Lo! where the car of Day down slopes of flameOn burnished axle quits the drowsy skies!And as his snorting steeds of glowing brassRush 'neath the earth, a glimmering dust of goldFrom their fierce hoofs o'er heaven's azure meadsRolls to yon star that burns beneath the moon.With solemn tread and holy-stoled, star-bound,The Night steps in, sad votaress, like a nun,To pace lone corridors of th' ebon-archéd sky.How sad! how beautiful! her raven locksPale-filleted with stars that dance their sheenOn her deep, holy eyes, and woo to sleep,Sleep or the easeful slumber of white Death!How calm o'er this great water, in its flowSilent and vast, smoothes yon cold sister sphere,Her lucid chasteness feathering the wax-white foam!As o'er a troubled brow falls calm content:As clear-eyed chastity in this bleak worldTinges and softens all the darker dross.See, where the roses blow at the wood's edgeIn many a languid bloom, bowed to the moonAnd the dim river's lisp; sleep droops their lidsWith damask lashes trimmed and fragile rayed,Which the mad, frolic bee—rough paramour—So often kissed beneath th' enlivening sun.How cool the breezes touch the tired headWith unseen fingers long and soft! and thereFrom its white couch of thorn-tree blossoms sweet,Pillowed with one milk cluster, floating, swooning,Drops the low nocturne of a dreaming bird,Ave Maria, nun-like, slumb'ring sung.See, there the violet mound in many an eye,A deep-blue eye, meek, delicate, and sad,As Sorrow's own sad eyes, great with far dreams,When haltingly she bends o'er Lethe's wavesFalt'ring to drink, and falt'ring still remains,The Night with feet of moon-tinged mist swept o'erThem now, but as she passed she bent and kissedEach modest orb that selfless hung as tho'Thought-freighted low; then groped her train of jetWhich billowing by did merely waft the soundOf a brief gust to each wild violet,To kiss each eye and laugh; then shed a tearUpon each downward face which nestled there.She weeping from her silent vigil turns,As some pale mother from her cradled child,Frail, sick, and wan, with kisses warm and songsWooed to a peaceful ease and tranquil rest,When the rathe cock crows to the graying East.
Lo! where the car of Day down slopes of flameOn burnished axle quits the drowsy skies!And as his snorting steeds of glowing brassRush 'neath the earth, a glimmering dust of goldFrom their fierce hoofs o'er heaven's azure meadsRolls to yon star that burns beneath the moon.With solemn tread and holy-stoled, star-bound,The Night steps in, sad votaress, like a nun,To pace lone corridors of th' ebon-archéd sky.How sad! how beautiful! her raven locksPale-filleted with stars that dance their sheenOn her deep, holy eyes, and woo to sleep,Sleep or the easeful slumber of white Death!How calm o'er this great water, in its flowSilent and vast, smoothes yon cold sister sphere,Her lucid chasteness feathering the wax-white foam!As o'er a troubled brow falls calm content:As clear-eyed chastity in this bleak worldTinges and softens all the darker dross.
See, where the roses blow at the wood's edgeIn many a languid bloom, bowed to the moonAnd the dim river's lisp; sleep droops their lidsWith damask lashes trimmed and fragile rayed,Which the mad, frolic bee—rough paramour—So often kissed beneath th' enlivening sun.How cool the breezes touch the tired headWith unseen fingers long and soft! and thereFrom its white couch of thorn-tree blossoms sweet,Pillowed with one milk cluster, floating, swooning,Drops the low nocturne of a dreaming bird,Ave Maria, nun-like, slumb'ring sung.See, there the violet mound in many an eye,A deep-blue eye, meek, delicate, and sad,As Sorrow's own sad eyes, great with far dreams,When haltingly she bends o'er Lethe's wavesFalt'ring to drink, and falt'ring still remains,The Night with feet of moon-tinged mist swept o'erThem now, but as she passed she bent and kissedEach modest orb that selfless hung as tho'Thought-freighted low; then groped her train of jetWhich billowing by did merely waft the soundOf a brief gust to each wild violet,To kiss each eye and laugh; then shed a tearUpon each downward face which nestled there.
She weeping from her silent vigil turns,As some pale mother from her cradled child,Frail, sick, and wan, with kisses warm and songsWooed to a peaceful ease and tranquil rest,When the rathe cock crows to the graying East.
I.Mist on the mountain heightSilvery creeping;Incarnate beads of lightBloom-cradled sleeping,Dripped from the brow of Night.II.Shadows, and winds that riseOver the mountain;Stars in the spar that liesCold in the fountain,Pale as the quickened skies.III.Sheep in the wattled foldsDreamily bleating,Dim on the thistled wolds,Where, glad with meeting,Morn the thin Night enfolds.IV.Sleep on the moaning seaHushing his trouble;Rest on the cares that beHued in Life's bubble,Calm on the woes of me....V.Mist from the mountain heightHurriedly fleeting;Star in the locks of NightThrobbing and beating,Thrilled with the coming light.VI.Flocks on the musky strips;Pearl in the fountain;Winds from the forest's lips;Red on the mountain;Dawn from the Orient trips.
I.
Mist on the mountain heightSilvery creeping;Incarnate beads of lightBloom-cradled sleeping,Dripped from the brow of Night.
II.
Shadows, and winds that riseOver the mountain;Stars in the spar that liesCold in the fountain,Pale as the quickened skies.
III.
Sheep in the wattled foldsDreamily bleating,Dim on the thistled wolds,Where, glad with meeting,Morn the thin Night enfolds.
IV.
Sleep on the moaning seaHushing his trouble;Rest on the cares that beHued in Life's bubble,Calm on the woes of me....
