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 thoughtIn forms so lovely, and hues so bright?Hear what the gray-haired woodmen tellOf 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 stirThe 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 whereThe 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 trunkOf 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 hillA 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 seenTo 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 movesWhere 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 gleamBetwixt 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 floorOf 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 starLooks forth on the night as the hour grows late.He heeds not the snow-wreaths, lifted and castFrom a thousand boughs, by the rising blast.His thoughts are alone of those who dwellIn the halls of frost and snow,Who pass where the crystal domes upswellFrom 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 glenThin shadows swim in the faint moonshine,And take a ghastly likeness of men,As if the slain by the wintry stormsCame 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 eyesOn 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 seemsLike a drowsy murmur heard in dreams.The glittering threshold is scarcely passed,When there gathers and wraps him roundA 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 seesHuge shadows and gushes of light that danceOn 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 starIs scarcely set and the day is far.They had found at eve the dreaming oneBy the base of that icy steep,When over his stiffening limbs begunThe deadly slumber of frost to creep,And they cherished the pale and breathless form,Till the stagnant blood ran free and warm.
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 wearA lasting token on my hand of one so passing fair!""Thou art a flatterer like the rest, but wouldst thou take with meA 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 meetThat 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 foundThe 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.
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 byFrom 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 runThrough the dark woods like frighted deer.Ah! must thy mighty breath, that wakesInsect and bird, and flower and tree,From the low-trodden dust, and makesTheir daily gladness, pass from me—Pass, pulse by pulse, till o'er the groundThese limbs, now strong, shall creep with pain,And this fair world of sight and soundSeem fading into night again?The things, ohLife! thou quickenest, allStrive upward toward the broad bright sky,Upward and outward, and they fallBack 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 feetThere wait, to take the place I fillIn the sweet air and sunshine sweet.Well, I have had my turn, have beenRaised from the darkness of the clod,And for a glorious moment seenThe 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 grieveTo see me taken from thy love,Wilt seek my grave at Sabbath eveAnd weep, and scatter flowers above.Thy little heart will soon be healed,And being shall be bliss, till thouTo younger forms of life must yieldThe place thou fill'st with beauty now.When we descend to dust again,Where will the final dwelling beOf thought and all its memories then,My love for thee, and thine for me?
Earth's children cleave to Earth—her frailDecaying children dread decay.Yon wreath of mist that leaves the valeAnd lessens in the morning ray—Look, how, by mountain rivulet,It lingers as it upward creeps,And clings to fern and copsewood setAlong the green and dewy steeps:Clings to the flowery kalmia, clingsTo precipices fringed with grass,Dark maples where the wood-thrush sings,And bowers of fragrant sassafras.Yet all in vain—it passes stillFrom hold to hold, it cannot stay,And in the very beams that fillThe world with glory, wastes away,Till, parting from the mountain's brow,It vanishes from human eye,And that which sprung of earth is nowA portion of the glorious sky.
Upon a rock that, high and sheer,Rose from the mountain's breast,A weary hunter of the deerHad sat him down to rest,And bared to the soft summer airHis hot red brow and sweaty hair.All dim in haze the mountains lay,With dimmer vales between;And rivers glimmered on their wayBy forests faintly seen;While ever rose a murmuring soundFrom brooks below and bees around.He listened, till he seemed to hearA strain, so soft and low,That whether in the mind or earThe 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 spreadBefore thy very feet,And those whom thou wouldst gladly seeAre 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 airHad gathered into shapes so fair.Groves freshened as he looked, and flowersShowed bright on rocky bank,And fountains welled beneath the bowers,Where deer and pheasant drank.He saw the glittering streams, he heardThe rustling bough and twittering bird.And friends, the dead, in boyhood dearThere lived and walked again,And there was one who many a yearWithin 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 cameRight toward his resting-place,And stretched her hand and called his nameWith that sweet smiling face.Forward with fixed and eager eyes,The hunter leaned in act to rise:Forward he leaned, and headlong downPlunged 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.
