaims it not, + Nor round the sleeper's name hath chisel wrought + The emblems of a fame that never dies,-- + Ivy and amaranth, in a graceful sheaf, + Twined with the laurel's fair, imperial leaf. + A simple name alone, + To the great world unknown, + Is graven here, and wild-flowers, rising round, + Meek meadow-sweet and violets of the ground, + Lean lovingly against the humble stone. + Here, in the quiet earth, they laid apart + No man of iron mould and bloody hands, + Who sought to wreak upon the cowering lands + The passions that consumed his restless heart; + But one of tender spirit and delicate frame, + Gentlest, in mien and mind, + Of gentle womankind, + Timidly shrinking from the breath of blame: + One in whose eyes the smile of kindness made + Its haunt, like flowers by sunny brooks in May, + Yet at the thought of others' pain, a shade + Of sweeter sadness chased the smile away. + + Nor deem that when the hand that moulders here + Was raised in menace, realms were chilled with fear, + And armies mustered at the sign, as when + Clouds rise on clouds before the rainy East-- + Gray captains leading bands of veteran men + And fiery youths to be the vulture's feast. + Not thus were waged the mighty wars that gave + The victory to her who fills this grave: + Alone her task was wrought, + Alone the battle fought; + Through that long strife her constant hope was staid + On God alone, nor looked for other aid. + + She met the hosts of Sorrow with a look + That altered not beneath the frown they wore, + And soon the lowering brood were tamed, and took, + Meekly, her gentle rule, and frowned no more. + Her soft hand put aside the assaults of wrath, + And calmly broke in twain + The fiery shafts of pain, + And rent the nets of passion from her path. + By that victorious hand despair was slain. + With love she vanquished hate and overcame + Evil with good, in her Great Master's name. + Her glory is not of this shadowy state, + Glory that with the fleeting season dies; + But when she entered at the sapphire gate + What joy was radiant in celestial eyes! + How heaven's bright depths with sounding welcome rung, + And flowers of heaven by shining hands were flung! + And He who, long before, + Pain, scorn, and sorrow bore, + The Mighty Sufferer, with aspect sweet, + Smiled on the timid stranger from his seat; + He who returning, glorious, from the grave, + Dragged Death, disarmed, in chains, a crouching slave. + + See, as I linger here, the sun grows low; + Cool airs are murmuring that the night is near. + Oh, gentle sleeper, from thy grave I go + Consoled though sad, in hope and yet in fear. + Brief is the time, I know, + The warfare scarce begun; + Yet all may win the triumphs thou hast won. + Still flows the fount whose waters strengthened thee, + The victors' names are yet too few to fill + Heaven's mighty roll; the glorious armory, + That ministered to thee, is open still. + + + + + THE PLANTING OF THE APPLE-TREE. + + + Come, let us plant the apple-tree. + Cleave the tough greensward with the spade; + Wide let its hollow bed be made; + There gently lay the roots, and there + Sift the dark mould with kindly care, + And press it o'er them tenderly, + As, round the sleeping infant's feet, + We softly fold the cradle-sheet: + So plant we the apple-tree. + + What plant we in this apple-tree? + Buds, which the breath of summer days + Shall lengthen into leafy sprays; + Boughs where the thrush, with crimson breast, + Shall haunt and sing and hide her nest; + We plant, upon the sunny lea, + A shadow for the noontide hour, + A shelter from the summer shower, + When we plant the apple-tree. + + What plant we in this apple-tree? + Sweets for a hundred flowery springs + To load the May-wind's restless wings, + When, from the orchard-row, he pours + Its fragrance through our open doors; + A world of blossoms for the bee, + Flowers for the sick girl's silent room, + For the glad infant sprigs of bloom, + We plant with the apple-tree. + + What plant we in this apple-tree? + Fruits that shall swell in sunny June, + And redden in the August noon, + And drop, when gentle airs come by, + That fan the blue September sky, + While children come, with cries of glee, + And seek them where the fragrant grass + Betrays their bed to those who pass, + At the foot of the apple-tree. + + And when, above this apple-tree, + The winter stars are quivering bright, + And winds go howling through the night, + Girls, whose young eyes o'erflow with mirth, + Shall peel its fruit by cottage-hearth, + And guests in prouder homes shall see, + Heaped with the grape of Cintra's vine + And golden orange of the line, + The fruit of the apple-tree. + + The fruitage of this apple-tree + Winds and our flag of stripe and star + Shall bear to coasts that lie afar, + Where men shall wonder at the view, + And ask in what fair groves they grew; + And sojourners beyond the sea + Shall think of childhood's careless day, + And long, long hours of summer play, + In the shade of the apple-tree. + + Each year shall give this apple-tree + A broader flush of roseate bloom, + A deeper maze of verdurous gloom, + And loosen, when the frost-clouds lower, + The crisp brown leaves in thicker shower. + The years shall come and pass, but we + Shall hear no longer, where we lie, + The summer's songs, the autumn's sigh, + In the boughs of the apple-tree. + + And time shall waste this apple-tree. + Oh, when its aged branches throw + Thin shadows on the ground below, + Shall fraud and force and iron will + Oppress the weak and helpless still? + What shall the tasks of mercy be, + Amid the toils, the strifes, the tears + Of those who live when length of years + Is wasting this little apple-tree? + + "Who planted this old apple-tree?" + The children of that distant day + Thus to some aged man shall say; + And, gazing on its mossy stem, + The gray-haired man shall answer them: + "A poet of the land was he, + Born in the rude but good old times; + 'Tis said he made some quaint old rhymes, + On planting the apple-tree." + + + + + THE SNOW-SHOWER. + + + Stand here by my side and turn, I pray, + On the lake below thy gentle eyes; + The clouds hang over it, heavy and gray, + And dark and silent the water lies; + And out of that frozen mist the snow + In wavering flakes begins to flow; + Flake after flake + They sink in the dark and silent lake. + + See how in a living swarm they come + From the chambers beyond that misty veil; + Some hover awhile in air, and some + Rush prone from the sky like summer hail. + All, dropping swiftly or settling slow, + Meet, and are still in the depths below; + Flake after flake + Dissolved in the dark and silent lake. + + Here delicate snow-stars, out of the cloud, + Come floating downward in airy play, + Like spangles dropped from the glistening crowd + That whiten by night the milky way; + There broader and burlier masses fall; + The sullen water buries them all-- + Flake after flake-- + All drowned in the dark and silent lake. + + And some, as on tender wings they glide + From their chilly birth-cloud, dim and gray, + Are joined in their fall, and, side by side, + Come clinging along their unsteady way; + As friend with friend, or husband with wife, + Makes hand in hand the passage of life; + Each mated flake + Soon sinks in the dark and silent lake. + + Lo! while we are gazing, in swifter haste + Stream down the snows, till the air is white + As, myriads by myriads madly chased, + They fling themselves from their shadowy height. + The fair, frail creatures of middle sky, + What speed they make, with their grave so nigh; + Flake after flake, + To lie in the dark and silent lake! + + I see in thy gentle eyes a tear; + They turn to me in sorrowful thought; + Thou thinkest of friends, the good and dear, + Who were for a time, and now are not; + Like these fair children of cloud and frost, + That glisten a moment and then are lost, + Flake after flake-- + All lost in the dark and silent lake. + + Yet look again, for the clouds divide; + A gleam of blue on the water lies; + And far away, on the mountain-side, + A sunbeam falls from the opening skies, + But the hurrying host that flew between + The cloud and the water, no more is seen; + Flake after flake, + At rest in the dark and silent lake. + + + + + A RAIN-DREAM. + + + These strifes, these tumults of the noisy world, + Where Fraud, the coward, tracks his prey by stealth, + And Strength, the ruffian, glories in his guilt, + Oppress the heart with sadness. Oh, my friend, + In what serener mood we look upon + The gloomiest aspects of the elements + Among the woods and fields! Let us awhile, + As the slow wind is rolling up the storm, + In fancy leave this maze of dusty streets, + Forever shaken by the importunate jar + Of commerce, and upon the darkening air + Look from the shelter of our rural home. + Who is not awed that listens to the Rain, + Sending his voice before him? Mighty Rain! + The upland steeps are shrouded by thy mists; + Thy shadow fills the hollow vale; the pools + No longer glimmer, and the silvery streams + Darken to veins of lead at thy approach. + O mighty Rain! already thou art here; + And every roof is beaten by thy streams, + And, as thou passest, every glassy spring + Grows rough, and every leaf in all the woods + Is struck, and quivers. All the hill-tops slake + Their thirst from thee; a thousand languishing fields, + A thousand fainting gardens, are refreshed; + A thousand idle rivulets start to speed, + And with the graver murmur of the storm + Blend their light voices as they hurry on. + Thou fill'st the circle of the atmosphere + Alone; there is no living thing abroad, + No bird to wing the air nor beast to walk + The field; the squirrel in the forest seeks + His hollow tree; the marmot of the field + Has scampered to his den; the butterfly + Hides under her broad leaf; the insect crowds, + That made the sunshine populous, lie close + In their mysterious shelters, whence the sun + Will summon them again. The mighty Rain + Holds the vast empire of the sky alone. + I shut my eyes, and see, as in a dream, + The friendly clouds drop down spring violets + And summer columbines, and all the flowers + That tuft the woodland floor, or overarch + The streamlet:--spiky grass for genial June, + Brown harvests for the waiting husbandman, + And for the woods a deluge of fresh leaves. + I see these myriad drops that slake the dust, + Gathered in glorious streams, or rolling blue + In billows on the lake or on the deep, + And bearing navies. I behold them change + To threads of crystal as they sink in earth + And leave its stains behind, to rise again + In pleasant nooks of verdure, where the child, + Thirsty with play, in both his little hands + Shall take the cool, clear water, raising it + To wet his pretty lips. To-morrow noon + How proudly will the water-lily ride + The brimming pool, o'erlooking, like a queen, + Her circle of broad leaves! In lonely wastes, + When next the sunshine makes them beautiful, + Gay troops of butterflies shall light to drink + At the replenished hollows of the rock. + Now slowly falls the dull blank night, and still, + All through the starless hours, the mighty Rain + Smites with perpetual sound the forest-leaves, + And beats the matted grass, and still the earth + Drinks the unstinted bounty of the clouds-- + Drinks for her cottage wells, her woodland brooks-- + Drinks for the springing trout, the toiling bee, + And brooding bird--drinks for her tender flowers, + Tall oaks, and all the herbage of her hills. + A melancholy sound is in the air, + A deep sigh in the distance, a shrill wail + Around my dwelling. 'Tis the Wind of night; + A lonely wanderer between earth and cloud, + In the black shadow and the chilly mist, + Along the streaming mountain-side, and through + The dripping woods, and o'er the plashy fields, + Roaming and sorrowing still, like one who makes + The journey of life alone, and nowhere meets + A welcome or a friend, and still goes on + In darkness. Yet a while, a little while, + And he shall toss the glittering leaves in play, + And dally with the flowers, and gayly lift + The slender herbs, pressed low by weight of rain, + And drive, in joyous triumph, through the sky, + White clouds, the laggard remnants of the storm. + + + + + ROBERT OF LINCOLN. + + + Merrily swinging on brier and weed, + Near to the nest of his little dame, + Over the mountain-side or mead, + Robert of Lincoln is telling his name: + Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, + Spink, spank, spink; + Snug and safe is that nest of ours, + Hidden among the summer flowers. + Chee, chee, chee. + + Robert of Lincoln is gayly drest, + Wearing a bright black wedding-coat; + White are his shoulders and white his crest. + Hear him call in his merry note: + Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, + Spink, spank, spink; + Look, what a nice new coat is mine, + Sure there was never a bird so fine. + Chee, chee, chee. + + Robert of Lincoln's Quaker wife, + Pretty and quiet, with plain brown wings, + Passing at home a patient life, + Broods in the grass while her husband sings: + Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, + Spink, spank, spink; + Brood, kind creature; you need not fear + Thieves and robbers while I am here. + Chee, chee, chee. + + Modest and shy as a nun is she; + One weak chirp is her only note. + Braggart and prince of braggarts is he, + Pouring boasts from his little throat: + Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, + Spink, spank, spink; + Never was I afraid of man; + Catch me, cowardly knaves, if you can! + Chee, chee, chee. + + Six white eggs on a bed of hay, + Flecked with purple, a pretty sight! + There as the mother sits all day, + Robert is singing with all his might: + Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, + Spink, spank, spink; + Nice good wife, that never goes out, + Keeping house while I frolic about. + Chee, chee, chee. + + Soon as the little ones chip the shell, + Six wide mouths are open for food; + Robert of Lincoln bestirs him well, + Gathering seeds for the hungry brood. + Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, + Spink, spank, spink; + This new life is likely to be + Hard for a gay young fellow like me. + Chee, chee, chee. + + Robert of Lincoln at length is made + Sober with work, and silent with care; + Off is his holiday garment laid, + Half forgotten that merry air: + Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, + Spink, spank, spink; + Nobody knows but my mate and I + Where our nest and our nestlings lie. + Chee, chee, chee. + + Summer wanes; the children are grown; + Fun and frolic no more he knows; + Robert of Lincoln's a humdrum crone; + Off he flies, and we sing as he goes: + Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, + Spink, spank, spink; + When you can pipe that merry old strain, + Robert of Lincoln, come back again. + Chee, chee, chee. + + + + + THE TWENTY-SEVENTH OF MARCH. + + + Oh, gentle one, thy birthday sun should rise + Amid a chorus of the merriest birds + That ever sang the stars out of the sky + In a June morning. Rivulets should send + A voice of gladness from their winding paths, + Deep in o'erarching grass, where playful winds, + Stirring the loaded stems, should shower the dew + Upon the grassy water. Newly-blown + Roses, by thousands, to the garden-walks + Should tempt the loitering moth and diligent bee. + The longest, brightest day in all the year + Should be the day on which thy cheerful eyes + First opened on the earth, to make thy haunts + Fairer and gladder for thy kindly looks. + Thus might a poet say; but I must bring + A birthday offering of an humbler strain, + And yet it may not please thee less. I hold + That 'twas the fitting season for thy birth + When March, just ready to depart, begins + To soften into April. Then we have + The delicatest and most welcome flowers, + And yet they take least heed of bitter wind + And lowering sky. The periwinkle then, + In an hour's sunshine, lifts her azure blooms + Beside the cottage-door; within the woods + Tufts of ground-laurel, creeping underneath + The leaves of the last summer, send their sweets + Up to the chilly air, and, by the oak, + The squirrel-cups, a graceful company, + Hide in their bells, a soft aerial blue-- + Sweet flowers, that nestle in the humblest nooks + And yet within whose smallest bud is wrapped + A world of promise! Still the north wind breathes + His frost, and still the sky sheds snow and sleet; + Yet ever, when the sun looks forth again, + The flowers smile up to him from their low seats. + Well hast thou borne the bleak March day of life. + Its storms and its keen winds to thee have been + Most kindly tempered, and through all its gloom + There has been warmth and sunshine in thy heart; + The griefs of life to thee have been like snows, + That light upon the fields in early spring, + Making them greener. In its milder hours, + The smile of this pale season, thou hast seen + The glorious bloom of June, and in the note + Of early bird, that comes a messenger + From climes of endless verdure, thou hast heard + The choir that fills the summer woods with song. + Now be the hours that yet remain to thee + Stormy or sunny, sympathy and love, + That inextinguishably dwell within + Thy heart, shall give a beauty and a light + To the most desolate moments, like the glow + Of a bright fireside in the wildest day; + And kindly words and offices of good + Shall wait upon thy steps, as thou goest on, + Where God shall lead thee, till thou reach the gates + Of a more genial season, and thy path + Be lost to human eye among the bowers + And living fountains of a brighter land. + + _March_, 1855. + + + + + AN INVITATION TO THE COUNTRY. + + + Already, close by our summer dwelling, + The Easter sparrow repeats her song; + A merry warbler, she chides the blossoms-- + The idle blossoms that sleep so long. + + The bluebird chants, from the elm's long branches, + A hymn to welcome the budding year. + The south wind wanders from field to forest, + And softly whispers, "The Spring is here." + + Come, daughter mine, from the gloomy city, + Before those lays from the elm have ceased; + The violet breathes, by our door, as sweetly + As in the air of her native East. + + Though many a flower in the wood is waking, + The daffodil is our doorside queen; + She pushes upward the sward already, + To spot with sunshine the early green. + + No lays so joyous as these are warbled + From wiry prison in maiden's bower; + No pampered bloom of the green-house chamber + Has half the charm of the lawn's first flower. + + Yet these sweet sounds of the early season, + And these fair sights of its sunny days, + Are only sweet when we fondly listen, + And only fair when we fondly gaze. + + There is no glory in star or blossom + Till looked upon by a loving eye; + There is no fragrance in April breezes + Till breathed with joy as they wander by. + + Come, Julia dear, for the sprouting willows, + The opening flowers, and the gleaming brooks, + And hollows, green in the sun, are waiting + Their dower of beauty from thy glad looks. + + + + + A SONG FOR NEW-YEAR'S EVE. + + + Stay yet, my friends, a moment stay-- + Stay till the good old year, + So long companion of our way, + Shakes hands, and leaves us here. + Oh stay, oh stay, + One little hour, and then away. + + The year, whose hopes were high and strong, + Has now no hopes to wake; + Yet one hour more of jest and song + For his familiar sake. + Oh stay, oh stay, + One mirthful hour, and then away. + + The kindly year, his liberal hands + Have lavished all his store. + And shall we turn from where he stands, + Because he gives no more? + Oh stay, oh stay, + One grateful hour, and then away. + + Days brightly came and calmly went, + While yet he was our guest; + How cheerfully the week was spent! + How sweet the seventh day's rest! + Oh stay, oh stay, + One golden hour, and then away. + + Dear friends were with us, some who sleep + Beneath the coffin-lid: + What pleasant memories we keep + Of all they said and did! + Oh stay, oh stay, + One tender hour, and then away. + + Even while we sing, he smiles his last, + And leaves our sphere behind. + The good old year is with the past; + Oh be the new as kind! + Oh stay, oh stay, + One parting strain, and then away. + + + + + THE WIND AND STREAM. + + + A brook came stealing from the ground; + You scarcely saw its silvery gleam + Among the herbs that hung around + The borders of the winding stream, + The pretty stream, the placid stream, + The softly-gliding, bashful stream. + + A breeze came wandering from the sky, + Light as the whispers of a dream; + He put the o'erhanging grasses by, + And softly stooped to kiss the stream, + The pretty stream, the flattered stream, + The shy, yet unreluctant stream. + + The water, as the wind passed o'er, + Shot upward many a glancing beam, + Dimpled and quivered more and more, + And tripped along, a livelier stream, + The flattered stream, the simpering stream, + The fond, delighted, silly stream. + + Away the airy wanderer flew + To where the fields with blossoms teem, + To sparkling springs and rivers blue, + And left alone that little stream, + The flattered stream, the cheated stream, + The sad, forsaken, lonely stream. + + That careless wind came never back; + He wanders yet the fields, I deem, + But, on its melancholy track, + Complaining went that little stream, + The cheated stream, the hopeless stream, + The ever-murmuring, mourning stream. + + + + + THE LOST BIRD. + + FROM THE SPANISH OF CAROLINA CORONADO DE PERRY. + + + My bird has flown away, + Far out of sight has flown, I know not where. + Look in your lawn, I pray, + Ye maidens, kind and fair, + And see if my beloved bird be there. + + His eyes are full of light; + The eagle of the rock has such an eye; + And plumes, exceeding bright, + Round his smooth temples lie, + And sweet his voice and tender as a sigh. + + Look where the grass is gay + With summer blossoms, haply there he cowers; + And search, from spray to spray, + The leafy laurel-bowers, + For well he loves the laurels and the flowers. + + Find him, but do not dwell, + With eyes too fond, on the fair form you see, + Nor love his song too well; + Send him, at once, to me, + Or leave him to the air and liberty. + + For only from my hand + He takes the seed into his golden beak, + And all unwiped shall stand + The tears that wet my cheek, + Till I have found the wanderer I seek. + + My sight is darkened o'er, + Whene'er I miss his eyes, which are my day, + And when I hear no more + The music of his lay, + My heart in utter sadness faints away. + + + + + THE NIGHT JOURNEY OF A RIVER. + + + Oh River, gentle River! gliding on + In silence underneath the starless sky! + Thine is a ministry that never rests + Even while the living slumber. For a time + The meddler, man, hath left the elements + In peace; the ploughman breaks the clods no more; + The miner labors not, with steel and fire, + To rend the rock, and he that hews the stone, + And he that fells the forest, he that guides + The loaded wain, and the poor animal + That drags it, have forgotten, for a time, + Their toils, and share the quiet of the earth. + Thou pausest not in thine allotted task, + Oh darkling River! Through the night I hear + Thy wavelets rippling on the pebbly beach; + I hear thy current stir the rustling sedge, + That skirts thy bed; thou intermittest not + Thine everlasting journey, drawing on + A silvery train from many a woodland spring + And mountain-brook. The dweller by thy side, + Who moored his little boat upon thy beach, + Though all the waters that upbore it then + Have slid away o'er night, shall find, at morn, + Thy channel filled with waters freshly drawn + From distant cliffs, and hollows where the rill + Comes up amid the water-flags. All night + Thou givest moisture to the thirsty roots + Of the lithe willow and o'erhanging plane, + And cherishest the herbage of thy bank, + Spotted with little flowers, and sendest up + Perpetually the vapors from thy face, + To steep the hills with dew, or darken heaven + With drifting clouds, that trail the shadowy shower. + Oh River! darkling River! what a voice + Is that thou utterest while all else is still-- + The ancient voice that, centuries ago, + Sounded between thy hills, while Rome was yet + A weedy solitude by Tiber's stream! + How many, at this hour, along thy course, + Slumber to thine eternal murmurings, + That mingle with the utterance of their dreams! + At dead of night the child awakes and hears + Thy soft, familiar dashings, and is soothed, + And sleeps again. An airy multitude + Of little echoes, all unheard by day, + Faintly repeat, till morning, after thee, + The story of thine endless goings forth. + Yet there are those who lie beside thy bed + For whom thou once didst rear the bowers that screen + Thy margin, and didst water the green fields; + And now there is no night so still that they + Can hear thy lapse; their slumbers, were thy voice + Louder than Ocean's, it could never break. + For them the early violet no more + Opens upon thy bank, nor, for their eyes, + Glitter the crimson pictures of the clouds, + Upon thy bosom, when the sun goes down. + Their memories are abroad, the memories + Of those who last were gathered to the earth, + Lingering within the homes in which they sat, + Hovering above the paths in which they walked, + Haunting them like a presence. Even now + They visit many a dreamer in the forms + They walked in, ere at last they wore the shroud. + And eyes there are which will not close to dream, + For weeping and for thinking of the grave, + The new-made grave, and the pale one within. + These memories and these sorrows all shall fade, + And pass away, and fresher memories + And newer sorrows come and dwell awhile + Beside thy borders, and, in turn, depart. + On glide thy waters, till at last they flow + Beneath the windows of the populous town, + And all night long give back the gleam of lamps, + And glimmer with the trains of light that stream + From halls where dancers whirl. A dimmer ray + Touches thy surface from the silent room + In which they tend the sick, or gather round + The dying; and a slender, steady beam + Comes from the little chamber, in the roof + Where, with a feverous crimson on her cheek, + The solitary damsel, dying, too, + Plies the quick needle till the stars grow pale. + There, close beside the haunts of revel, stand + The blank, unlighted windows, where the poor, + In hunger and in darkness, wake till morn. + There, drowsily, on the half-conscious ear + Of the dull watchman, pacing on the wharf, + Falls the soft ripple of the waves that strike + On the moored bark; but guiltier listeners + Are nigh, the prowlers of the night, who steal + From shadowy nook to shadowy nook, and start + If other sounds than thine are in the air. + Oh, glide away from those abodes, that bring + Pollution to thy channel and make foul + Thy once clear current; summon thy quick waves + And dimpling eddies; linger not, but haste, + With all thy waters, haste thee to the deep, + There to be tossed by shifting winds and rocked + By that mysterious force which lives within + The sea's immensity, and wields the weight + Of its abysses, swaying to and fro + The billowy mass, until the stain, at length, + Shall wholly pass away, and thou regain + The crystal brightness of thy mountain-springs. + + + + + THE LIFE THAT IS. + + + Thou, who so long hast pressed the couch of pain, + Oh welcome, welcome back to life's free breath-- + To