EARLIER POEMSAN APRIL DAYWhen the warm sun, that bringsSeed-time and harvest, has returned again,'T is sweet to visit the still wood, where springsThe first flower of the plain.I love the season well,When forest glades are teeming with bright forms,Nor dark and many-folded clouds foretellThe coming-on of storms.From the earth's loosened mouldThe sapling draws its sustenance, and thrives;Though stricken to the heart with winter's cold,The drooping tree revives.The softly-warbled songComes from the pleasant woods, and colored wingsGlance quick in the bright sun, that moves alongThe forest openings.When the bright sunset fillsThe silver woods with light, the green slope throwsIts shadows in the hollows of the hills,And wide the upland glows.And when the eve is born,In the blue lake the sky, o'er-reaching far,Is hollowed out and the moon dips her horn,And twinkles many a star.Inverted in the tideStand the gray rocks, and trembling shadows throw,And the fair trees look over, side by side,And see themselves below.Sweet April! many a thoughtIs wedded unto thee, as hearts are wed;Nor shall they fail, till, to its autumn brought,Life's golden fruit is shed.AUTUMNWith what a glory comes and goes the year!The buds of spring, those beautiful harbingersOf sunny skies and cloudless times, enjoyLife's newness, and earth's garniture spread out;And when the silver habit of the cloudsComes down upon the autumn sun, and withA sober gladness the old year takes upHis bright inheritance of golden fruits,A pomp and pageant fill the splendid scene.There is a beautiful spirit breathing nowIts mellow richness on the clustered trees,And, from a beaker full of richest dyes,Pouring new glory on the autumn woods,And dipping in warm light the pillared clouds.Morn on the mountain, like a summer bird,Lifts up her purple wing, and in the valesThe gentle wind, a sweet and passionate wooer,Kisses the blushing leaf, and stirs up lifeWithin the solemn woods of ash deep-crimsoned,And silver beech, and maple yellow-leaved,Where Autumn, like a faint old man, sits downBy the wayside a-weary. Through the treesThe golden robin moves. The purple finch,That on wild cherry and red cedar feeds,A winter bird, comes with its plaintive whistle,And pecks by the witch-hazel, whilst aloudFrom cottage roofs the warbling blue-bird sings,And merrily, with oft-repeated stroke,Sounds from the threshing-floor the busy flail.O what a glory doth this world put onFor him who, with a fervent heart, goes forthUnder the bright and glorious sky, and looksOn duties well performed, and days well spent!For him the wind, ay, and the yellow leaves,Shall have a voice, and give him eloquent teachings.He shall so hear the solemn hymn that DeathHas lifted up for all, that he shall goTo his long resting-place without a tear.WOODS IN WINTER.When winter winds are piercing chill,And through the hawthorn blows the gale,With solemn feet I tread the hill,That overbrows the lonely vale.O'er the bare upland, and awayThrough the long reach of desert woods,The embracing sunbeams chastely play,And gladden these deep solitudes.Where, twisted round the barren oak,The summer vine in beauty clung,And summer winds the stillness broke,The crystal icicle is hung.Where, from their frozen urns, mute springsPour out the river's gradual tide,Shrilly the skater's iron rings,And voices fill the woodland side.Alas! how changed from the fair scene,When birds sang out their mellow lay,And winds were soft, and woods were green,And the song ceased not with the day!But still wild music is abroad,Pale, desert woods! within your crowd;And gathering winds, in hoarse accord,Amid the vocal reeds pipe loud.Chill airs and wintry winds! my earHas grown familiar with your song;I hear it in the opening year,I listen, and it cheers me long.HYMN OF THE MORAVIAN NUNS OF BETHLEHEMAT THE CONSECRATION OF PULASKI'S BANNER.When the dying flame of day Through the chancel shot its ray, Far the glimmering tapers shed Faint light on the cowled head; And the censer burning swung, Where, before the altar, hung The crimson banner, that with prayer Had been consecrated there. And the nuns' sweet hymn was heard the while, Sung low, in the dim, mysterious aisle."Take thy banner! May it waveProudly o'er the good and brave;When the battle's distant wailBreaks the sabbath of our vale.When the clarion's music thrillsTo the hearts of these lone hills,When the spear in conflict shakes,And the strong lance shivering breaks."Take thy banner! and, beneathThe battle-cloud's encircling wreath,Guard it, till our homes are free!Guard it! God will prosper thee!In the dark and trying hour,In the breaking forth of power,In the rush of steeds and men,His right hand will shield thee then."Take thy banner! But when