Chapter IV (1)

"But I shall see the day--it will come before I die-- I shall see it in my silver hairs, and with an age-dimmed eye;-- When the spirit of the land to liberty shall bound, As yonder fountain leaps away from the darkness of the ground: And to my mountain cell, the voices of the free Shall rise, as from the beaten shore the thunders of the sea."

A MEDITATION ON RHODE-ISLAND COAL.

Decolor, obscuris, vilis, non ille repexam
Cesariem regum, non candida virginis ornat
Colla, nec insigni splendet per cingula morsu.
Sed nova si nigri videas miracula saxi,
Tunc superat pulchros cultus et quicquid Eois
Indus litoribus rubrâ scrutatur in algâ.
CLAUDIAN.

I sat beside the glowing grate, fresh heaped With Newport coal, and as the flame grew bright --The many-coloured flame--and played and leaped, I thought of rainbows and the northern light, Moore's Lalla Rookh, the Treasury Report, And other brilliant matters of the sort.

And last I thought of that fair isle which sent The mineral fuel; on a summer day I saw it once, with heat and travel spent, And scratched by dwarf-oaks in the hollow way; Now dragged through sand, now jolted over stone-- A rugged road through rugged Tiverton.

And hotter grew the air, and hollower grew The deep-worn path, and horror-struck, I thought, Where will this dreary passage lead me to? This long dull road, so narrow, deep, and hot? I looked to see it dive in earth outright; I looked--but saw a far more welcome sight.

Like a soft mist upon the evening shore, At once a lovely isle before me lay, Smooth and with tender verdure covered o'er, As if just risen from its calm inland bay; Sloped each way gently to the grassy edge, And the small waves that dallied with the sedge.

The barley was just reaped--its heavy sheaves Lay on the stubble field--the tall maize stood Dark in its summer growth, and shook its leaves-- And bright the sunlight played on the young wood-- For fifty years ago, the old men say, The Briton hewed their ancient groves away.

I saw where fountains freshened the green land, And where the pleasant road, from door to door, With rows of cherry-trees on either hand, Went wandering all that fertile region o'er-- Rogue's Island once--but when the rogues were dead, Rhode Island was the name it took instead.

Beautiful island! then it only seemed A lovely stranger--it has grown a friend. I gazed on its smooth slopes, but never dreamed How soon that bright magnificent isle would send The treasures of its womb across the sea, To warm a poet's room and boil his tea.

Dark anthracite! that reddenest on my hearth, Thou in those island mines didst slumber long; But now thou art come forth to move the earth, And put to shame the men that mean thee wrong. Thou shalt be coals of fire to those that hate thee, And warm the shins of all that underrate thee.

Yea, they did wrong thee foully--they who mocked Thy honest face, and said thou wouldst not burn; Of hewing thee to chimney-pieces talked, And grew profane--and swore, in bitter scorn, That men might to thy inner caves retire, And there, unsinged, abide the day of fire.

Yet is thy greatness nigh. I pause to state, That I too have seen greatness--even I-- Shook hands with Adams--stared at La Fayette, When, barehead, in the hot noon of July, He would not let the umbrella be held o'er him, For which three cheers burst from the mob before him.

And I have seen--not many months ago-- An eastern Governor in chapeau bras And military coat, a glorious show! Ride forth to visit the reviews, and ah! How oft he smiled and bowed to Jonathan! How many hands were shook and votes were won!

'Twas a great Governor--thou too shalt be Great in thy turn--and wide shall spread thy fame, And swiftly; farthest Maine shall hear of thee, And cold New Brunswick gladden at thy name, And, faintly through its sleets, the weeping isle That sends the Boston folks their cod shall smile.

For thou shalt forge vast railways, and shalt heat The hissing rivers into steam, and drive Huge masses from thy mines, on iron feet, Walking their steady way, as if alive, Northward, till everlasting ice besets thee, And south as far as the grim Spaniard lets thee.

Thou shalt make mighty engines swim the sea, Like its own monsters--boats that for a guinea Will take a man to Havre--and shalt be The moving soul of many a spinning-jenny, And ply thy shuttles, till a bard can wear As good a suit of broadcloth as the mayor.

Then we will laugh at winter when we hear The grim old churl about our dwellings rave: Thou, from that "ruler of the inverted year," Shalt pluck the knotty sceptre Cowper gave, And pull him from his sledge, and drag him in, And melt the icicles from off his chin.

THE NEW MOON.

When, as the garish day is done, Heaven burns with the descended sun, 'Tis passing sweet to mark, Amid that flush of crimson light, The new moon's modest bow grow bright, As earth and sky grow dark.

Few are the hearts too cold to feel A thrill of gladness o'er them steal, When first the wandering eye Sees faintly, in the evening blaze, That glimmering curve of tender rays Just planted in the sky.

The sight of that young crescent brings Thoughts of all fair and youthful things The hopes of early years; And childhood's purity and grace, And joys that like a rainbow chase The passing shower of tears.

The captive yields him to the dream Of freedom, when that virgin beam Comes out upon the air: And painfully the sick man tries To fix his dim and burning eyes On the soft promise there.

Most welcome to the lover's sight, Glitters that pure, emerging light; For prattling poets say, That sweetest is the lovers' walk, And tenderest is their murmured talk, Beneath its gentle ray.

And there do graver men behold A type of errors, loved of old, Forsaken and forgiven; And thoughts and wishes not of earth, Just opening in their early birth, Like that new light in heaven.

OCTOBER.

A SONNET.