life's free breath and day's sweet light again, + From the chill shadows of the gate of death! + + For thou hadst reached the twilight bound between + The world of spirits and this grosser sphere; + Dimly by thee the things of earth were seen, + And faintly fell earth's voices on thine ear. + + And now, how gladly we behold, at last, + The wonted smile returning to thy brow! + The very wind's low whisper, breathing past, + In the light leaves, is music to thee now. + + Thou wert not weary of thy lot; the earth + Was ever good and pleasant in thy sight; + Still clung thy loves about the household hearth, + And sweet was every day's returning light. + + Then welcome back to all thou wouldst not leave, + To this grand march of seasons, days, and hours; + The glory of the morn, the glow of eve, + The beauty of the streams, and stars, and flowers; + + To eyes on which thine own delight to rest; + To voices which it is thy joy to hear; + To the kind toils that ever pleased thee best, + The willing tasks of love, that made life dear. + + Welcome to grasp of friendly hands; to prayers + Offered where crowds in reverent worship come, + Or softly breathed amid the tender cares + And loving inmates of thy quiet home. + + Thou bring'st no tidings of the better land, + Even from its verge; the mysteries opened there + Are what the faithful heart may understand + In its still depths, yet words may not declare. + + And well I deem, that, from the brighter side + Of life's dim border, some o'erflowing rays + Streamed from the inner glory, shall abide + Upon thy spirit through the coming days. + + Twice wert thou given me; once in thy fair prime, + Fresh from the fields of youth, when first we met, + And all the blossoms of that hopeful time + Clustered and glowed where'er thy steps were set. + + And now, in thy ripe autumn, once again + Given back to fervent prayers and yearnings strong, + From the drear realm of sickness and of pain + When we had watched, and feared, and trembled long. + + Now may we keep thee from the balmy air + And radiant walks of heaven a little space, + Where He, who went before thee to prepare + For His meek followers, shall assign thy place. + + CASTELLAMARE, _May_, 1858. + + + + + SONG. + + "THESE PRAIRIES GLOW WITH FLOWERS." + + + These prairies glow with flowers, + These groves are tall and fair, + The sweet lay of the mocking-bird + Rings in the morning air; + And yet I pine to see + My native hill once more, + And hear the sparrow's friendly chirp + Beside its cottage-door. + + And he, for whom I left + My native hill and brook, + Alas, I sometimes think I trace + A coldness in his look! + If I have lost his love, + I know my heart will break; + And haply, they I left for him + Will sorrow for my sake. + + + + + A SICK-BED. + + + Long hast thou watched my bed, + And smoothed the pillow oft + For this poor, aching head, + With touches kind and soft. + + Oh! smooth it yet again, + As softly as before; + Once--only once--and then + I need thy hand no more. + + Yet here I may not stay, + Where I so long have lain, + Through many a restless day + And many a night of pain. + + But bear me gently forth + Beneath the open sky, + Where, on the pleasant earth, + Till night the sunbeams lie. + + There, through the coming days, + I shall not look to thee + My weary side to raise, + And shift it tenderly. + + There sweetly shall I sleep; + Nor wilt thou need to bring + And put to my hot lip + Cool water from the spring; + + Nor wet the kerchief laid + Upon my burning brow; + Nor from my eyeballs shade + The light that wounds them now; + + Nor watch that none shall tread, + With noisy footstep, nigh; + Nor listen by my bed, + To hear my faintest sigh, + + And feign a look of cheer, + And words of comfort speak, + Yet turn to hide the tear + That gathers on thy cheek. + + Beside me, where I rest, + Thy loving hands will set + The flowers that please me best-- + Moss-rose and violet. + + Then to the sleep I crave + Resign me, till I see + The face of Him who gave + His life for thee and me. + + Yet, with the setting sun, + Come, now and then, at eve, + And think of me as one + For whom thou shouldst not grieve; + + Who, when the kind release + From sin and suffering came, + Passed to the appointed peace + In murmuring thy name. + + Leave at my side a space, + Where thou shalt come, at last, + To find a resting-place, + When many years are past. + + + + + THE SONG OF THE SOWER. + + I. + + The maples redden in the sun; + In autumn gold the beeches stand; + Rest, faithful plough, thy work is done + Upon the teeming land. + Bordered with trees whose gay leaves fly + On every breath that sweeps the sky, + The fresh dark acres furrowed lie, + And ask the sower's hand. + Loose the tired steer and let him go + To pasture where the gentians blow, + And we, who till the grateful ground, + Fling we the golden shower around. + + + II. + + Fling wide the generous grain; we fling + O'er the dark mould the green of spring. + For thick the emerald blades shall grow, + When first the March winds melt the snow, + And to the sleeping flowery below, + The early bluebirds sing. + Fling wide the grain; we give the fields + The ears that nod in summer's gale, + The shining stems that summer gilds, + The harvest that o'erflows the vale, + And swells, an amber sea, between + The full-leaved woods, its shores of green. + Hark! from the murmuring clods I hear + Glad voices of the coming year; + The song of him who binds the grain, + The shout of those that load the wain, + And from the distant grange there comes + The clatter of the thresher's flail, + And steadily the millstone hums + Down in the willowy vale. + + + III. + + Fling wide the golden shower; we trust + The strength of armies to the dust. + This peaceful lea may haply yield + Its harvest for the tented field. + Ha! feel ye not your fingers thrill, + As o'er them, in the yellow grains, + Glide the warm drops of blood that fill, + For mortal strife, the warrior's veins; + Such as, on Solferino's day, + Slaked the brown sand and flowed away-- + Flowed till the herds, on Mincio's brink, + Snuffed the red stream and feared to drink;-- + Blood that in deeper pools shall lie, + On the sad earth, as time grows gray, + When men by deadlier arts shall die, + And deeper darkness blot the sky + Above the thundering fray; + And realms, that hear the battle-cry, + Shall sicken with dismay; + And chieftains to the war shall lead + Whole nations, with the tempest's speed, + To perish in a day;-- + Till man, by love and mercy taught, + Shall rue the wreck his fury wrought, + And lay the sword away! + Oh strew, with pausing, shuddering hand, + The seed upon the helpless land, + As if, at every step, ye cast + The pelting hail and riving blast. + + + IV. + + Nay, strew, with free and joyous sweep, + The seed upon the expecting soil; + For hence the plenteous year shall heap + The garners of the men who toil. + Strew the bright seed for those who tear + The matted sward with spade and share, + And those whose sounding axes gleam + Beside the lonely forest-stream, + Till its broad banks lie bare; + And him who breaks the quarry-ledge, + With hammer-blows, plied quick and strong, + And him who, with the steady sledge, + Smites the shrill anvil all day long. + Sprinkle the furrow's even trace + For those whose toiling hands uprear + The roof-trees of our swarming race, + By grove and plain, by stream and mere; + Who forth, from crowded city, lead + The lengthening street, and overlay + Green orchard-plot and grassy mead + With pavement of the murmuring way. + Cast, with full hands the harvest cast, + For the brave men that climb the mast, + When to the billow and the blast + It swings and stoops, with fearful strain, + And bind the fluttering mainsail fast, + Till the tossed bark shall sit, again, + Safe as a sea-bird on the main. + + + V. + + Fling wide the grain for those who throw + The clanking shuttle to and fro, + In the long row of humming rooms, + And into ponderous masses wind + The web that, from a thousand looms, + Comes forth to clothe mankind. + Strew, with free sweep, the grain for them, + By whom the busy thread + Along the garment's even hem + And winding seam is led; + A pallid sisterhood, that keep + The lonely lamp alight, + In strife with weariness and sleep, + Beyond the middle night. + Large part be theirs in what the year + Shall ripen for the reaper here. + + + VI. + + Still, strew, with joyous hand, the wheat + On the soft mould beneath our feet, + For even now I seem + To hear a sound that lightly rings + From murmuring harp and viol's strings, + As in a summer dream. + The welcome of the wedding-guest, + The bridegroom's look of bashful pride, + The faint smile of the pallid bride, + And bridemaid's blush at matron's jest, + And dance and song and generous dower, + Are in the shining grains we shower. + + + VII. + + Scatter the wheat for shipwrecked men, + Who, hunger-worn, rejoice again + In the sweet safety of the shore, + And wanderers, lost in woodlands drear, + Whose pulses bound with joy to hear + The herd's light bell once more. + Freely the golden spray be shed + For him whose heart, when night comes down + On the close alleys of the town, + Is faint for lack of bread. + In chill roof-chambers, bleak and bare, + Or the damp cellar's stifling air, + She who now sees, in mute despair, + Her children pine for food, + Shall feel the dews of gladness start + To lids long tearless, and shall part + The sweet loaf with a grateful heart, + Among her thin pale brood. + Dear, kindly Earth, whose breast we till! + Oh, for thy famished children, fill, + Where'er the sower walks, + Fill the rich ears that shade the mould + With grain for grain, a hundredfold, + To bend the sturdy stalks. + + + VIII. + + Strew silently the fruitful seed, + As softly o'er the tilth ye tread, + For hands that delicately knead + The consecrated bread-- + The mystic loaf that crowns the board. + When, round the table of their Lord, + Within a thousand temples set, + In memory of the bitter death + Of Him who taught at Nazareth, + His followers are met, + And thoughtful eyes with tears are wet, + As of the Holy One they think, + The glory of whose rising yet + Makes bright the grave's mysterious brink. + + + IX. + + Brethren, the sower's task is done. + The seed is in its winter bed. + Now let the dark-brown mould be spread, + To hide it from the sun, + And leave it to the kindly care + Of the still earth and brooding air, + As when the mother, from her breast, + Lays the hushed babe apart to rest, + And shades its eyes, and waits to see + How sweet its waking smile will be. + The tempest now may smite, the sleet + All night on the drowned furrow beat, + And winds that, from the cloudy hold, + Of winter breathe the bitter cold, + Stiffen to stone the mellow mould, + Yet safe shall lie the wheat; + Till, out of heaven's unmeasured blue, + Shall walk again the genial year, + To wake with warmth and nurse with dew + The germs we lay to slumber here. + + + X. + + Oh blessed harvest yet to be! + Abide thou with the Love that keeps, + In its warm bosom, tenderly, + The Life which wakes and that which sleeps. + The Love that leads the willing spheres + Along the unending track of years, + And watches o'er the sparrow's nest, + Shall brood above thy winter rest, + And raise thee from the dust, to hold + Light whisperings with the winds of May, + And fill thy spikes with living gold, + From summer's yellow ray; + Then, as thy garners give thee forth, + On what glad errands shalt thou go, + Wherever, o'er the waiting earth, + Roads wind and rivers flow! + The ancient East shall welcome thee + To mighty marts beyond the sea, + And they who dwell where palm-groves sound + To summer winds the whole year round, + Shall watch, in gladness, from the shore, + The sails that bring thy glistening store. + + + + + THE NEW AND THE OLD. + + + New are the leaves on the oaken spray, + New the blades of the silky grass; + Flowers, that were buds but yesterday, + Peep from the ground where'er I pass. + + These gay idlers, the butterflies, + Broke, to-day, from their winter shroud; + These light airs, that winnow the skies, + Blow, just born, from the soft, white cloud. + + Gushing fresh in the little streams, + What a prattle the waters make! + Even the sun, with his tender beams, + Seems as young as the flowers they wake. + + Children are wading, with cheerful cries, + In the shoals of the sparkling brook; + Laughing maidens, with soft, young eyes, + Walk or sit in the shady nook. + + What am I doing, thus alone, + In the glory of Nature here, + Silver-haired, like a snow-flake thrown + On the greens of the springing year? + + Only for brows unploughed by care, + Eyes that glisten with hope and mirth, + Cheeks unwrinkled, and unblanched hair, + Shines this holiday of the earth. + + Under the grass, with the clammy clay, + Lie in darkness the last year's flowers, + Born of a light that has passed away, + Dews long dried and forgotten showers. + + "Under the grass is the fitting home," + So they whisper, "for such as thou, + When the winter of life is come, + Chilling the blood, and frosting the brow." + + + + + THE CLOUD ON THE WAY. + + + See, before us, in our journey, broods a mist upon the ground; + Thither leads the path we walk in, blending with that gloomy bound. + Never eye hath pierced its shadows to the mystery they screen; + Those who once have passed within it never more on earth are seen. + Now it seems to stoop beside us, now at seeming distance lowers, + Leaving banks that tempt us onward bright with summer-green and flowers. + Yet it blots the way forever; there our journey ends at last; + Into that dark cloud we enter, and are gathered to the past. + Thou who, in this flinty pathway, leading through a stranger-land, + Passest down the rocky valley, walking with me hand in hand, + Which of us shall be the soonest folded to that dim Unknown? + Which shall leave the other walking in this flinty path alone? + Even now I see thee shudder, and thy cheek is white with fear, + And thou clingest to my side as comes that darkness sweeping near. + "Here," thou sayst, "the path is rugged, + sown with thorns that wound the feet; + But the sheltered glens are lovely, and the rivulet's song is sweet; + Roses breathe from tangled thickets; lilies bend from ledges brown; + Pleasantly between the pelting showers the sunshine gushes down; + Dear are those who walk beside us, they whose looks and voices make + All this rugged region cheerful, till I love it for their sake. + Far be yet the hour that takes me where that chilly shadow lies, + From the things I know and love, and from the sight of loving eyes!" + So thou murmurest, fearful one; but see, we tread a rougher way; + Fainter glow the gleams of sunshine that upon the dark rocks play; + Rude winds strew the faded flowers upon the crags o'er which we pass; + Banks of verdure, when we reach them, hiss with tufts of withered grass. + One by one we miss the voices which we loved so well to hear; + One by one the kindly faces in that shadow disappear. + Yet upon the mist before us fix thine eyes with closer view; + See, beneath its sullen skirts, the rosy morning glimmers through. + One whose feet the thorns have wounded passed that barrier and came back, + With a glory on His footsteps lighting yet the dreary track. + Boldly enter where He entered; all that seems but darkness here, + When thou once hast passed beyond it, haply shall be crystal-clear. + Viewed from that serener realm, the walks of human life may lie, + Like the page of some familiar volume, open to thine eye; + Haply, from the o'erhanging shadow, thou mayst stretch an unseen hand, + To support the wavering steps that print with blood the rugged land. + Haply, leaning o'er the pilgrim, all unweeting thou art near, + Thou mayst whisper words of warning or of comfort in his ear + Till, beyond the border where that brooding mystery bars the sight, + Those whom thou hast fondly cherished stand with thee in peace and light. + + + + + THE TIDES. + + + The moon is at her full, and, riding high, + Floods the calm fields with light; + The airs that hover in the summer-sky + Are all asleep to-night. + + There comes no voice from the great woodlands round + That murmured all the day; + Beneath the shadow of their boughs the ground + Is not more still than they. + + But ever heaves and moans the restless Deep; + His rising tides I hear, + Afar I see the glimmering billows leap; + I see them breaking near. + + Each wave springs upward, climbing toward the fair + Pure light that sits on high-- + Springs eagerly, and faintly sinks, to where + The mother-waters lie. + + Upward again it swells; the moonbeams show + Again its glimmering crest; + Again it feels the fatal weight below, + And sinks, but not to rest. + + Again and yet again; until the Deep + Recalls his brood of waves; + And, with a sullen moan, abashed, they creep + Back to his inner caves. + + Brief respite! they shall rush from that recess + With noise and tumult soon, + And fling themselves, with unavailing stress, + Up toward the placid moon. + + O restless Sea, that, in thy prison here, + Dost struggle and complain; + Through the slow centuries yearning to be near + To that fair orb in vain; + + The glorious source of light and heat must warm + Thy billows from on high, + And change them to the cloudy trains that form + The curtain of the sky. + + Then only may they leave the waste of brine + In which they welter here, + And rise above the hills of earth, and shine + In a serener sphere. + + + + + ITALY. + + + Voices from the mountains speak, + Apennines to Alps reply; + Vale to vale and peak to peak + Toss an old-remembered cry: + "Italy + Shall be free!" + Such the mighty shout that fills + All the passes of her hills. + + All the old Italian lakes + Quiver at that quickening word; + Como with a thrill awakes; + Garda to her depths is stirred; + Mid the steeps + Where he sleeps, + Dreaming of the elder years, + Startled Thrasymenus hears. + + Sweeping Arno, swelling Po, + Murmur freedom to their meads. + Tiber swift and Liris slow + Send strange whispers from their reeds. + "Italy + Shall be free!" + Sing the glittering brooks that slide, + Toward the sea, from Etna's side. + + Long ago was Gracchus slain; + Brutus perished long ago; + Yet the living roots remain + Whence the shoots of greatness grow; + Yet again, + Godlike men, + Sprung from that heroic stem, + Call the land to rise with them. + + They who haunt the swarming street, + They who chase the mountain-boar, + Or, where cliff and billow meet, + Prune the vine or pull the oar, + With a stroke + Break their yoke; + Slaves but yestereve were they-- + Freemen with the dawning day. + + Looking in his children's eyes, + While his own with gladness flash, + "These," the Umbrian father cries, + "Ne'er shall crouch beneath the lash! + These shall ne'er + Brook to wear + Chains whose cruel links are twined + Round the crushed and withering mind." + + Monarchs! ye whose armies stand + Harnessed for the battle-field! + Pause, and from the lifted hand + Drop the bolts of war ye wield. + Stand aloof + While the proof + Of the people's might is given; + Leave their kings to them and Heaven! + + Stand aloof, and see the oppressed + Chase the oppressor, pale with fear, + As the fresh winds of the west + Blow the misty valleys clear. + Stand and see + Italy + Cast the gyves she wears no more + To the gulfs that steep her shore. + + + + + A DAY-DREAM. + + + A day-dream by the dark-blue deep; + Was it a dream, or something more? + I sat where Posilippo's steep, + With its gray shelves, o'erhung the shore. + + On ruined Roman walls around + The poppy flaunted, for 'twas May; + And at my feet, with gentle sound, + Broke the light billows of the bay. + + I sat and watched the eternal flow + Of those smooth billows toward the shore, + While quivering lines of light below + Ran with them on the ocean-floor: + + Till, from the deep, there seemed to rise + White arms upon the waves outspread, + Young faces, lit with soft blue eyes, + And smooth, round cheeks, just touched with red. + + Their long, fair tresses, tinged with gold, + Lay floating on the ocean-streams, + And such their brows as bards behold-- + Love-stricken bards--in morning dreams. + + Then moved their coral lips; a strain + Low, sweet and sorrowful, I heard, + As if the murmurs of the main + Were shaped to syllable and word. + + "The sight thou dimly dost behold, + Oh, stranger from a distant sky! + Was often, in the days of old, + Seen by the clear, believing eye. + + "Then danced we on the wrinkled sand, + Sat in cool caverns by the sea, + Or wandered up the bloomy land, + To talk with shepherds on the lea. + + "To us, in storms, the seaman prayed, + And where our rustic altars stood, + His little children came and laid + The fairest flowers of field and wood. + + "Oh woe, a long, unending woe! + For who shall knit the ties again + That linked the sea-nymphs, long ago, + In kindly fellowship with men? + + "Earth rears her flowers for us no more; + A half-remembered dream are we; + Unseen we haunt the sunny shore, + And swim, unmarked, the glassy sea. + + "And we have none to love or aid, + But wander, heedless of mankind, + With shadows by the cloud-rack made, + With moaning wave and sighing wind. + + "Yet sometimes, as in elder days, + We come before the painter's eye, + Or fix the sculptor's eager gaze, + With no profaner witness nigh. + + "And then the words of men grow warm + With praise and wonder, asking where + The artist saw the perfect form + He copied forth in lines so fair." + + As thus they spoke, with wavering sweep + Floated the graceful forms away; + Dimmer and dimmer, through the deep, + I saw the white arms gleam and play. + + Fainter and fainter, on mine ear, + Fell the soft accents of their speech, + Till I, at last, could only hear + The waves run murmuring up the beach. + + + + + THE RUINS OF ITALICA. + + FROM THE SPANISH OF RIOJA. + + + I. + + Fabius, this region, desolate and drear, + These solitary fields, this shapeless mound, + Were once Italica, the far-renowned; + For Scipio, the mighty, planted here + His conquering colony, and now, o'erthrown, + Lie its once-dreaded walls of massive stone, + Sad relics, sad and vain, + Of those invincible men + Who held the region then. + Funereal memories alone remain + Where forms of high example walked of yore. + Here lay the forum, there arose the fane-- + The eye beholds their places, and no more. + Their proud gymnasium and their sumptuous baths + Resolved to dust and cinders, strew the paths; + Their towers, that looked defiance at the sky, + Fallen by their own vast weight, in fragments lie. + + + II. + + This broken circus, where the rock-weeds climb, + Flaunting with yellow blossoms, and defy + The gods to whom its walls were piled so high, + Is now a tragic theatre, where Time + Acts his great fable, spreads a stage that shows + Past grandeur's story and its dreary close. + Why, round this desert pit, + Shout not the applauding rows + Where the great people sit? + Wild beasts are here, but where the combatant; + With his bare arms, the strong athleta where? + All have departed from this once gay haunt + Of noisy crowds, and silence holds the air. + Yet, on this spot, Time gives us to behold + A spectacle as stern as those of old. + As dreamily I gaze, there seem to rise, + From all the mighty ruin, wailing cries. + + + III. + + The terrible in war, the pride of Spain, + Trajan, his country's father, here was born; + Good, fortunate, triumphant, to whose reign + Submitted the far regions, where the morn + Rose from her cradle, and the shore whose steeps + O'erlooked the conquered Gaditanian deeps. + Of mighty Adrian here, + Of Theodosius, saint, + Of Silius, Virgil's peer, + Were rocked the cradles, rich with gold, and quaint + With ivory carvings; here were laurel-boughs + And sprays of jasmine gathered for their brows, + From gardens now a marshy, thorny waste. + Where rose the palace, reared for Caesar, yawn + Foul rifts to which the scudding lizards haste. + Palaces, gardens, Caesars, all are gone, + And even the stones their names were graven on. + + + IV. + + Fabius, if tears prevent thee not, survey + The long-dismantled streets, so thronged of old, + The broken marbles, arches in decay, + Proud statues, toppled from their place and rolled + In dust, when Nemesis, the avenger, came, + And buried, in forgetfulness profound, + The owners and their fame. + Thus Troy, I deem, must be, + With many a mouldering mound; + And thou, whose name alone remains to thee, + Rome, of old gods and kings the native ground; + And thou, sage Athens, built by Pallas, whom + Just laws redeemed not from the appointed doom. + The envy of earth's cities once wert thou-- + A weary solitude and ashes now! + For Fate and Death respect ye not; they strike + The mighty city and the wise alike. + + + V. + + But why goes forth the wandering thought to frame + New themes of sorrow, sought in distant lands? + Enough the example that before me stands; + For here are smoke-wreaths seen, and glimmering flame, + And hoarse lamentings on the breezes die; + So doth the mighty ruin cast its spell + On those who near it dwell. + And under night's still sky, + As awe-struck peasants tell, + A melancholy voice is heard to cry, + "Italica is fallen!" the echoes then + Mournfully shout "Italica" again. + The leafy alleys of the forest nigh + Murmur "Italica," and all around, + A troop of mighty shadows, at the sound + Of that illustrious name, repeat the call, + "Italica!" from ruined tower and wall. + + + + + WAITING BY THE GATE. + + + Beside a massive gateway built up in years gone by, + Upon whose top the clouds in eternal shadow lie, + While streams the evening sunshine on quiet wood and lea, + I stand and calmly wait till the hinges turn for me. + + The tree-tops faintly rustle beneath the breeze's flight, + A soft and soothing sound, yet it whispers of the night; + I hear the wood-thrush piping one mellow descant more, + And scent the flowers that blow when the heat of day is o'er. + + Behold, the portals open, and o'er the threshold, now, + There steps a weary one with a pale and furrowed brow; + His count of years is full, his allotted task is wrought; + He passes to his rest from a place that needs him not. + + In sadness then I ponder how quickly fleets the hour + Of human strength and action, man's courage and his power. + I muse while still the wood-thrush sings down the golden day, + And as I look and listen the sadness wears away. + + Again the hinges turn, and a youth, departing, throws + A look of longing backward, and sorrowfully goes; + A blooming maid, unbinding the roses from her hair, + Moves mournfully away from amid the young and fair. + + O glory of our race that so suddenly decays! + O crimson flush of morning that darkens as we gaze! + O breath of summer blossoms that on the restless air + Scatters a moment's sweetness, and flies we know not where! + + I grieve for life's bright promise, just shown and then withdrawn; + But still the sun shines round me: the evening bird sings on, + And I again am soothed, and, beside the ancient gate, + In this soft evening sunlight, I calmly stand and wait. + + Once more the gates are opened; an infant group go out, + The sweet smile quenched forever, and stilled the sprightly shout. + O frail, frail tree of Life, that upon the greensward strows + Its fair young buds unopened, with every wind that