V.
Mist from the mountain heightHurriedly fleeting;Star in the locks of NightThrobbing and beating,Thrilled with the coming light.
VI.
Flocks on the musky strips;Pearl in the fountain;Winds from the forest's lips;Red on the mountain;Dawn from the Orient trips.
I.Hotly burns the amaryllisWith its stars of red;Whitely rise the stately liliesFrom the lily bed;Withered shrinks the wax May-apple'Neath its parasol;Chilly dies the violet dappleIn its earthly hall.II.March is but a blust'ring liar,April a sad love,May a milkmaid from the byreFlirting in the grove.June is rich in many blossoms,She's the one I'll woo;Health swells in her sunny bosoms,She's my sweetheart true.
I.
Hotly burns the amaryllisWith its stars of red;Whitely rise the stately liliesFrom the lily bed;Withered shrinks the wax May-apple'Neath its parasol;Chilly dies the violet dappleIn its earthly hall.
II.
March is but a blust'ring liar,April a sad love,May a milkmaid from the byreFlirting in the grove.June is rich in many blossoms,She's the one I'll woo;Health swells in her sunny bosoms,She's my sweetheart true.
I.On a sheet of silver the morning-star layFresh, white as a baby child,And laughed and leaped in his lissome way,On my parterre of flowers smiled.For a morning-glory's spiral budOf shell-coned tallness slimStood ready to burst her delicate hoodAnd bloom on the dawning dim:A princess royal in purple bornTo beauty and pride in the balmy morn.II.And she shook her locks at the morning-starAnd her raiment scattered wide;Low laughed at a hollyhock's scimetar,Its jewels of buds to deride.The pomegranate near, with fingers of flame,The hot-faced geraniums nigh,Their proud heads bowed to the queenly dameFor they knew her state was high:The fuchsia like a bead of bloodBashfully blushed in her silvery hood.III.All wit that this child of the morning lightWas queen of the morn and them,That the orient star in his beams of whiteWas her prince in a diadem;For lavish he showered those pearls that flashAnd cluster the front of her smock;From his lordly fingers of rays did dashDown zephyrs her crib to rock.But a jessamine pale 'neath the arbor grew,Meek, selfless, and sweet, and a virgin true.IV.But the morning-glory disdained her birth,Of her chastity made a scorn:"I marvel," she said, "if thy mother earthWas not sick when thou wast born!Thou art pale as an infant an hour dead—Wan thing, dost weary our eye!"And she weakly laughed and stiffened her headAnd turned to her love i' the sky.But the jessamine turned to the rose besideWith a heavy glance and but sadly sighed.V.And the orient grew to a wealth of bars'Neath which foam-fires churned,And the princess proud saw her lord of starsIn a torrid furnace burned;And the giant of life with his breath of flameGlared down with one red eye,And 'neath his breath this gorgeous dameIn her diamonds did wilt and die;But the jessamine fragrant waxed purer with light;For my lady's bosom I culled it that night.
I.
On a sheet of silver the morning-star layFresh, white as a baby child,And laughed and leaped in his lissome way,On my parterre of flowers smiled.For a morning-glory's spiral budOf shell-coned tallness slimStood ready to burst her delicate hoodAnd bloom on the dawning dim:A princess royal in purple bornTo beauty and pride in the balmy morn.
II.
And she shook her locks at the morning-starAnd her raiment scattered wide;Low laughed at a hollyhock's scimetar,Its jewels of buds to deride.The pomegranate near, with fingers of flame,The hot-faced geraniums nigh,Their proud heads bowed to the queenly dameFor they knew her state was high:The fuchsia like a bead of bloodBashfully blushed in her silvery hood.
III.
All wit that this child of the morning lightWas queen of the morn and them,That the orient star in his beams of whiteWas her prince in a diadem;For lavish he showered those pearls that flashAnd cluster the front of her smock;From his lordly fingers of rays did dashDown zephyrs her crib to rock.But a jessamine pale 'neath the arbor grew,Meek, selfless, and sweet, and a virgin true.
IV.
But the morning-glory disdained her birth,Of her chastity made a scorn:"I marvel," she said, "if thy mother earthWas not sick when thou wast born!Thou art pale as an infant an hour dead—Wan thing, dost weary our eye!"And she weakly laughed and stiffened her headAnd turned to her love i' the sky.But the jessamine turned to the rose besideWith a heavy glance and but sadly sighed.
V.
And the orient grew to a wealth of bars'Neath which foam-fires churned,And the princess proud saw her lord of starsIn a torrid furnace burned;And the giant of life with his breath of flameGlared down with one red eye,And 'neath his breath this gorgeous dameIn her diamonds did wilt and die;But the jessamine fragrant waxed purer with light;For my lady's bosom I culled it that night.
A human skull in a church-yard lay;For the church was a wreck, and the tombstones oldOn the graves of their dead were rotting awayTo the like of their long-watched mould.And an heremite toad in this desolate seatHad made him an hermitage long agone,Where the ivy frail with its delicate feetCould creep o'er his cell of bone.And the ground was dark, and the springing dawn,When it struck from the tottering stones of each graveA glimmering silver, the dawn drops wanThis skull and its ivy would lave.* * * * * * *The night her crescent had thinly hungFrom a single star o'er the shattered wall,And its feeble light on the stone was flungWhere I sat to hear him call.And I heard this heremite toad as he sateIn the gloom of his ghastly hermitage,To himself and the gloom all hollowly prate,Like a misanthropic sage:"O, beauty is well and is wealth to all,But wealth without beautymakesfair;And beauty with wealth brings wooers tallWhom she snares in her golden hair."Tho' beauty be well and be wealth to all,And wealth without beauty draw men,Beauty must come to the vaulted wall,And what is wealth to her then?..."This skeleton face was beautiful erst;These sockets could mammonites sway;So she barter'd her beauty for gold accurs'd—But both have vanished away."But beauty is well when the mind it revealsMore beautiful is than the head;For beauty and wealth the tomb congeals,But the mind grows lovelier dead."And he blinked at the moon from his grinning cell,And the darnels and burdocks aroundBowed down in the night, and I murmured "Well!"For I deemed his judgment sound.