Ay, thou art welcome, heaven's delicious breath, When woods begin to wear the crimson leaf, And suns grow meek, and the meek suns grow brief, And the year smiles as it draws near its death. Wind of the sunny south! oh still delay In the gay woods and in the golden air, Like to a good old age released from care, Journeying, in long serenity, away. In such a bright, late quiet, would that I Might wear out life like thee, mid bowers and brooks, And, dearer yet, the sunshine of kind looks, And music of kind voices ever nigh; And when my last sand twinkled in the glass, Pass silently from men, as thou dost pass.

THE DAMSEL OF PERU.

Where olive leaves were twinkling in every wind that blew, There sat beneath the pleasant shade a damsel of Peru. Betwixt the slender boughs, as they opened to the air, Came glimpses of her ivory neck and of her glossy hair; And sweetly rang her silver voice, within that shady nook, As from the shrubby glen is heard the sound of hidden brook.

'Tis a song of love and valour, in the noble Spanish tongue, That once upon the sunny plains of old Castile was sung; When, from their mountain holds, on the Moorish rout below, Had rushed the Christians like a flood, and swept away the foe. A while that melody is still, and then breaks forth anew A wilder rhyme, a livelier note, of freedom and Peru.

For she has bound the sword to a youthful lover's side, And sent him to the war the day she should have been his bride, And bade him bear a faithful heart to battle for the right, And held the fountains of her eyes till he was out of sight. Since the parting kiss was given, six weary months are fled, And yet the foe is in the land, and blood must yet be shed.

A white hand parts the branches, a lovely face looks forth, And bright dark eyes gaze steadfastly and sadly toward the north Thou look'st in vain, sweet maiden, the sharpest sight would fail. To spy a sign of human life abroad in all the vale; For the noon is coming on, and the sunbeams fiercely beat, And the silent hills and forest-tops seem reeling in the heat.

That white hand is withdrawn, that fair sad face is gone, But the music of that silver voice is flowing sweetly on, Not as of late, in cheerful tones, but mournfully and low,-- A ballad of a tender maid heart-broken long ago, Of him who died in battle, the youthful and the brave, And her who died of sorrow, upon his early grave.

But see, along that mountain's slope, a fiery horseman ride; Mark his torn plume, his tarnished belt, the sabre at his side. His spurs are buried rowel-deep, he rides with loosened rein, There's blood upon his charger's flank and foam upon the mane; He speeds him toward the olive-grove, along that shaded hill: God shield the helpless maiden there, if he should mean her ill!

And suddenly that song has ceased, and suddenly I hear A shriek sent up amid the shade, a shriek--but not of fear. For tender accents follow, and tenderer pauses speak The overflow of gladness, when words are all too weak: "I lay my good sword at thy feet, for now Peru is free, And I am come to dwell beside the olive-grove with thee."

THE AFRICAN CHIEF.°

Chained in the market-place he stood,
A man of giant frame,
Amid the gathering multitude
That shrunk to hear his name--
All stern of look and strong of limb,
His dark eye on the ground:--
And silently they gazed on him,
As on a lion bound.

Vainly, but well, that chief had fought,
He was a captive now,
Yet pride, that fortune humbles not,
Was written on his brow.
The scars his dark broad bosom wore,
Showed warrior true and brave;
A prince among his tribe before,
He could not be a slave.

Then to his conqueror he spake--
"My brother is a king;
Undo this necklace from my neck,
And take this bracelet ring,
And send me where my brother reigns,
And I will fill thy hands
With store of ivory from the plains,
And gold-dust from the sands."

"Not for thy ivory nor thy gold
Will I unbind thy chain;
That bloody hand shall never hold
The battle-spear again.
A price thy nation never gave
Shall yet be paid for thee;
For thou shalt be the Christian's slave,
In lands beyond the sea."

Then wept the warrior chief, and bade
To shred his locks away;
And one by one, each heavy braid
Before the victor lay.
Thick were the platted locks, and long,
And closely hidden there
Shone many a wedge of gold among
The dark and crisped hair.

"Look, feast thy greedy eye with gold
Long kept for sorest need:
Take it--thou askest sums untold,
And say that I am freed.
Take it--my wife, the long, long day,
Weeps by the cocoa-tree,
And my young children leave their play,
And ask in vain for me."

"I take thy gold--but I have made
Thy fetters fast and strong,
And ween that by the cocoa shade
Thy wife will wait thee long."
Strong was the agony that shook
The captive's frame to hear,
And the proud meaning of his look
Was changed to mortal fear.

His heart was broken--crazed his brain:
At once his eye grew wild;
He struggled fiercely with his chain,
Whispered, and wept, and smiled;
Yet wore not long those fatal bands,
And once, at shut of day,
They drew him forth upon the sands,
The foul hyena's prey.

SPRING IN TOWN.

The country ever has a lagging Spring, Waiting for May to call its violets forth, And June its roses--showers and sunshine bring, Slowly, the deepening verdure o'er the earth; To put their foliage out, the woods are slack, And one by one the singing-birds come back.

Within the city's bounds the time of flowers Comes earlier. Let a mild and sunny day, Such as full often, for a few bright hours, Breathes through the sky of March the airs of May, Shine on our roofs and chase the wintry gloom-- And lo! our borders glow with sudden bloom.

For the wide sidewalks of Broadway are then Gorgeous as are a rivulet's banks in June, That overhung with blossoms, through its glen, Slides soft away beneath the sunny noon, And they who search the untrodden wood for flowers Meet in its depths no lovelier ones than ours.

For here are eyes that shame the violet, Or the dark drop that on the pansy lies, And foreheads, white, as when in clusters set, The anemones by forest fountains rise; And the spring-beauty boasts no tenderer streak Than the soft red on many a youthful cheek.

And thick about those lovely temples lie Locks that the lucky Vignardonne has curled, Thrice happy man! whose trade it is to buy, And bake, and braid those love-knots of the world; Who curls of every glossy colour keepest, And sellest, it is said, the blackest cheapest.