blows! + + So come from every region, so enter, side by side, + The strong and faint of spirit, the meek and men of pride. + Steps of earth's great and mighty, between those pillars gray, + And prints of little feet, mark the dust along the way. + + And some approach the threshold whose looks are blank with fear, + And some whose temples brighten with joy in drawing near, + As if they saw dear faces, and caught the gracious eye + Of Him, the Sinless Teacher, who came for us to die. + + I mark the joy, the terror; yet these, within my heart, + Can neither wake the dread nor the longing to depart; + And, in the sunshine streaming on quiet wood and lea, + I stand and calmly wait till the hinges turn for me. + + + + + NOT YET. + + + Oh country, marvel of the earth! + Oh realm to sudden greatness grown! + The age that gloried in thy birth, + Shall it behold thee overthrown? + Shall traitors lay that greatness low? + No, land of Hope and Blessing, No! + + And we, who wear thy glorious name, + Shall we, like cravens, stand apart, + When those whom thou hast trusted aim + The death-blow at thy generous heart? + Forth goes the battle-cry, and lo! + Hosts rise in harness, shouting, No! + + And they who founded, in our land, + The power that rules from sea to sea, + Bled they in vain, or vainly planned + To leave their country great and free? + Their sleeping ashes, from below, + Send up the thrilling murmur, No! + + Knit they the gentle ties which long + These sister States were proud to wear, + And forged the kindly links so strong + For idle hands in sport to tear? + For scornful hands aside to throw? + No, by our fathers' memory, No! + + Our humming marts, our iron ways, + Our wind-tossed woods on mountain-crest, + The hoarse Atlantic, with its bays, + The calm, broad Ocean of the West, + And Mississippi's torrent-flow, + And loud Niagara, answer, No! + + Not yet the hour is nigh when they + Who deep in Eld's dim twilight sit, + Earth's ancient kings, shall rise and say, + "Proud country, welcome to the pit! + So soon art thou, like us, brought low!" + No, sullen group of shadows, No! + + For now, behold, the arm that gave + The victory in our fathers' day, + Strong, as of old, to guard and save-- + That mighty arm which none can stay-- + On clouds above and fields below, + Writes, in men's sight, the answer, No! + + _July_, 1861. + + + + + OUR COUNTRY'S CALL. + + + Lay down the axe; fling by the spade; + Leave in its track the toiling plough; + The rifle and the bayonet-blade + For arms like yours were fitter now; + And let the hands that ply the pen + Quit the light task, and learn to wield + The horseman's crooked brand, and rein + The charger on the battle-field. + + Our country calls; away! away! + To where the blood-stream blots the green. + Strike to defend the gentlest sway + That Time in all his course has seen. + See, from a thousand coverts--see, + Spring the armed foes that haunt her track; + They rush to smite her down, and we + Must beat the banded traitors back. + + Ho! sturdy as the oaks ye cleave, + And moved as soon to fear and flight, + Men of the glade and forest! leave + Your woodcraft for the field of fight. + The arms that wield the axe must pour + An iron tempest on the foe; + His serried ranks shall reel before + The arm that lays the panther low. + + And ye, who breast the mountain-storm + By grassy steep or highland lake, + Come, for the land ye love, to form + A bulwark that no foe can break. + Stand, like your own gray cliffs that mock + The whirlwind, stand in her defence; + The blast as soon shall move the rock + As rushing squadrons bear ye thence. + + And ye, whose homes are by her grand + Swift rivers, rising far away, + Come from the depth of her green land, + As mighty in your march as they; + As terrible as when the rains + Have swelled them over bank and bourne + With sudden floods to drown the plains + And sweep along the woods uptorn. + + And ye, who throng, beside the deep, + Her ports and hamlets of the strand, + In number like the waves that leap + On his long-murmuring marge of sand-- + Come like that deep, when, o'er his brim, + He rises, all his floods to pour, + And flings the proudest barks that swim, + A helpless wreck, against the shore! + + Few, few were they whose swords of old + Won the fair land in which we dwell; + But we are many, we who hold + The grim resolve to guard it well. + Strike, for that broad and goodly land, + Blow after blow, till men shall see + That Might and Right move hand in hand, + And glorious must their triumph be! + + _September_, 1861. + + + + + THE CONSTELLATIONS. + + + O Constellations of the early night, + That sparkled brighter as the twilight died, + And made the darkness glorious! I have seen + Your rays grow dim upon the horizon's edge, + And sink behind the mountains. I have seen + The great Orion, with his jewelled belt, + That large-limbed warrior of the skies, go down + Into the gloom. Beside him sank a crowd + Of shining ones. I look in vain to find + The group of sister-stars, which mothers love + To show their wondering babes, the gentle Seven. + Along the desert space mine eyes in vain + Seek the resplendent cressets which the Twins + Uplifted in their ever-youthful hands. + The streaming tresses of the Egyptian Queen + Spangle the heavens no more. The Virgin trails + No more her glittering garments through the blue. + Gone! all are gone! and the forsaken Night, + With all her winds, in all her dreary wastes, + Sighs that they shine upon her face no more + Now only here and there a little star + Looks forth alone. Ah me! I know them not, + Those dim successors of the numberless host + That filled the heavenly fields, and flung to earth + Their quivering fires. And now the middle watch + Betwixt the eve and morn is past, and still + The darkness gains upon the sky, and still + It closes round my way. Shall, then, the Night + Grow starless in her later hours? Have these + No train of flaming watchers, that shall mark + Their coming and farewell? O Sons of Light! + Have ye then left me ere the dawn of day + To grope along my journey sad and faint? + Thus I complained, and from the darkness round + A voice replied--was it indeed a voice, + Or seeming accents of a waking dream + Heard by the inner ear? But thus it said: + O Traveller of the Night! thine eyes are dim + With watching; and the mists, that chill the vale + Down which thy feet are passing, hide from view + The ever-burning stars. It is thy sight + That is so dark, and not the heavens. Thine eyes, + Were they but clear, would see a fiery host + Above thee; Hercules, with flashing mace, + The Lyre with silver chords, the Swan uppoised + On gleaming wings, the Dolphin gliding on + With glistening scales, and that poetic steed, + With beamy mane, whose hoof struck out from earth + The fount of Hippocrene, and many more, + Fair clustered splendors, with whose rays the Night + Shall close her march in glory, ere she yield, + To the young Day, the great earth steeped in dew. + So spake the monitor, and I perceived + How vain were my repinings, and my thought + Went backward to the vanished years and all + The good and great who came and passed with them, + And knew that ever would the years to come + Bring with them, in their course, the good and great, + Lights of the world, though, to my clouded sight, + Their rays might seem but dim, or reach me not. + + + + + THE THIRD OF NOVEMBER, 1861. + + + Softly breathes the west-wind beside the ruddy forest, + Taking leaf by leaf from the branches where he flies. + Sweetly streams the sunshine, this third day of November, + Through the golden haze of the quiet autumn skies. + + Tenderly the season has spared the grassy meadows, + Spared the potted flowers that the old world gave the new. + Spared the autumn-rose and the garden's group of pansies, + Late-blown dandelions and periwinkles blue. + + On my cornice linger the ripe black grapes ungathered; + Children fill the groves with the echoes of their glee, + Gathering tawny chestnuts, and shouting when beside them + Drops the heavy fruit of the tall black-walnut tree. + + Glorious are the woods in their latest gold and crimson, + Yet our full-leaved willows are in their freshest green. + Such a kindly autumn, so mercifully dealing + With the growths of summer, I never yet have seen. + + Like this kindly season may life's decline come o'er me; + Past is manhood's summer, the frosty months are here; + Yet be genial airs and a pleasant sunshine left me, + Leaf, and fruit, and blossom, to mark the closing year! + + Dreary is the time when the flowers of earth are withered; + Dreary is the time when the woodland leaves are cast-- + When, upon the hillside, all hardened into iron, + Howling, like a wolf, flies the famished northern blast. + + Dreary are the years when the eye can look no longer + With delight on Nature, or hope on human kind; + Oh, may those that whiten my temples, as they pass me, + Leave the heart unfrozen, and spare the cheerful mind! + + + + + THE MOTHER'S HYMN. + + + Lord, who ordainest for mankind + Benignant toils and tender cares! + We thank Thee for the ties that bind + The mother to the child she bears. + + We thank Thee for the hopes that rise, + Within her heart, as, day by day, + The dawning soul, from those young eyes, + Looks, with a clearer, steadier ray. + + And grateful for the blessing given + With that dear infant on her knee, + She trains the eye to look to heaven, + The voice to lisp a prayer to Thee. + + Such thanks the blessed Mary gave, + When, from her lap, the Holy Child, + Sent from on high to seek and save + The lost of earth, looked up and smiled. + + All-Gracious! grant, to those that bear + A mother's charge, the strength and light + To lead the steps that own their care + In ways of Love, and Truth, and Right. + + + + + SELLA. + + + Hear now a legend of the days of old-- + The days when there were goodly marvels yet, + When man to man gave willing faith, and loved + A tale the better that 'twas wild and strange. + Beside a pleasant dwelling ran a brook + Scudding along a narrow channel, paved + With green and yellow pebbles; yet full clear + Its waters were, and colorless and cool, + As fresh from granite rocks. A maiden oft + Stood at the open window, leaning out, + And listening to the sound the water made, + A sweet, eternal murmur, still the same, + And not the same; and oft, as spring came on, + She gathered violets from its fresh moist bank, + To place within her bower, and when the herbs + Of summer drooped beneath the mid-day sun, + She sat within the shade of a great rock, + Dreamily listening to the streamlet's song. + Ripe were the maiden's years; her stature showed + Womanly beauty, and her clear, calm eye + Was bright with venturous spirit, yet her face + Was passionless, like those by sculptor graved + For niches in a temple. Lovers oft + Had wooed her, but she only laughed at love, + And wondered at the silly things they said. + 'Twas her delight to wander where wild-vines + O'erhang the river's brim, to climb the path + Of woodland streamlet to its mountain-springs, + To sit by gleaming wells and mark below + The image of the rushes on its edge, + And, deep beyond, the trailing clouds that slid + Across the fair blue space. No little fount + Stole forth from hanging rock, or in the side + Of hollow dell, or under roots of oak; + No rill came trickling, with a stripe of green, + Down the bare hill, that to this maiden's eye + Was not familiar. Often did the banks + Of river or of sylvan lakelet hear + The dip of oars with which the maiden rowed + Her shallop, pushing ever from the prow + A crowd of long, light ripples toward the shore. + Two brothers had the maiden, and she thought, + Within herself: "I would I were like them; + For then I might go forth alone, to trace + The mighty rivers downward to the sea, + And upward to the brooks that, through the year, + Prattle to the cool valleys. I would know + What races drink their waters; how their chiefs + Bear rule, and how men worship there, and how + They build, and to what quaint device they frame, + Where sea and river meet, their stately ships; + What flowers are in their gardens, and what trees + Bear fruit within their orchards; in what garb + Their bowmen meet on holidays, and how + Their maidens bind the waist and braid the hair. + Here, on these hills, my father's house o'erlooks + Broad pastures grazed by flocks and herds, but there + I hear they sprinkle the great plains with corn + And watch its springing up, and when the green + Is changed to gold, they cut the stems and bring + The harvest in, and give the nations bread. + And there they hew the quarry into shafts, + And pile up glorious temples from the rock, + And chisel the rude stones to shapes of men. + All this I pine to see, and would have seen, + But that I am a woman, long ago." + Thus in her wanderings did the maiden dream, + Until, at length, one morn in early spring, + When all the glistening fields lay white with frost, + She came half breathless where her mother sat: + "See, mother dear," she said, "what I have found, + Upon our rivulet's bank; two slippers, white + As the midwinter snow, and spangled o'er + With twinkling points, like stars, and on the edge + My name is wrought in silver; read, I pray, + Sella, the name thy mother, now in heaven, + Gave at my birth; and sure, they fit my feet!" + "A dainty pair," the prudent matron said, + "But thine they are not. We must lay them by + For those whose careless hands have left them here; + Or haply they were placed beside the brook + To be a snare. I cannot see thy name + Upon the border--only characters + Of mystic look and dim are there, like signs + Of some strange art; nay, daughter, wear them not." + Then Sella hung the slippers in the porch + Of that broad rustic lodge, and all who passed + Admired their fair contexture, but none knew + Who left them by the brook. And now, at length, + May, with her flowers and singing birds, had gone, + And on bright streams and into deep wells shone + The high, midsummer sun. One day, at noon, + Sella was missed from the accustomed meal. + They sought her in her favorite haunts, they looked + By the great rock and far along the stream, + And shouted in the sounding woods her name. + Night came, and forth the sorrowing household went + With torches over the wide pasture-grounds, + To pool and thicket, marsh and briery dell, + And solitary valley far away. + The morning came, and Sella was not found. + The sun climbed high; they sought her still; the noon, + The hot and silent noon, heard Sella's name, + Uttered with a despairing cry, to wastes + O'er which the eagle hovered. As the sun + Stooped toward the amber west to bring the close + Of that sad second day, and, with red eyes, + The mother sat within her home alone, + Sella was at her side. A shriek of joy + Broke the sad silence; glad, warm tears were shed, + And words of gladness uttered. "Oh, forgive," + The maiden said, "that I could e'er forget + Thy wishes for a moment. I just tried + The slippers on, amazed to see them shaped + So fairly to my feet, when, all at once, + I felt my steps upborne and hurried on + Almost as if with wings. A strange delight, + Blent with a thrill of fear, o'ermastered me, + And, ere I knew, my splashing steps were set + Within the rivulet's pebbly bed, and I + Was rushing down the current. By my side + Tripped one as beautiful as ever looked + From white clouds in a dream; and, as we ran, + She talked with musical voice and sweetly laughed. + Gayly we leaped the crag and swam the pool, + And swept with dimpling eddies round the rock, + And glided between shady meadow-banks. + The streamlet, broadening as we went, became + A swelling river, and we shot along + By stately towns, and under leaning masts + Of gallant barks, nor lingered by the shore + Of blooming gardens; onward, onward still, + The same strong impulse bore me, till, at last, + We entered the great deep, and passed below + His billows, into boundless spaces, lit + With a green sunshine. Here were mighty groves + Far down the ocean-valleys, and between + Lay what might seem fair meadows, softly tinged + With orange and with crimson. Here arose + Tall stems, that, rooted in the depths below, + Swung idly with the motions of the sea; + And here were shrubberies in whose mazy screen + The creatures of the deep made haunt. My friend + Named the strange growths, the pretty coralline, + The dulse with crimson leaves, and, streaming far, + Sea-thong and sea-lace. Here the tangle spread + Its broad, thick fronds, with pleasant bowers beneath; + And oft we trod a waste of pearly sands, + Spotted with rosy shells, and thence looked in + At caverns of the sea whose rock-roofed halls + Lay in blue twilight. As we moved along, + The dwellers of the deep, in mighty herds, + Passed by us, reverently they passed us by, + Long trains of dolphins rolling through the brine, + Huge whales, that drew the waters after them, + A torrent-stream, and hideous hammer-sharks, + Chasing their prey. I shuddered as they came; + Gently they turned aside and gave us room." + Hereat broke in the mother: "Sella dear, + This is a dream, the idlest, vainest dream." + "Nay, mother, nay; behold this sea-green scarf, + Woven of such threads as never human hand + Twined from the distaff. She who led my way + Through the great waters, bade me wear it home, + A token that my tale is true. 'And keep,' + She said, 'the slippers thou hast found, for thou, + When shod with them, shalt be like one of us, + With power to walk at will the ocean-floor, + Among its monstrous creatures, unafraid, + And feel no longing for the air of heaven + To fill thy lungs, and send the warm, red blood + Along thy veins. But thou shalt pass the hours + In dances with the sea-nymphs, or go forth, + To look into the mysteries of the abyss + Where never plummet reached. And thou shalt sleep + Thy weariness away on downy banks + Of sea-moss, where the pulses of the tide + Shall gently lift thy hair, or thou shalt float + On the soft currents that go forth and wind + From isle to isle, and wander through the sea.' + "So spake my fellow-voyager, her words + Sounding like wavelets on a summer shore, + And then we stopped beside a hanging rock, + With a smooth beach of white sands at its foot, + Where three fair creatures like herself were set + At their sea-banquet, crisp and juicy stalks, + Culled from the ocean's meadows, and the sweet + Midrib of pleasant leaves, and golden fruits + Dropped from the trees that edge the southern isles, + And gathered on the waves. Kindly they prayed + That I would share their meal, and _I _partook + With eager appetite, for long had been + My journey, and I left the spot refreshed. + "And then we wandered off amid the groves + Of coral loftier than the growths of earth; + The mightiest cedar lifts no trunk like theirs, + So huge, so high toward heaven, nor overhangs + Alleys and bowers so dim. We moved between + Pinnacles of black rock, which, from beneath, + Molten by inner fires, so said my guide, + Gushed long ago into the hissing brine, + That quenched and hardened them, and now they stand + Motionless in the currents of the sea + That part and flow around them. As we went, + We looked into the hollows of the abyss, + To which the never-resting waters sweep + The skeletons of sharks, the long white spines + Of narwhal and of dolphin, bones of men + Shipwrecked, and mighty ribs of foundered barks. + Down the blue pits we looked, and hastened on. + "But beautiful the fountains of the sea + Sprang upward from its bed: the silvery jets + Shot branching far into the azure brine, + And where they mingled with it, the great deep + Quivered and shook, as shakes the glimmering air + Ahove a furnace. So we wandered through + The mighty world of waters, till at length + I wearied of its wonders, and my heart + Began to yearn for my dear mountain-home. + I prayed my gentle guide to lead me back + To the upper air. 'A glorious realm,' I said, + 'Is this thou openest to me; but I stray + Bewildered in its vastness; these strange sights + And this strange light oppress me. I must see + The faces that I love, or I shall die.' + "She took my hand, and, darting through the waves + Brought me to where the stream, by which we came, + Rushed into the main ocean. Then began + A slower journey upward. Wearily + We breasted the strong current, climbing through + The rapids, tossing high their foam. The night + Came down, and in the clear depth of a pool, + Edged with o'erhanging rock, we took our rest + Till morning; and I slept, and dreamed of home + And thee. A pleasant sight the morning showed; + The green fields of this upper world, the herds + That grazed the bank, the light on the red clouds, + The trees, with all their host of trembling leaves, + Lifting and lowering to the restless wind + Their branches. As I woke, I saw them all + From the clear stream; yet strangely was my heart + Parted between the watery world and this, + And as we journeyed upward, oft I thought + Of marvels I had seen, and stopped and turned, + And lingered, till I thought of thee again; + And then again I turned and clambered up + The rivulet's murmuring path, until we came + Beside the cottage-door. There tenderly + My fair conductor kissed me, and I saw + Her face no more. I took the slippers off. + Oh! with what deep delight my lungs drew in + The air of heaven again, and with what joy + I felt my blood bound with its former glow; + And now I never leave thy side again!" + So spoke the maiden Sella, with large tears + Standing in her mild eyes, and in the porch + Replaced the slippers. Autumn came and went; + The winter passed; another summer warmed + The quiet pools; another autumn tinged + The grape with red, yet while it hung unplucked, + The mother ere her time was carried forth + To sleep among the solitary hills. + A long, still sadness settled on that home + Among the mountains. The stern father there + Wept with his children, and grew soft of heart, + And Sella, and the brothers twain, and one + Younger than they, a sister fair and shy, + Strewed the new grave with flowers, and round it set + Shrubs that all winter held their lively green. + Time passed; the grief with which their hearts were wrung + Waned to a gentle sorrow. Sella, now, + Was often absent from the patriarch's board; + The slippers hung no longer in the porch; + And sometimes after summer nights her couch + Was found unpressed at dawn, and well they knew + That she was wandering with the race who make + Their dwelling in the waters. Oft her looks + Fixed on blank space, and oft the ill-suited word + Told that her thoughts were far away. In vain + Her brothers reasoned with her tenderly: + "Oh leave not thus thy kindred!" so they prayed; + "Dear Sella, now that she who gave us birth + Is in her grave, oh go not hence, to seek + Companions in that strange cold realm below, + For which God made not us nor thee, but stay + To be the grace and glory of our home." + She looked at them with those mild eyes and wept, + But said no word in answer, nor refrained + From those mysterious wanderings that filled + Their loving hearts with a perpetual pain. + And now the younger sister, fair and shy, + Had grown to early womanhood, and one + Who loved her well had wooed her for his bride, + And she had named the wedding-day. The herd + Had given its fatlings for the marriage-feast; + The roadside garden and the secret glen + Were rifled of their sweetest flowers to twine + The door-posts, and to lie among the locks + Of maids, the wedding-guests, and from the boughs + Of mountain-orchards had the fairest fruit + Been plucked to glisten in the canisters. + Then, trooping over hill and valley, came + Matron and maid, grave men and smiling youths, + Like swallows gathering for their autumn flight, + In costumes of that simpler age they came, + That gave the limbs large play, and wrapped the form + In easy folds, yet bright with glowing hues + As suited holidays. All hastened on + To that glad bridal. There already stood + The priest prepared to say the spousal rite, + And there the harpers in due order sat, + And there the singers. Sella, midst them all, + Moved strangely and serenely beautiful, + With clear blue eyes, fair locks, and brow and cheek + Colorless as the lily of the lakes, + Yet moulded to such shape as artists give + To beings of immortal youth. Her hands + Had decked her sister for the bridal hour + With chosen flowers, and lawn whose delicate threads + Vied with the spider's spinning. There she stood + With such a gentle pleasure in her looks + As might beseem a river-nymph's soft eyes + Gracing a bridal of the race whose flocks + Were pastured on the borders of her stream. + She smiled, but from that calm sweet face the smile + Was soon to pass away. That very morn + The elder of the brothers, as he stood + Upon the hillside, had beheld the maid, + Emerging from the channel of the brook, + With three fresh water-lilies in her hand, + Wring dry her dripping locks, and in a cleft + Of hanging rock, beside a screen of boughs, + Bestow the spangled slippers. None before + Had known where Sella hid them. Then she laid + The light-brown tresses smooth, and in them twined + The lily-buds, and hastily drew forth + And threw across her shoulders a light robe + Wrought for the bridal, and with bounding steps + Ran toward the lodge. The youth beheld and marked + The spot and slowly followed from afar. + Now had the marriage-rite been said; the bride + Stood in the blush that from her burning cheek + Glowed down the alabaster neck, as morn + Crimsons the pearly heaven half-way to the west. + At once the harpers struck their chords; a gush + Of music broke upon the air; the youths + All started to the dance. Among them moved + The queenly Sella with a grace that seemed + Caught from the swaying of the summer sea. + The young drew forth the elders to the dance, + Who joined it half abashed, but when they felt + The joyous music tingling in their veins, + They called for quaint old measures, which they trod + As gayly as in youth, and far abroad + Came through the open windows cheerful shouts + And bursts of laughter. They who heard the sound + Upon the mountain footpaths paused and said, + "A merry wedding." Lovers stole away + That sunny afternoon to bowers that edged + The garden-walks, and what was whispered there + The lovers of these later times can guess. + Meanwhile the brothers, when the merry din + Was loudest, stole to where the slippers lay, + And took them thence, and followed down the brook + To where a little rapid rushed between + Its borders of smooth rock, and dropped them in. + The rivulet, as they touched its face, flung up + Its small bright waves like hands, and seemed to take + The prize with eagerness and draw it down. + They, gleaming through the waters as they went, + And striking with light sound the shining stones, + Slid down the stream. The brothers looked and watched, + And listened with full beating hearts, till now + The sight and sound had passed, and silently + And half repentant hastened to the lodge. + The sun was near his set; the music rang + Within the dwelling still, but the mirth waned; + For groups of guests were sauntering toward their homes + Across the fields, and far, on hillside paths, + Gleamed the white robes of maidens. Sella grew + Weary of the long merriment; she thought + Of her still haunts beneath the soundless sea, + And all unseen withdrew and sought the