I.
Here halt we our march, and pitch our tentOn the rugged forest-ground,And light our fire with the branches rentBy 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 glidesWhere the fire-flies light the brake;A ruddier juice the Briton hidesIn his fortress by the lake.Build high the fire, till the panther leapFrom his lofty perch in flight,And we'll strengthen our weary arms with sleepFor the deeds of to-morrow night.
"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 wingèd 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 hornèd 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 stillSwept the grim cloud along the hill.
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 begunTo 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 tellWhen 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 tryTo climb the bed on which the infant lay.And there he sits alive, and gayly shakesIn his full hands the blossoms red and white,And smiles with winking eyes, like one who wakesFrom long deep slumbers at the morning light.
Once this soft turf, this rivulet's sands,Were trampled by a hurrying crowd,And fiery hearts and armèd handsEncountered in the battle-cloud.Ah! never shall the land forgetHow 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 byThe 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 thouWho minglest in the harder strifeFor truths which men receive not now,Thy warfare only ends with life.A friendless warfare! lingering longThrough weary day and weary year,A wild and many-weaponed throngHang 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 pealedThe blast of triumph o'er thy grave.
How shall I know thee in the sphere which keepsThe disembodied spirits of the dead,When all of thee that time could wither sleepsAnd perishes among the dust we tread?For I shall feel the sting of ceaseless painIf there I meet thy gentle presence not;Nor hear the voice I love, nor read againIn 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 willIn cheerful homage to the rule of right,And lovest all, and renderest good for ill.For me, the sordid cares in which I dwellShrink and consume my heart, as heat the scroll;And wrath has left its scar—that fire of hellHas 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 becomeThy fit companion in that land of bliss?
'Tis said, when Schiller's death drew nigh,The wish possessed his mighty mind,To wander forth wherever lieThe 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 darkFalse Malay, uttering gentle words.How could he rest? even then he trodThe threshold of the world unknown;Already, from the seat of God,A ray upon his garments shone;—Shone and awoke the strong desireFor love and knowledge reached not here,Till, freed by death, his soul of fireSprang to a fairer, ampler sphere.
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 wearNo stain of thy dark birthplace; gushing upFrom the red mould and slimy roots of earthThou flashest in the sun. The mountain-air,In winter, is not clearer, nor the dewThat shines on mountain-blossom. Thus doth GodBring, from the dark and foul, the pure and bright.This tangled thicket on the bank aboveThy basin, how thy waters keep it green!For thou dost feed the roots of the wild-vineThat trails all over it, and to the twigsTies fast her clusters. There the spice-bush liftsHer leafy lances; the viburnum there,Paler of foliage, to the sun holds upHer circlet of green berries. In and outThe chipping-sparrow, in her coat of brown,Steals silently lest I should mark her nest.Not such thou wert of yore, ere yet the axeHad smitten the old woods. Then hoary trunksOf oak, and plane, and hickory, o'er thee heldA mighty canopy. When April windsGrew soft, the maple burst into a flushOf scarlet flowers. The tulip-tree, high up,Opened, in airs of June, her multitudeOf golden chalices to humming-birdsAnd silken-wingèd insects of the sky.Frail wood-plants clustered round thy edge in spring;The liver-leaf put forth her sister bloomsOf faintest blue. Here the quick-footed wolf,Passing to lap thy waters, crushed the flowerOf sanguinaria, from whose brittle stemThe red drops fell like blood. The deer, too, leftHer 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 heartWith deeper feeling; while I look on theeThey rise before me. I behold the sceneHoary again with forests; I beholdThe Indian warrior, whom a hand unseenHas smitten with his death-wound in the woods,Creep slowly to thy well-known rivulet,And slake his death-thirst. Hark, that quick fierce cryThat rends the utter silence! 