And well thou mayst--for Italy's brown maids Send the dark locks with which their brows are dressed, And Gascon lasses, from their jetty braids, Crop half, to buy a riband for the rest; But the fresh Norman girls their tresses spare, And the Dutch damsel keeps her flaxen hair.

Then, henceforth, let no maid nor matron grieve, To see her locks of an unlovely hue, Frouzy or thin, for liberal art shall give Such piles of curls as nature never knew. Eve, with her veil of tresses, at the sight Had blushed, outdone, and owned herself a fright.

Soft voices and light laughter wake the street, Like notes of woodbirds, and where'er the eye Threads the long way, plumes wave, and twinkling feet Fall light, as hastes that crowd of beauty by. The ostrich, hurrying o'er the desert space, Scarce bore those tossing plumes with fleeter pace.

No swimming Juno gait, of languor born, Is theirs, but a light step of freest grace, Light as Camilla's o'er the unbent corn,-- A step that speaks the spirit of the place, Since Quiet, meek old dame, was driven away To Sing Sing and the shores of Tappan bay.

Ye that dash by in chariots! who will care For steeds or footmen now? ye cannot show Fair face, and dazzling dress, and graceful air, And last edition of the shape! Ah no, These sights are for the earth and open sky, And your loud wheels unheeded rattle by.

THE GLADNESS OF NATURE.

Is this a time to be cloudy and sad,
When our mother Nature laughs around;
When even the deep blue heavens look glad,
And gladness breathes from the blossoming ground?

There are notes of joy from the hang-bird and wren,
And the gossip of swallows through all the sky;
The ground-squirrel gayly chirps by his den,
And the wilding bee hums merrily by.

The clouds are at play in the azure space,
And their shadows at play on the bright green vale,
And here they stretch to the frolic chase,
And there they roll on the easy gale.

There's a dance of leaves in that aspen bower,
There's a titter of winds in that beechen tree,
There's a smile on the fruit, and a smile on the flower,
And a laugh from the brook that runs to the sea.

And look at the broad-faced sun, how he smiles
On the dewy earth that smiles in his ray,
On the leaping waters and gay young isles;
Ay, look, and he'll smile thy gloom away.

THE DISINTERRED WARRIOR.

Gather him to his grave again,
And solemnly and softly lay,
Beneath the verdure of the plain,
The warrior's scattered bones away.
Pay the deep reverence, taught of old,
The homage of man's heart to death;
Nor dare to trifle with the mould
Once hallowed by the Almighty's breath.

The soul hath quickened every part--
That remnant of a martial brow,
Those ribs that held the mighty heart,
That strong arm--strong no longer now.
Spare them, each mouldering relic spare,
Of God's own image; let them rest,
Till not a trace shall speak of where
The awful likeness was impressed.

For he was fresher from the hand
That formed of earth the human face,
And to the elements did stand
In nearer kindred, than our race.
In many a flood to madness tossed,
In many a storm has been his path;
He hid him not from heat or frost,
But met them, and defied their wrath.

Then they were kind--the forests here,
Rivers, and stiller waters, paid
A tribute to the net and spear
Of the red ruler of the shade.
Fruits on the woodland branches lay,
Roots in the shaded soil below,
The stars looked forth to teach his way,
The still earth warned him of the foe.

A noble race! but they are gone,
With their old forests wide and deep,
And we have built our homes upon
Fields where their generations sleep.
Their fountains slake our thirst at noon,
Upon their fields our harvest waves,
Our lovers woo beneath their moon--
Then let us spare, at least, their graves!

MIDSUMMER.

A SONNET.

A power is on the earth and in the air,
From which the vital spirit shrinks afraid,
And shelters him, in nooks of deepest shade,
From the hot steam and from the fiery glare.
Look forth upon the earth--her thousand plants
Are smitten; even the dark sun-loving maize
Faints in the field beneath the torrid blaze;
The herd beside the shaded fountain pants;
For life is driven from all the landscape brown;
The bird has sought his tree, the snake his den,
The trout floats dead in the hot stream, and men
Drop by the sun-stroke in the populous town:
As if the Day of Fire had dawned, and sent
Its deadly breath into the firmament.

THE GREEK PARTISAN.

Our free flag is dancing
In the free mountain air,
And burnished arms are glancing,
And warriors gathering there;
And fearless is the little train
Whose gallant bosoms shield it;
The blood that warms their hearts shall stain
That banner, ere they yield it.
--Each dark eye is fixed on earth,
And brief each solemn greeting;
There is no look nor sound of mirth,
Where those stern men are meeting.

They go to the slaughter,
To strike the sudden blow,
And pour on earth, like water,
The best blood of the foe;
To rush on them from rock and height,
And clear the narrow valley,
Or fire their camp at dead of night,
And fly before they rally.
--Chains are round our country pressed,
And cowards have betrayed her,
And we must make her bleeding breast
The grave of the invader.

Not till from her fetters
We raise up Greece again,
And write, in bloody letters,
That tyranny is slain,--
Oh, not till then the smile shall steal
Across those darkened faces,
Nor one of all those warriors feel
His children's dear embraces,
--Reap we not the ripened wheat,
Till yonder hosts are flying,
And all their bravest, at our feet,
Like autumn sheaves are lying.

THE TWO GRAVES.

'Tis a bleak wild hill,--but green and bright In the summer warmth and the mid-day light; There's the hum of the bee and the chirp of the wren, And the dash of the brook from the alder glen; There's the sound of a bell from the scattered flock, And the shade of the beech lies cool on the rock, And fresh from the west is the free wind's breath,-- There is nothing here that speaks of death.