cleft + Where she had laid the slippers. They were gone! + She searched the brookside near, yet found them not. + Then her heart sank within her, and she ran + Wildly from place to place, and once again + She searched the secret cleft, and next she stooped + And with spread palms felt carefully beneath + The tufted herbs and bushes, and again, + And yet again, she searched the rocky cleft. + "Who could have taken them?" That question cleared + The mystery. She remembered suddenly + That when the dance was in its gayest whirl, + Her brothers were not seen, and when, at length, + They reappeared, the elder joined the sports + With shouts of boisterous mirth, and from her eye + The younger shrank in silence. "Now, I know + The guilty ones," she said, and left the spot, + And stood before the youths with such a look + Of anguish and reproach that well they knew + Her thought, and almost wished the deed undone. + Frankly they owned the charge: "And pardon us; + We did it all in love; we could not bear + That the cold world of waters and the strange + Beings that dwell within it should beguile + Our sister from us." Then they told her all; + How they had seen her stealthily bestow + The slippers in the cleft, and how by stealth + They took them thence and bore them down the brook, + And dropped them in, and how the eager waves + Gathered and drew them down; but at that word + The maiden shrieked--a broken-hearted shriek-- + And all who heard it shuddered and turned pale + At the despairing cry, and "They are gone," + She said, "gone--gone forever! Cruel ones! + 'Tis you who shut me out eternally + From that serener world which I had learned + To love so well. Why took ye not my life? + Ye cannot know what ye have done!" She spake + And hurried to her chamber, and the guests + Who yet had lingered silently withdrew. + The brothers followed to the maiden's bower, + But with a calm demeanor, as they came, + She met them at the door. "The wrong is great," + She said, "that ye have done me, but no power + Have ye to make it less, nor yet to soothe + My sorrow; I shall bear it as I may, + The better for the hours that I have passed + In the calm region of the middle sea. + Go, then. I need you not." They, overawed, + Withdrew from that grave presence. Then her tears + Broke forth a flood, as when the August cloud, + Darkening beside the mountain, suddenly + Melts into streams of rain. That weary night + She paced her chamber, murmuring as she walked, + "O peaceful region of the middle sea! + O azure bowers and grots, in which I loved + To roam and rest! Am I to long for you, + And think how strangely beautiful ye are, + Yet never see you more? And dearer yet, + Ye gentle ones in whose sweet company + I trod the shelly pavements of the deep, + And swam its currents, creatures with calm eyes + Looking the tenderest love, and voices soft + As ripple of light waves along the shore, + Uttering the tenderest words! Oh! ne'er again + Shall I, in your mild aspects, read the peace + That dwells within, and vainly shall I pine + To hear your sweet low voices. Haply now + Ye miss me in your deep-sea home, and think + Of me with pity, as of one condemned + To haunt this upper world, with its harsh sounds + And glaring lights, its withering heats, its frosts, + Cruel and killing, its delirious strifes, + And all its feverish passions, till I die." + So mourned she the long night, and when the morn + Brightened the mountains, from her lattice looked + The maiden on a world that was to her + A desolate and dreary waste. That day + She passed in wandering by the brook that oft + Had been her pathway to the sea, and still + Seemed, with its cheerful murmur, to invite + Her footsteps thither. "Well mayst thou rejoice, + Fortunate stream!" she said, "and dance along + Thy bed, and make thy course one ceaseless strain + Of music, for thou journeyest toward the deep, + To which I shall return no more." The night + Brought her to her lone chamber, and she knelt + And prayed, with many tears, to Him whose hand + Touches the wounded heart and it is healed. + With prayer there came new thoughts and new desires. + She asked for patience and a deeper love + For those with whom her lot was henceforth cast, + And that in acts of mercy she might lose + The sense of her own sorrow. When she rose + A weight was lifted from her heart. She sought + Her couch, and slept a long and peaceful sleep. + At morn she woke to a new life. Her days + Henceforth were given to quiet tasks of good + In the great world. Men hearkened to her words, + And wondered at their wisdom and obeyed, + And saw how beautiful the law of love + Can make the cares and toils of daily life. + Still did she love to haunt the springs and brooks + As in her cheerful childhood, and she taught + The skill to pierce the soil and meet the veins + Of clear cold water winding underneath, + And call them forth to daylight. From afar + She bade men bring the rivers on long rows + Of pillared arches to the sultry town, + And on the hot air of the summer fling + The spray of dashing fountains. To relieve + Their weary hands, she showed them how to tame + The rushing stream, and make him drive the wheel + That whirls the humming millstone and that wields + The ponderous sledge. The waters of the cloud, + That drench the hillside in the time of rains, + Were gathered, at her bidding, into pools, + And in the months of drought led forth again, + In glimmering rivulets, to refresh the vales, + Till the sky darkened with returning showers. + So passed her life, a long and blameless life, + And far and near her name was named with love + And reverence. Still she kept, as age came on, + Her stately presence; still her eyes looked forth + From under their calm brows as brightly clear + As the transparent wells by which she sat + So oft in childhood. Still she kept her fair + Unwrinkled features, though her locks were white. + A hundred times had summer, since her birth, + Opened the water-lily on the lakes, + So old traditions tell, before she died. + A hundred cities mourned her, and her death + Saddened the pastoral valleys. By the brook, + That bickering ran beside the cottage-door + Where she was born, they reared her monument. + Ere long the current parted and flowed round + The marble base, forming a little isle, + And there the flowers that love the running stream, + Iris and orchis, and the cardinal-flower, + Crowded and hung caressingly around + The stone engraved with Sella's honored name. + + + + + THE FIFTH BOOK OF HOMER'S ODYSSEY. + + TRANSLATED. + + + Aurora, rising from her couch beside + The famed Tithonus, brought the light of day + To men and to immortals. Then the gods + Came to their seats in council. With them came + High-thundering Jupiter, among them all + The mightiest. Pallas, mindful of the past, + Spoke of Ulysses and his many woes, + Grieved that he still was with the island-nymph. + "Oh, father Jove, and all ye blessed ones + Who live forever! let not sceptred king, + Henceforth, be gracious, mild, and merciful, + And righteous; rather be he deaf to prayer, + And prone to deeds of wrong, since no one now + Remembers the divine Ulysses more + Among the people over whom he ruled, + Benignly, like a father. Still he lies, + Weighed down by many sorrows, in the isle + And dwelling of Calypso, who so long + Constrains his stay. To his dear native land + Depart he cannot; ship, arrayed with oars, + And seamen has he none, to bear him o'er + The breast of the broad ocean. Nay, even now, + Against his well-beloved son a plot + Is laid, to slay him as he journeys home + From Pylos the divine, and from the walls + Of famous Sparta, whither he had gone + To gather tidings of his father's fate." + Then answered her the ruler of the storms: + "My child, what words are these that pass thy lips? + Was not thy long-determined counsel this, + That, in good time, Ulysses should return, + To be avenged? Guide, then, Telemachus, + Wisely, for thou canst, that, all unharmed, + He reach his native land, and, in their barks, + Homeward the suitor-train retrace their way." + He spake, and turned to Hermes, his dear son: + "Hermes, for thou, in this, my messenger + Art, as in all things, to the bright-haired nymph + Make known my steadfast purpose, the return + Of suffering Ulysses. Neither gods + Nor men shall guide his voyage. On a raft, + Made firm with bands, he shall depart and reach, + After long hardships, on the twentieth day, + The fertile shore of Scheria, on whose isle + Dwell the Pheacians, kinsmen of the gods. + They like a god shall honor him, and thence + Send him to his loved country in a ship, + With ample gifts of brass and gold, and store + Of raiment--wealth like which he ne'er had brought + From conquered Ilion, had he reached his home + Safely, with all his portion of the spoil. + So is it preordained, that he behold + His friends again, and stand once more within + His high-roofed palace, on his native soil." + He spake; the herald Argicide obeyed, + And hastily beneath his feet he bound + The fair, ambrosial, golden sandals, worn + To bear him over ocean like the wind, + And o'er the boundless land. His wand he took, + Wherewith he softly seals the eyes of men, + And opens them at will from sleep. With this + In hand, the mighty Argos-queller flew, + And lighting on Pieria, from the sky + Plunged downward to the deep, and skimmed its face + Like hovering sea-mew, that on the broad gulfs + Of the unfruitful ocean seeks her prey, + And often dips her pinions in the brine. + So Hermes flew along the waste of waves. + But when he reached that island, far away, + Forth from the dark-blue ocean-swell he stepped + Upon the sea-beach, walking till he came + To the vast cave in which the bright-haired nymph + Made her abode. He found the nymph within. + A fire blazed brightly on the hearth, and far + Was wafted o'er the isle the fragrant smoke + Of cloven cedar, burning in the flame, + And cypress-wood. Meanwhile, in her recess, + She sweetly sang, as busily she threw + The golden shuttle through the _web _she wove. + And all about the grotto alders grew, + And poplars, and sweet-smelling cypresses, + In a green forest, high among whose boughs + Birds of broad wing, wood-owls and falcons, built + Their nests, and crows, with voices sounding far, + All haunting for their food the ocean-side. + A vine, with downy leaves and clustering grapes, + Crept over all the cavern-rock. Four springs + Poured forth their glittering waters in a row, + And here and there went wandering side by side. + Around were meadows of soft green, o'ergrown + With violets and parsley. 'Twas a spot + Where even an Immortal might, awhile, + Linger, and gaze with wonder and delight. + The herald Argos-queller stood, and saw, + And marvelled: but as soon as he had viewed + The wonders of the place, he turned his steps, + Entering the broad-roofed cave. Calypso there, + The glorious goddess, saw him as he came, + And knew him, for the ever-living gods + Are to each other known, though one may dwell + Far from the rest. Ulysses, large of heart, + Was not within. Apart, upon the shore, + He sat and sorrowed, where he oft, in tears + And sighs and vain repinings, passed the hours, + Gazing with wet eyes on the barren deep. + Now, placing Hermes on a shining seat + Of state, Calypso, glorious goddess, said: + "Thou of the golden wand, revered and loved, + What, Hermes, brings thee hither? Passing few + Have been thy visits. Make thy pleasure known, + My heart enjoins me to obey, if aught + That thou commandest be within my power. + But first accept the offerings due a guest." + The goddess, speaking thus, before him placed + A table where the heaped ambrosia lay, + And mingled the red nectar. Ate and drank + The herald Argos-queller, and, refreshed, + Answered the nymph, and made his message known: + "Art thou a goddess, and dost ask of me, + A god, why came I hither? Yet, since thou + Requirest, I will truly tell the cause. + I came unwillingly at Jove's command, + For who, of choice, would traverse the wide waste + Of the salt ocean, with no city near, + Where men adore the gods with solemn rites + And chosen hecatombs? No god has power + To elude or to resist the purposes + Of aegis-bearing Jove. With thee abides, + He bids me say, the most unhappy man + Of all who round the city of Priam waged + The battle through nine years, and, in the tenth, + Laying it waste, departed for their homes. + But in their voyage, they provoked the wrath + Of Pallas, who called up the furious winds + And angry waves against them. By his side + Sank all his gallant comrades in the deep. + Him did the winds and waves drive hither. Him + Jove bids thee send away with speed, for here + He must not perish, far from all he loves. + So is it preordained that he behold + His friends again, and stand once more within + His high-roofed palace, on his native soil." + He spoke; Calypso, glorious goddess, heard, + And shuddered, and with winged words replied: + "Ye are unjust, ye gods, and, envious far + Beyond all other beings, cannot bear + That ever goddess openly should make + A mortal man her consort. Thus it was + When once Aurora, rosy-fingered, took + Orion for her husband; ye were stung, + Amid your blissful lives, with envious hate, + Till chaste Diana, of the golden throne, + Smote him with silent arrows from her bow, + And slew him in Ortygia. Thus, again, + When bright-haired Ceres, swayed by her own heart, + In fields which bore three yearly harvests, met + Iasion as a lover, this was known + Ere long to Jupiter, who flung from high + A flaming thunderbolt, and laid him dead. + And now ye envy me, that with me dwells + A mortal man. I saved him, as he clung, + Alone, upon his floating keel, for Jove + Had cloven, with a bolt of fire from heaven, + His galley in the midst of the black sea, + And all his gallant comrades perished there. + Him kindly I received; I cherished him, + And promised him a life that ne'er should know + Decay or death. But, since no god has power + To elude or to withstand the purposes + Of aegis-bearing Jove, let him depart, + If so the sovereign moves him and commands, + Over the barren deep. I send him not; + For neither ship arrayed with oars have I, + Nor seamen, o'er the boundless waste of waves + To bear him hence. My counsel I will give, + And nothing will I hide that he should know, + To place him safely on his native shore." + The herald Argos-queller answered her: + "Dismiss him thus, and bear in mind the wrath + Of Jove, lest it be kindled against thee." + Thus having said, the mighty Argicide + Departed, and the nymph, who now had heard + The doom of Jove, sought the great-hearted man, + Ulysses. Him she found beside the deep, + Seated alone, with eyes from which the tears + Were never dried, for now no more the nymph + Delighted him; he wasted his sweet life + In yearning for his home. Night after night + He slept constrained within the hollow cave, + The unwilling by the fond, and, day by day, + He sat upon the rocks that edged the shore, + And in continual weeping and in sighs + And vain repinings, wore the hours away, + Gazing through tears upon the barren deep. + The glorious goddess stood by him and spoke: + "Unhappy! sit no longer sorrowing here, + Nor waste life thus. Lo! I most willingly + Dismiss thee hence. Rise, hew down trees, and bind + Their trunks, with brazen clamps, into a raft, + And fasten planks above, a lofty floor, + That it may bear thee o'er the dark-blue deep. + Bread will I put on board, water, and wine, + Red wine, that cheers the heart, and wrap thee well + In garments, and send after thee the wind, + That safely thou attain thy native shore; + If so the gods permit thee, who abide + In the broad heaven above, and better know + By far than I, and far more wisely judge." + Ulysses, the great sufferer, as she spoke, + Shuddered, and thus with winged words replied: + "Some other purpose than to send me home + Is in thy heart, oh goddess, bidding me + To cross this frightful sea upon a raft, + This perilous sea, where never even ships + Pass with their rapid keels, though Jove bestow + The wind that glads the seamen. Nay, I climb + No raft, against thy wish, unless thou swear + The great oath of the gods, that thou, in this, + Dost meditate no other harm to me." + He spake; Calypso, glorious goddess, smiled, + And smoothed his forehead with her hand, and said: + "Perverse! and slow to see where guile is not! + How could thy heart permit thee thus to speak? + Now bear me witness, Earth, and ye broad Heavens + Above us, and ye waters of the Styx + That flow beneath us, mightiest oath of all, + And most revered by all the blessed gods, + That I design no other harm to thee; + But that I plan for thee and counsel thee + What I would do were I in need like thine. + I bear a juster mind; my bosom holds + A pitying heart, and not a heart of steel." + Thus having said, the glorious goddess moved + Away with hasty steps, and where she trod + He followed, till they reached the vaulted cave, + The goddess and the hero. There he took + The seat whence Hermes had just risen. The nymph + Brought forth whatever mortals eat and drink + To set before him. She, right opposite + To that of Ulysses, took her seat, + Ambrosia there her maidens laid, and there + Poured nectar. Both put forth their hands, and took + The ready viands, till at length the calls + Of hunger and of thirst were satisfied; + Calypso, glorious goddess, then began: + "Son of Laertes, man of many wiles, + High-born Ulysses! Thus wilt thou depart + Home to thy native country? Then farewell; + But, couldst thou know the sufferings Fate ordains + For thee ere yet thou landest on its shore, + Thou wouldst remain to keep this home with me, + And be immortal, strong as is thy wish + To see thy wife--a wish that, day by day, + Possesses thee. I cannot deem myself + In form or face less beautiful than she; + For never with immortals can the race + Of mortal dames in form or face compare." + Ulysses, the sagacious, answered her: + "Bear with me, gracious goddess; well I know + All thou couldst say. The sage Penelope + In feature and in stature comes not nigh + To thee; for she is mortal, deathless thou + And ever young; yet, day by day, I long + To be at home once more, and pine to see + The hour of my return. Even though some god + Smite me on the black ocean, I shall bear + The stroke, for in my bosom dwells a mind + Patient of suffering; much have I endured, + And much survived, in tempests on the deep, + And in the battle; let this happen too." + He spoke; the sun went down; the night came on, + And now the twain withdrew to a recess + Deep in the vaulted cave, where, side by side, + They took their rest. But when the child of dawn, + Aurora, rosy-fingered, looked abroad, + Ulysses put his vest and mantle on; + The nymph too, in a robe of silver white, + Ample, and delicate, and beautiful, + Arrayed herself, and round about her loins + Wound a fair golden girdle, drew a veil + Over her head, and planned to send away + Magnanimous Ulysses. She bestowed + A heavy axe, of steel, and double-edged, + Well fitted to the hand, the handle wrought + Of olive-wood, firm set and beautiful. + A polished adze she gave him next, and led + The way to a far corner of the isle, + Where lofty trees, alders and poplars, stood, + And firs that reach the clouds, sapless and dry + Long since, and fitter thus to ride the waves. + Then, having shown where grew the tallest trees, + Calypso, glorious goddess, sought her home. + Trees then he felled, and soon the task was done. + Twenty in all he brought to earth, and squared + Their trunks with the sharp steel, and carefully + He smoothed their sides, and wrought them by a line. + Calypso, gracious goddess, having brought + Wimbles, he bored the beams, and, fitting them + Together, made them fast with nails and clamps. + As when some builder, skillful in his art, + Frames, for a ship of burden, the broad keel, + Such ample breadth Ulysses gave the raft. + Upon the massy beams he reared a deck, + And floored it with long planks from end to end. + On this a mast he raised, and to the mast + Fitted a yard; he shaped a rudder next, + To guide the raft along her course, and round + With woven work of willow-boughs he fenced + Her sides against the dashings of the sea. + Calypso, gracious goddess, brought him store + Of canvas, which he fitly shaped to sails, + And, rigging her with cords, and ropes, and stays, + Heaved her with levers into the great deep. + 'Twas the fourth day; his labors now were done, + And, on the fifth, the goddess from her isle + Dismissed him, newly from the bath, arrayed + In garments given by her, that shed perfumes. + A skin of dark-red wine she put on board, + A larger one of water, and for food + A basket, stored with viands such as please + The appetite. A friendly wind and soft + She sent before. The great Ulysses spread + His canvas joyfully, to catch the breeze, + And sat and guided with nice care the helm, + Gazing with fixed eye on the Pleiades, + Booetes setting late, and the Great Bear, + By others called the Wain, which, wheeling round, + Looks ever toward Orion, and alone + Dips not into the waters of the deep. + For so Calypso, glorious goddess, bade + That, on his ocean journey, he should keep + That constellation ever on his left. + Now seventeen days were in the voyage past, + And on the eighteenth shadowy heights appeared, + The nearest point of the Pheacian land, + Lying on the dark ocean like a shield. + But mighty Neptune, coming from among + The Ethiopians, saw him. Far away + He saw, from mountain-heights of Solyma, + The voyager, and burned with fiercer wrath, + And shook his head, and said within himself: + "Strange! now I see the gods have new designs + For this Ulysses, formed while I was yet + In Ethiopia. He draws near the land + Of the Pheacians, where it is decreed + He shall o'erpass the boundary of his woes; + But first, I think, he will have much to bear." + He spoke, and round about him called the clouds + And roused the ocean, wielding in his hand + The trident, summoned all the hurricanes + Of all the winds, and covered earth and sky + At once with mists, while from above, the night + Fell suddenly. The east wind and the south + Rushed forth at once, with the strong-blowing west, + And the clear north rolled up his mighty waves. + Ulysses trembled in his knees and heart, + And thus to his great soul, lamenting, said: + "What will become of me? unhappy man! + I fear that all the goddess said was true, + Foretelling what disasters should o'ertake + My voyage, ere I reach my native land. + Now are her words fulfilled. Now Jupiter + Wraps the great heaven in clouds and stirs the deep + To tumult! Wilder grow the hurricanes + Of all the winds, and now my fate is sure. + Thrice happy, four times happy they, who fell + On Troy's wide field, warring for Atreus' sons: + O, had I met my fate and perished there, + That very day on which the Trojan host, + Around the dead Achilles, hurled at me + Their brazen javelins! I had then received + Due burial and great glory with the Greeks; + Now must I die a miserable death." + As thus he spoke, upon him, from on high, + A huge and frightful billow broke; it whirled + The raft around, and far from it he fell. + His hands let go the rudder; a fierce rush + Of all the winds together snapped in twain + The mast; far off the yard and canvas flew + Into the deep; the billow held him long + Beneath the waters, and he strove in vain + Quickly to rise to air from that huge swell + Of ocean, for the garments weighed him down + Which fair Calypso gave him. But, at length, + Emerging, he rejected from his throat + The bitter brine that down his forehead streamed. + Even then, though hopeless with dismay, his thought + Was on the raft, and, struggling through the waves, + He seized it, sprang on board, and seated there + Escaped the threatened death. Still to and fro + The rolling billows drove it. As the wind + In autumn sweeps the thistles o'er the field, + Clinging together, so the blasts of heaven + Hither and thither drove it o'er the sea. + And now the south wind flung it to the north + To buffet; now the east wind to the west. + Ino Leucothea saw him clinging there, + The delicate-footed child of Cadmus, once + A mortal, speaking with a mortal voice; + Though now within the ocean-gulfs, she shares + The honors of the gods. With pity she + Beheld Ulysses struggling thus distressed, + And, rising from the abyss below, in form + A cormorant, the sea-nymph took her perch + On the well-banded raft, and thus she said: + "Ah, luckless man, how hast thou angered thus + Earth-shaking Neptune, that he visits thee + With these disasters? Yet he cannot take, + Although he seek it earnestly, thy life. + Now do my bidding, for thou seemest wise. + Laying aside thy garments, let the raft + Drift with the winds, while thou, by strength of arm, + Makest thy way in swimming to the land + Of the Pheacians, where thy safety lies. + Receive this veil and bind its heavenly woof + Beneath thy breast, and have no further fear + Of hardship or of danger. But, as soon + As thou shalt touch the island, take it off, + And turn away thy face, and fling it far + From where thou standest, into the black deep." + The goddess gave the veil as thus she spoke, + And to the tossing deep went down, in form + A cormorant; the black wave covered her. + But still Ulysses, mighty sufferer, + Pondered, and thus to his great soul he said: + "Ah me! perhaps some god is planning here + Some other fraud against me, bidding me + Forsake my raft. I will not yet obey, + For still far off I see the land in which + 'Tis said my refuge lies. This will I do, + For this seems wisest. While the fastenings last + That hold these timbers, I will keep my place + And bide the tempest here. But when the waves + Shall dash my raft in pieces, I will swim, + For nothing better will remain to do." + As he revolved this purpose in his mind, + Earth-shaking Neptune sent a mighty wave, + Horrid, and huge, and high, and where he sat + It smote him. As a violent wind uplifts + The dry chaff heaped upon a threshing-floor, + And sends it scattered through the air abroad, + So did that wave fling loose the ponderous beams. + To one of these, Ulysses, clinging fast, + Bestrode it, like a horseman on his steed; + And now he took the garments off, bestowed + By fair Calypso, binding round his breast + The veil, and forward plunged into the deep, + With palms outspread, prepared to swim. Meanwhile, + Neptune beheld him, Neptune, mighty king, + And shook his head, and said within himself: + "Go thus, and, laden with mischances, roam + The waters, till thou come among the race + Cherished by Jupiter; but well I deem + Thou wilt not find thy share of suffering light." + Thus having spoke, he urged his coursers on, + With their fair-flowing manes, until he came + To AEgae, where his glorious palace stands. + But Pallas, child of Jove, had other thoughts. + She stayed the course of every wind beside, + And bade them rest, and lulled them into sleep, + But summoned the swift north to break the waves, + That so Ulysses, the high-born, escaped + From death and from the fates, might be the guest + Of the Pheacians, men who love the sea. + Two days and nights, among the mighty waves + He floated, oft his heart foreboding death, + But when the bright-haired Eos had fulfilled + The third day's course, and all the winds were laid, + And calm was on the