A human skull in a church-yard lay;For the church was a wreck, and the tombstones oldOn the graves of their dead were rotting awayTo the like of their long-watched mould.
And an heremite toad in this desolate seatHad made him an hermitage long agone,Where the ivy frail with its delicate feetCould creep o'er his cell of bone.
And the ground was dark, and the springing dawn,When it struck from the tottering stones of each graveA glimmering silver, the dawn drops wanThis skull and its ivy would lave.
* * * * * * *
The night her crescent had thinly hungFrom a single star o'er the shattered wall,And its feeble light on the stone was flungWhere I sat to hear him call.
And I heard this heremite toad as he sateIn the gloom of his ghastly hermitage,To himself and the gloom all hollowly prate,Like a misanthropic sage:
"O, beauty is well and is wealth to all,But wealth without beautymakesfair;And beauty with wealth brings wooers tallWhom she snares in her golden hair.
"Tho' beauty be well and be wealth to all,And wealth without beauty draw men,Beauty must come to the vaulted wall,And what is wealth to her then?...
"This skeleton face was beautiful erst;These sockets could mammonites sway;So she barter'd her beauty for gold accurs'd—But both have vanished away.
"But beauty is well when the mind it revealsMore beautiful is than the head;For beauty and wealth the tomb congeals,But the mind grows lovelier dead."
And he blinked at the moon from his grinning cell,And the darnels and burdocks aroundBowed down in the night, and I murmured "Well!"For I deemed his judgment sound.
I.Whiten, O whiten, ye clouds of fleece!Whiten like lilies floating above,Blown wild about like a flock of white geese!But never, O never; so cease! so cease!Never as white as the throat of my love!II.Blue-black night on the mountain peaks,Blacker the locks of my maiden love!Silvery star 'mid the evening streaksOver the torrent that flashes and breaks,Brighter the eyes of my laughing love!III.Horn of a new moon golden 'mid gold,Broken, fluted in the tarn's close skies;Shattered and beaten, wave-like and cold,Crisper my love's locks fold on fold,Cooler and brighter where dreaming she lies!IV.Silvery star o'er the precipice snow,Mist in the vale where the rivulet sings,Dropping from ledge to ledge below,Where we stood in the roseate glow,Softer the voice of her whisperings!V.Sound o' May winds in the blossoming trees,Sweeter the breeze my love's breath brings!Song of wild birds on the morning breeze,Song o' wild birds and murmur o' wild bees,Sweeter my love's voice when she sings!VI.To the star of dawning bathed with dew,Blow, moony Sylph, your bugle of gold!Blow thro' the hyaline over the blue,Blow from the sunset the morning lands thro',Let the star of love of our love be told!
I.
Whiten, O whiten, ye clouds of fleece!Whiten like lilies floating above,Blown wild about like a flock of white geese!But never, O never; so cease! so cease!Never as white as the throat of my love!
II.
Blue-black night on the mountain peaks,Blacker the locks of my maiden love!Silvery star 'mid the evening streaksOver the torrent that flashes and breaks,Brighter the eyes of my laughing love!
III.
Horn of a new moon golden 'mid gold,Broken, fluted in the tarn's close skies;Shattered and beaten, wave-like and cold,Crisper my love's locks fold on fold,Cooler and brighter where dreaming she lies!
IV.
Silvery star o'er the precipice snow,Mist in the vale where the rivulet sings,Dropping from ledge to ledge below,Where we stood in the roseate glow,Softer the voice of her whisperings!
V.
Sound o' May winds in the blossoming trees,Sweeter the breeze my love's breath brings!Song of wild birds on the morning breeze,Song o' wild birds and murmur o' wild bees,Sweeter my love's voice when she sings!
VI.
To the star of dawning bathed with dew,Blow, moony Sylph, your bugle of gold!Blow thro' the hyaline over the blue,Blow from the sunset the morning lands thro',Let the star of love of our love be told!
Five rotten gables look uponWan rotting roses and rank weeds,Old iron gates on posts of stone,Dim dingles where the vermin breeds.Five rotten gables black appearAbove bleak yews and cedars sad,And thence they see the sleepy mereIn lazy lilies clad.At morn the slender dragon-fly,A burnished ray of light, darts past;The knightly bee comes charging byWinding a surly blast.At noon amid the fervid leavesThe quarreling insects gossip hot,And thro' the grass the spider weavesA weft with silver shot.At eve the hermit cricket rearsHis vesper song in shrillful shrieks;The bat a blund'ring voyage steersBeneath the sunset's streaks.The slimy worm gnaws at the bud,The Katydid talks dreamily;The sullen owl in monkish hoodChants in the old beech tree.At night the blist'ring dew comes downAnd lies as white as autumn frostUpon the green, upon the brown,You'd deem each bush a ghost.The crescent moon with golden prowPlows thro' the frothy cloud and 's gone;A large blue star comes out to glowAbove the house alone.The oozy lilies lie asleepOn glist'ring beds of welt'ring leaves;The starlight through the trees doth peep,And fairy garments weaves.And in the mere, all lily fair,A maiden's corpse floats evermore,Naked, and in her raven hairWrapped o'er and o'er.And when the clock of yon old townPeals midnight o'er the fenny heath,In haunted chambers up and downMarches the pomp of Death:And stiff, stiff silks make rustlings,Sweep sable satins murmuringly;And then a voice so sweetly singsAn olden melody.And foam-white creatures flit and danceAlong the dusty galleries,With long, loose locks that strangely glanceAnd demon-glaring eyes.But in one chamber, when the moonCasts her cold silver wreath on wreath,Holds there proud state on ghastly throneThe skeleton Death.