nightCloses round the ghastly fight,If the vanquished warrior bow,Spare him! By our holy vow,By our prayers and many tears,By the mercy that endears,Spare him! he our love hath shared!Spare him! as thou wouldst be spared!"Take thy banner! and if e'erThou shouldst press the soldier's bier,And the muffled drum should beatTo the tread of mournful feet,Then this crimson flag shall beMartial cloak and shroud for thee."The warrior took that banner proud, And it was his martial cloak and shroud!SUNRISE ON THE HILLSI stood upon the hills, when heaven's wide archWas glorious with the sun's returning march,And woods were brightened, and soft galesWent forth to kiss the sun-clad vales.The clouds were far beneath me; bathed in light,They gathered mid-way round the wooded height,And, in their fading glory, shoneLike hosts in battle overthrown.As many a pinnacle, with shifting glance.Through the gray mist thrust up its shattered lance,And rocking on the cliff was leftThe dark pine blasted, bare, and cleft.The veil of cloud was lifted, and belowGlowed the rich valley, and the river's flowWas darkened by the forest's shade,Or glistened in the white cascade;Where upward, in the mellow blush of day,The noisy bittern wheeled his spiral way.I heard the distant waters dash,I saw the current whirl and flash,And richly, by the blue lake's silver beach,The woods were bending with a silent reach.Then o'er the vale, with gentle swell,The music of the village bellCame sweetly to the echo-giving hills;And the wild horn, whose voice the woodland fills,Was ringing to the merry shout,That faint and far the glen sent out,Where, answering to the sudden shot, thin smoke,Through thick-leaved branches, from the dingle broke.If thou art worn and hard besetWith sorrows, that thou wouldst forget,If thou wouldst read a lesson, that will keepThy heart from fainting and thy soul from sleep,Go to the woods and hills! No tearsDim the sweet look that Nature wears.THE SPIRIT OF POETRYThere is a quiet spirit in these woods,That dwells where'er the gentle south-wind blows;Where, underneath the white-thorn, in the glade,The wild flowers bloom, or, kissing the soft air,The leaves above their sunny palms outspread.With what a tender and impassioned voiceIt fills the nice and delicate ear of thought,When the fast ushering star of morning comesO'er-riding the gray hills with golden scarf;Or when the cowled and dusky-sandaled Eve,In mourning weeds, from out the western gate,Departs with silent pace! That spirit movesIn the green valley, where the silver brook,From its full laver, pours the white cascade;And, babbling low amid the tangled woods,Slips down through moss-grown stones with endless laughter.And frequent, on the everlasting hills,Its feet go forth, when it doth wrap itselfIn all the dark embroidery of the storm,And shouts the stern, strong wind. And here, amidThe silent majesty of these deep woods,Its presence shall uplift thy thoughts from earth,As to the sunshine and the pure, bright airTheir tops the green trees lift. Hence gifted bardsHave ever loved the calm and quiet shades.For them there was an eloquent voice in allThe sylvan pomp of woods, the golden sun,The flowers, the leaves, the river on its way,Blue skies, and silver clouds, and gentle winds,The swelling upland, where the sidelong sunAslant the wooded slope, at evening, goes,Groves, through whose broken roof the sky looks in,Mountain, and shattered cliff, and sunny vale,The distant lake, fountains, and mighty trees,In many a lazy syllable, repeatingTheir old poetic legends to the wind.And this is the sweet spirit, that doth fillThe world; and, in these wayward days of youth,My busy fancy oft embodies it,As a bright image of the light and beautyThat dwell in nature; of the heavenly formsWe worship in our dreams, and the soft huesThat stain the wild bird's wing, and flush the cloudsWhen the sun sets. Within her tender eyeThe heaven of April, with its changing light,And when it wears the blue of May, is hung,And on her lip the rich, red rose. Her hairIs like the summer tresses of the trees,When twilight makes them brown, and on her cheekBlushes the richness of an autumn sky,With ever-shifting beauty. Then her breath,It is so like the gentle air of Spring,As, front the morning's dewy flowers, it comesFull of their fragrance, that it is a joyTo have it round us, and her silver voiceIs the rich music of a summer bird,Heard in the still night, with its passionate cadence.BURIAL OF THE MINNISINKOn sunny slope and beechen swell, The shadowed light of evening fell; And, where the maple's leaf was brown, With soft and silent lapse came down, The glory, that the wood receives, At sunset, in its golden leaves.Far upward in the mellow light Rose the blue