Far yonder, where orchards and gardens lie, And dwellings cluster, 'tis there men die. They are born, they die, and are buried near, Where the populous grave-yard lightens the bier; For strict and close are the ties that bind In death the children of human-kind; Yea, stricter and closer than those of life,-- 'Tis a neighbourhood that knows no strife. They are noiselessly gathered--friend and foe-- To the still and dark assemblies below: Without a frown or a smile they meet, Each pale and calm in his winding-sheet; In that sullen home of peace and gloom, Crowded, like guests in a banquet-room.

Yet there are graves in this lonely spot, Two humble graves,--but I meet them not. I have seen them,--eighteen years are past, Since I found their place in the brambles last,-- The place where, fifty winters ago, An aged man in his locks of snow, And an aged matron, withered with years, Were solemnly laid!--but not with tears. For none, who sat by the light of their hearth, Beheld their coffins covered with earth; Their kindred were far, and their children dead, When the funeral prayer was coldly said.

Two low green hillocks, two small gray stones, Rose over the place that held their bones; But the grassy hillocks are levelled again, And the keenest eye might search in vain, 'Mong briers, and ferns, and paths of sheep, For the spot where the aged couple sleep.

Yet well might they lay, beneath the soil Of this lonely spot, that man of toil, And trench the strong hard mould with the spade, Where never before a grave was made; For he hewed the dark old woods away, And gave the virgin fields to the day; And the gourd and the bean, beside his door, Bloomed where their flowers ne'er opened before; And the maize stood up; and the bearded rye Bent low in the breath of an unknown sky.

'Tis said that when life is ended here, The spirit is borne to a distant sphere; That it visits its earthly home no more, Nor looks on the haunts it loved before. But why should the bodiless soul be sent Far off, to a long, long banishment? Talk not of the light and the living green! It will pine for the dear familiar scene; It will yearn, in that strange bright world, to behold The rock and the stream it knew of old.

'Tis a cruel creed, believe it not! Death to the good is a milder lot. They are here,--they are here,--that harmless pair, In the yellow sunshine and flowing air, In the light cloud-shadows that slowly pass, In the sounds that rise from the murmuring grass. They sit where their humble cottage stood, They walk by the waving edge of the wood, And list to the long-accustomed flow Of the brook that wets the rocks below. Patient, and peaceful, and passionless, As seasons on seasons swiftly press, They watch, and wait, and linger around, Till the day when their bodies shall leave the ground.

THE CONJUNCTION OF JUPITER AND VENUS.°

I would not always reason. The straight path Wearies us with its never-varying lines, And we grow melancholy. I would make Reason my guide, but she should sometimes sit Patiently by the way-side, while I traced The mazes of the pleasant wilderness Around me. She should be my counsellor, But not my tyrant. For the spirit needs Impulses from a deeper source than hers, And there are motions, in the mind of man, That she must look upon with awe. I bow Reverently to her dictates, but not less Hold to the fair illusions of old time-- Illusions that shed brightness over life, And glory over nature. Look, even now, Where two bright planets in the twilight meet, Upon the saffron heaven,--the imperial star Of Jove, and she that from her radiant urn Pours forth the light of love. Let me believe, Awhile, that they are met for ends of good, Amid the evening glory, to confer Of men and their affairs, and to shed down Kind influence. Lo! they brighten as we gaze, And shake out softer fires! The great earth feels The gladness and the quiet of the time. Meekly the mighty river, that infolds This mighty city, smooths his front, and far Glitters and burns even to the rocky base Of the dark heights that bound him to the west; And a deep murmur, from the many streets, Rises like a thanksgiving. Put we hence Dark and sad thoughts awhile--there's time for them Hereafter--on the morrow we will meet, With melancholy looks, to tell our griefs, And make each other wretched; this calm hour, This balmy, blessed evening, we will give To cheerful hopes and dreams of happy days, Born of the meeting of those glorious stars.

Enough of drought has parched the year, and scared The land with dread of famine. Autumn, yet, Shall make men glad with unexpected fruits. The dog-star shall shine harmless: genial days Shall softly glide away into the keen And wholesome cold of winter; he that fears The pestilence, shall gaze on those pure beams, And breathe, with confidence, the quiet air.

Emblems of power and beauty! well may they Shine brightest on our borders, and withdraw Towards the great Pacific, marking out The path of empire. Thus, in our own land, Ere long, the better Genius of our race, Having encompassed earth, and tamed its tribes, Shall sit him down beneath the farthest west, By the shore of that calm ocean, and look back On realms made happy.

Light the nuptial torch, And say the glad, yet solemn rite, that knits The youth and maiden. Happy days to them That wed this evening!--a long life of love, And blooming sons and daughters! Happy they Born at this hour,--for they shall see an age Whiter and holier than the past, and go Late to their graves. Men shall wear softer hearts, And shudder at the butcheries of war, As now at other murders.

Hapless Greece! Enough of blood has wet thy rocks, and stained Thy rivers; deep enough thy chains have worn Their links into thy flesh; the sacrifice Of thy pure maidens, and thy innocent babes, And reverend priests, has expiated all Thy crimes of old. In yonder mingling lights There is an omen of good days for thee. Thou shalt arise from midst the dust and sit Again among the nations. Thine own arm Shall yet redeem thee. Not in wars like thine The world takes part. Be it a strife of kings,-- Despot with despot battling for a throne,-- And Europe shall be stirred throughout her realms, Nations shall put on harness, and shall fall Upon each other, and in all their bounds The wailing of the childless shall not cease. Thine is a war for liberty, and thou Must fight it single-handed. The old world Looks coldly on the murderers of thy race, And leaves thee to the struggle; and the new,-- I fear me thou couldst tell a shameful tale Of fraud and lust of gain;--thy treasury drained, And Missolonghi fallen. Yet thy wrongs Shall put new strength into thy heart and hand, And God and thy good sword shall yet work out, For thee, a terrible deliverance.