'tis the whoopOf battle, and a throng of savage menWith naked arms and faces stained like blood,Fill the green wilderness; the long bare armsAre heaved aloft, bows twang and arrows stream;Each makes a tree his shield, and every treeSends forth its arrow. Fierce the fight and short,As is the whirlwind. Soon the conquerorsAnd conquered vanish, and the dead remainMangled by tomahawks. The mighty woodsAre still again, the frighted bird comes backAnd plumes her wings; but thy sweet waters runCrimson with blood. Then, as the sun goes down,Amid the deepening twilight I descryFigures of men that crouch and creep unheard,And bear away the dead. The next day's showerShall 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 doorThe red-man slowly drags the enormous bearSlain in the chestnut-thicket, or flings downThe deer from his strong shoulders. Shaggy fellsOf 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 fruitThat falls from the gray butternut's long boughs.So centuries passed by, and still the woodsBlossomed in spring, and reddened when the yearGrew chill, and glistened in the frozen rainsOf winter, till the white man swung the axeBeside 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 firedThe brushwood, or who tore the earth with ploughs;The grain sprang thick and tall, and hid in greenThe blackened hill-side; ranks of spiky maizeRose like a host embattled; the buckwheatWhitened broad acres, sweetening with its flowersThe August wind. White cottages were seenWith rose-trees at the windows; barns from whichCame loud and shrill the crowing of the cock;Pastures where rolled and neighed the lordly horse,And white flocks browsed and bleated. A rich turfOf grasses brought from far o'ercrept thy bank,Spotted with the white clover. Blue-eyed girlsBrought 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! HereOn thy green bank, the woodman of the swampHas laid his axe, the reaper of the hillHis sickle, as they stooped to taste thy stream.The sportsman, tired with wandering in the stillSeptember noon, has bathed his heated browIn thy cool current. Shouting boys, let looseFor a wild holiday, have quaintly shapedInto a cup the folded linden-leaf,And dipped thy sliding crystal. From the warsReturning, the plumed soldier by thy sideHas sat, and mused how pleasant 'twere to dwellIn such a spot, and be as free as thou,And move for no man's bidding more. At eveWhen thou wert crimson with the crimson sky,Lovers have gazed upon thee, and have thoughtTheir mingled lives should flow as peacefullyAnd brightly as thy waters. Here the sage,Gazing into thy self-replenished depth,Has seen eternal order circumscribeAnd bound the motions of eternal change,And from the gushing of thy simple fountHas reasoned to the mighty universe.Is there no other change for thee, that lurksAmong the future ages? Will not manSeek out strange arts to wither and deformThe pleasant landscape which thou makest green?Or shall the veins that feed thy constant streamBe choked in middle earth, and flow no moreFor ever, that the water-plants alongThy channel perish, and the bird in vainAlight to drink? Haply shall these green hillsSink, with the lapse of years, into the gulfOf ocean waters, and thy source be lostAmidst the bitter brine? Or shall they rise,Upheaved in broken cliffs and airy peaks,Haunts of the eagle and the snake, and thouGush midway from the bare and barren steep?