Five rotten gables look uponWan rotting roses and rank weeds,Old iron gates on posts of stone,Dim dingles where the vermin breeds.Five rotten gables black appearAbove bleak yews and cedars sad,And thence they see the sleepy mereIn lazy lilies clad.
At morn the slender dragon-fly,A burnished ray of light, darts past;The knightly bee comes charging byWinding a surly blast.At noon amid the fervid leavesThe quarreling insects gossip hot,And thro' the grass the spider weavesA weft with silver shot.
At eve the hermit cricket rearsHis vesper song in shrillful shrieks;The bat a blund'ring voyage steersBeneath the sunset's streaks.The slimy worm gnaws at the bud,The Katydid talks dreamily;The sullen owl in monkish hoodChants in the old beech tree.
At night the blist'ring dew comes downAnd lies as white as autumn frostUpon the green, upon the brown,You'd deem each bush a ghost.The crescent moon with golden prowPlows thro' the frothy cloud and 's gone;A large blue star comes out to glowAbove the house alone.
The oozy lilies lie asleepOn glist'ring beds of welt'ring leaves;The starlight through the trees doth peep,And fairy garments weaves.And in the mere, all lily fair,A maiden's corpse floats evermore,Naked, and in her raven hairWrapped o'er and o'er.
And when the clock of yon old townPeals midnight o'er the fenny heath,In haunted chambers up and downMarches the pomp of Death:And stiff, stiff silks make rustlings,Sweep sable satins murmuringly;And then a voice so sweetly singsAn olden melody.
And foam-white creatures flit and danceAlong the dusty galleries,With long, loose locks that strangely glanceAnd demon-glaring eyes.But in one chamber, when the moonCasts her cold silver wreath on wreath,Holds there proud state on ghastly throneThe skeleton Death.
Hear you r o music in the creaksMade by the sallow grasshopper,Who in the hot weeds sharply breaksThe mellow dryness with his cheer?Or did you by the hearthstones hearThe cricket's kind, shrill strain when frostWorked mysteries of silver nearUpon the casement's panes, and lostWithout the gate-post seemed a sheeted ghost?Or through the dank, dim Springtide's nightGreen minstrels of the marshlands tuneTheir hoarse lyres in the pale twilight,Hailing the sickle of the moonFrom flag-thronged pools that glassed her lune?Or in the Summer, dry and loud,The hard cicada whirr aboonHis long lay in a poplar's cloud,When the thin heat rose wraith-like in a shroud?The cloud that lids the naked moon,And smites the myriad leaves with nightOf stormy lashes, livid strewnWith veins of branched and splintered light;The fruitful glebe with blossoms white,The thistle's purple plume; the tearsPearling the matin buds' delight,Contain a something, it appears,'Neath their real selves—a poetry that cheers.Nor scoff at those who on the woldSee fairies whirling in the shineOf prodigal moons, whose lavish goldPaves wood-ways, forests wild with vine,When all the wilderness with wineOf tipsy dew is dazed; nor sayOur God's restricted to confineHis wonders solely to the day,That yields the abstract tangible to clay.Ponder the entrance of the MornWhen from her rubric forehead farShines one clean star, and the dead tarn,The wooded river's red as war:Where arid splinters of the scarLock horns above a blue abyss,How roses prank each icy bar,While piled aloft the mountains press,Fling dawn below from many a hoary tress.The jutting crags, all stubborn-veinedWith iron life, where eaglets screamIn dizzy flocks, and cleave the stainedMist-rainbows of the mountain stream;Thus you will drink the thickest creamOf nature if you do not scanThe bald external; and must deemA plan existent in a plan—As life in thrifty trees or soul in man.
Hear you r o music in the creaksMade by the sallow grasshopper,Who in the hot weeds sharply breaksThe mellow dryness with his cheer?Or did you by the hearthstones hearThe cricket's kind, shrill strain when frostWorked mysteries of silver nearUpon the casement's panes, and lostWithout the gate-post seemed a sheeted ghost?
Or through the dank, dim Springtide's nightGreen minstrels of the marshlands tuneTheir hoarse lyres in the pale twilight,Hailing the sickle of the moonFrom flag-thronged pools that glassed her lune?Or in the Summer, dry and loud,The hard cicada whirr aboonHis long lay in a poplar's cloud,When the thin heat rose wraith-like in a shroud?
The cloud that lids the naked moon,And smites the myriad leaves with nightOf stormy lashes, livid strewnWith veins of branched and splintered light;The fruitful glebe with blossoms white,The thistle's purple plume; the tearsPearling the matin buds' delight,Contain a something, it appears,'Neath their real selves—a poetry that cheers.
Nor scoff at those who on the woldSee fairies whirling in the shineOf prodigal moons, whose lavish goldPaves wood-ways, forests wild with vine,When all the wilderness with wineOf tipsy dew is dazed; nor sayOur God's restricted to confineHis wonders solely to the day,That yields the abstract tangible to clay.
Ponder the entrance of the MornWhen from her rubric forehead farShines one clean star, and the dead tarn,The wooded river's red as war:Where arid splinters of the scarLock horns above a blue abyss,How roses prank each icy bar,While piled aloft the mountains press,Fling dawn below from many a hoary tress.