hills. One cloud of white, Around a far uplifted cone, In the warm blush of evening shone; An image of the silver lakes, By which the Indian's soul awakes.But soon a funeral hymn was heard Where the soft breath of evening stirred The tall, gray forest; and a band Of stern in heart, and strong in hand, Came winding down beside the wave, To lay the red chief in his grave.They sang, that by his native bowers He stood, in the last moon of flowers, And thirty snows had not yet shed Their glory on the warrior's head; But, as the summer fruit decays, So died he in those naked days.A dark cloak of the roebuck's skin Covered the warrior, and within Its heavy folds the weapons, made For the hard toils of war, were laid; The cuirass, woven of plaited reeds, And the broad belt of shells and beads.Before, a dark-haired virgin train Chanted the death dirge of the slain; Behind, the long procession came Of hoary men and chiefs of fame, With heavy hearts, and eyes of grief, Leading the war-horse of their chief.Stripped of his proud and martial dress, Uncurbed, unreined, and riderless, With darting eye, and nostril spread, And heavy and impatient tread, He came; and oft that eye so proud Asked for his rider in the crowd.They buried the dark chief; they freed Beside the grave his battle steed; And swift an arrow cleaved its way To his stern heart! One piercing neigh Arose, and, on the dead man's plain, The rider grasps his steed again.L' ENVOIYe voices, that arose After the Evening's close, And whispered to my restless heart repose!Go, breathe it in the ear Of all who doubt and fear, And say to them, "Be of good cheer!"Ye sounds, so low and calm, That in the groves of balm Seemed to me like an angel's psalm!Go, mingle yet once more With the perpetual roar Of the pine forest dark and hoar!Tongues of the dead, not lost But speaking from deaths frost, Like fiery tongues at Pentecost!Glimmer, as funeral lamps, Amid the chills and damps Of the vast plain where Death encamps!
When the warm sun, that bringsSeed-time and harvest, has returned again,'T is sweet to visit the still wood, where springsThe first flower of the plain.I love the season well,When forest glades are teeming with bright forms,Nor dark and many-folded clouds foretellThe coming-on of storms.From the earth's loosened mouldThe sapling draws its sustenance, and thrives;Though stricken to the heart with winter's cold,The drooping tree revives.The softly-warbled songComes from the pleasant woods, and colored wingsGlance quick in the bright sun, that moves alongThe forest openings.When the bright sunset fillsThe silver woods with light, the green slope throwsIts shadows in the hollows of the hills,And wide the upland glows.And when the eve is born,In the blue lake the sky, o'er-reaching far,Is hollowed out and the moon dips her horn,And twinkles many a star.Inverted in the tideStand the gray rocks, and trembling shadows throw,And the fair trees look over, side by side,And see themselves below.Sweet April! many a thoughtIs wedded unto thee, as hearts are wed;Nor shall they fail, till, to its autumn brought,Life's golden fruit is shed.
With what a glory comes and goes the year!The buds of spring, those beautiful harbingersOf sunny skies and cloudless times, enjoyLife's newness, and earth's garniture spread out;And when the silver habit of the cloudsComes down upon the autumn sun, and withA sober gladness the old year takes upHis bright inheritance of golden fruits,A pomp and pageant fill the splendid scene.There is a beautiful spirit breathing nowIts mellow richness on the clustered trees,And, from a beaker full of richest dyes,Pouring new glory on the autumn woods,And dipping in warm light the pillared clouds.Morn on the mountain, like a summer bird,Lifts up her purple wing, and in the valesThe gentle wind, a sweet and passionate wooer,Kisses the blushing leaf, and stirs up lifeWithin the solemn woods of ash deep-crimsoned,And silver beech, and maple yellow-leaved,Where Autumn, like a faint old man, sits downBy the wayside a-weary. Through the treesThe golden robin moves. The purple finch,That on wild cherry and red cedar feeds,A winter bird, comes with its plaintive whistle,And pecks by the witch-hazel, whilst aloudFrom cottage roofs the warbling blue-bird sings,And merrily, with oft-repeated stroke,Sounds from the threshing-floor the busy flail.O what a glory doth this world put onFor him who, with a fervent heart, goes forthUnder the bright and glorious sky, and looksOn duties well performed, and days well spent!For him the wind, ay, and the yellow leaves,Shall have a voice, and give him eloquent teachings.He shall so hear the solemn hymn that DeathHas lifted up for all, that he shall goTo his long resting-place without a tear.