watery waste, he saw + The land was near, as, lifted on the crest + Of a huge swell, he looked with sharpened sight; + And as a father's life preserved makes glad + His children's hearts, when long time he has lain + Sick, wrung with pain, and wasting by the power + Of some malignant genius, till, at length, + The gracious gods bestow a welcome cure; + So welcome to Ulysses was the sight + Of woods and fields. By swimming on he thought + To climb and tread the shore, but when he drew + So near that one who shouted could be heard + From land, the sound of ocean on the rocks + Came to his ear, for there huge breakers roared + And spouted fearfully, and all around + Was covered with the sea-foam. Haven here + Was none for ships, nor sheltering creek, but shores + Beetling from high, and crags and walls of rock. + Ulysses trembled both in knees and heart, + And thus, to his great soul, lamenting, said: + "Now woe is me! as soon as Jove has shown + What I had little hoped to see, the land, + And I through all these waves have ploughed my way, + I find no issue from the hoary deep. + For sharp rocks border it, and all around + Roar the wild surges; slippery cliffs arise + Close to deep gulfs, and footing there is none, + Where I might plant my steps and thus escape. + All effort now were fruitless to resist + The mighty billow hurrying me away + To dash me on the pointed rocks. If yet + I strive, by swimming further, to descry + Some sloping shore or harbor of the isle, + I fear the tempest, lest it hurl me back, + Heavily groaning, to the fishy deep, + Or huge sea-monster, from the multitude + Which sovereign Amphitrite feeds, be sent + Against me by some god, for well I know + The power who shakes the shores is wroth with me." + While he revolved these doubts within his mind, + A huge wave hurled him toward the rugged coast. + Then had his limbs been flayed, and all his bones + Broken at once, had not the blue-eyed maid, + Minerva, prompted him. Borne toward the rock, + He clutched it instantly, with both his hands, + And panting clung till that huge wave rolled by, + And so escaped its fury. But it came, + And smote him once again, and flung him far + Seaward. As to the claws of polypus, + Plucked from its bed, the pebbles thickly cling, + So flakes of skin, from off his powerful hands, + Were left upon the rock. The mighty surge + O'erwhelmed him; he had perished ere his time, + Hapless Ulysses, but the blue-eyed maid, + Pallas, informed his mind with forecast. Straight + Emerging from the wave that shoreward rolled, + He swam along the coast and eyed it well, + In hope of sloping beach or sheltered creek. + But when, in swimming, he had reached the mouth + Of a soft-flowing river, here appeared + The spot he wished for, smooth, without a rock, + And here was shelter from the wind. He felt + The current's flow, and thus devoutly prayed: + "Hear me, oh sovereign power, whoe'er thou art! + To thee, the long-desired, I come. I seek + Escape from Neptune's threatenings on the sea. + The deathless gods respect the prayer of him + Who looks to them for help, a fugitive, + As I am now, when to thy stream I come, + And to thy knees, from many a hardship past, + Oh thou that here art ruler, I declare + Myself thy suppliant; be thou merciful." + He spoke; the river stayed his current, checked + The billows, smoothed them, to a calm, and gave + The swimmer a safe landing at his mouth. + Then dropped his knees and sinewy arms, at once + Unstrung, for faint with struggling was his heart. + His body was all swoln; the brine gushed forth + From mouth and nostrils; all unnerved he lay, + Breathless and speechless; utter weariness + O'ermastered him. But when he breathed again, + And his flown senses had returned, he loosed + The veil that Ino gave him from his breast, + And to the salt flood cast it. A great wave + Bore it far down the stream; the goddess there + In her own hands received it. He, meanwhile, + Withdrawing from the brink, lay down among + The reeds, and kissed the harvest-bearing earth, + And thus to his great soul, lamenting, said: + "Ah me! what must I suffer more! what yet + Will happen to me? If, by the river's side, + I pass the unfriendly watches of the night, + The cruel cold and dews that steep the bank + May, in this weakness, end me utterly, + For chilly blows the river-air at dawn. + But should I climb this hill, to sleep within + The shadowy wood, among their shrubs, if cold + And weariness allow me, then I fear, + That, while the pleasant slumbers o'er me steal, + I may become the prey of savage beasts." + Yet, as he longer pondered, this seemed best. + He rose and sought the wood, and found it near + The water, on a height, o'erlooking far + The region round. Between two shrubs, that sprung + Both from one spot, he entered--olive-trees, + One wild, one fruitful. The damp-blowing wind + Ne'er pierced their covert; never blazing sun + Darted his beams within, nor pelting shower + Beat through, so closely intertwined they grew. + Here entering, Ulysses heaped a bed + Of leaves with his own hands; he made it broad + And high, for thick the leaves had fallen around. + Two men and three, in that abundant store, + Might bide the winter-storm, though keen the cold. + Ulysses, the great sufferer, on his couch + Looked and rejoiced, and placed himself within, + And heaped the leaves high o'er him and around. + As one who, dwelling in the distant fields, + Without a neighbor near him, hides a brand + In the dark ashes, keeping carefully + The seeds of fire alive, lest he, perforce, + To light his hearth must bring them from afar; + So did Ulysses, in that pile of leaves, + Bury himself, while Pallas o'er his eyes + Poured sleep and closed his lids, that he might take, + After his painful toils, the fitting rest. + + + + + THE LITTLE PEOPLE OF THE SNOW. + + + _Alice._--One of your old-world stories, Uncle John, + Such as you tell us by the winter fire, + Till we all wonder it is grown so late. + _Uncle John._--The story of the witch that ground to death + Two children in her mill, or will you have + The tale of Goody Cutpurse? + _Alice._--Nay now, nay; + Those stories are too childish, Uncle John, + Too childish even for little Willy here, + And I am older, two good years, than he; + No, let us have a tale of elves that ride, + By night, with jingling reins, or gnomes of the mine, + Or water-fairies, such as you know how + To spin, till Willy's eyes forget to wink, + And good Aunt Mary, busy as she is, + Lays down her knitting. + _Uncle John._--Listen to me, then. + 'Twas in the olden time, long, long ago, + And long before the great oak at our door + Was yet an acorn, on a mountain's side + Lived, with his wife, a cottager. They dwelt + Beside a glen and near a clashing brook, + A pleasant spot in spring, where first the wren + Was heard to chatter, and, among the grass, + Flowers opened earliest; but when winter came, + That little brook was fringed with other flowers,-- + White flowers, with crystal leaf and stem, that grew + In clear November nights. And, later still, + That mountain-glen was filled with drifted snows + From side to side, that one might walk across; + While, many a fathom deep, below, the brook + Sang to itself, and leaped and trotted on + Unfrozen, o'er its pebbles, toward the vale. + _Alice._--A mountain-side, you said; the Alps, perhaps, + Or our own Alleghanies. + _Uncle John._--_Not _so fast, + My young geographer, for then the Alps, + With their broad pastures, haply were untrod + Of herdsman's foot, and never human voice + Had sounded in the woods that overhang + Our Alleghany's streams. _I _think it was + Upon the slopes of the great Caucasus, + Or where the rivulets of Ararat + Seek the Armenian vales. That mountain rose + So high, that, on its top, the winter-snow + Was never melted, and the cottagers + Among the summer-blossoms, far below, + Saw its white peaks in August from their door. + One little maiden, in that cottage-home, + Dwelt with her parents, light of heart and limb, + Bright, restless, thoughtless, flitting here and there, + Like sunshine on the uneasy ocean-waves, + And sometimes she forgot what she was bid, + As Alice does. + _Alice._--Or Willy, quite as oft. + _Uncle John._--But you are older, Alice, two good years, + And should be wiser. Eva was the name + Of this young maiden, now twelve summers old. + Now you must know that, in those early times, + When autumn days grew pale, there came a troop + Of childlike forms from that cold mountain-top; + With trailing garments through the air they came, + Or walked the ground with girded loins, and threw + Spangles of silvery frost upon the grass, + And edged the brooks with glistening parapets, + And built it crystal bridges, touched the pool, + And turned its face to glass, or, rising thence, + They shook from their full laps the soft, light snow, + And buried the great earth, as autumn winds + Bury the forest-floor in heaps of leaves. + A beautiful race were they, with baby brows, + And fair, bright locks, and voices like the sound + Of steps on the crisp snow, in which they talked + With man, as friend with friend. A merry sight + It was, when, crowding round the traveller, + They smote him with their heaviest snow-flakes, flung + Needles of frost in handfuls at his cheeks, + And, of the light wreaths of his smoking breath, + Wove a white fringe for his brown beard, and laughed + Their slender laugh to see him wink and grin + And make grim faces as he floundered on. + But, when the spring came on, what terror reigned + Among these Little People of the Snow! + To them the sun's warm beams were shafts of fire, + And the soft south-wind was the wind of death. + Away they flew, all with a pretty scowl + Upon their childish faces, to the north, + Or scampered upward to the mountain's top, + And there defied their enemy, the Spring; + Skipping and dancing on the frozen peaks, + And moulding little snow-balls in their palms, + And rolling them, to crush her flowers below, + Down the steep snow-fields. + _Alice._--That, too, must have been + A merry sight to look at. + _Uncle John._--You are right, + But I must speak of graver matters now. + Midwinter was the time, and Eva stood, + Within the cottage, all prepared to dare + The outer cold, with ample furry robe + Close-belted round her waist, and boots of fur, + And a broad kerchief, which her mother's hand + Had closely drawn about her ruddy cheek. + "Now, stay not long abroad," said the good dame, + "For sharp is the outer air, and, mark me well, + Go not upon the snow beyond the spot + Where the great linden bounds the neighboring field." + The little maiden promised, and went forth, + And climbed the rounded snow-swells firm with frost + Beneath her feet, and slid, with balancing arms, + Into the hollows. Once, as up a drift + She slowly rose, before her, in the way, + She saw a little creature, lily-cheeked, + With flowing flaxen locks, and faint blue eyes, + That gleamed like ice, and robe that only seemed + Of a more shadowy whiteness than her cheek. + On a smooth bank she sat. + _Alice._--She must have been + One of your Little People of the Snow. + _Uncle John._--She was so, and, as Eva now drew near, + The tiny creature bounded from her seat; + "And come," she said, "my pretty friend; to-day + We will be playmates. I have watched thee long, + And seen how well thou lov'st to walk these drifts, + And scoop their fair sides into little cells, + And carve them with quaint figures, huge-limbed men, + Lions, and griffins. We will have, to-day, + A merry ramble over these bright fields, + And thou shalt see what thou hast never seen." + On went the pair, until they reached the bound + Where the great linden stood, set deep in snow, + Up to the lower branches. "Here we stop," + Said Eva, "for my mother has my word + That I will go no farther than this tree." + Then the snow-maiden laughed: "And what is this? + This fear of the pure snow, the innocent snow, + That never harmed aught living? Thou mayst roam + For leagues beyond this garden, and return + In safety; here the grim wolf never prowls, + And here the eagle of our mountain-crags + Preys not in winter. I will show the way, + And bring thee safely home. Thy mother, sure, + Counselled thee thus because thou hadst no guide." + By such smooth words was Eva won to break + Her promise, and went on with her new friend, + Over the glistening snow and down a bank + Where a white shelf, wrought by the eddying wind, + Like to a billow's crest in the great sea, + Curtained an opening. "Look, we enter here." + And straight, beneath the fair o'erhanging fold, + Entered the little pair that hill of snow, + Walking along a passage with white walls, + And a white vault above where snow-stars shed + A wintry twilight. Eva moved in awe, + And held her peace, but the snow-maiden smiled, + And talked and tripped along, as down the way, + Deeper they went into that mountainous drift. + And now the white walls widened, and the vault + Swelled upward, like some vast cathedral-dome, + Such as the Florentine, who bore the name + Of heaven's most potent angel, reared, long since, + Or the unknown builder of that wondrous fane, + The glory of Burgos. Here a garden lay, + In which the Little People of the Snow + Were wont to take their pastime when their tasks + Upon the mountain's side and in the clouds + Were ended. Here they taught the silent frost + To mock, in stem and spray, and leaf and flower, + The growths of summer. Here the palm upreared + Its white columnar trunk and spotless sheaf + Of plume-like leaves; here cedars, huge as those + Of Lebanon, stretched far their level boughs, + Yet pale and shadowless; the sturdy oak + Stood, with its huge gnarled roots of seeming strength, + Fast anchored in the glistening bank; light sprays + Of myrtle, roses in their bud and bloom, + Drooped by the winding walks; yet all seemed wrought + Of stainless alabaster; up the trees + Ran the lithe jessamine, with stalk and leaf + Colorless as her flowers. "Go softly on," + Said the snow-maiden; "touch not, with thy hand, + The frail creation round thee, and beware + To sweep it with thy skirts. Now look above. + How sumptuously these bowers are lighted up + With shifting gleams that softly come and go! + These are the northern lights, such as thou seest + In the midwinter nights, cold, wandering flames, + That float with our processions, through the air; + And here, within our winter palaces, + Mimic the glorious daybreak." Then she told + How, when the wind, in the long winter nights, + Swept the light snows into the hollow dell, + She and her comrades guided to its place + Each wandering flake, and piled them quaintly up, + In shapely colonnade and glistening arch, + With shadowy aisles between, or bade them grow, + Beneath their little hands, to bowery walks + In gardens such as these, and, o'er them all, + Built the broad roof. "But thou hast yet to see + A fairer sight," she said, and led the way + To where a window of pellucid ice + Stood in the wall of snow, beside their path. + "Look, but thou mayst not enter." Eva looked, + And lo! a glorious hall, from whose high vault + Stripes of soft light, ruddy and delicate green, + And tender blue, flowed downward to the floor + And far around, as if the aerial hosts, + That march on high by night, with beamy spears, + And streaming banners, to that place had brought + Their radiant flags to grace a festival. + And in that hall a joyous multitude + Of these by whom its glistening walls were reared, + Whirled in a merry dance to silvery sounds, + That rang from cymbals of transparent ice, + And ice-cups, quivering to the skilful touch + Of little fingers. Round and round they flew, + As when, in spring, about a chimney-top, + A cloud of twittering swallows, just returned, + Wheel round and round, and turn and wheel again, + Unwinding their swift track. So rapidly + Flowed the meandering stream of that fair dance, + Beneath that dome of light. Bright eyes that looked + From under lily-brows, and gauzy scarfs + Sparkling like snow-wreaths in the early sun, + Shot by the window in their mazy whirl. + And there stood Eva, wondering at the sight + Of those bright revellers and that graceful sweep + Of motion as they passed her;--long she gazed, + And listened long to the sweet sounds that thrilled + The frosty air, till now the encroaching cold + Recalled her to herself. "Too long, too long + I linger here," she said, and then she sprang + Into the path, and with a hurried step + Followed it upward. Ever by her side + Her little guide kept pace. As on they went, + Eva bemoaned her fault: "What must they think-- + The dear ones in the cottage, while so long, + Hour after hour, I stay without? I know + That they will seek me far and near, and weep + To find me not. How could I, wickedly, + Neglect the charge they gave me?" As she spoke, + The hot tears started to her eyes; she knelt + In the mid-path. "Father! forgive this sin; + Forgive myself I cannot"--thus she prayed, + And rose and hastened onward. When, at last, + They reached the outer air, the clear north breathed + A bitter cold, from which she shrank with dread, + But the snow-maiden bounded as she felt + The cutting blast, and uttered shouts of joy, + And skipped, with boundless glee, from drift to drift, + And danced round Eva, as she labored up + The mounds of snow. "Ah me! I feel my eyes + Grow heavy," Eva said; "they swim with sleep; + I cannot walk for utter weariness, + And I must rest a moment on this bank, + But let it not be long." As thus she spoke, + In half formed words, she sank on the smooth snow, + With closing lids. Her guide composed the robe + About her limbs, and said: "A pleasant spot + Is this to slumber in; on such a couch + Oft have I slept away the winter night, + And had the sweetest dreams." So Eva slept, + But slept in death; for when the power of frost + Locks up the motions of the living frame, + The victim passes to the realm of Death + Through the dim porch of Sleep. The little guide, + Watching beside her, saw the hues of life + Fade from the fair smooth brow and rounded cheek, + As fades the crimson from a morning cloud, + Till they were white as marble, and the breath + Had ceased to come and go, yet knew she not + At first that this was death. But when she marked + How deep the paleness was, how motionless + That once lithe form, a fear came over her. + She strove to wake the sleeper, plucked her robe, + And shouted in her ear, but all in vain; + The life had passed away from those young limbs. + Then the snow-maiden raised a wailing cry, + Such as the dweller in some lonely wild, + Sleepless through all the long December night, + Hears when the mournful East begins to blow. + But suddenly was heard the sound of steps, + Grating on the crisp snow; the cottagers + Were seeking Eva; from afar they saw + The twain, and hurried toward them. As they came + With gentle chidings ready on their lips, + And marked that deathlike sleep, and heard the tale + Of the snow-maiden, mortal anguish fell + Upon their hearts, and bitter words of grief + And blame were uttered: "Cruel, cruel one, + To tempt our daughter thus, and cruel we, + Who suffered her to wander forth alone + In this fierce cold!" They lifted the dear child, + And bore her home and chafed her tender limbs, + And strove, by all the simple arts they knew, + To make the chilled blood move, and win the breath + Back to her bosom; fruitlessly they strove; + The little maid was dead. In blank despair + They stood, and gazed at her who never more + Should look on them. "Why die we not with her?" + They said; "without her, life is bitterness." + Now came the funeral-day; the simple folk + Of all that pastoral region gathered round + To share the sorrow of the cottagers. + They carved a way into the mound of snow + To the glen's side, and dug a little grave + In the smooth slope, and, following the bier, + In long procession from the silent door, + Chanted a sad and solemn melody: + "Lay her away to rest within the ground. + Yea, lay her down whose pure and innocent life + Was spotless as these snows; for she was reared + In love, and passed in love life's pleasant spring, + And all that now our tenderest love can do + Is to give burial to her lifeless limbs." + They paused. A thousand slender voices round, + Like echoes softly flung from rock and hill, + Took up the strain, and all the hollow air + Seemed mourning for the dead; for, on that day, + The Little People of the Snow had come, + From mountain-peak, and cloud, and icy hall, + To Eva's burial. As the murmur died, + The funeral-train renewed the solemn chant: + "Thou, Lord, hast taken her to be with Eve, + Whose gentle name was given her. Even so, + For so Thy wisdom saw that it was best + For her and us. We bring our bleeding hearts, + And ask the touch of healing from Thy hand, + As, with submissive tears, we render back + The lovely and beloved to Him who gave." + They ceased. Again the plaintive murmur rose. + From shadowy skirts of low-hung cloud it came, + And wide white fields, and fir-trees capped with snow, + Shivering to the sad sounds. They sank away + To silence in the dim-seen distant woods. + The little grave was closed; the funeral-train + Departed; winter wore away; the Spring + Steeped, with her quickening rains, the violet-tufts, + By fond hands planted where the maiden slept. + But, after Eva's burial, never more + The Little People of the Snow were seen + By human eye, nor ever human ear + Heard from their lips articulate speech again; + For a decree went forth to cut them off, + Forever, from communion with mankind. + The winter-clouds, along the mountain-side, + Rolled downward toward the vale, but no fair form + Leaned from their folds, and, in the icy glens, + And aged woods, under snow-loaded pines, + Where once they made their haunt, was emptiness. + But ever, when the wintry days drew near, + Around that little grave, in the long night, + Frost-wreaths were laid and tufts of silvery rime + In shape like blades and blossoms of the field, + As one would scatter flowers upon a bier. + + + + + THE POET. + + + Thou, who wouldst wear the name + Of poet mid thy brethren of mankind, + And clothe in words of flame + Thoughts that shall live within the general mind! + Deem not the framing of a deathless lay + The pastime of a drowsy summer day. + + But gather all thy powers, + And wreak them on the verse that thou dost weave, + And in thy lonely hours, + At silent morning or at wakeful eve, + While the warm current tingles through thy veins, + Set forth the burning words in fluent strains. + + No smooth array of phrase, + Artfully sought and ordered though it be, + Which the cold rhymer lays + Upon his page with languid industry, + Can wake the listless pulse to livelier speed, + Or fill with sudden tears the eyes that read. + + The secret wouldst thou know + To touch the heart or fire the blood at will? + Let thine own eyes o'erflow; + Let thy lips quiver with the passionate thrill; + Seize the great thought, ere yet its power be past, + And bind, in words, the fleet emotion fast. + + Then, should thy verse appear + Halting and harsh, and all unaptly wrought, + Touch the crude line with fear, + Save in the moment of impassioned thought; + Then summon back the original glow, and mend + The strain with rapture that with fire was penned. + + Yet let no empty gust + Of passion find an utterance in thy lay, + A blast that whirls the dust + Along the howling street and dies away; + But feelings of calm power and mighty sweep, + Like currents journeying through the windless deep. + + Seek'st thou, in living lays, + To limn the beauty of the earth and sky? + Before thine inner gaze + Let all that beauty in clear vision lie; + Look on it with exceeding love, and write + The words inspired by wonder and delight. + + Of tempests wouldst thou sing, + Or tell of battles--make thyself a part + Of the great tumult; cling + To the tossed wreck with terror in thy heart; + Scale, with the assaulting host, the rampart's height, + And strike and struggle in the thickest fight. + + So shalt thou frame a lay + That haply may endure from age to age, + And they who read shall say: + "What witchery hangs upon this poet's page! + What art is his the written spells to find + That sway from mood to mood the willing mind!" + + + + + THE PATH. + + + The path we planned beneath October's sky, + Along the hillside, through the woodland shade, + Is finished; thanks to thee, whose kindly eye + Has watched me, as I plied the busy spade; + Else had I wearied, ere this path of ours + Had pierced the woodland to its inner bowers. + + Yet, 'twas a pleasant toil to trace and beat, + Among the glowing trees, this winding way, + While the sweet autumn sunshine, doubly sweet, + Flushed with the ruddy foliage, round us lay, + As if some gorgeous cloud of morning stood, + In glory, mid the arches of the wood. + + A path! what beauty does a path bestow + Even on the dreariest wild! its savage nooks + Seem homelike where accustomed footsteps go, + And the grim rock puts on familiar looks. + The tangled swamp, through which a pathway strays, + Becomes a garden with strange flowers and sprays. + + See from the weedy earth a rivulet break + And purl along the untrodden wilderness; + There the shy cuckoo comes his thirst to slake, + There the shrill jay alights his plumes to dress; + And there the stealthy fox, when morn is gray, + Laps the clear stream and lightly moves away. + + But let a path approach that fountain's brink, + And nobler forms of life, behold! are there: + Boys kneeling with protruded lips to drink, + And slender maids that homeward slowly bear + The brimming pail, and busy dames that lay + Their webs to whiten in the summer ray. + + Then know we that for herd and flock are poured + Those pleasant streams that o'er the pebbles slip; + Those pure sweet waters sparkle on the board; + Those fresh cool waters wet the sick man's lip; + Those clear bright waters from the font are shed, + In dews of baptism, on the infant's head. + + What different steps the rural footway trace! + The laborer afield at early day; + The schoolboy sauntering with uneven pace; + The Sunday worshipper in fresh array; + And mourner in the weeds of sorrow drest; + And, smiling to himself, the wedding guest. + + There he who cons a speech and he who hums + His yet unfinished verses, musing walk. + There, with her little brood, the matron comes, + To break the spring flower from its juicy stalk; + And lovers, loitering, wonder that the moon + Has risen upon their pleasant stroll so soon. + + Bewildered in vast woods, the traveller feels + His heavy heart grow lighter, if he meet + The traces of a path, and straight he kneels, + And kisses the dear print of human feet, + And thanks his God, and journeys without fear, + For now he knows the abodes of men are near. + Pursue the slenderest path across a lawn: + Lo! on the broad highway it issues forth, + And, blended with the greater track, goes on, + Over the surface of the mighty earth, + Climbs hills and crosses vales, and stretches far, + Through silent forests, toward the evening star-- + + And enters cities murmuring with the feet + Of multitudes, and wanders forth again, + And joins the climes of frost to climes of heat, + Binds East to West, and marries main to main, + Nor stays till at the long-resounding shore + Of the great deep, where paths are known no more. + + Oh, mighty instinct, that dost thus unite + Earth's neighborhoods and tribes