The jutting crags, all stubborn-veinedWith iron life, where eaglets screamIn dizzy flocks, and cleave the stainedMist-rainbows of the mountain stream;Thus you will drink the thickest creamOf nature if you do not scanThe bald external; and must deemA plan existent in a plan—As life in thrifty trees or soul in man.
Athwart a sky of brass rich ribs of gold;A bullion bulk the wide Ohio lies;Beneath the sunset, billowing manifold,The purple hill-tops rise.And lo! the crescent of a crystal moon,And great cloud-feathers flushed with crimson lightDrifting above the pureness of her lune,Rent from the wings of night.A crescent boat slips o'er the burnished stream;A silver wake, that broadens far behind,Follows in ripples, and the paddles gleamAgainst the evening wind.So, in this solitude and evening hush,Again to me the Old Kentucky gloomsBehold the red man lurking in yon bushIn paint and eagle plumes.And now the breaking of the brittle brush—An altered forehead hirsute swells in view,And now comes stealing down the river's gushThe dip of the canoe.The wigwams glimmer in night's settling waves,And, wildly clad, around the camp-fire's glowSit long-haired chieftains 'mid their wily braves,Each grasping his war-bow.But now yon boat on fading waters fades;The ostrich-feathered clouds have lost their light,And from the West, like somber sachem shades,Gallop the shades of night.The broad Ohio wavers 'neath the stars,And many murmurs whisper 'mid the woods—Tumultuous mournings of dead warriorsFor their lost solitudes.And like a silver curl th' Ohio liesAmong the earth's luxuriance of hair;Majestic as she met the red man's eyes—As beautiful and fair.No marvel that the warrior's love waxed flameFighting for thee, Kentucky, till he woundInseparably 'round thee that old nameOf dark and bloody ground!But peace to those wild braves whose bones are thine!And peace to those rude pioneers whose moonOf glory rose, 'mid stars of lesser shine,In name of Daniel Boone!"Peace! peace!" the lips of all thy forests roar;The rivers mutter peace unto thy strand:Thy past is dead, and let us name thee o'er,The hospitable land!
Athwart a sky of brass rich ribs of gold;A bullion bulk the wide Ohio lies;Beneath the sunset, billowing manifold,The purple hill-tops rise.
And lo! the crescent of a crystal moon,And great cloud-feathers flushed with crimson lightDrifting above the pureness of her lune,Rent from the wings of night.
A crescent boat slips o'er the burnished stream;A silver wake, that broadens far behind,Follows in ripples, and the paddles gleamAgainst the evening wind.
So, in this solitude and evening hush,Again to me the Old Kentucky gloomsBehold the red man lurking in yon bushIn paint and eagle plumes.
And now the breaking of the brittle brush—An altered forehead hirsute swells in view,And now comes stealing down the river's gushThe dip of the canoe.
The wigwams glimmer in night's settling waves,And, wildly clad, around the camp-fire's glowSit long-haired chieftains 'mid their wily braves,Each grasping his war-bow.
But now yon boat on fading waters fades;The ostrich-feathered clouds have lost their light,And from the West, like somber sachem shades,Gallop the shades of night.
The broad Ohio wavers 'neath the stars,And many murmurs whisper 'mid the woods—Tumultuous mournings of dead warriorsFor their lost solitudes.
And like a silver curl th' Ohio liesAmong the earth's luxuriance of hair;Majestic as she met the red man's eyes—As beautiful and fair.
No marvel that the warrior's love waxed flameFighting for thee, Kentucky, till he woundInseparably 'round thee that old nameOf dark and bloody ground!
But peace to those wild braves whose bones are thine!And peace to those rude pioneers whose moonOf glory rose, 'mid stars of lesser shine,In name of Daniel Boone!
"Peace! peace!" the lips of all thy forests roar;The rivers mutter peace unto thy strand:Thy past is dead, and let us name thee o'er,The hospitable land!
