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, laysHis silver temples in their last repose;When, o'er the buds of youth, the death-wind blowsAnd blights the fairest; when our bitter tearsStream, as the eyes of those that love us close,We think on what they were, with many fearsLest 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 toldOf 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 growGreener with years, and blossom through the flightOf ages; let the mimic canvas showHis calm benevolent features; let the lightStream on his deeds of love, that shunned the sightOf all but heaven, and in the book of fameThe glorious record of his virtues writeAnd hold it up to men, and bid them claimA palm like his, and catch from him the hallowed flame.
IV
But oh, despair not of their fate who riseTo 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 lawAnd trode his brethren down, and felt no aweOf Him who will avenge them. Stainless worth,Such as the sternest age of virtue saw,Ripens, meanwhile, till time shall call it forthFrom 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 sunGrow 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 skyWith flowers less fair than when her reign begun?Does prodigal Autumn, to our age, denyThe plenty that once swelled beneath his sober eye?
VI
Look on this beautiful world, and read the truthIn her fair page; see, every season bringsNew 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 sleepOf ocean's azure gulfs, and where he flingsThe 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 raceWith his own image, and who gave them swayO'er earth, and the glad dwellers on her face,Now that our swarming nations far awayAre spread, where'er the moist earth drinks the day,Forget the ancient care that taught and nursedHis latest offspring? will he quench the rayInfused by his own forming smile at first,And leave a work so fair all blighted and accursed?
VIII
Oh, no! a thousand cheerful omens giveHope of yet happier days, whose dawn is nigh.He who has tamed the elements, shall not liveThe slave of his own passions; he whose eyeUnwinds the eternal dances of the sky,And in the abyss of brightness dares to spanThe 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 nightOf years the steps of virtue she shall trace,And show the earlier ages, where her sightCan pierce the eternal shadows o'er their face;—When, from the genial cradle of our race,Went forth the tribes of men, their pleasant lotTo choose, where palm-groves cooled their dwelling-place,Or freshening rivers ran; and there forgotThe 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 strifeMan 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 nailedOn men the yoke that man should never bear,And drave them forth to battle. Lo! unveiledThe scene of those stern ages! What is there?A boundless sea of blood, and the wild airMoans with the crimsoned surges that entombCities and bannered armies; forms that wearThe 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 leftA record in the desert—columns strownOn the waste sands, and statues fallen and cleft,Heaped like a host in battle overthrown;Vast ruins, where the mountain's ribs of stoneWere hewn into a city; streets that spreadIn the dark earth, where never breath has blownOf heaven's sweet air, nor foot of man dares treadThe 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 sustainThe 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 reignO'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 brokeSceptre and chain with her fair youthful hands:As rocks are shivered in the thunder-stroke.And lo! in full-grown strength, an empire standsOf leagued and rival states, the wonder of the lands.
XVI
Oh, Greece! thy flourishing cities were a spoilUnto each other; thy hard hand oppressedAnd crushed the helpless; thou didst make thy soilDrunk 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 restFrom thine abominations; after-times,That yet shall read thy tale, will tremble at thy crimes!
XVII
Yet there was that within thee which has savedThy glory, and redeemed thy blotted name;The story of thy better deeds, engravedOn fame's unmouldering pillar, puts to shameOur chiller virtue; the high art to tameThe 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, sheWho 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 crownOf 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 wavesWhelmed 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 keptWithin 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' strainSwelled over that famed stream, whose gentle tideIn 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 sideThe emulous nations of the West repair,And kindle their quenched urns, and drink fresh spirit there.
XXII
Still, Heaven deferred the hour ordained to rendFrom saintly rottenness the sacred stole;And cowl and worshipped shrine could still defendThe wretch with felon stains upon his soul;And crimes were set to sale, and hard his doleWho 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 hurledTo 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 grownO'er prostrate Europe, in that day of dreadCrumbled 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 breakLike 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 gainThe smile of Heaven;—till a new age expandsIts 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 awayHorrible 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 payThe forfeit of deep guilt;—with glad embraceThe 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 lightThe faltering footstep in the path of right,Each gleam of clearer brightness shed to aidIn 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 chasedThe deep and ancient night, which threw its shroudO'er the green land of groves, the beautiful waste,Nurse of full streams, and lifter-up of proudSky-mingling mountains that o'erlook the cloud.Erewhile, where yon gay spires their brightness rear,Trees waved, and the brown hunter's shouts were loudAmid the forest; and the bounding deerFled at the glancing plume, and the gaunt wolf yelled near.