When winter winds are piercing chill,And through the hawthorn blows the gale,With solemn feet I tread the hill,That overbrows the lonely vale.
O'er the bare upland, and awayThrough the long reach of desert woods,The embracing sunbeams chastely play,And gladden these deep solitudes.
Where, twisted round the barren oak,The summer vine in beauty clung,And summer winds the stillness broke,The crystal icicle is hung.
Where, from their frozen urns, mute springsPour out the river's gradual tide,Shrilly the skater's iron rings,And voices fill the woodland side.
Alas! how changed from the fair scene,When birds sang out their mellow lay,And winds were soft, and woods were green,And the song ceased not with the day!
But still wild music is abroad,Pale, desert woods! within your crowd;And gathering winds, in hoarse accord,Amid the vocal reeds pipe loud.
Chill airs and wintry winds! my earHas grown familiar with your song;I hear it in the opening year,I listen, and it cheers me long.
AT THE CONSECRATION OF PULASKI'S BANNER.
When the dying flame of day Through the chancel shot its ray, Far the glimmering tapers shed Faint light on the cowled head; And the censer burning swung, Where, before the altar, hung The crimson banner, that with prayer Had been consecrated there. And the nuns' sweet hymn was heard the while, Sung low, in the dim, mysterious aisle.
"Take thy banner! May it waveProudly o'er the good and brave;When the battle's distant wailBreaks the sabbath of our vale.When the clarion's music thrillsTo the hearts of these lone hills,When the spear in conflict shakes,And the strong lance shivering breaks."Take thy banner! and, beneathThe battle-cloud's encircling wreath,Guard it, till our homes are free!Guard it! God will prosper thee!In the dark and trying hour,In the breaking forth of power,In the rush of steeds and men,His right hand will shield thee then."Take thy banner! But when nightCloses round the ghastly fight,If the vanquished warrior bow,Spare him! By our holy vow,By our prayers and many tears,By the mercy that endears,Spare him! he our love hath shared!Spare him! as thou wouldst be spared!"Take thy banner! and if e'erThou shouldst press the soldier's bier,And the muffled drum should beatTo the tread of mournful feet,Then this crimson flag shall beMartial cloak and shroud for thee."
The warrior took that banner proud, And it was his martial cloak and shroud!
I stood upon the hills, when heaven's wide archWas glorious with the sun's returning march,And woods were brightened, and soft galesWent forth to kiss the sun-clad vales.The clouds were far beneath me; bathed in light,They gathered mid-way round the wooded height,And, in their fading glory, shoneLike hosts in battle overthrown.As many a pinnacle, with shifting glance.Through the gray mist thrust up its shattered lance,And rocking on the cliff was leftThe dark pine blasted, bare, and cleft.The veil of cloud was lifted, and belowGlowed the rich valley, and the river's flowWas darkened by the forest's shade,Or glistened in the white cascade;Where upward, in the mellow blush of day,The noisy bittern wheeled his spiral way.I heard the distant waters dash,I saw the current whirl and flash,And richly, by the blue lake's silver beach,The woods were bending with a silent reach.Then o'er the vale, with gentle swell,The music of the village bellCame sweetly to the echo-giving hills;And the wild horn, whose voice the woodland fills,Was ringing to the merry shout,That faint and far the glen sent out,Where, answering to the sudden shot, thin smoke,Through thick-leaved branches, from the dingle broke.If thou art worn and hard besetWith sorrows, that thou wouldst forget,If thou wouldst read a lesson, that will keepThy heart from fainting and thy soul from sleep,Go to the woods and hills! No tearsDim the sweet look that Nature wears.