Here on this jutting headland, where the treesSpread a dusk carpet for the sun to castAnd count his golden guineas on, we'll stay;For hence is the best prospect of the Falls,Whose roar no more astounds the startled ear,As when we bent and marked it from the bridgeSeething beneath and bounding like a steed—A tameless steed with mane of flying spray—Between the pillars rising sheer above.But mark how soft its clamor now is grown,Incessant rush like that of vernal grovesWhen, like some sweet surprise, a wand'ring wind,Precursor of the coming rain, rides downFrom a gray cloud and sets their leafy tonguesA-gabbing of the fresh, impending shower.There runs the dam, and where its dark line cutsThe river's sheen, already you may seeThe ripples glancing to the fervid sun,As if the waves had couched a hundred spearsAnd tossed a hundred plumes of fleecy foamIn answer to the challenge of the Falls,Blown on his bugle from the battlementsOf his subaqueous city's rocky walls.And now you see their maddened coursers charge,Hear wavy hoof-strokes on the jagged stones,That pave the pathway of the current, beat,While billowing they ride to ringing lists,With shout and yell, and toss their hundred plumes,And shock their riply spears in tournamentUpon the opposing billows' shining shields.Now sinks a pennon, but 'tis raised again;There falls or breaks a spear or sparkling sword;A shattered helmet flies in flakes of foamAnd on the frightened wind hisses away:And o'er it all you hear the sound, the roarOf waves that fall in onset or that strive.On, on they come, a beautiful, mad troop!On, on, along the sandy banks that flingRed pebble-freckled arms far out to stayThe riotous waves that ride and hurl alongIn casque and shield and wind their wat'ry horns.And there where thousand oily eddies whirl,And turn and turn like busy wheels of steel,Is the Big Eddy, whose deep bottom noneAs yet have felt with sounding plummet-line.Like a huge giant, wily in its strength,The Eddy lies; and bending from the shoreThe spotted sycamores have looked and looked,Watching his motions as a school boy mightA sleeping serpent coiled upon his path.So long they've watched that their old backs have grownHump'd, gnarl'd, and crooked, nor seem they this to heed,But gaze and gaze, and from the glossy wavesTheir images stare back their wonderment.Mayhap they've seen the guardian Genius lieAt its dark bottom in an oozy caveOf shattered rock, recumbent on his maceOf mineral; his locks of dripping greenCircling a crown of ore; his fishy eyesDull with the monotony of his aqueous realms.But when the storm's abroad and smites the wavesWith stinging lashes of the myriad rain,Or scars with thunder some ancestral oak,Sire of a forest, then he wakes in wrath,And on the dark foundations of the streamStands monarch of the flood in iron crown,And murmurs till the tempest fiends aboveStand stark with awe, and all the eddy breaksTo waves like those whose round and murky bulks.Ribbed white with foam, wallow like battened swineAlong yon ridge of ragged rock o'erstrewnWith petrifactions of Time's earliest dawn;Mollusks and trilobites and honey-combsOf coral white; and here and there a massOf what seems writhing reptiles there convolved,And in one moment when the change did come,Which made and unmade continents and seas,That teemed and groaned with dire monstrosities,Had froze their glossy spines to sable stones.There where uprises a dun knoll o'erstrewnWith black and rotten stumps in the mid river,Erst rose an island green and beautifulWith willows, beeches, dappled sycamores;Corn Island, on whose rich and fertile soilThe early pioneers a colonyAttempted once to found, ere ever thisFair "City of the Falls"—now echoing toThe tingling bustle of its busy trade—Was dreamed of. Here the woodman builtHis rude log cabin; here he sowed his maize;Here saw it tassel 'neath the Summer's smile,And glance like ranks of feathered Indians thro'The misty vistas of the broken woods;Here reaped and sheaved its wealth of ivory earsWhen Autumn came like a brown Indian maidTripping from the pink sunset o'er the hills,That blushed for love and cast beneath her feetUntold of gold in leaves and yellow fruit.Here lived the pioneer and here he died,And mingled his rough dust with the raw earthOf that long isle which now disparted stands,And nothing save a bed of limestone rock,—Where in the quarry you may see the blastSpout heavenward the dust and dirt and stone,And flap and pound its echoes 'round the hillsLike giant strokes of some huge airy hammer,—And that lone mound of stumpy earth to showThat there once stood an isle as rich and fairAs any isle that rises up to kissThe sun and dream in tropic seas of balm.There lies the other half of what was onceCorn Island; a broad channel flows between.And this low half, mantled with a dwarf growthOf what was once high brakes and forest land,Goose Island now is named. In the dim morn,Ere yet the East assumes her faintest blush.Here may you hear the melancholy snipePiping, or see her paddling in the poolsThat splash the low bed of the rocky isle.Once here the Indian stole in natural craftFrom brush to brush, his head plumes like a birdFlutt'ring and nodding 'mid the undergrowth;In his brown hand the pliant, polished bow,And at his back his gaudy quiver filledWith tufted arrows headed with blue flint.And while the deep flamingo colored WestFlamed on his ruddy cheek its airy fire,Strung his quick bow and thro' the gray wild goose,That rose with clamor from the rushy pool,Launched a fleet barb, crested with quills—perchancePlucked yestere'en from its dead mate's gray wingTo decorate the painted shaft that shouldDabble to-day their white in its mate's blood;—It falling, gasping at its moccasined feet,Its wild life breathed away, while the glad braveWhooped to the sunset, and yon faint blue hillsAnswered his exultation with a whoop.
Here on this jutting headland, where the treesSpread a dusk carpet for the sun to castAnd count his golden guineas on, we'll stay;For hence is the best prospect of the Falls,Whose roar no more astounds the startled ear,As when we bent and marked it from the bridgeSeething beneath and bounding like a steed—A tameless steed with mane of flying spray—Between the pillars rising sheer above.But mark how soft its clamor now is grown,Incessant rush like that of vernal grovesWhen, like some sweet surprise, a wand'ring wind,Precursor of the coming rain, rides downFrom a gray cloud and sets their leafy tonguesA-gabbing of the fresh, impending shower.
There runs the dam, and where its dark line cutsThe river's sheen, already you may seeThe ripples glancing to the fervid sun,As if the waves had couched a hundred spearsAnd tossed a hundred plumes of fleecy foamIn answer to the challenge of the Falls,Blown on his bugle from the battlementsOf his subaqueous city's rocky walls.And now you see their maddened coursers charge,Hear wavy hoof-strokes on the jagged stones,That pave the pathway of the current, beat,While billowing they ride to ringing lists,With shout and yell, and toss their hundred plumes,And shock their riply spears in tournamentUpon the opposing billows' shining shields.Now sinks a pennon, but 'tis raised again;There falls or breaks a spear or sparkling sword;A shattered helmet flies in flakes of foamAnd on the frightened wind hisses away:And o'er it all you hear the sound, the roarOf waves that fall in onset or that strive.
On, on they come, a beautiful, mad troop!On, on, along the sandy banks that flingRed pebble-freckled arms far out to stayThe riotous waves that ride and hurl alongIn casque and shield and wind their wat'ry horns.