XXVIII
And where his willing waves yon bright blue baySends up, to kiss his decorated brim,And cradles, in his soft embrace, the gayYoung group of grassy islands born of him,And crowding nigh, or in the distance dim,Lifts the white throng of sails, that bear or bringThe 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, layCooled by the interminable wood, that frownedO'er mount and vale, where never summer rayGlanced, till the strong tornado broke his wayThrough the gray giants of the sylvan wild;Yet many a sheltered glade, with blossoms gayBeneath the showery sky and sunshine mild,Within the shaggy arms of that dark forest smiled.
XXX
There stood the Indian hamlet, there the lakeSpread 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 shadeWas stillest, gorged his battle-axe with blood;All died—the wailing babe—the shrinking maidAnd 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 filledThese 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 breezeTheir virgin waters; the full region leadsNew colonies forth, that toward the western seasSpread, 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 placeA 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 chainTo earth her struggling multitude of states;She too is strong, and might not chafe in vainAgainst them, but might cast to earth the trainThat trample her, and break their iron net.Yes, she shall look on brighter days and gainThe meed of worthier deeds; the moment setTo 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 airAre the wide barrier of thy borders, where,Among thy gallant sons who guard thee well,Thou laugh'st at enemies: who shall then declareThe date of thy deep-founded strength, or tellHow happy, in thy lap, the sons of men shall dwell?
To him who in the love of Nature holdsCommunion with her visible forms, she speaksA various language; for his gayer hoursShe has a voice of gladness, and a smileAnd eloquence of beauty, and she glidesInto his darker musings, with a mildAnd healing sympathy, that steals awayTheir sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughtsOf the last bitter hour come like a blightOver thy spirit, and sad imagesOf 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 listTo 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 theeThe all-beholding sun shall see no moreIn 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 existThy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claimThy growth, to be resolved to earth again,And, lost each human trace, surrendering upThine individual being, shalt thou goTo mix for ever with the elements,To be a brother to the insensible rockAnd to the sluggish clod, which the rude swainTurns with his share, and treads upon. The oakShall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould.Yet not to thine eternal resting-placeShalt thou retire alone, nor couldst thou wishCouch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie downWith 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 hillsRock-ribbed and ancient as the sun,—the valesStretching in pensive quietness between;The venerable woods—rivers that moveIn majesty, and the complaining brooksThat make the meadows green; and, poured round all,Old Ocean's gray and melancholy waste,—Are but the solemn decorations allOf 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 treadThe globe are but a handful to the tribesThat slumber in its bosom.—- Take the wingsOf morning, pierce the Barcan wilderness,Or lose thyself in the continuous woodsWhere rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound,Save his own dashings—yet the dead are there:And millions in those solitudes, since firstThe flight of years began, have laid them downIn their last sleep—the dead reign there alone,So shalt thou rest, and what if thou withdrawIn silence from the living, and no friendTake note of thy departure? All that breatheWill share thy destiny. The gay will laughWhen thou art gone, the solemn brood of carePlod on, and each one as before will chaseHis favorite phantom; yet all these shall leaveTheir mirth and their employments, and shall comeAnd make their bed with thee. As the long trainOf ages glide away, the sons of men,The youth in life's green spring, and he who goesIn 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 joinThe innumerable caravan, which movesTo that mysterious realm, where each shall takeHis chamber in the silent halls of death,Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night,Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothedBy an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave,Like one who wraps the drapery of his couchAbout him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.
When beechen buds begin to swell,And woods the blue-bird's warble know.The yellow violet's modest bellPeeps 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 perfumeAlone is in the virgin air.Of all her train, the hands of SpringFirst plant thee in the watery mould.And I have seen thee blossomingBeside the snow-bank's edges cold.Thy parent sun, who bade thee viewPale 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, forgetThe friends in darker fortunes tried.I copied them—but I regretThat I should ape the ways of pride.And when again the genial hourAwakes the painted tribes of light,I'll not o'erlook the modest flowerThat made the woods of April bright.