A SUMMER RAMBLE.

The quiet August noon has come,
A slumberous silence fills the sky,
The fields are still, the woods are dumb,
In glassy sleep the waters lie.

And mark yon soft white clouds that rest
Above our vale, a moveless throng;
The cattle on the mountain's breast
Enjoy the grateful shadow long.

Oh, how unlike those merry hours
In early June when Earth laughs out,
When the fresh winds make love to flowers,
And woodlands sing and waters shout.

When in the grass sweet voices talk,
And strains of tiny music swell
From every moss-cup of the rock,
From every nameless blossom's bell.

But now a joy too deep for sound,
A peace no other season knows,
Hushes the heavens and wraps the ground,
The blessing of supreme repose.

Away! I will not be, to-day,
The only slave of toil and care.
Away from desk and dust! away!
I'll be as idle as the air.

Beneath the open sky abroad,
Among the plants and breathing things,
The sinless, peaceful works of God,
I'll share the calm the season brings.

Come, thou, in whose soft eyes I see
The gentle meanings of thy heart,
One day amid the woods with me,
From men and all their cares apart.

And where, upon the meadow's breast,
The shadow of the thicket lies,
The blue wild flowers thou gatherest
Shall glow yet deeper near thine eyes.

Come, and when mid the calm profound,
I turn, those gentle eyes to seek,
They, like the lovely landscape round,
Of innocence and peace shall speak.

Rest here, beneath the unmoving shade,
And on the silent valleys gaze,
Winding and widening, till they fade
In yon soft ring of summer haze.

The village trees their summits rear
Still as its spire, and yonder flock
At rest in those calm fields appear
As chiselled from the lifeless rock.

One tranquil mount the scene o'erlooks--
There the hushed winds their sabbath keep
While a near hum from bees and brooks
Comes faintly like the breath of sleep.

Well may the gazer deem that when,
Worn with the struggle and the strife,
And heart-sick at the wrongs of men,
The good forsakes the scene of life;

Like this deep quiet that, awhile,
Lingers the lovely landscape o'er,
Shall be the peace whose holy smile
Welcomes him to a happier shore.

A SCENE ON THE BANKS OF THE HUDSON.

Cool shades and dews are round my way, And silence of the early day; Mid the dark rocks that watch his bed, Glitters the mighty Hudson spread, Unrippled, save by drops that fall From shrubs that fringe his mountain wall; And o'er the clear still water swells The music of the Sabbath bells.

All, save this little nook of land Circled with trees, on which I stand; All, save that line of hills which lie Suspended in the mimic sky-- Seems a blue void, above, below, Through which the white clouds come and go, And from the green world's farthest steep I gaze into the airy deep.

Loveliest of lovely things are they, On earth, that soonest pass away. The rose that lives its little hour Is prized beyond the sculptured flower. Even love, long tried and cherished long, Becomes more tender and more strong, At thought of that insatiate grave From which its yearnings cannot save.

River! in this still hour thou hast Too much of heaven on earth to last; Nor long may thy still waters lie, An image of the glorious sky. Thy fate and mine are not repose, And ere another evening close, Thou to thy tides shalt turn again, And I to seek the crowd of men.

THE HURRICANE.°

Lord of the winds! I feel thee nigh, I know thy breath in the burning sky! And I wait, with a thrill in every vein, For the coming of the hurricane!

And lo! on the wing of the heavy gales, Through the boundless arch of heaven he sails; Silent and slow, and terribly strong, The mighty shadow is borne along, Like the dark eternity to come; While the world below, dismayed and dumb, Through the calm of the thick hot atmosphere Looks up at its gloomy folds with fear.

They darken fast; and the golden blaze Of the sun is quenched in the lurid haze, And he sends through the shade a funeral ray-- A glare that is neither night nor day, A beam that touches, with hues of death, The clouds above and the earth beneath. To its covert glides the silent bird, While the hurricane's distant voice is heard, Uplifted among the mountains round, And the forests hear and answer the sound.

He is come! he is come! do ye not behold His ample robes on the wind unrolled? Giant of air! we bid thee hail!-- How his gray skirts toss in the whirling gale; How his huge and writhing arms are bent, To clasp the zone of the firmament, And fold at length, in their dark embrace, From mountain to mountain the visible space.

Darker--still darker! the whirlwinds bear The dust of the plains to the middle air: And hark to the crashing, long and loud, Of the chariot of God in the thunder-cloud! You may trace its path by the flashes that start From the rapid wheels where'er they dart, As the fire-bolts leap to the world below, And flood the skies with a lurid glow.

What roar is that?--'tis the rain that breaks In torrents away from the airy lakes, Heavily poured on the shuddering ground, And shedding a nameless horror round. Ah! well known woods, and mountains, and skies, With the very clouds!--ye are lost to my eyes. I seek ye vainly, and see in your place The shadowy tempest that sweeps through space, A whirling ocean that fills the wall Of the crystal heaven, and buries all. And I, cut off from the world, remain Alone with the terrible hurricane.

WILLIAM TELL.º

A SONNET.

Chains may subdue the feeble spirit, but thee,
Tell, of the iron heart! they could not tame!
For thou wert of the mountains; they proclaim
The everlasting creed of liberty.
That creed is written on the untrampled snow,
Thundered by torrents which no power can hold,
Save that of God, when he sends forth his cold,
And breathed by winds that through the free heaven blow.
Thou, while thy prison walls were dark around,
Didst meditate the lesson Nature taught,
And to thy brief captivity was brought
A vision of thy Switzerland unbound.
The bitter cup they mingled, strengthened thee
For the great work to set thy country free.