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 airO'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 heardA wilder roar, and men grow pale, and pray;Ye fling its floods around you, as a birdFlings 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 libertyHas 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 yoursIn chains upon the shore of Europe lies;The sceptred throng whose fetters he enduresWatch his mute throes with terror in their eyes;And armèd 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 raceShall 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 fairUnconscious 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
Among our hills and valleys, I have knownWise and grave men, who, while their diligent handsTended or gathered in the fruits of earth,Were reverent learners in the solemn schoolOf Nature. Not in vain to them were sentSeed-time and harvest, or the vernal showerThat darkened the brown tilth, or snow that beatOn the white winter hills. Each brought, in turn,Some truth, some lesson on the life of man,Or recognition of the Eternal mindWho 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 drewFrom what he saw his quaint moralities.Kindly he held communion, though so old,With me a dreaming boy, and taught me muchThat 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 budsStood clustered, ready to burst forth in bloom,The robin warbled forth his full clear noteFor hours, and wearied not. Within the woods,Whose young and half transparent leaves scarce castA shade, gay circles of anemonesDanced on their stalks; the shad-bush, white with flowers,Brightened the glens; the new-leaved butternutAnd quivering poplar to the roving breezeGave a balsamic fragrance. In the fieldsI saw the pulses of the gentle windOn the young grass. My heart was touched with joyAt so much beauty, flushing every hourInto 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 greenLuxuriant summer. Thou art young like them,And well mayst thou rejoice. But while the flightOf seasons fills and knits thy spreading frame,It withers mine, and thins my hair, and dimsThese eyes, whose fading light shall soon be quenchedIn utter darkness. Hearest thou that bird?"I listened, and from midst the depth of woodsHeard the love-signal of the grouse, that wearsA sable ruff around his mottled neck;Partridge they call him by our northern streams,And pheasant by the Delaware. He beatHis barred sides with his speckled wings, and madeA sound like distant thunder; slow the strokesAt first, then fast and faster, till at lengthThey passed into a murmur and were still."There hast thou," said my friend, "a fitting typeOf human life. 'Tis an old truth, I know,But images like these revive the powerOf long familiar truths. Slow pass our daysIn childhood, and the hours of light are longBetwixt the morn and eve; with swifter lapseThey glide in manhood, and in age they fly;Till days and seasons flit before the mindAs flit the snow-flakes in a winter storm,Seen rather than distinguished. Ah! I seemAs if I sat within a helpless bark,By swiftly-running waters hurried onTo shoot some mighty cliff. Along the banksGrove after grove, rock after frowning rock,Bare sands and pleasant homes, and flowery nooks,And isles and whirlpools in the stream, appearEach after each, but the devoted skiffDarts by so swiftly that their imagesDwell not upon the mind, or only dwellIn dim confusion; faster yet I sweepBy 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 thoughtsAnd kind affections, reverence for thy GodAnd for thy brethren; so when thou shalt comeInto these barren years, thou mayst not bringA 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 withinThe woods, his venerable form againIs at my side, his voice is in my ear.
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 lieOn 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 penWere 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 strongFor Hope or Fear to chain or chill,His hate of tyranny and wrong,Burn in the breasts he kindled still.
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 outIn the red west. The green blade of the groundHas risen, and herds have cropped it; the young twigHas spread its plaited tissues to the sun;Flowers of the garden and the waste have blownAnd withered; seeds have fallen upon the soil,From bursting cells, and in their graves awaitTheir resurrection. Insects from the poolsHave filled the air awhile with humming wings,That now are still for ever; painted mothsHave wandered the blue sky, and died again;The mother-bird hath broken for her broodTheir 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 shoreOf rivers and of ocean, by the waysOf the thronged city, have been hollowed outAnd filled, and closed. This day hath parted friendsThat ne'er before were parted; it hath knitNew friendships; it hath seen the maiden plightHer faith, and trust her peace to him who longHad wooed; and it hath heard, from lips which lateWere eloquent of love, the first harsh word,That told the wedded one her peace was flown.Farewell to the sweet sunshine! One glad dayIs 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 twineFlowers for the bride. The mother from the eyesOf 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 sceneInto night's shadow and the streaming raysOf starlight, whither art thou bearing me?I feel the mighty current sweep me on,Yet know not whither. Man foretells afarThe courses of the stars; the very hourHe knows when they shall darken or grow bright;Yet doth the eclipse of Sorrow and of DeathCome unforewarned. Who next, of those I love,Shall pass from life, or, sadder yet, shall fallFrom virtue? Strife with foes, or bitterer strifeWith 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 yearsPush me, with soft and inoffensive pace,Into the stilly twilight of my age?Or do the portals of another lifeEven now, while I am glorying in my strength,Impend around me? Oh! beyond that bourne,In the vast cycle of being which beginsAt that dread threshold, with what fairer formsShall the great law of change and progress clotheIts workings? Gently—so have good men taught—Gently, and without grief, the old shall glideInto the new; the eternal flow of things,Like a bright river of the fields of heaven,Shall journey onward in perpetual peace.