Stranger, if thou hast learned a truth which needsNo school of long experience, that the worldIs full of guilt and misery, and hast seenEnough of all its sorrows, crimes, and cares,To tire thee of it, enter this wild woodAnd view the haunts of Nature. The calm shadeShall bring a kindred calm, and the sweet breezeThat makes the green leaves dance, shall waft a balmTo thy sick heart. Thou wilt find nothing hereOf all that pained thee in the haunts of men,And made thee loathe thy life. The primal curseFell, it is true, upon the unsinning earth,But not in vengeance. God hath yoked to guiltHer pale tormentor, misery. Hence, these shadesAre still the abodes of gladness; the thick roofOf green and stirring branches is aliveAnd musical with birds, that sing and sportIn wantonness of spirit; while belowThe squirrel, with raised paws and form erect,Chirps merrily. Throngs of insects in the shadeTry their thin wings and dance in the warm beamThat waked them into life. Even the green treesPartake the deep contentment; as they bendTo the soft winds, the sun from the blue skyLooks in and sheds a blessing on the scene.Scarce less the cleft-born wild-flower seems to enjoyExistence, than the wingèd plundererThat sucks its sweets. The mossy rocks themselves,And the old and ponderous trunks of prostrate treesThat lead from knoll to knoll a causey rudeOr bridge the sunken brook, and their dark roots,With all their earth upon them, twisting high,Breathe fixed tranquillity. The rivuletSends forth glad sounds, and tripping o'er its bedOf pebbly sands, or leaping down the rocks,Seems, with continuous laughter, to rejoiceIn its own being. Softly tread the marge,Lest from her midway perch thou scare the wrenThat 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 passUngreeted, and shall give its light embrace.
Soon as the glazed and gleaming snowReflects the day-dawn cold and clear,The hunter of the West must goIn 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.
Whither, midst falling dew,While glow the heavens with the last steps of day,Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursueThy solitary way?Vainly the fowler's eyeMight mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong,As, darkly seen against the crimson sky,Thy figure floats along.Seek'st thou the plashy brinkOf weedy lake, or marge of river wide,Or where the rocking billows rise and sinkOn the chafed ocean-side?There is a Power whose careTeaches 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 heavenHath swallowed up thy form; yet, on my heartDeeply 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.
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 brinkHad 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 brightWith 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'ershootThe swifter current that mines its root,Through whose shifting leaves, as you walk the hill,The quivering glimmer of sun and rillWith 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 dayIn 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 feedOn the river cherry and seedy reed,And thy own wild music gushing outWith 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 freeTo 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 alongThrough 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 streamAn image of that calm life appearsThat won my heart in my greener years.
The time has been that these wild solitudes,Yet beautiful as wild, were trod by meOftener than now; and when the ills of lifeHad chafed my spirit—when the unsteady pulseBeat with strange flutterings—I would wander forthAnd seek the woods. The sunshine on my pathWas to me as a friend. The swelling hills,The quiet dells retiring far between,With gentle invitation to exploreTheir windings, were a calm societyThat talked with me and soothed me. Then the chantOf birds, and chime of brooks, and soft caressOf the fresh sylvan air, made me forgetThe thoughts that broke my peace, and I beganTo gather simples by the fountain's brink,And lose myself in day-dreams. While I stoodIn Nature's loneliness, I was with oneWith whom I early grew familiar, oneWho never had a frown for me, whose voiceNever rebuked me for the hours I stoleFrom cares I loved not, but of which the worldDeems highest, to converse with her. When shriekedThe 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 seemedLike old companions in adversity.Still there was beauty in my walks; the brook,Bordered with sparkling frost-work, was as gayAs with its fringe of summer flowers. Afar,The village with its spires, the path of streamsAnd dim receding valleys, hid beforeBy interposing trees, lay visibleThrough the bare grove, and my familiar hauntsSeemed new to me. Nor was I slow to comeAmong 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 heardLove-call of bird nor merry hum of bee,Was not the air of death, Bright mosses creptOver 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 bentBeneath its bright cold burden, and kept dryA circle, on the earth, of withered leaves,The partridge found a shelter. Through the snowThe rabbit sprang away. The lighter trackOf fox, and the raccoon's broad path, were there,Crossing each other. From his hollow treeThe squirrel was abroad, gathering the