THE HUNTER'S SERENADE.°

Thy bower is finished, fairest!
Fit bower for hunter's bride--
Where old woods overshadow
The green savanna's side.
I've wandered long, and wandered far,
And never have I met,
In all this lovely western land,
A spot so lovely yet.
But I shall think it fairer,
When thou art come to bless,
With thy sweet smile and silver voice,
Its silent loveliness.

For thee the wild grape glistens,
On sunny knoll and tree,
The slim papaya ripens
Its yellow fruit for thee.
For thee the duck, on glassy stream,
The prairie-fowl shall die,
My rifle for thy feast shall bring
The wild swan from the sky.
The forest's leaping panther,
Fierce, beautiful, and fleet,
Shall yield his spotted hide to be
A carpet for thy feet.

I know, for thou hast told me,
Thy maiden love of flowers;
Ah, those that deck thy gardens
Are pale compared with ours.
When our wide woods and mighty lawns
Bloom to the April skies,
The earth has no more gorgeous sight
To show to human eyes.
In meadows red with blossoms,
All summer long, the bee
Murmurs, and loads his yellow thighs,
For thee, my love, and me.

Or wouldst thou gaze at tokens
Of ages long ago--
Our old oaks stream with mosses,
And sprout with mistletoe;
And mighty vines, like serpents, climb
The giant sycamore;
And trunks, o'erthrown for centuries,
Cumber the forest floor;
And in the great savanna,
The solitary mound,
Built by the elder world, o'erlooks
The loneliness around.

Come, thou hast not forgotten
Thy pledge and promise quite,
With many blushes murmured,
Beneath the evening light.
Come, the young violets crowd my door,
Thy earliest look to win,
And at my silent window-sill
The jessamine peeps in.
All day the red-bird warbles,
Upon the mulberry near,
And the night-sparrow trills her song,
All night, with none to hear.

THE GREEK BOY.

Gone are the glorious Greeks of old, Glorious in mien and mind; Their bones are mingled with the mould, Their dust is on the wind; The forms they hewed from living stone Survive the waste of years, alone, And, scattered with their ashes, show What greatness perished long ago.

Yet fresh the myrtles there--the springs Gush brightly as of yore; Flowers blossom from the dust of kings, As many an age before. There nature moulds as nobly now, As e'er of old, the human brow; And copies still the martial form That braved Platæa's battle storm.

Boy! thy first looks were taught to seek Their heaven in Hellas' skies: Her airs have tinged thy dusky cheek, Her sunshine lit thine eyes; Thine ears have drunk the woodland strains Heard by old poets, and thy veins Swell with the blood of demigods, That slumber in thy country's sods.

Now is thy nation free--though late-- Thy elder brethren broke-- Broke, ere thy spirit felt its weight, The intolerable yoke. And Greece, decayed, dethroned, doth see Her youth renewed in such as thee: A shoot of that old vine that made The nations silent in its shade.

THE PAST.

Thou unrelenting Past!
Strong are the barriers round thy dark domain,
And fetters, sure and fast,
Hold all that enter thy unbreathing reign.

Far in thy realm withdrawn
Old empires sit in sullenness and gloom,
And glorious ages gone
Lie deep within the shadow of thy womb.

Childhood, with all its mirth,
Youth, Manhood, Age, that draws us to the ground,
And last, Man's Life on earth,
Glide to thy dim dominions, and are bound.

Thou hast my better years,
Thou hast my earlier friends--the good--the kind,
Yielded to thee with tears--
The venerable form--the exalted mind.

My spirit yearns to bring
The lost ones back--yearns with desire intense,
And struggles hard to wring
Thy bolts apart, and pluck thy captives thence.

In vain--thy gates deny
All passage save to those who hence depart;
Nor to the streaming eye
Thou giv'st them back--nor to the broken heart.

In thy abysses hide
Beauty and excellence unknown--to thee
Earth's wonder and her pride
Are gathered, as the waters to the sea;

Labours of good to man,
Unpublished charity, unbroken faith,--
Love, that midst grief began,
And grew with years, and faltered not in death.

Full many a mighty name
Lurks in thy depths, unuttered, unrevered;
With thee are silent fame,
Forgotten arts, and wisdom disappeared.

Thine for a space are they--
Yet shalt thou yield thy treasures up at last;
Thy gates shall yet give way,
Thy bolts shall fall, inexorable Past!

All that of good and fair
Has gone into thy womb from earliest time,
Shall then come forth to wear
The glory and the beauty of its prime.

They have not perished--no!
Kind words, remembered voices once so sweet,
Smiles, radiant long ago,
And features, the great soul's apparent seat.

All shall come back, each tie
Of pure affection shall be knit again;
Alone shall Evil die,
And Sorrow dwell a prisoner in thy reign.

And then shall I behold
Him, by whose kind paternal side I sprung,
And her, who, still and cold,
Fills the next grave--the beautiful and young.

"UPON THE MOUNTAIN'S DISTANT HEAD."

Upon the mountain's distant head,
With trackless snows for ever white,
Where all is still, and cold, and dead,
Late shines the day's departing light.

But far below those icy rocks,
The vales, in summer bloom arrayed,
Woods full of birds, and fields of flocks,
Are dim with mist and dark with shade.

'Tis thus, from warm and kindly hearts,
And eyes where generous meanings burn,
Earliest the light of life departs,
But lingers with the cold and stern.

THE EVENING WIND.

Spirit that breathest through my lattice, thou That cool'st the twilight of the sultry day, Gratefully flows thy freshness round my brow: Thou hast been out upon the deep at play, Riding all day the wild blue waves till now, Roughening their crests, and scattering high their spray And swelling the white sail. I welcome thee To the scorched land, thou wanderer of the sea!