with friendly bands, + What guilt is theirs who, in their greed or spite, + Undo thy holy work with violent hands, + And post their squadrons, nursed in war's grim trade, + To bar the ways for mutual succor made! + + + + + THE RETURN OF THE BIRDS. + + + I hear, from many a little throat, + A warble interrupted long; + I hear the robin's flute-like note, + The bluebird's slenderer song. + + Brown meadows and the russet hill, + Not yet the haunt of grazing herds, + And thickets by the glimmering rill, + Are all alive with birds. + + Oh choir of spring, why come so soon? + On leafless grove and herbless lawn + Warm lie the yellow beams of moon; + Yet winter is not gone. + + For frost shall sheet the pools again; + Again the blustering East shall blow-- + Whirl a white tempest through the glen, + And load the pines with snow. + + Yet, haply, from the region where, + Waked by an earlier spring than here, + The blossomed wild-plum scents the air, + Ye come in haste and fear. + + For there is heard the bugle-blast, + The booming gun, the jarring drum, + And on their chargers, spurring fast, + Armed warriors go and come. + + There mighty hosts have pitched the camp + In valleys that were yours till then, + And Earth has shuddered to the tramp + Of half a million men! + + In groves where once ye used to sing, + In orchards where ye had your birth, + A thousand glittering axes swing + To smite the trees to earth. + + Ye love the fields by ploughmen trod; + But there, when sprouts the beechen spray, + The soldier only breaks the sod + To hide the slain away. + + Stay, then, beneath our ruder sky; + Heed not the storm-clouds rising black, + Nor yelling winds that with them fly; + Nor let them fright you back,-- + + Back to the stifling battle-cloud, + To burning towns that blot the day, + And trains of mounting dust that shroud + The armies on their way. + + Stay, for a tint of green shall creep + Soon o'er the orchard's grassy floor, + And from its bed the crocus peep + Beside the housewife's door. + + Here build, and dread no harsher sound, + To scare you from the sheltering tree, + Than winds that stir the branches round, + And murmur of the bee. + + And we will pray that, ere again + The flowers of autumn bloom and die, + Our generals and their strong-armed men + May lay their weapons by. + + Then may ye warble, unafraid, + Where hands, that wear the fetter now, + Free as your wings shall ply the spade, + And guide the peaceful plough. + + Then, as our conquering hosts return, + What shouts of jubilee shall break + From placid vale and mountain stern, + And shore of mighty lake! + + And midland plain and ocean-strand + Shall thunder: "Glory to the brave, + Peace to the torn and bleeding land, + And freedom to the slave!" + + _March_, 1864. + + + + + "HE HATH PUT ALL THINGS UNDER HIS + FEET." + + + O North, with all thy vales of green! + O South, with all thy palms! + From peopled towns and fields between + Uplift the voice of psalms; + Raise, ancient East, the anthem high, + And let the youthful West reply. + + Lo! in the clouds of heaven appears + God's well-beloved Son; + He brings a train of brighter years: + His kingdom is begun. + He comes, a guilty world to bless + With mercy, truth, and righteousness. + + Oh, Father! haste the promised hour + When, at His feet, shall lie + All rule, authority, and power, + Beneath the ample sky; + When He shall reign from pole to pole, + The lord of every human soul; + + When all shall heed the words He said + Amid their daily cares, + And, by the loving life He led, + Shall seek to pattern theirs; + And He, who conquered Death, shall win + The nobler conquest over Sin. + + + + + MY AUTUMN WALK. + + + On woodlands ruddy with autumn + The amber sunshine lies; + I look on the beauty round me, + And tears come into my eyes. + + For the wind that sweeps the meadows + Blows out of the far Southwest, + Where our gallant men are fighting, + And the gallant dead are at rest. + + The golden-rod is leaning, + And the purple aster waves + In a breeze from the land of battles, + A breath from the land of graves. + + Full fast the leaves are dropping + Before that wandering breath; + As fast, on the field of battle, + Our brethren fall in death. + + Beautiful over my pathway + The forest spoils are shed; + They are spotting the grassy hillocks + With purple and gold and red. + + Beautiful is the death-sleep + Of those who bravely fight + In their country's holy quarrel, + And perish for the Right. + + But who shall comfort the living, + The light of whose homes is gone: + The bride that, early widowed, + Lives broken-hearted on; + + The matron whose sons are lying + In graves on a distant shore; + The maiden, whose promised husband + Comes back from the war no more? + + I look on the peaceful dwellings + Whose windows glimmer in sight, + With croft and garden and orchard, + That bask in the mellow light; + + And I know that, when our couriers + With news of victory come, + They will bring a bitter message + Of hopeless grief to some. + + Again I turn to the woodlands, + And shudder as I see + The mock-grape's blood-red banner + Hung out on the cedar-tree; + + And I think of days of slaughter, + And the night-sky red with flames, + On the Chattahoochee's meadows, + And the wasted banks of the James. + + Oh, for the fresh spring-season, + When the groves are in their prime; + And far away in the future + Is the frosty autumn-time! + + Oh, for that better season, + When the pride of the foe shall yield, + And the hosts of God and Freedom + March back from the well-won field; + + And the matron shall clasp her first-born + With tears of joy and pride; + And the scarred and war-worn lover + Shall claim his promised bride! + + The leaves are swept from the branches; + But the living buds are there, + With folded flower and foliage, + To sprout in a kinder air. + + _October, _1864. + + + + + DANTE. + + + Who, mid the grasses of the field + That spring beneath our careless feet, + First found the shining stems that yield + The grains of life-sustaining wheat: + + Who first, upon the furrowed land, + Strewed the bright grains to sprout, and grow, + And ripen for the reaper's hand-- + We know not, and we cannot know. + + But well we know the hand that brought + And scattered, far as sight can reach, + The seeds of free and living thought + On the broad field of modern speech. + + Mid the white hills that round us lie, + We cherish that Great Sower's fame, + And, as we pile the sheaves on high, + With awe we utter Dante's name. + + Six centuries, since the poet's birth, + Have come and flitted o'er our sphere: + The richest harvest reaped on earth + Crowns the last century's closing year. + + 1865. + + + + + THE DEATH OF LINCOLN. + + + Oh, slow to smite and swift to spare, + Gentle and merciful and just! + Who, in the fear of God, didst bear + The sword of power, a nation's trust! + + In sorrow by thy bier we stand, + Amid the awe that hushes all, + And speak the anguish of a land + That shook with horror at thy fall. + + Thy task is done; the bond are free: + We bear thee to an honored grave, + Whose proudest monument shall be + The broken fetters of the slave. + + Pure was thy life; its bloody close + Hath placed thee with the sons of light, + Among the noble host of those + Who perished in the cause of Right. + + _April_, 1865. + + + + + THE DEATH OF SLAVERY. + + + O thou great Wrong, that, through the slow-paced years, + Didst hold thy millions fettered, and didst wield + The scourge that drove the laborer to the field, + And turn a stony gaze on human tears, + Thy cruel reign is o'er; + Thy bondmen crouch no more + In terror at the menace of thine eye; + For He who marks the bounds of guilty power, + Long-suffering, hath heard the captive's cry, + And touched his shackles at the appointed hour, + And lo! they fall, and he whose limbs they galled + Stands in his native manhood, disenthralled. + + A shout of joy from the redeemed is sent; + Ten thousand hamlets swell the hymn of thanks; + Our rivers roll exulting, and their banks + Send up hosannas to the firmament! + Fields where the bondman's toil + No more shall trench the soil, + Seem now to bask in a serener day; + The meadow-birds sing sweeter, and the airs + Of heaven with more caressing softness play, + Welcoming man to liberty like theirs. + A glory clothes the land from sea to sea, + For the great land and all its coasts are free. + + Within that land wert thou enthroned of late, + And they by whom the nation's laws were made, + And they who filled its judgment-seats obeyed + Thy mandate, rigid as the will of Fate. + Fierce men at thy right hand, + With gesture of command, + Gave forth the word that none might dare gainsay; + And grave and reverend ones, who loved thee not, + Shrank from thy presence, and in blank dismay + Choked down, unuttered, the rebellious thought; + While meaner cowards, mingling with thy train, + Proved, from the book of God, thy right to reign. + + Great as thou wert, and feared from shore to shore, + The wrath of Heaven o'ertook thee in thy pride; + Thou sitt'st a ghastly shadow; by thy side + Thy once strong arms hang nerveless evermore. + And they who quailed but now + Before thy lowering brow, + Devote thy memory to scorn and shame, + And scoff at the pale, powerless thing thou art. + And they who ruled in thine imperial name, + Subdued, and standing sullenly apart, + Scowl at the hands that overthrew thy reign, + And shattered at a blow the prisoner's chain. + + Well was thy doom deserved; thou didst not spare + Life's tenderest ties, but cruelly didst part + Husband and wife, and from the mother's heart + Didst wrest her children, deaf to shriek and prayer; + Thy inner lair became + The haunt of guilty shame; + Thy lash dropped blood; the murderer, at thy side, + Showed his red hands, nor feared the vengeance due. + Thou didst sow earth with crimes, and, far and wide, + A harvest of uncounted miseries grew, + Until the measure of thy sins at last + Was full, and then the avenging bolt was cast! + + Go now, accursed of God, and take thy place + With hateful memories of the elder time, + With many a wasting plague, and nameless crime, + And bloody war that thinned the human race; + With the Black Death, whose way + Through wailing cities lay, + Worship of Moloch, tyrannies that built + The Pyramids, and cruel creeds that taught + To avenge a fancied guilt by deeper guilt-- + Death at the stake to those that held them not. + Lo! the foul phantoms, silent in the gloom + Of the flown ages, part to yield thee room. + + I see the better years that hasten by + Carry thee back into that shadowy past, + Where, in the dusty spaces, void and vast, + The graves of those whom thou hast murdered lie. + The slave-pen, through whose door + Thy victims pass no more, + Is there, and there shall the grim block remain + At which the slave was sold; while at thy feet + Scourges and engines of restraint and pain + Moulder and rust by thine eternal seat. + There, mid the symbols that proclaim thy crimes, + Dwell thou, a warning to the coming times. + + _May_, 1866. + + + + + "RECEIVE THY SIGHT." + + + When the blind suppliant in the way, + By friendly hands to Jesus led, + Prayed to behold the light of day, + "Receive thy sight," the Saviour said. + + At once he saw the pleasant rays + That lit the glorious firmament; + And, with firm step and words of praise, + He followed where the Master went. + + Look down in pity, Lord, we pray, + On eyes oppressed by moral night, + And touch the darkened lids and say + The gracious words, "Receive thy sight." + + Then, in clear daylight, shall we see + Where walked the sinless Son of God; + And, aided by new strength from Thee, + Press onward in the path He trod. + + + + + A BRIGHTER DAY. + + FROM THE SPANISH. + + + Harness the impatient Years, + O Time! and yoke them to the imperial car; + For, through a mist of tears, + The brighter day appears, + Whose early blushes tinge the hills afar. + + A brighter day for thee, + O realm! whose glorious fields are spread between + The dark-blue Midland Sea + And that immensity + Of Western waters which once hailed thee queen! + + The fiery coursers fling + Their necks aloft, and snuff the morning wind, + Till the fleet moments bring + The expected sign to spring + Along their path, and leave these glooms behind. + + Yoke them, and yield the reins + To Spain, and lead her to the lofty seat; + But, ere she mount, the chains + Whose cruel strength constrains + Her limbs must fall in fragments at her feet. + + A tyrant brood have wound + About her helpless limbs the steely braid, + And toward a gulf profound + They drag her, gagged and bound, + Down among dead men's bones, and frost and shade. + + O Spain! thou wert of yore + The wonder of the realms; in prouder years + Thy haughty forehead wore, + What it shall wear no more, + The diadem of both the hemispheres. + + To thee the ancient Deep + Revealed his pleasant, undiscovered lands; + From mines where jewels sleep, + Tilled plain and vine-clad steep, + Earth's richest spoil was offered to thy hands. + + Yet thou, when land and sea + Sent thee their tribute with each rolling wave, + And kingdoms crouched to thee, + Wert false to Liberty, + And therefore art thou now a shackled slave. + + Wilt thou not, yet again, + Put forth the sleeping strength that in thee lies, + And snap the shameful chain, + And force that tyrant train + To flee before the anger in thine eyes? + + Then shall the harnessed Years + Sweep onward with thee to that glorious height + Which even now appears + Bright through the mist of tears, + The dwelling-place of Liberty and Light. + + _October_, 1867. + + + + + AMONG THE TREES. + + + Oh ye who love to overhang the springs, + And stand by running waters, ye whose boughs + Make beautiful the rocks o'er which they play, + Who pile with foliage the great hills, and rear + A paradise upon the lonely plain, + Trees of the forest, and the open field! + Have ye no sense of being? Does the air, + The pure air, which I breathe with gladness, pass + In gushes o'er your delicate lungs, your leaves, + All unenjoyed? When on your winter's sleep + The sun shines warm, have ye no dreams of spring? + And when the glorious spring-time comes at last, + Have ye no joy of all your bursting buds, + And fragrant blooms, and melody of birds + To which your young leaves shiver? Do ye strive + And wrestle with the wind, yet know it not? + Feel ye no glory in your strength when he, + The exhausted Blusterer, flies beyond the hills, + And leaves you stronger yet? Or have ye not + A sense of loss when he has stripped your leaves, + Yet tender, and has splintered your fair boughs? + Does the loud bolt that smites you from the cloud + And rends you, fall unfelt? Do there not run + Strange shudderings through your fibres when the axe + Is raised against you, and the shining blade + Deals blow on blow, until, with all their boughs, + Your summits waver and ye fall to earth? + Know ye no sadness when the hurricane + Has swept the wood and snapped its sturdy stems + Asunder, or has wrenched, from out the soil, + The mightiest with their circles of strong roots, + And piled the ruin all along his path? + + Nay, doubt we not that under the rough rind, + In the green veins of these fair growths of earth, + There dwells a nature that receives delight + From all the gentle processes of life, + And shrinks from loss of being. Dim and faint + May be the sense of pleasure and of pain, + As in our dreams; but, haply, real still. + + Our sorrows touch you not. We watch beside + The beds of those who languish or who die, + And minister in sadness, while our hearts + Offer perpetual prayer for life and ease + And health to the beloved sufferers. + But ye, while anxious fear and fainting hope + Are in our chambers, ye rejoice without. + The funeral goes forth; a silent train + Moves slowly from the desolate home; our hearts + Are breaking as we lay away the loved, + Whom we shall see no more, in their last rest, + Their little cells within the burial-place. + Ye have no part in this distress; for still + The February sunshine steeps your boughs + And tints the buds and swells the leaves within; + While the song-sparrow, warbling from her perch, + Tells you that spring is near. The wind of May + Is sweet with breath of orchards, in whose boughs + The bees and every insect of the air + Make a perpetual murmur of delight, + And by whose flowers the humming-bird hangs poised + In air, and draws their sweets and darts away. + The linden, in the fervors of July, + Hums with a louder concert. When the wind + Sweeps the broad forest in its summer prime, + As when some master-hand exulting sweeps + The keys of some great organ, ye give forth + The music of the woodland depths, a hymn + Of gladness and of thanks. The hermit-thrush + Pipes his sweet note to make your arches ring; + The faithful robin, from the wayside elm, + Carols all day to cheer his sitting mate; + And when the autumn comes, the kings of earth, + In all their majesty, are not arrayed + As ye are, clothing the broad mountain-side + And spotting the smooth vales with red and gold; + While, swaying to the sudden breeze, ye fling + Your nuts to earth, and the brisk squirrel comes + To gather them, and barks with childish glee, + And scampers with them to his hollow oak. + + Thus, as the seasons pass, ye keep alive + The cheerfulness of Nature, till in time + The constant misery which wrings the heart + Relents, and we rejoice with you again, + And glory in your beauty; till once more + We look with pleasure on your varnished leaves, + That gayly glance in sunshine, and can hear, + Delighted, the soft answer which your boughs + Utter in whispers to the babbling brook. + + Ye have no history. I cannot know + Who, when the hillside trees were hewn away, + Haply two centuries since, bade spare this oak, + Leaning to shade, with his irregular arms, + Low-bent and long, the fount that from his roots + Slips through a bed of cresses toward the bay-- + I know not who, but thank him that he left + The tree to flourish where the acorn fell, + And join these later days to that far time + While yet the Indian hunter drew the bow + In the dim woods, and the white woodman first + Opened these fields to sunshine, turned the soil + And strewed the wheat. An unremembered Past + Broods, like a presence, mid the long gray boughs + Of this old tree, which has outlived so long + The flitting generations of mankind. + + Ye have no history. I ask in vain + Who planted on the slope this lofty group + Of ancient pear-trees that with spring-time burst + Into such breadth of bloom. One bears a scar + Where the quick lightning scored its trunk, yet still + It feels the breath of Spring, and every May + Is white with blossoms. Who it was that laid + Their infant roots in earth, and tenderly + Cherished the delicate sprays, I ask in vain, + Yet bless the unknown hand to which I owe + This annual festival of bees, these songs + Of birds within their leafy screen, these shouts + Of joy from children gathering up the fruit + Shaken in August from the willing boughs. + Ye that my hands have planted, or have spared, + Beside the way, or in the orchard-ground, + Or in the open meadow, ye whose boughs + With every summer spread a wider shade, + Whose herd in coming years shall lie at rest + Beneath your noontide shelter? who shall pluck + Your ripened fruit? who grave, as was the wont + Of simple pastoral ages, on the rind + Of my smooth beeches some beloved name? + Idly I ask; yet may the eyes that look + Upon you, in your later, nobler growth, + Look also on a nobler age than ours; + An age when, in the eternal strife between + Evil and Good, the Power of Good shall win + A grander mastery; when kings no more + Shall summon millions from the plough to learn + The trade of slaughter, and of populous realms + Make camps of war; when in our younger land + The hand of ruffian Violence, that now + Is insolently raised to smite, shall fall + Unnerved before the calm rebuke of Law, + And Fraud, his sly confederate, shrink, in shame, + Back to his covert, and forego his prey. + + + + + MAY EVENING. + + + The breath of Spring-time at this twilight hour + Comes through the gathering glooms, + And bears the stolen sweets of many a flower + Into my silent rooms. + + Where hast thou wandered, gentle gale, to find + The perfumes thou dost bring? + By brooks, that through the wakening meadows wind, + Or brink of rushy spring? + + Or woodside, where, in little companies, + The early wild-flowers rise, + Or sheltered lawn, where, mid encircling trees, + May's warmest sunshine lies? + + Now sleeps the humming-bird, that, in the sun, + Wandered from bloom to bloom; + Now, too, the weary bee, his day's work done, + Rests in his waxen room. + + Now every hovering insect to his place + Beneath the leaves hath flown; + And, through the long night hours, the flowery race + Are left to thee alone. + + O'er the pale blossoms of the sassafras + And o'er the spice-bush spray, + Among the opening buds, thy breathings pass, + And come embalmed away. + + Yet there is sadness in thy soft caress, + Wind of the blooming year! + The gentle presence, that was wont to bless + Thy coming, is not here. + + Go, then; and yet I bid thee not repair, + Thy gathered sweets to shed, + Where pine and willow, in the evening air, + Sigh o'er the buried dead. + + Pass on to homes where cheerful voices sound, + And cheerful looks are cast, + And where thou wakest, in thine airy round, + No sorrow of the past. + + Refresh the languid student pausing o'er + The learned page apart, + And he shall turn to con his task once more + With an encouraged heart. + + Bear thou a promise, from the fragrant sward, + To him who tills the land, + Of springing harvests that shall yet reward + The labors of his hand. + + And whisper, everywhere, that Earth renews + Her beautiful array, + Amid the darkness and the gathering dews, + For the return of day. + + + + + OCTOBER, 1866. + + + 'Twas when the earth in summer glory lay, + We bore thee to thy grave; a sudden cloud + Had shed its shower and passed, and every spray + And tender herb with pearly moisture bowed. + + How laughed the fields, and how, before our door, + Danced the bright waters!--from his perch on high + The hang-bird sang his ditty o'er and o'er, + And the song-sparrow from the shrubberies nigh. + + Yet was the home where thou wert lying dead + Mournfully still, save when, at times, was heard, + From room to room, some softly-moving tread, + Or murmur of some softly-uttered word. + + Feared they to break thy slumber? As we threw + A look on that bright bay and glorious shore, + Our hearts were wrung with anguish, for we knew + Those sleeping eyes would look on them no more. + + Autumn is here; we cull his lingering flowers + And bring them to the spot where thou art laid; + The late-born offspring of his balmier hours, + Spared by the frost, upon thy grave to fade. + + The sweet calm sunshine of October, now + Warms the low spot; upon its grassy mould + The purple oak-leaf falls; the birchen bough + Drops its bright spoil like arrow-heads of gold. + + And gorgeous as the morn, a tall array + Of woodland shelters the smooth fields around; + And guarded by its headlands, far away + Sail-spotted, blue and lake-like, sleeps the sound. + + I gaze in sadness; it delights me not + To look on beauty which thou canst not see; + And, wert thou by my side, the dreariest spot + Were, oh, how far more beautiful to me! + + In what fair region dost thou now abide? + Hath God, in the transparent deeps of space, + Through which the planets in their journey glide, + Prepared, for souls like thine, a dwelling-place? + + Fields of unwithering bloom, to mortal eye + Invisible, though mortal eye were near, + Musical groves, and bright streams murmuring by, + Heard only by the spiritual ear? + + Nay, let us deem that thou dost not withdraw + From the dear places where thy lot was cast, + And where thy heart, in love's most holy law, + Was schooled by all the memories of the past. + + Here on this earth, where once, among mankind, + Walked God's beloved Son, thine eyes may see + Beauty to which our dimmer sense is blind + And glory that may make it heaven to thee. + + May we not think that near us thou dost stand + With loving ministrations, for we know + Thy heart was never happy when thy hand + Was forced its tasks of mercy to forego! + + Mayst thou not prompt, with every coming day, + The generous aim and act, and gently win + Our restless, wandering thoughts to turn away + From every treacherous path that ends in sin! + + + + + THE ORDER OF NATURE. + + FROM BOETHIUS DE CONSOLATIONE. + + + Thou who wouldst read, with an undarkened eye, + The laws by which the Thunderer bears sway, + Look at the stars that keep, in yonder sky, + Unbroken peace from Nature's earliest day. + + The great sun, as he guides his fiery car, + Strikes not the cold moon in his rapid sweep; + The Bear, that sees star setting after star + In the blue brine, descends not to the deep. + + The star of eve still leads the hour of dews; + Duly the day-star ushers in the light; + With kindly alternations Love renews + The eternal courses bringing day and night. + + Love drives away the brawler War, and keeps + The realm and host of stars beyond his reach; + In one long calm the general concord steeps + The elements, and tempers each to each. + + The moist gives place benignly to the dry; + Heat ratifies a faithful league with cold; + The nimble flame springs upward to the sky; + Down sinks by its own weight the sluggish mould. + + Still sweet with blossoms is the year's fresh prime; + Her harvests still the ripening Summer yields; + Fruit-laden Autumn follows in his time, + And rainy Winter waters still the fields. + + The elemental harmony brings forth + And rears all life, and, when life's term is o'er, + It sweeps the breathing myriads from the earth, + And whelms and hides them to be seen no more: + + While the Great Founder, he who gave these laws, + Holds the firm reins and sits amid his skies + Monarch and Master, Origin and Cause, + And Arbiter supremely just and wise. + + He guides the force he gave; his hand restrains + And curbs it to the circle it must trace: + Else the fair fabric which his power sustains + Would fall to fragments in the void of space. + + Love binds the parts together, gladly still + They court the kind restraint nor would be free; + Unless Love held them subject to the Will + That gave them being, they would cease to be. + + + + + TREE-BURIAL. + + + Near our southwestern border, when a child + Dies in the cabin of an Indian wife, + She makes its funeral-couch of delicate furs, + Blankets and bark, and binds it to the bough + Of some broad branching tree with leathern thongs + And sinews of the deer. A mother once + Wrought at this tender task, and murmured thus: + "Child of my love, I do not lay thee down + Among the chilly clods where never comes + The pleasant sunshine. There the greedy wolf + Might break into thy grave and tear thee thence, + And I should sorrow all my life. I make + Thy burial-place here, where the light of day + Shines round thee, and the airs that play among + The boughs shall rock thee. Here the morning sun, + Which woke thee once from sleep to smile on me, + Shall beam upon thy bed, and sweetly here + Shall lie the red light of the evening clouds + Which called thee once to slumber. Here the stars + Shall look upon thee--the bright stars of heaven + Which