And there where thousand oily eddies whirl,And turn and turn like busy wheels of steel,Is the Big Eddy, whose deep bottom noneAs yet have felt with sounding plummet-line.Like a huge giant, wily in its strength,The Eddy lies; and bending from the shoreThe spotted sycamores have looked and looked,Watching his motions as a school boy mightA sleeping serpent coiled upon his path.So long they've watched that their old backs have grownHump'd, gnarl'd, and crooked, nor seem they this to heed,But gaze and gaze, and from the glossy wavesTheir images stare back their wonderment.Mayhap they've seen the guardian Genius lieAt its dark bottom in an oozy caveOf shattered rock, recumbent on his maceOf mineral; his locks of dripping greenCircling a crown of ore; his fishy eyesDull with the monotony of his aqueous realms.
But when the storm's abroad and smites the wavesWith stinging lashes of the myriad rain,Or scars with thunder some ancestral oak,Sire of a forest, then he wakes in wrath,And on the dark foundations of the streamStands monarch of the flood in iron crown,And murmurs till the tempest fiends aboveStand stark with awe, and all the eddy breaksTo waves like those whose round and murky bulks.Ribbed white with foam, wallow like battened swineAlong yon ridge of ragged rock o'erstrewnWith petrifactions of Time's earliest dawn;Mollusks and trilobites and honey-combsOf coral white; and here and there a massOf what seems writhing reptiles there convolved,And in one moment when the change did come,Which made and unmade continents and seas,That teemed and groaned with dire monstrosities,Had froze their glossy spines to sable stones.
There where uprises a dun knoll o'erstrewnWith black and rotten stumps in the mid river,Erst rose an island green and beautifulWith willows, beeches, dappled sycamores;Corn Island, on whose rich and fertile soilThe early pioneers a colonyAttempted once to found, ere ever thisFair "City of the Falls"—now echoing toThe tingling bustle of its busy trade—Was dreamed of. Here the woodman builtHis rude log cabin; here he sowed his maize;Here saw it tassel 'neath the Summer's smile,And glance like ranks of feathered Indians thro'The misty vistas of the broken woods;Here reaped and sheaved its wealth of ivory earsWhen Autumn came like a brown Indian maidTripping from the pink sunset o'er the hills,That blushed for love and cast beneath her feetUntold of gold in leaves and yellow fruit.Here lived the pioneer and here he died,And mingled his rough dust with the raw earthOf that long isle which now disparted stands,And nothing save a bed of limestone rock,—Where in the quarry you may see the blastSpout heavenward the dust and dirt and stone,And flap and pound its echoes 'round the hillsLike giant strokes of some huge airy hammer,—And that lone mound of stumpy earth to showThat there once stood an isle as rich and fairAs any isle that rises up to kissThe sun and dream in tropic seas of balm.
There lies the other half of what was onceCorn Island; a broad channel flows between.And this low half, mantled with a dwarf growthOf what was once high brakes and forest land,Goose Island now is named. In the dim morn,Ere yet the East assumes her faintest blush.Here may you hear the melancholy snipePiping, or see her paddling in the poolsThat splash the low bed of the rocky isle.
Once here the Indian stole in natural craftFrom brush to brush, his head plumes like a birdFlutt'ring and nodding 'mid the undergrowth;In his brown hand the pliant, polished bow,And at his back his gaudy quiver filledWith tufted arrows headed with blue flint.And while the deep flamingo colored WestFlamed on his ruddy cheek its airy fire,Strung his quick bow and thro' the gray wild goose,That rose with clamor from the rushy pool,Launched a fleet barb, crested with quills—perchancePlucked yestere'en from its dead mate's gray wingTo decorate the painted shaft that shouldDabble to-day their white in its mate's blood;—It falling, gasping at its moccasined feet,Its wild life breathed away, while the glad braveWhooped to the sunset, and yon faint blue hillsAnswered his exultation with a whoop.
There is the ruined water-millWith its rotten wheel, that stands as stillAs its image that sleeps in the glassy poolWhere the water snake coils dim and coolIn the flaky light of the setting sunShowering his gold in bullion.And the languid daisies nod and shineBy the trickling fall in a starry line;The drowsy daisies with eyes of gold—Large as the eyes of a queen of oldDreaming of revels by day and night—Coyly o'erdropped with lashes white.The hawk sails high in the sleepy air,The buzzard on wings as strong and fairCircles and stoops 'neath the lazy cloud,And crows in the wood are cawing aloud.Will ye enter with me this ruined millWhen the shades of night its chambers fill,Stand and lurk in the heavy darkLike scowling fiends, each eye a spark,A spark of moonlight shot thro' gloom?While a moist, rank, stifling, dead perfumeOf rotting timbers and rotting grain,And roofs all warped with the sun and rainMakes of the stagnant air a cell,In the haunted chambers broods like a spell?A spell that makes the awed mind runTo the thoughts of a hidden skeleton,A skeleton ghastly and livid and lank'Neath the mossy floors in a cellar dank,Grinning and glow'ring, moisture wet,In its hollow eyes a mad regret.Or with me enter when the evening starIn the saffron heaven is sparkling afar,In all its glory of light divine,Like a diamond bathed in kingly wine.Or when the heavens hang wild and gray,And the chilly clouds are hurrying awayLike the driven leaves of an Autumn day;When the night-rain sounds on the sodden roof,And the spider lulls in his dusty woof;When the wet wind whines like a hound that's lashed,'Round the crazy angles strongly dashed,Or wails in a cranny—'tis she who playsOn her airy harp sad, olden lays,And sings and moans in a room aboveOf a vague despair and a blighted love.You will see her sit on the shattered sill,Her sable tresses dropped loose at will;And down in the West 'neath the storm's black bankA belt of wild green, cold, livid, and lank,And a crescent moon, like a demon's barque,Into the green dips a horn from the dark,While a lurid light of ghoulish goldOn the eldrich creature falls strangely cold.Her insane eyes bulge mad with desire,And her face's beauty is darkly dire;For she sees in the pool, that solidly lies'Neath the mill's great wheel and the stormy skies,Her murdered lover lie faint and white,A haunting horror, a loadstone's mightDrawing and dragging her soul from its seatTo the glimmering ice of his ghastly feet.