nutsJust fallen, that asked the winter cold and swayOf winter blast, to shake them from their hold.But Winter has yet brighter scenes—he boastsSplendors beyond what gorgeous Summer knows;Or Autumn with his many fruits, and woodsAll flushed with many hues. Come when the rainsHave glazed the snow and clothed the trees with ice,While the slant sun of February poursInto the bowers a flood of light. Approach!The incrusted surface shall upbear thy steps,And the broad arching portals of the groveWelcome thy entering. Look! the massy trunksAre 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 boughsBend, in a glittering ring, and arbors hideThe glassy floor. Oh! you might deem the spotThe spacious cavern of some virgin mine,Deep in the womb of earth—where the gems grow,And diamonds put forth radiant rods and budWith amethyst and topaz—and the placeLit up, most royally, with the pure beamThat dwells in them. Or haply the vast hallOf fairy palace, that outlasts the night,And fades not in the glory of the sun;—Where crystal columns send forth slender shaftsAnd crossing arches; and fantastic aislesWind from the sight in brightness, and are lostAmong the crowded pillars. Raise thine eye;Thou seest no cavern roof, no palace vault;There the blue sky and the white drifting cloudLook in. Again the wildered fancy dreamsOf 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 awayWith the next sun. From numberless vast trunksLoosened, the crashing ice shall make a soundLike the far roar of rivers, and the eveShall close o'er the brown woods as it was wont.And it is pleasant, when the noisy streamsAre just set free, and milder suns melt offThe plashy snow, save only the firm driftIn the deep glen or the close shade of pines—'Tis pleasant to behold the wreaths of smokeRoll up among the maples of the hill,Where the shrill sound of youthful voices wakesThe 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 axeMakes the woods ring. Along the quiet air,Come and float calmly off the soft light clouds,Such as you see in summer, and the windsScarce stir the branches. Lodged in sunny cleft,Where the cold breezes come not, blooms aloneThe little wind-flower, whose just opened eyeIs blue as the spring heaven it gazes at—Startling the loiterer in the naked grovesWith unexpected beauty, for the timeOf blossoms and green leaves is yet afar.And ere it comes, the encountering winds shall oftMuster their wrath again, and rapid cloudsShade heaven, and bounding on the frozen earthShall fall their volleyed stores, rounded like hailAnd white like snow, and the loud North againShall buffet the vexed forest in his rage.
Beneath the forest's skirt I rest,Whose branching pines rise dark and high,And hear the breezes of the WestAmong 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 headThe 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 sunsHave 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 aboveSmooths 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 birdTakes wing, half happy, half afraid.Ah! thou art like our wayward race;—When not a shade of pain or illDims the bright smile of Nature's face,Thou lov'st to sigh and murmur still.
A FRAGMENT.
Erewhile, on England's pleasant shores, our siresLeft not their churchyards unadorned with shadesOr blossoms, but indulgent to the strongAnd natural dread of man's last home, the grave,Its frost and silence—they disposed around,To soothe the melancholy spirit that dweltToo sadly on life's close, the forms and huesOf vegetable beauty. There the yew,Green ever amid the snows of winter, toldOf immortality, and gracefullyThe willow, a perpetual mourner, drooped;And there the gadding woodbine crept about,And there the ancient ivy. From the spotWhere the sweet maiden, in her blossoming yearsCut off, was laid with streaming eyes, and handsThat trembled as they placed her there, the roseSprung modest, on bowed stalk, and better spokeHer graces, than the proudest monument.There children set about their playmate's graveThe 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 joyFled early—silent lovers, who had givenAll that they lived for to the arms of earth,Came often, o'er the recent graves to strewTheir offerings, rue, and rosemary, and flowers.The pilgrim bands who passed the sea to keepTheir Sabbaths in the eye of God alone,In his wide temple of the wilderness,Brought not these simple customs of the heartWith them. It might be, while they laid their deadBy the vast solemn skirts of the old groves,And the fresh virgin soil poured forth strange flowersAbout their graves; and the familiar shadesOf their own native isle, and wonted blooms,And herbs were wanting, which the pious handMight plant or scatter there, these gentle ritesPassed out of use. Now they are scarcely known,And rarely in our borders may you meetThe tall larch, sighing in the burial-place,Or willow, trailing low its boughs to hideThe gleaming marble. Naked rows of gravesAnd melancholy ranks of monumentsAre seen instead, where the coarse grass, between,Shoots up its dull green spikes, and in the windHisses, 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 turfThat clothes the fresher grave, the strawberry plantSprinkles its swell with blossoms, and lays forthHer ruddy, pouting fruit....