thou didst wonder at. Here too the birds, + Whose music thou didst love, shall sing to thee, + And near thee build their nests and rear their young + With none to scare them. Here the woodland flowers, + Whose opening in the spring-time thou didst greet + With shouts of joy, and which so well became + Thy pretty hands when thou didst gather them, + Shall spot the ground below thy little bed. + "Yet haply thou hast fairer flowers than these, + Which, in the land of souls, thy spirit plucks + In fields that wither not, amid the throng + Of joyous children, like thyself, who went + Before thee to that brighter world and sport + Eternally beneath its cloudless skies. + Sport with them, dear, dear child, until I come + To dwell with thee, and thou, beholding me, + From far, shalt run and leap into my arms, + And I shall clasp thee as I clasped thee here + While living, oh most beautiful and sweet + Of children, now more passing beautiful, + If that can be, with eyes like summer stars-- + A light that death can never quench again. + "And now, oh wind, that here among the leaves + Dost softly rustle, breathe thou ever thus + Gently, and put not forth thy strength to tear + The branches and let fall their precious load, + A prey to foxes. Thou, too, ancient sun, + Beneath whose eye the seasons come and go, + And generations rise and pass away, + While thou dost never change--oh, call not up, + With thy strong heats, the dark, grim thunder-cloud, + To smite this tree with bolts of fire, and rend + Its trunk and strew the earth with splintered boughs. + Ye rains, fall softly on the couch that holds + My darling. There the panther's spotted hide + Shall turn aside the shower; and be it long, + Long after thou and I have met again, + Ere summer wind or winter rain shall waste + This couch and all that now remains of thee, + To me thy mother. Meantime, while I live, + With each returning sunrise I shall seem + To see thy waking smile, and I shall weep; + And when the sun is setting I shall think + How, as I watched thee, o'er thy sleepy eyes + Drooped the smooth lids, and laid on the round cheek + Their lashes, and my tears will flow again; + And often, at those moments, I shall seem + To hear again the sweetly prattled name + Which thou didst call me by, and it will haunt + My home till I depart to be with thee." + + + + + A LEGEND OF THE DELAWARES. + + + The air is dark with cloud on cloud, + And, through the leaden-colored mass, + With thunder-crashes quick and loud, + A thousand shafts of lightning pass. + + And to and fro they glance and go, + Or, darting downward, smite the ground. + What phantom arms are those that throw + The shower of fiery arrows round? + + A louder crash! a mighty oak + Is smitten from that stormy sky. + Its stem is shattered by the stroke; + Around its root the branches lie. + + Fresh breathes the wind; the storm is o'er; + The piles of mist are swept away; + And from the open sky, once more, + Streams gloriously the golden day. + + A dusky hunter of the wild + Is passing near, and stops to see + The wreck of splintered branches piled + About the roots of that huge tree. + + Lo, quaintly shaped and fairly strung, + Wrought by what hand he cannot know, + On that drenched pile of boughs, among + The splinters, lies a polished bow. + + He lifts it up; the drops that hang + On the smooth surface glide away: + He tries the string, no sharper twang + Was ever heard on battle-day. + + Homeward Onetho bears the prize: + Who meets him as he turns to go? + An aged chief, with quick, keen eyes, + And bending frame, and locks of snow. + + "See, what I bring, my father, see + This goodly bow which I have found + Beneath a thunder-riven tree, + Dropped with the lightning to the ground." + + "Beware, my son; it is not well"-- + The white-haired chieftain makes reply-- + "That we who in the forest dwell + Should wield the weapons of the sky. + + "Lay back that weapon in its place; + Let those who bore it bear it still, + Lest thou displease the ghostly race + That float in mist from hill to hill." + + "My father, I will only try + How well it sends a shaft, and then, + Be sure, this goodly bow shall lie + Among the splintered boughs again." + + So to the hunting-ground he hies, + To chase till eve the forest-game, + And not a single arrow flies, + From that good bow, with erring aim. + + And then he deems that they, who swim + In trains of cloud the middle air, + Perchance had kindly thoughts of him + And dropped the bow for him to bear. + + He bears it from that day, and soon + Becomes the mark of every eye, + And wins renown with every moon + That fills its circle in the sky. + + None strike so surely in the chase; + None bring such trophies from the fight; + And, at the council-fire, his place + Is with the wise and men of might. + + And far across the land is spread, + Among the hunter tribes, his fame; + Men name the bowyer-chief with dread + Whose arrows never miss their aim. + + See next his broad-roofed cabin rise + On a smooth river's pleasant side, + And she who has the brightest eyes + Of all the tribe becomes his bride. + + A year has passed; the forest sleeps + In early autumn's sultry glow; + Onetho, on the mountain-steeps, + Is hunting with that trusty bow. + + But they, who by the river dwell, + See the dim vapors thickening o'er + Long mountain-range and severing dell, + And hear the thunder's sullen roar. + + Still darker grows the spreading cloud + From which the booming thunders sound, + And stoops and hangs a shadowy shroud + Above Onetho's hunting-ground. + + Then they who, from the river-vale, + Are gazing on the distant storm, + See in the mists that ride the gale + Dim shadows of the human form-- + + Tall warriors, plumed, with streaming hair + And lifted arms that bear the bow, + And send athwart the murky air + The arrowy lightnings to and fro. + + Loud is the tumult of an hour-- + Crash of torn boughs and howl of blast, + And thunder-peal and pelting shower, + And then the storm is overpast. + + Where is Onetho? what delays + His coming? why should he remain + Among the plashy woodland ways, + Swoln brooks and boughs that drip with rain? + + He comes not, and the younger men + Go forth to search the forest round. + They track him to a mountain-glen, + And find him lifeless on the ground. + + The goodly bow that was his pride + Is gone, but there the arrows lie; + And now they know the death he died, + Slain by the lightnings of the sky. + + They bear him thence in awe and fear + Back to the vale with stealthy tread; + There silently, from far and near, + The warriors gather round the dead. + + But in their homes the women bide; + Unseen they sit and weep apart, + And, in her bower, Onetho's bride + Is sobbing with a broken heart. + + They lay in earth their bowyer-chief, + And at his side their hands bestow + His dreaded battle-axe and sheaf + Of arrows, but without a bow. + + "Too soon he died; it is not well"-- + The old men murmured, standing nigh-- + "That we, who in the forest dwell, + Should wield the weapons of the sky." + + + + + A LIFETIME. + + + I sit in the early twilight, + And, through the gathering shade, + I look on the fields around me + Where yet a child I played. + + And I peer into the shadows, + Till they seem to pass away, + And the fields and their tiny brooklet + Lie clear in the light of day. + + A delicate child and slender, + With lock of light-brown hair, + From knoll to knoll is leaping + In the breezy summer air. + + He stoops to gather blossoms + Where the running waters shine; + And I look on him with wonder, + His eyes are so like mine. + + I look till the fields and brooklet + Swim like a vision by, + And a room in a lowly dwelling + Lies clear before my eye. + + There stand, in the clean-swept fireplace, + Fresh boughs from the wood in bloom, + And the birch-tree's fragrant branches + Perfume the humble room. + + And there the child is standing + By a stately lady's knee, + And reading of ancient peoples + And realms beyond the sea: + + Of the cruel King of Egypt + Who made God's people slaves, + And perished, with all his army, + Drowned in the Red Sea waves; + + Of Deborah who mustered + Her brethren long oppressed, + And routed the heathen army, + And gave her people rest; + + And the sadder, gentler story + How Christ, the crucified, + With a prayer for those who slew him, + Forgave them as he died. + + I look again, and there rises + A forest wide and wild, + And in it the boy is wandering, + No longer a little child. + + He murmurs his own rude verses + As he roams the woods alone; + And again I gaze with wonder, + His eyes are so like my own. + + I see him next in his chamber, + Where he sits him down to write + The rhymes he framed in his ramble, + And he cons them with delight. + + A kindly figure enters, + A man of middle age, + And points to a line just written, + And 'tis blotted from the page. + + And next, in a hall of justice, + Scarce grown to manly years, + Mid the hoary-headed wranglers + The slender youth appears. + + With a beating heart he rises, + And with a burning cheek, + And the judges kindly listen + To hear the young man speak. + + Another change, and I see him + Approach his dwelling-place, + Where a fair-haired woman meets him, + With a smile on her young face-- + + A smile that spreads a sunshine + On lip and cheek and brow; + So sweet a smile there is not + In all the wide earth now. + + She leads by the hand their first-born, + A fair-haired little one, + And their eyes as they meet him sparkle + Like brooks in the morning sun. + + Another change, and I see him + Where the city's ceaseless coil + Sends up a mighty murmur + From a thousand modes of toil. + + And there, mid the clash of presses, + He plies the rapid pen + In the battles of opinion, + That divide the sons of men. + + I look, and the clashing presses + And the town are seen no more, + But there is the poet wandering + A strange and foreign shore. + + He has crossed the mighty ocean + To realms that lie afar, + In the region of ancient story, + Beneath the morning star. + + And now he stands in wonder + On an icy Alpine height; + Now pitches his tent in the desert + Where the jackal yells at night; + + Now, far on the North Sea islands, + Sees day on the midnight sky, + Now gathers the fair strange fruitage + Where the isles of the Southland lie. + + I see him again at his dwelling, + Where, over the little lake, + The rose-trees droop in their beauty + To meet the image they make. + + Though years have whitened his temples, + His eyes have the first look still, + Save a shade of settled sadness, + A forecast of coming ill. + + For in that pleasant dwelling, + On the rack of ceaseless pain, + Lies she who smiled so sweetly, + And prays for ease in vain. + + And I know that his heart is breaking, + When, over those dear eyes, + The darkness slowly gathers, + And the loved and loving dies. + + A grave is scooped on the hillside + Where often, at eve or morn, + He lays the blooms of the garden-- + He, and his youngest born. + + And well I know that a brightness + From his life has passed away, + And a smile from the green earth's beauty, + And a glory from the day. + + But I behold, above him, + In the far blue deeps of air, + Dim battlements shining faintly, + And a throng of faces there; + + See over crystal barrier + The airy figures bend, + Like those who are watching and waiting + The coming of a friend. + + And one there is among them, + With a star upon her brow, + In her life a lovely woman, + A sinless seraph now. + + I know the sweet calm features; + The peerless smile I know, + And I stretch my arms with transport + From where I stand below. + + And the quick tears drown my eyelids, + But the airy figures fade, + And the shining battlements darken + And blend with the evening shade. + + I am gazing into the twilight + Where the dim-seen meadows lie, + And the wind of night is swaying + The trees with a heavy sigh. + + + + + THE TWO TRAVELLERS. + + + 'Twas evening, and before my eyes + There lay a landscape gray and dim-- + Fields faintly seen and twilight skies, + And clouds that hid the horizon's brim. + + I saw--or was it that I dreamed? + A waking dream?--I cannot say, + For every shape as real seemed + As those which meet my eyes to-day. + + Through leafless shrubs the cold wind hissed; + The air was thick with falling snow, + And onward, through the frozen mist, + I saw a weary traveller go. + + Driven o'er the landscape, bare and bleak, + Before the whirling gusts of air, + The snow-flakes smote his withered cheek, + And gathered on his silver hair. + + Yet on he fared through blinding snows, + And murmuring to himself he said: + "The night is near; the darkness grows, + And higher rise the drifts I tread. + + "Deep, deep, each autumn flower they hide; + Each tuft of green they whelm from sight; + And they who journeyed by my side, + Are lost in the surrounding night. + + "I loved them; oh, no words can tell + The love that to my friends I bore; + They left me with the sad farewell + Of those who part to meet no more. + + "And I, who face this bitter wind + And o'er these snowy hillocks creep, + Must end my journey soon, and find + A frosty couch, a frozen sleep." + + As thus he spoke, a thrill of pain + Shot to my heart--I closed my eyes; + But when I opened them again, + I started with a glad surprise. + + 'Twas evening still, and in the west + A flush of glowing crimson lay; + I saw the morrow there, and blest + That promise of a glorious day. + + The waters, in their glassy sleep, + Shone with the hues that tinged the sky, + And rugged cliff and barren steep + Gleamed with the brightness from on high. + + And one was there whose journey lay + Into the slowly-gathering night; + With steady step he held his way, + O'er shadowy vale and gleaming height. + + I marked his firm though weary tread, + The lifted eye and brow serene; + And saw no shade of doubt or dread + Pass o'er that traveller's placid mien. + + And others came, their journey o'er, + And bade good-night, with words of cheer: + "To-morrow we shall meet once more; + 'Tis but the night that parts us here." + + "And I," he said, "shall sleep ere long; + These fading gleams will soon be gone; + Shall sleep to rise refreshed and strong + In the bright day that yet will dawn." + + I heard; I watched him as he went, + A lessening form, until the light + Of evening from the firmament + Had passed, and he was lost to sight. + + + + + CHRISTMAS IN 1875. + + SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY A SPANIARD. + + + No trumpet-blast profaned + The hour in which the Prince of Peace was born; + No bloody streamlet stained + Earth's silver rivers on that sacred morn; + But, o'er the peaceful plain, + The war-horse drew the peasant's loaded wain. + + The soldier had laid by + The sword and stripped the corselet from his breast, + And hung his helm on high-- + The sparrow's winter home and summer nest; + And, with the same strong hand + That flung the barbed spear, he tilled the land. + + Oh, time for which we yearn; + Oh, sabbath of the nations long foretold! + Season of peace, return, + Like a late summer when the year grows old, + When the sweet sunny days + Steeped mead and mountain-side in golden haze. + + For now two rival kings + Flaunt, o'er our bleeding land, their hostile flags, + And every sunrise brings + The hovering vulture from his mountain-crags + To where the battle-plain + Is strewn with dead, the youth and flower of Spain. + + Christ is not come, while yet + O'er half the earth the threat of battle lowers, + And our own fields are wet, + Beneath the battle-cloud, with crimson showers-- + The life-blood of the slain, + Poured out where thousands die that one may reign. + + Soon, over half the earth, + In every temple crowds shall kneel again + To celebrate His birth + Who brought the message of good-will to men, + And bursts of joyous song + Shall shake the roof above the prostrate throng. + + Christ is not come, while there + The men of blood whose crimes affront the skies + Kneel down in act of prayer, + Amid the joyous strains, and when they rise + Go forth, with sword and flame, + To waste the land in His most holy name. + + Oh, when the day shall break + O'er realms unlearned in warfare's cruel arts, + And all their millions wake + To peaceful tasks performed with loving hearts, + On such a blessed morn, + Well may the nations say that Christ is born. + + + + + THE FLOOD OF YEARS. + + + A mighty Hand, from an exhaustless Urn, + Pours forth the never-ending Flood of Years, + Among the nations. How the rushing waves + Bear all before them! On their foremost edge, + And there alone, is Life. The Present there + Tosses and foams, and fills the air with roar + Of mingled noises. There are they who toil, + And they who strive, and they who feast, and they + Who hurry to and fro. The sturdy swain-- + Woodman and delver with the spade--is there, + And busy artisan beside his bench, + And pallid student with his written roll. + A moment on the mounting billow seen, + The flood sweeps over them and they are gone. + There groups of revellers whose brows are twined + With roses, ride the topmost swell awhile, + And as they raise their flowing cups and touch + The clinking brim to brim, are whirled beneath + The waves and disappear. I hear the jar + Of beaten drums, and thunders that break forth + From cannon, where the advancing billow sends + Up to the sight long files of armed men, + That hurry to the charge through flame and smoke. + The torrent bears them under, whelmed and hid + Slayer and slain, in heaps of bloody foam. + Down go the steed and rider, the plumed chief + Sinks with his followers; the head that wears + The imperial diadem goes down beside + The felon's with cropped ear and branded cheek. + A funeral-train--the torrent sweeps away + Bearers and bier and mourners. By the bed + Of one who dies men gather sorrowing, + And women weep aloud; the flood rolls on; + The wail is stifled and the sobbing group + Borne under. Hark to that shrill, sudden shout, + The cry of an applauding multitude, + Swayed by some loud-voiced orator who wields + The living mass as if he were its soul! + The waters choke the shout and all is still. + Lo! next a kneeling crowd, and one who spreads + The hands in prayer--the engulfing wave o'ertakes + And swallows them and him. A sculptor wields + The chisel, and the stricken marble grows + To beauty; at his easel, eager-eyed, + A painter stands, and sunshine at his touch + Gathers upon his canvas, and life glows; + A poet, as he paces to and fro, + Murmurs his sounding lines. Awhile they ride + The advancing billow, till its tossing crest + Strikes them and flings them under, while their tasks + Are yet unfinished. See a mother smile + On her young babe that smiles to her again; + The torrent wrests it from her arms; she shrieks + And weeps, and midst her tears is carried down. + A beam like that of moonlight turns the spray + To glistening pearls; two lovers, hand in hand, + Rise on the billowy swell and fondly look + Into each other's eyes. The rushing flood + Flings them apart: the youth goes down; the maid + With hands outstretched in vain, and streaming eyes, + Waits for the next high wave to follow him. + An aged man succeeds; his bending form + Sinks slowly. Mingling with the sullen stream + Gleam the white locks, and then are seen no more. + Lo! wider grows the stream--a sea-like flood + Saps earth's walled cities; massive palaces + Crumble before it; fortresses and towers + Dissolve in the swift waters; populous realms + Swept by the torrent see their ancient tribes + Engulfed and lost; their very languages + Stifled, and never to be uttered more. + I pause and turn my eyes, and looking back + Where that tumultuous flood has been, I see + The silent ocean of the Past, a waste + Of waters weltering over graves, its shores + Strewn with the wreck of fleets where mast and hull + Drop away piecemeal; battlemented walls + Frown idly, green with moss, and temples stand + Unroofed, forsaken by the worshipper. + There lie memorial stones, whence time has gnawed + The graven legends, thrones of kings o'erturned, + The broken altars of forgotten gods, + Foundations of old cities and long streets + Where never fall of human foot is heard, + On all the desolate pavement. I behold + Dim glimmerings of lost jewels, far within + The sleeping waters, diamond, sardonyx, + Ruby and topaz, pearl and chrysolite, + Once glittering at the banquet on fair brows + That long ago were dust, and all around + Strewn on the surface of that silent sea + Are withering bridal wreaths, and glossy locks + Shorn from dear brows, by loving hands, and scrolls + O'er written, haply with fond words of love + And vows of friendship, and fair pages flung + Fresh from the printer's engine. There they lie + A moment, and then sink away from sight. + I look, and the quick tears are in my eyes, + For I behold in every one of these + A blighted hope, a separate history + Of human sorrows, telling of dear ties + Suddenly broken, dreams of happiness + Dissolved in air, and happy days too brief + That sorrowfully ended, and I think + How painfully must the poor heart have beat + In bosoms without number, as the blow + Was struck that slew their hope and broke their peace. + Sadly I turn and look before, where yet + The Flood must pass, and I behold a mist + Where swarm dissolving forms, the brood of Hope, + Divinely fair, that rest on banks of flowers, + Or wander among rainbows, fading soon + And reappearing, haply giving place + To forms of grisly aspect such as Fear + Shapes from the idle air--where serpents lift + The head to strike, and skeletons stretch forth + The bony arm in menace. Further on + A belt of darkness seems to bar the way + Long, low, and distant, where the Life to come + Touches the Life that is. The Flood of Years + Rolls toward it near and nearer. It must pass + That dismal barrier. What is there beyond? + Hear what the wise and good have said. Beyond + That belt of darkness, still the Years roll on + More gently, but with not less mighty sweep. + They gather up again and softly bear + All the sweet lives that late were overwhelmed + And lost to sight, all that in them was good, + Noble, and truly great, and worthy of love-- + The lives of infants and ingenuous youths, + Sages and saintly women who have made + Their households happy; all are raised and borne + By that great current in its onward sweep, + Wandering and rippling with caressing waves + Around green islands with the breath + Of flowers that never wither. So they pass + From stage to stage along the shining course + Of that bright river, broadening like a sea. + As its smooth eddies curl along their way + They bring old friends together; hands are clasped + In joy unspeakable; the mother's arms + Again are folded round the child she loved + And lost. Old sorrows are forgotten now, + Or but remembered to make sweet the hour + That overpays them; wounded hearts that bled + Or broke are healed forever. In the room + Of this grief-shadowed present, there shall be + A Present in whose reign no grief shall gnaw + The heart, and never shall a tender tie + Be broken; in whose reign the eternal Change + That waits on growth and action shall proceed + With everlasting Concord hand in hand. + + + + + OUR FELLOW-WORSHIPPERS. + + + Think not that thou and I + Are here the only worshippers to day, + Beneath this glorious sky, + Mid the soft airs that o'er the meadows play; + These airs, whose breathing stirs + The fresh grass, are our fellow-worshippers. + + See, as they pass, they swing + The censers of a thousand flowers that bend + O'er the young herbs of spring, + And the sweet odors like a prayer ascend, + While, passing thence, the breeze + Wakes the grave anthem of the forest-trees. + + It is as when, of yore, + The Hebrew poet called the mountain-steeps, + The forests, and the shore + Of ocean, and the mighty mid-sea deeps, + And stormy wind, to raise + A universal symphony of praise. + + For, lo! the hills around, + Gay in their early green, give silent thanks; + And, with a joyous sound, + The streamlet's huddling waters kiss their banks, + And, from its sunny nooks, + To heaven, with grateful smiles, the valley looks. + + The blossomed apple-tree, + Among its flowery tufts, on every spray, + Offers the wandering bee + A fragrant chapel for his matin-lay; + And a soft bass is heard + From the quick pinions of the humming-bird. + + Haply--for who can tell?-- + Aerial beings, from the world unseen, + Haunting the sunny dell, + Or slowly floating o'er the flowery green, + May join our worship here, + With harmonies too fine for mortal ear. + + + + +NOTES. + + +Page 11. + +POEM OF THE AGES. + +In this poem, written and first printed in the year 1821, the author has +endeavored, from a survey of the past ages of the world, and of the +successive advances of mankind in knowledge, virtue, and happiness, to +justify and confirm the hopes of the philanthropist for the future +destinies of the human race. + + +Page 34. + +THE BURIAL-PLACE. + +The first half of this fragment may seem to the reader borrowed from the +essay on Rural Funerals in the fourth number of "The Sketch-book." The +lines were, however, written more than a year before that number +appeared. The poem, unfinished as it is, would hardly have been admitted +into this collection, had not the author been unwilling to lose what had +the honor of resembling so beautiful a composition. + + +Page 43. + +THE MASSACRE AT SCIO. + +This poem, written about the time of the horrible butchery of the +Sciotes by the Turks, in 1824, has been more fortunate than most +poetical predictions. The independence of the Greek nation which it +foretold, has come to pass, and the massacre, by inspiring a deeper +detestation of their oppressors, did much to promote that event. + + +Page 44. + + _Her maiden veil, her own black hair_, etc. + +"The unmarried females have a modest falling down of the hair over the +eyes."