Nor I alone--a thousand bosoms round Inhale thee in the fulness of delight; And languid forms rise up, and pulses bound Livelier, at coming of the wind of night; And, languishing to hear thy grateful sound, Lies the vast inland stretched beyond the sight. Go forth into the gathering shade; go forth, God's blessing breathed upon the fainting earth!

Go, rock the little wood-bird in his nest, Curl the still waters, bright with stars, and rouse The wide old wood from his majestic rest, Summoning from the innumerable boughs The strange, deep harmonies that haunt his breast: Pleasant shall be thy way where meekly bows The shutting flower, and darkling waters pass, And where the o'ershadowing branches sweep the grass.

The faint old man shall lean his silver head To feel thee; thou shalt kiss the child asleep, And dry the moistened curls that overspread His temples, while his breathing grows more deep: And they who stand about the sick man's bed, Shall joy to listen to thy distant sweep, And softly part his curtains to allow Thy visit, grateful to his burning brow.

Go--but the circle of eternal change, Which is the life of nature, shall restore, With sounds and scents from all thy mighty range Thee to thy birthplace of the deep once more; Sweet odours in the sea-air, sweet and strange, Shall tell the home-sick mariner of the shore; And, listening to thy murmur, he shall deem He hears the rustling leaf and running stream.

"WHEN THE FIRMAMENT QUIVERS WITH DAYLIGHT'S YOUNG BEAM."

When the firmament quivers with daylight's young beam,
And the woodlands awaking burst into a hymn,
And the glow of the sky blazes back from the stream,
How the bright ones of heaven in the brightness grow dim.

Oh! 'tis sad, in that moment of glory and song,
To see, while the hill-tops are waiting the sun,
The glittering band that kept watch all night long
O'er Love and o'er Slumber, go out one by one:

Till the circle of ether, deep, ruddy, and vast,
Scarce glimmers with one of the train that were there;
And their leader the day-star, the brightest and last,
Twinkles faintly and fades in that desert of air.

Thus, Oblivion, from midst of whose shadow we came,
Steals o'er us again when life's twilight is gone;
And the crowd of bright names, in the heaven of fame,
Grow pale and are quenched as the years hasten on.

Let them fade--but we'll pray that the age, in whose flight,
Of ourselves and our friends the remembrance shall die
May rise o'er the world, with the gladness and light
Of the morning that withers the stars from the sky.

"INNOCENT CHILD AND SNOW-WHITE FLOWER."

Innocent child and snow-white flower! Well are ye paired in your opening hour. Thus should the pure and the lovely meet, Stainless with stainless, and sweet with sweet.

White as those leaves, just blown apart, Are the folds of thy own young heart; Guilty passion and cankering care Never have left their traces there.

Artless one! though thou gazest now O'er the white blossom with earnest brow, Soon will it tire thy childish eye; Fair as it is, thou wilt throw it by.

Throw it aside in thy weary hour, Throw to the ground the fair white flower; Yet, as thy tender years depart, Keep that white and innocent heart.

TO THE RIVER ARVE.

SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN AT A HAMLET NEAR THE FOOT OF MONT BLANC.

Not from the sands or cloven rocks,
Thou rapid Arve! thy waters flow;
Nor earth, within her bosom, locks
Thy dark unfathomed wells below.
Thy springs are in the cloud, thy stream
Begins to move and murmur first
Where ice-peaks feel the noonday beam,
Or rain-storms on the glacier burst.

Born where the thunder and the blast,
And morning's earliest light are born,
Thou rushest swoln, and loud, and fast,
By these low homes, as if in scorn:
Yet humbler springs yield purer waves;
And brighter, glassier streams than thine,
Sent up from earth's unlighted caves,
With heaven's own beam and image shine.

Yet stay; for here are flowers and trees;
Warm rays on cottage roofs are here,
And laugh of girls, and hum of bees--
Here linger till thy waves are clear.
Thou heedest not--thou hastest on;
From steep to steep thy torrent falls,
Till, mingling with the mighty Rhone,
It rests beneath Geneva's walls.

Rush on--but were there one with me
That loved me, I would light my hearth
Here, where with God's own majesty
Are touched the features of the earth.
By these old peaks, white, high, and vast,
Still rising as the tempests beat,
Here would I dwell, and sleep, at last,
Among the blossoms at their feet.

TO COLE, THE PAINTER, DEPARTING FOR EUROPE.

A SONNET.

Thine eyes shall see the light of distant skies:
Yet, COLE! thy heart shall bear to Europe's strand
A living image of thy native land,
Such as on thine own glorious canvas lies;
Lone lakes--savannas where the bison roves--
Rocks rich with summer garlands--solemn streams--
Skies, where the desert eagle wheels and screams--
Spring bloom and autumn blaze of boundless groves.
Fair scenes shall greet thee where thou goest--fair,
But different--everywhere the trace of men,
Paths, homes, graves, ruins, from the lowest glen
To where life shrinks from the fierce Alpine air,
Gaze on them, till the tears shall dim thy sight,
But keep that earlier, wilder image bright.

TO THE FRINGED GENTIAN.

Thou blossom bright with autumn dew, And coloured with the heaven's own blue, That openest when the quiet light Succeeds the keen and frosty night.

Thou comest not when violets lean O'er wandering brooks and springs unseen, Or columbines, in purple dressed, Nod o'er the ground-bird's hidden nest.

Thou waitest late and com'st alone, When woods are bare and birds are flown, And frosts and shortening days portend The aged year is near his end.

Then doth thy sweet and quiet eye Look through its fringes to the sky, Blue--blue--as if that sky let fall A flower from its cerulean wall.