There is the ruined water-millWith its rotten wheel, that stands as stillAs its image that sleeps in the glassy poolWhere the water snake coils dim and coolIn the flaky light of the setting sunShowering his gold in bullion.And the languid daisies nod and shineBy the trickling fall in a starry line;The drowsy daisies with eyes of gold—Large as the eyes of a queen of oldDreaming of revels by day and night—Coyly o'erdropped with lashes white.The hawk sails high in the sleepy air,The buzzard on wings as strong and fairCircles and stoops 'neath the lazy cloud,And crows in the wood are cawing aloud.
Will ye enter with me this ruined millWhen the shades of night its chambers fill,Stand and lurk in the heavy darkLike scowling fiends, each eye a spark,A spark of moonlight shot thro' gloom?While a moist, rank, stifling, dead perfumeOf rotting timbers and rotting grain,And roofs all warped with the sun and rainMakes of the stagnant air a cell,In the haunted chambers broods like a spell?A spell that makes the awed mind runTo the thoughts of a hidden skeleton,A skeleton ghastly and livid and lank'Neath the mossy floors in a cellar dank,Grinning and glow'ring, moisture wet,In its hollow eyes a mad regret.
Or with me enter when the evening starIn the saffron heaven is sparkling afar,In all its glory of light divine,Like a diamond bathed in kingly wine.Or when the heavens hang wild and gray,And the chilly clouds are hurrying awayLike the driven leaves of an Autumn day;When the night-rain sounds on the sodden roof,And the spider lulls in his dusty woof;When the wet wind whines like a hound that's lashed,'Round the crazy angles strongly dashed,Or wails in a cranny—'tis she who playsOn her airy harp sad, olden lays,And sings and moans in a room aboveOf a vague despair and a blighted love.You will see her sit on the shattered sill,Her sable tresses dropped loose at will;And down in the West 'neath the storm's black bankA belt of wild green, cold, livid, and lank,And a crescent moon, like a demon's barque,Into the green dips a horn from the dark,While a lurid light of ghoulish goldOn the eldrich creature falls strangely cold.Her insane eyes bulge mad with desire,And her face's beauty is darkly dire;For she sees in the pool, that solidly lies'Neath the mill's great wheel and the stormy skies,Her murdered lover lie faint and white,A haunting horror, a loadstone's mightDrawing and dragging her soul from its seatTo the glimmering ice of his ghastly feet.
White artist he, who, breezeless nights,From tingling stars jocosely whirls,A harlequin in spangled tights,His wand a pot of pounded pearls.The field a hasty pallet; for,In thin or thick, with daub and streak,It stretches from the barn-gate's barTo the bleached ribbon of the creek.A great geometer is he;For, on the creek's diaphanous silk,Sphere, cone, and star exquisitelyHe's drawn in crystal lines of milk.Most delicate, his talent keenOn casement panes he lavishes,In many a Lilliputian sceneOf vague white hives and milky bees,That sparkling in still swarms delight,Or bow the jeweled bells of flowers;—Of dim, deep landscapes of the night,Hanging down limpid domes quaint showersOf feathery stars and meteorsAbove an upland's glimmering ways,Where gambol 'neath the feverish starsThe erl-king and the fleecy fays.Or last, one arabesque of ferns,Chrysanthemums and mistletoe,And death-pale roses bunched in urnsThat with an innate glory glow.In leafless woodlands saturnine,Where reckless winds, like goblins mad,Screech swinging in each barren vine,His wagship shapes a lesson sad:When slyly touched by his white handOf Midas-magic, forests oldDariuses of pomp then standBarbaric-crowned with living gold....Patrician state, plebeian bloodSoon foster sybarites, and they,Squand'ring their riches, wood by wood,Die palsied wrecks debauched and gray.
White artist he, who, breezeless nights,From tingling stars jocosely whirls,A harlequin in spangled tights,His wand a pot of pounded pearls.
The field a hasty pallet; for,In thin or thick, with daub and streak,It stretches from the barn-gate's barTo the bleached ribbon of the creek.
A great geometer is he;For, on the creek's diaphanous silk,Sphere, cone, and star exquisitelyHe's drawn in crystal lines of milk.
Most delicate, his talent keenOn casement panes he lavishes,In many a Lilliputian sceneOf vague white hives and milky bees,
That sparkling in still swarms delight,Or bow the jeweled bells of flowers;—Of dim, deep landscapes of the night,Hanging down limpid domes quaint showers
Of feathery stars and meteorsAbove an upland's glimmering ways,Where gambol 'neath the feverish starsThe erl-king and the fleecy fays.
Or last, one arabesque of ferns,Chrysanthemums and mistletoe,And death-pale roses bunched in urnsThat with an innate glory glow.
In leafless woodlands saturnine,Where reckless winds, like goblins mad,Screech swinging in each barren vine,His wagship shapes a lesson sad:
When slyly touched by his white handOf Midas-magic, forests oldDariuses of pomp then standBarbaric-crowned with living gold....
Patrician state, plebeian bloodSoon foster sybarites, and they,Squand'ring their riches, wood by wood,Die palsied wrecks debauched and gray.