--ELIOT. + + +Page 63. + +MONUMENT MOUNTAIN. + +The mountain called by this name is a remarkable precipice in Great +Barrington, overlooking the rich and picturesque valley of the +Housatonic, in the western part of Massachusetts. At the southern +extremity is, or was a few years since, a conical pile of small stones, +erected, according to the tradition of the surrounding country, by the +Indians, in memory of a woman of the Stockbridge tribe who killed +herself by leaping from the edge of the precipice. Until within a few +years past, small parties of that tribe used to arrive from their +settlement in the western part of the State of New York, on visits to +Stockbridge, the place of their nativity and former residence. A young +woman belonging to one of these parties related, to a friend of the +author, the story on which the poem of Monument Mountain is founded. An +Indian girl had formed an attachment for her cousin, which, according to +the customs of the tribe, was unlawful. She was, in consequence, seized +with a deep melancholy, and resolved to destroy herself. In company with +a female friend, she repaired to the mountain, decked out for the +occasion in all her ornaments, and, after passing the day on the summit +in singing with her companion the traditional songs of her nation, she +threw herself headlong from the rock, and was killed. + + +Page 78. + +THE MURDERED TRAVELLER. + +Some years since, in the month of May, the remains of a human body, +partly devoured by wild animals, were found in a woody ravine, near a +solitary road passing between the mountains west of the village of +Stockbridge. It was supposed that the person came to his death by +violence, but no traces could be discovered of his murderers. It was +only recollected that one evening, in the course of the previous winter, +a traveller had stopped at an inn in the village of West Stockbridge: +that he had inquired the way to Stockbridge; and that, in paying the +innkeeper for something he had ordered, it appeared that he had a +considerable sum of money in his possession. Two ill-looking men were +present, and went out about the same time that the traveller proceeded +on his journey. During the winter, also, two men of shabby appearance, +but plentifully supplied with money, had lingered for a while about the +village of Stockbridge. Several years afterward, a criminal, about to be +executed for a capital offence in Canada, confessed that he had been +concerned in murdering a traveller in Stockbridge for the sake of his +money. Nothing was ever discovered respecting the name or residence of +the person murdered. + + +Page 101. + +_Chained in the market-place he stood_, etc. + +The story of the African chief, related in this ballad, may be found in +the _African Repository_ for April, 1825. The subject of it was a +warrior of majestic stature, the brother of Yarradee, king of the Solima +nation. He had been taken in battle, and was brought in chains for sale +to the Rio Pongas, where he was exhibited in the market-place, his +ankles still adorned with massy rings of gold which he wore when +captured. The refusal of his captors to listen to his offers of ransom +drove him mad, and he died a maniac. + + +Page 111. + +THE CONJUNCTION OF JUPITER AND VENUS. + +This conjunction was said in the common calendars to have taken place on +the 2d of August, 1826. This, I believe, was an error, but the apparent +approach of the planets was sufficiently near for poetical purposes. + + +Page 116. + +THE HURRICANE. + +This poem is nearly a translation from one by Jose Maria de Heredia, a +native of the island of Cuba, who published at New York, about the year +1825, a volume of poems in the Spanish language. + + +Page 118. + +WILLIAM TELL. + +Neither this, nor any of the other sonnets in the collection, with the +exception of the one from the Portuguese, is framed according to the +legitimate Italian model, which, in the author's opinion, possesses no +peculiar beauty for an ear accustomed only to the metrical forms of our +own language. The sonnets in this collection are rather poems in +fourteen lines than sonnets. + + +Page 119. + +_The slim papaya ripens_, etc. + +Papaya--papaw, custard-apple. Flint, in his excellent work on the +Geography and History of the Western States, thus describes this tree +and its fruit: + +"A papaw-shrub hanging full of fruits, of a size and weight so +disproportioned to the stem, and from under long and rich-looking +leaves, of the same yellow with the ripened fruit, and of an African +luxuriance of growth, is to us one of the richest spectacles that we +have ever contemplated in the array of the woods. The fruit contains +from two to six seeds like those of the tamarind, except that they are +double the size. The pulp of the fruit resembles egg-custard in +consistence and appearance. It has the same creamy feeling in the mouth, +and unites the taste of eggs, cream, sugar, and spice. It is a natural +custard, too luscious for the relish of most people." + +Chateaubriand, in his Travels, speaks disparagingly of the fruit of the +papaw; but on the authority of Mr. Flint, who must know more of the +matter, I have ventured to make my Western lover enumerate it among the +delicacies of the wilderness. + + +Page 130. + + _The surface rolls and fluctuates to the eye._ + +The prairies of the West, with an undulating surface, _rolling prairies, +_as they are called, present to the unaccustomed eye a singular +spectacle when the shadows of the clouds are passing rapidly over them. +The face of the ground seems to fluctuate and toss like billows of the +sea. + + +Page 131. + + _The prairie-hawk that, poised on high, + Flaps his broad wings, yet moves not._ + +_I _have seen the prairie-hawk balancing himself in the air for hours +together, apparently over the same spot; probably watching his prey. + + +Page 131. + + _These ample fields + Nourished their harvests._ + +The size and extent of the mounds in the valley of the Mississippi +indicate the existence, at a remote period, of a nation at once populous +and laborious, and therefore probably subsisting by agriculture. + + +Page 132. + + _The rude conquerors + Seated the captive with their chiefs._ + +Instances ace not wanting of generosity like this among the North +American Indians toward a captive or survivor of a hostile tribe on +which the greatest cruelties had been exercised. + + +Page 134. + +SONG OF MARION'S MEN. + +The exploits of General Francis Marion, the famous partisan warrior of +South Carolina, form an interesting chapter in the annals of the +American Revolution. The British troops were so harassed by the +irregular and successful warfare which he kept up at the head of a few +daring followers, that they sent an officer to remonstrate with him for +not coming into the open field and fighting "like a gentleman and a +Christian." + + +Page 139. + +MARY MAGDALEN. + +Several learned divines, with much appearance of reason, in particular +Dr. Lardner, have maintained that the common notion respecting the +dissolute life of Mary Magdalen is erroneous, and that she was always a +person of excellent character. Charles Taylor, the editor of "Calmet's +Dictionary of the Bible" takes the same view of the subject. + +The verses of the Spanish poet here translated refer to the "woman who +had been a sinner," mentioned in the seventh chapter of St. Luke's +Gospel, and who is commonly confounded with Mary Magdalen. + + +Page 142. + +FATIMA AND RADUAN. + +This and the following poems belong to that class of ancient Spanish +ballads, by unknown authors, called _Romances Moriscos_--Moriscan +Romances or ballads. They were composed in the fourteenth century, some +of them, probably, by the Moors, who then lived intermingled with the +Christians; and they relate the loves and achievements of the knights of +Granada. + + +Page 143. + +LOVE AND FOLLY.--(FROM LA FONTAINE.) + +This is rather an imitation than a translation of the poem of the +graceful French fabulist. + + +Page 146. + +_These eyes shall not recall thee_, etc. + +This is the very expression of the original--_No te llamaran mis ojos, +_etc. The Spanish poets early adopted the practice of calling a lady by +the name of the most expressive feature of her countenance, her eyes. +The lover styled his mistress "ojos bellos," beautiful eyes; "ojos +serenos," serene eyes. Green eyes seem to have been anciently thought a +great beauty in Spain, and there is a very pretty ballad by an absent +lover, in which he addressed his lady by the title of "green eyes;" +supplicating that he may remain in her remembrance: + + "iAy ojuelos verdes! + Ay los mis ojuelos! + Ay, hagan los cielos + Que de mi te acuerdes!" + + +Page 147. + +_Say, Love--for didst thou see her tears_, etc. + +The stanza beginning with this line stands thus in the original: + + "Dilo tu, amor, si lo viste; + iMas ay! que de lastimado + Diste otro nudo a la venda, + Para no ver lo que la pasado." + +I am sorry to find so poor a conceit deforming so spirited a composition +as this old ballad, but I have preserved it in the version. It is one of +those extravagances which afterward became so common in Spanish poetry, +when Gongora introduced the _estilo culto_, as it was called. + + +Page 148. + +LOVE IN THE AGE OF CHIVALRY. + +This personification of the passion of Love, by Peyre Vidal, has been +referred to as a proof of how little the Provencal poets were indebted +to the authors of Greece and Rome for the imagery of their poems. + + +Page 149. + +THE LOVE OF GOD.--(FROM THE PROVENCAL OF BERNARD RASCAS.) + +The original of these lines is thus given by John of Nostradamus, in his +Lives of the Troubadours, in a barbarous Frenchified orthography: + + "Touta kausa mortala una fes perira, + Fors que l'amour de Dieu, que touiours durara. + Tous nostres cors vendran essuchs, come fa l'eska, + Lous Aubres leyssaran lour verdour tendra e fresca, + Lous Ausselets del bosc perdran lour kant subtyeu, + E non s'auzira plus lou Rossignol gentyeu. + Lous Buols al Pastourgage, e las blankas fedettas + Sent'ran lous agulhons de las mortals Sagettas, + Lous crestas d'Aries fiers, Renards, e Loups espars + Kabrols, Cervys, Chamous, Senglars de toutes pars, + Lous Ours hardys e forts, seran poudra, e Arena. + Lou Daulphin en la Mar, lou Ton, e la Balena, + Monstres impetuous, Ryaumes, e Comtas, + Lous Princes, e lous Reys, seran per mort domtas. + E nota ben eysso kascun: la Terra granda, + (Ou l'Escritura ment) lou fermament que branda, + Prendra autra figura. Enfin tout perira, + Fors que l'Amour de Dieu, que touiours durara." + + +Page 150. + +FROM THE SPANISH OF PEDRO DE CASTRO Y ANAYA. + +_Las Auroras de Diana_, in which the original of these lines is +contained, is, notwithstanding it was praised by Lope de Vega, one of +the worst of the old Spanish Romances, being a tissue of riddles and +affectations, with now and then a little poem of considerable beauty. + + +Page 160. + +EARTH. + +The author began this poem in rhyme. The following is the first draught +of it as far as he proceeded, in a stanza which he found it convenient +to abandon: + + A midnight black with clouds is on the sky; + A shadow like the first original night + Folds in, and seems to press me as I lie; + No image meets the vainly wandering sight, + And shot through rolling mists no starlight gleam + Glances on glassy pool or rippling stream. + + No ruddy blaze, from dwellings bright within, + Tinges the flowering summits of the grass; + No sound of life is heard, no village din, + Wings rustling overhead or steps that pass, + While, on the breast of Earth at random thrown, + I listen to her mighty voice alone. + + A voice of many tones: deep murmurs sent + From waters that in darkness glide away, + From woods unseen by sweeping breezes bent, + From rocky chasms where darkness dwells all day, + And hollows of the invisible hills around, + Blent in one ceaseless, melancholy sound. + + O Earth! dost thou, too, sorrow for the past? + Mourn'st thou thy childhood's unreturning hours, + Thy springs, that briefly bloomed and faded fast, + The gentle generations of thy flowers, + Thy forests of the elder time, decayed + And gone with all the tribes that loved their shade? + + Mourn'st thou that first fair time so early lost, + The golden age that lives in poets' strains, + Ere hail or lightning, whirlwind, flood, or frost + Scathed thy green breast, or earthquakes whelmed thy plains, + Ere blood upon the shuddering ground was spilt, + Or night was haunted by disease and guilt? + + Or haply dost thou grieve for those who die? + For living things that trod a while thy face, + The love of thee and heaven, and now they lie + Mixed with the shapeless dust the wild winds chase? + I, too, must grieve, for never on thy sphere + Shall those bright forms and faces reappear. + + Ha! with a deeper and more thrilling tone, + Rises that voice around me: 'tis the cry + Of Earth for guilt and wrong, the eternal moan + Sent to the listening and long-suffering sky, + I hear and tremble, and my heart grows faint, + As midst the night goes up that great complaint. + + +Page 174. + + _Where Isar's clay-white rivulets run_ + _Through the dark woods like frighted deer._ + +Close to the city of Munich, in Bavaria, lies the spacious and beautiful +pleasure-ground, called the English Garden, in which these lines were +written, originally projected and laid out by our countryman, Count +Rumford, under the auspices of one of the sovereigns of the country. +Winding walks, of great extent, pass through close thickets and groves +interspersed with lawns; and streams, diverted from the river Isar, +traverse the grounds swiftly in various directions, the water of which, +stained with the clay of the soil it has corroded in its descent from +the upper country, is frequently of a turbid-white color. + + +Page 178. + +THE GREEN MOUNTAIN BOYS. + +This song refers to the expedition of the Vermonters, commanded by Ethan +Allen, by whom the British fort of Ticonderoga, on Lake Champlain, was +surprised and taken, in May, 1775. + + +Page 180. + +THE CHILD'S FUNERAL. + +The incident on which this poem is founded was related to the author +while in Europe, in a letter from an English lady. A child died in the +south of Italy, and when they went to bury it they found it revived and +playing with the flowers which, after the manner of that country, had +been brought to grace his funeral. + + +Page 184. + + _'Tis said, when Schiller's death drew nigh, + The wish possessed his mighty mind, + To wander forth wherever lie + The homes and haunts of humankind._ + +Shortly before the death of Schiller, he was seized with a strong desire +to travel in foreign countries, as if his spirit had a presentiment of +its approaching enlargement, and already longed to expatiate in a wider +and more varied sphere of existence. + + +Page 185. + + _The flower + Of sanguinaria, from whose brittle stem + The red drops fell like blood._ + +The _Sanguinaria Canadensis_, or blood-root, as it is commonly called, +bears a delicate white flower of a musky scent, the stem of which breaks +easily, and distils a juice of a bright-red color. + + +Page 191. + + _The shad-bush, white with flowers, + Brightened the glens._ + +The small tree, named by the botanists _Aronia Botyrapium_, is called, +in some parts of our country, the shad-bush, from the circumstance that +it flowers about the time that the shad ascend the rivers in early +spring. Its delicate sprays, covered with white blossoms before the +trees are yet in leaf, have a singularly beautiful appearance in the +woods. + + +Page 192. + + _"There hast thou," said my friend, "a fitting type + Of human life."_ + +I remember hearing an aged man, in the country, compare the slow +movement of time in early life, and its swift flight as it approaches +old age, to the drumming of a partridge or ruffed grouse in the +woods--the strokes falling slow and distinct at first, and following +each other more and more rapidly, till they end at last in a whirring +sound. + + +Page 194. + +AN EVENING REVERY.--FROM AN UNFINISHED POEM. + +This poem and that entitled "The Fountain," with one or two others in +blank verse, were intended by the author as portions of a larger poem. + + +Page 196. + + _The fresh savannas of the Sangamon + Here rise in gentle suells, and the long grass + Is mixed with rustling hazels. Scarlet tufts + Are glowing in the green, like flakes of fire._ + +The Painted Cup, _Euchroma coccinea,_ or _Bartsia coccinea, _ grows in +great abundance in the hazel prairies of the Western States, where its +scarlet tufts make a brilliant appearance in the midst of the verdure. +The Sangamon is a beautiful river, tributary to the Illinois, bordered +with rich prairies. + + +Page 204. + + _The long wave rolling from the southern pole + To break upon Japan._ + +"Breaks the long wave that at the pole began."--TENNENT'S _Anster Fair._ + + +Page 205. + + _At noon the Hebrew bowed the knee + And worshipped._ + +"Evening and morning, and at noon, will I pray and cry aloud, and he +shall hear my voice."--_Psalm_ lv. 17. + + +Page 208. + +THE WHITE-FOOTED DEER. + +"During the stay of Long's Expedition at Engineer Cantonment, three +specimens of a variety of the common deer were brought in, having all +the feet white near the hoofs, and extending to those on the hind-feet +from a little above the spurious hoofs. This white extremity was +divided, upon the sides of the foot, by the general color of the leg, +which extends down near to the hoofs, leaving a white triangle in front, +of which the point was elevated rather higher than the spurious +hoofs."--GODMAN'S _Natural History_, vol. ii., p. 314. + + +Page 236. + +THE LOST BIRD. + +Readers who are acquainted with the Spanish language, may not be +displeased at seeing the original of this little poem: + +EL PAJARO PERDIDO. + + Huyo con vuelo incierto, + Y de mis ojos ha desparecido. + Mirad, si, a vuestro huerto, + Mi pajaro querido, + Ninas hermosas, por acaso ha huido. + + Sus ojos relucientes + Son como los del aguila orgullosa; + Plumas resplandecientes, + En la cabeza airosa, + Lleva; y su voz es tierna y armoniosa. + + Mirad, si cuidadoso + Junto a las flores se escondio en la grama. + Ese laurel frondoso + Mirad, rama por rama, + Que el los laureles y los flores ama. + + Si le hallais, por ventura, + No os enamore su amoroso acento; + No os prende su hermosura; + Volvedmele al momento; + O dejadle, si no, libre en el viento. + + Por que su pico de oro + Solo en mi mano toma la semilla; + Y no enjugare el lloro + Que veis en mi mejilla, + Hasta encontrar mi profugo avecilla. + + Mi vista se oscurece, + Si sus ojos no ve, que son mi dia + Mi anima desfallece + Con la melancolia + De no escucharle ya su melodia. + +The literature of Spain at the present day has this peculiarity, that +female writers have, in considerable number, entered into competition +with the other sex. One of the most remarkable of these, as a writer of +both prose and poetry, is Carolina Coronado de Perry, the author of the +little poem here given. The poetical literature of Spain has felt the +influence of the female mind in the infusion of a certain delicacy and +tenderness, and the more frequent choice of subjects which interest the +domestic affections. Concerning the verses of the lady already +mentioned, Don Juan Eugenio Hartzenbusch, one of the most accomplished +Spanish critics of the present day, and himself a successful dramatic +writer, says: + + * * * * * + +"If Carolina Coronado had, through modesty, sent her productions from +Estremadura to Madrid under the name of a person of the other sex, it +would still have been difficult for intelligent readers to persuade +themselves that they were written by a man, or at least, considering +their graceful sweetness, purity of tone, simplicity of conception, +brevity of development, and delicate and particular choice of subject, +we should be constrained to attribute them to one yet in his early +youth, whom the imagination would represent as ingenuous, innocent, and +gay, who had scarce ever wandered beyond the flowery grove or pleasant +valley where his cradle was rocked, and where he has been lulled to +sleep by the sweetest songs of Francisea de la Torre, Garcilaso, and +Melendez." + + * * * * * + +The author of the _Pajaro Perdido_, according to a memoir of her by +Angel Fernandez de los Rios, was born at Almendralejo, in Estremadura, +in 1823. At the age of nine years she began to steal from sleep, after a +day passed in various lessons, and in domestic occupations, several +hours every night to read the poets of her country, and other books +belonging to the library of the household, among which are mentioned, as +a proof of her vehement love of reading, the "Critical History of +Spain," by the Abbe Masuden, "and other works equally dry and prolix." +She was afterward sent to Badajoz, where she received the best education +which the state of the country, then on fire with a civil war, would +admit. Here the intensity of her application to her studies caused a +severe malady, which has frequently recurred in after-life. At the age +of thirteen years she wrote a poem entitled _La Palma_, which the author +of her biography declares to be worthy of Herrera, and which led +Espronceda, a poet of Estremadura, a man of genius, and the author of +several translations from Byron, whom he resembled both in mental and +personal characteristics, to address her an eulogistic sonnet. In 1843, +when she was but twenty years old, a volume of her poems was published +at Madrid, in which were included both that entitled _La Palma_ and the +one I have given in this note. To this volume Hartzenbusch, in his +admiration for her genius, prefaced an introduction. + +The task of writing verses in Spanish is not difficult. Rhymes are +readily found, and the language is easily moulded into metrical forms. +Those who have distinguished themselves in this literature have +generally made their first essays in verse. What is remarkable enough, +the men who afterward figured in political life mostly began their +career as the authors of madrigals. A poem introduces the future +statesman to the public, as a speech at a popular meeting introduces the +candidate for political distinctions in this country. I have heard of +but one of the eminent Spanish politicians of the present time, who made +a boast that he was innocent of poetry; and if all that his enemies say +of him be true, it would have been well both for his country and his own +fame, if he had been equally innocent of corrupt practices. The +compositions of Carolina Coronado, even her earliest, do not deserve to +be classed with the productions of which I have spoken, and which are +simply the effect of inclination and facility. They possess the _mens +divinior_. + +In 1852 a collection of poems of Carolina Coronado was brought out at +Madrid, including those which were first published. The subjects are of +larger variety than those which prompted her earlier productions; some +of them are of a religious cast, others refer to political matters. One +of them, which appears among the "Improvisations," is an energetic +protest against erecting a new amphitheatre for bull-fights. The spirit +in all her poetry is humane and friendly to the best interests of +mankind. + +Her writings in prose must not be overlooked. Among them is a novel +entitled _Sigea_, founded on the adventures of Camoens; another entitled +_Jarilla_, a beautiful story, full of pictures of rural life in +Estremadura, which deserves, if it could find a competent translator, to +be transferred to our language. Besides these there are two other novels +from her pen, _Paquita_ and _La Luz del Tejo_. A few years since +appeared, in a Madrid periodical, the _Semanario_, a series of letters +written by her, giving an account of the impressions received in a +journey from the Tagus to the Rhine, including a visit to England. Among +the subjects on which she has written, is the idea, still warmly +cherished in Spain, of uniting the entire peninsula under one +government. In an ably-conducted journal of Madrid, she has given +accounts of the poetesses of Spain, her contemporaries, with extracts +from their writings, and a kindly estimate of their respective merits. + +Her biographer speaks of her activity and efficiency in charitable +enterprises, her interest in the cause of education, her visits to the +primary schools of Madrid, encouraging and rewarding the pupils, and her +patronage of the _escuela de parvules_, or infant school at Badajoz, +established by a society of that city, with the design of improving the +education of the laboring class. + +It must have been not long after the publication of her poems, in 1852, +that Carolina Coronado became the wife of an American gentleman, Mr. +Horatio J. Perry, at one time our Secretary of Legation at the Court of +Madrid, afterward our _Charge d'Affaires_, and now, in 1863, again +Secretary of Legation. Amid the duties of a wife and mother, which she +fulfils with exemplary fidelity and grace, she has neither forgotten nor +forsaken the literary pursuits which have given her so high a +reputation. + + +Page 257 + +THE RUINS OF ITALICA. + +The poems of the Spanish author, Francisco de Rioja, who lived in the +first half of the seventeenth century, are few in number, but much +esteemed. His ode on the Ruins of Italica is one of the most admired of +these, but in the only collection of his poems which I have seen, it is +said that the concluding stanza, in the original copy, was deemed so +little worthy of the rest that it was purposely omitted in the +publication. Italica was a city founded by the Romans in the south of +Spain, the remains of which are still an object of interest. + + +Page 268. + +SELLA. + +Sella is the name given by the Vulgate to one of the wives of Lamech, +mentioned in the fourth chapter of the Book of Genesis, and called +Zillah in the corn-won English version of the Bible. + + +Page 282. + +HOMER'S ODYSSEY, BOOK V., TRANSLATED. + +It may be esteemed presumptuous in the author of this volume to attempt +a translation of any part of Homer in blank verse after that of Cowper. +It has always seemed to him, however, that Cowper's version had very +great defects. The style of Homer is simple, and he has been praised for +fire and rapidity of narrative. Does anybody find these qualities in +Cowper's Homer? If Cowper had rendered him into such English as he +employed in his "Task," there would be no reason to complain; but in +translating Homer he seems to have thought it necessary to use a +different style from that of his original work. Almost every sentence is +stiffened by some clumsy inversion; stately phrases are used when +simpler ones were at hand, and would have rendered the meaning of the +original better. The entire version has the appearance of being hammered +out with great labor, and as a whole it is cold and constrained; scarce +any thing seems spontaneous; it is only now and then that the translator +has caught the fervor of his author. Homer, of course, wrote in +idiomatic Greek, and, in order to produce either a true copy of the +original, or an agreeable poem, should have been translated into +idiomatic English. + +I am almost ashamed, after this censure of an author whom, in the main, +I admire as much as I do Cowper, to refer to my own translation of the +Fifth Book of the Odyssey. I desire barely to say that I have endeavored +to give the verses of the old Greek poet at least a simpler presentation +in English, and one more conformable to the genius of our language. + + +Page 315. + + _The mock-grape's blood-red banner_, etc. + +_Ampelopis_, mock-grape. I have here literally translated the botanical +name of the Virginia creeper--an appellation too cumbrous for verse. + + +Page 320. + +A BRIGHTER DAY. + +This poem was written shortly after the author's return from a visit to +Spain, and more than a twelvemonth before the overthrow of the +tyrannical government of Queen Isabella and the expulsion of the +Bourbons. It is not "from the Spanish" in the ordinary sense of the +phrase, but is an attempt to put into a poetic form sentiments and hopes +which the author frequently heard, during his visit to Spain, from the +lips of the natives. We are yet to see whether these expectations of an +enlightened government and national liberty are to become a reality +under the new order of things. + + +THE END. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Poetical Works of William Cullen Bryant, by +William Cullen Bryant + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT *** + +***** This file should be named 29700.txt or 29700.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/2/9/7/0/29700/ + +Produced by Chuck Greif, Patricia Ann Doyle Saumell and +the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at +http://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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