There is a quiet spirit in these woods,That dwells where'er the gentle south-wind blows;Where, underneath the white-thorn, in the glade,The wild flowers bloom, or, kissing the soft air,The leaves above their sunny palms outspread.With what a tender and impassioned voiceIt fills the nice and delicate ear of thought,When the fast ushering star of morning comesO'er-riding the gray hills with golden scarf;Or when the cowled and dusky-sandaled Eve,In mourning weeds, from out the western gate,Departs with silent pace! That spirit movesIn the green valley, where the silver brook,From its full laver, pours the white cascade;And, babbling low amid the tangled woods,Slips down through moss-grown stones with endless laughter.And frequent, on the everlasting hills,Its feet go forth, when it doth wrap itselfIn all the dark embroidery of the storm,And shouts the stern, strong wind. And here, amidThe silent majesty of these deep woods,Its presence shall uplift thy thoughts from earth,As to the sunshine and the pure, bright airTheir tops the green trees lift. Hence gifted bardsHave ever loved the calm and quiet shades.For them there was an eloquent voice in allThe sylvan pomp of woods, the golden sun,The flowers, the leaves, the river on its way,Blue skies, and silver clouds, and gentle winds,The swelling upland, where the sidelong sunAslant the wooded slope, at evening, goes,Groves, through whose broken roof the sky looks in,Mountain, and shattered cliff, and sunny vale,The distant lake, fountains, and mighty trees,In many a lazy syllable, repeatingTheir old poetic legends to the wind.And this is the sweet spirit, that doth fillThe world; and, in these wayward days of youth,My busy fancy oft embodies it,As a bright image of the light and beautyThat dwell in nature; of the heavenly formsWe worship in our dreams, and the soft huesThat stain the wild bird's wing, and flush the cloudsWhen the sun sets. Within her tender eyeThe heaven of April, with its changing light,And when it wears the blue of May, is hung,And on her lip the rich, red rose. Her hairIs like the summer tresses of the trees,When twilight makes them brown, and on her cheekBlushes the richness of an autumn sky,With ever-shifting beauty. Then her breath,It is so like the gentle air of Spring,As, front the morning's dewy flowers, it comesFull of their fragrance, that it is a joyTo have it round us, and her silver voiceIs the rich music of a summer bird,Heard in the still night, with its passionate cadence.
On sunny slope and beechen swell, The shadowed light of evening fell; And, where the maple's leaf was brown, With soft and silent lapse came down, The glory, that the wood receives, At sunset, in its golden leaves.
Far upward in the mellow light Rose the blue hills. One cloud of white, Around a far uplifted cone, In the warm blush of evening shone; An image of the silver lakes, By which the Indian's soul awakes.
But soon a funeral hymn was heard Where the soft breath of evening stirred The tall, gray forest; and a band Of stern in heart, and strong in hand, Came winding down beside the wave, To lay the red chief in his grave.
They sang, that by his native bowers He stood, in the last moon of flowers, And thirty snows had not yet shed Their glory on the warrior's head; But, as the summer fruit decays, So died he in those naked days.
A dark cloak of the roebuck's skin Covered the warrior, and within Its heavy folds the weapons, made For the hard toils of war, were laid; The cuirass, woven of plaited reeds, And the broad belt of shells and beads.
Before, a dark-haired virgin train Chanted the death dirge of the slain; Behind, the long procession came Of hoary men and chiefs of fame, With heavy hearts, and eyes of grief, Leading the war-horse of their chief.
Stripped of his proud and martial dress, Uncurbed, unreined, and riderless, With darting eye, and nostril spread, And heavy and impatient tread, He came; and oft that eye so proud Asked for his rider in the crowd.
They buried the dark chief; they freed Beside the grave his battle steed; And swift an arrow cleaved its way To his stern heart! One piercing neigh Arose, and, on the dead man's plain, The rider grasps his steed again.
Ye voices, that arose After the Evening's close, And whispered to my restless heart repose!
Go, breathe it in the ear Of all who doubt and fear, And say to them, "Be of good cheer!"
Ye sounds, so low and calm, That in the groves of balm Seemed to me like an angel's psalm!
Go, mingle yet once more With the perpetual roar Of the pine forest dark and hoar!
Tongues of the dead, not lost But speaking from deaths frost, Like fiery tongues at Pentecost!
Glimmer, as funeral lamps, Amid the chills and damps Of the vast plain where Death encamps!