I would that thus, when I shall see The hour of death draw near to me, Hope, blossoming within my heart, May look to heaven as I depart.

THE TWENTY-SECOND OF DECEMBER.

Wild was the day; the wintry sea
Moaned sadly on New-England's strand,
When first the thoughtful and the free,
Our fathers, trod the desert land.

They little thought how pure a light,
With years, should gather round that day;
How love should keep their memories bright,
How wide a realm their sons should sway.

Green are their bays; but greener still
Shall round their spreading fame be wreathed,
And regions, now untrod, shall thrill
With reverence when their names are breathed.

Till where the sun, with softer fires,
Looks on the vast Pacific's sleep,
The children of the pilgrim sires
This hallowed day like us shall keep.

HYMN OF THE CITY.

Not in the solitude
Alone may man commune with Heaven, or see
Only in savage wood
And sunny vale, the present Deity;
Or only hear his voice
Where the winds whisper and the waves rejoice.

Even here do I behold
Thy steps, Almighty!--here, amidst the crowd,
Through the great city rolled,
With everlasting murmur deep and loud--
Choking the ways that wind
'Mongst the proud piles, the work of human kind.

Thy golden sunshine comes
From the round heaven, and on their dwellings lies,
And lights their inner homes;
For them thou fill'st with air the unbounded skies,
And givest them the stores
Of ocean, and the harvests of its shores.

Thy Spirit is around,
Quickening the restless mass that sweeps along;
And this eternal sound--
Voices and footfalls of the numberless throng--
Like the resounding sea,
Or like the rainy tempest, speaks of thee.

And when the hours of rest
Come, like a calm upon the mid-sea brine,
Hushing its billowy breast--
The quiet of that moment too is thine,
It breathes of Him who keeps
The vast and helpless city while it sleeps.

THE PRAIRIES.°

These are the gardens of the Desert, these The unshorn fields, boundless and beautiful, For which the speech of England has no name-- The Prairies. I behold them for the first, And my heart swells, while the dilated sight Takes in the encircling vastness. Lo! they stretch In airy undulations, far away, As if the ocean, in his gentlest swell, Stood still, with all his rounded billows fixed, And motionless for ever.--Motionless?-- No--they are all unchained again. The clouds Sweep over with their shadows, and, beneath, The surface rolls and fluctuates to the eye; Dark hollows seem to glide along and chase The sunny ridges. Breezes of the South! Who toss the golden and the flame-like flowers, And pass the prairie-hawk that, poised on high, Flaps his broad wings, yet moves not--ye have played Among the palms of Mexico and vines Of Texas, and have crisped the limpid brooks That from the fountains of Sonora glide Into the calm Pacific--have ye fanned A nobler or a lovelier scene than this? Man hath no part in all this glorious work: The hand that built the firmament hath heaved And smoothed these verdant swells, and sown their slopes With herbage, planted them with island groves, And hedged them round with forests. Fitting floor For this magnificent temple of the sky-- With flowers whose glory and whose multitude Rival the constellations! The great heavens Seem to stoop down upon the scene in love,-- A nearer vault, and of a tenderer blue, Than that which bends above the eastern hills.

As o'er the verdant waste I guide my steed, Among the high rank grass that sweeps his sides The hollow beating of his footstep seems A sacrilegious sound. I think of those Upon whose rest he tramples. Are they here-- The dead of other days?--and did the dust Of these fair solitudes once stir with life And burn with passion? Let the mighty mounds That overlook the rivers, or that rise In the dim forest crowded with old oaks, Answer. A race, that long has passed away, Built them;--a disciplined and populous race Heaped, with long toil, the earth, while yet the Greek Was hewing the Pentelicus to forms Of symmetry, and rearing on its rock The glittering Parthenon. These ample fields Nourished their harvests, here their herds were fed, When haply by their stalls the bison lowed, And bowed his maned shoulder to the yoke. All day this desert murmured with their toils, Till twilight blushed, and lovers walked, and wooed In a forgotten language, and old tunes, From instruments of unremembered form, Gave the soft winds a voice. The red man came-- The roaming hunter tribes, warlike and fierce, And the mound-builders vanished from the earth. The solitude of centuries untold Has settled where they dwelt. The prairie-wolf Hunts in their meadows, and his fresh-dug den Yawns by my path. The gopher mines the ground Where stood their swarming cities. All is gone-- All--save the piles of earth that hold their bones-- The platforms where they worshipped unknown gods-- The barriers which they builded from the soil To keep the foe at bay--till o'er the walls The wild beleaguerers broke, and, one by one, The strongholds of the plain were forced, and heaped With corpses. The brown vultures of the wood Flocked to those vast uncovered sepulchres, And sat, unscared and silent, at their feast. Haply some solitary fugitive, Lurking in marsh and forest, till the sense Of desolation and of fear became Bitterer than death, yielded himself to die. Man's better nature triumphed then. Kind words Welcomed and soothed him; the rude conquerors Seated the captive with their chiefs; he chose A bride among their maidens, and at length Seemed to forget,--yet ne'er forgot,--the wife Of his first love, and her sweet little ones, Butchered, amid their shrieks, with all his race.

Thus change the forms of being. Thus arise Races of living things, glorious in strength, And perish, as the quickening breath of God Fills them, or is withdrawn. The red man, too, Has left the blooming wilds he ranged so long, And, nearer to the Rocky Mountains, sought A wilder hunting-ground. The beaver builds No longer by these streams, but far away, On waters whose blue surface ne'er gave back The white man's face--among Missouri's springs, And pools whose issues swell the Oregan, He rears his little Venice. In these plains The bison feeds no more. Twice twenty leagues Beyond remotest smoke of hunter's camp, Roams the majestic brute, in herds that shake The earth with thundering steps--yet here I meet His ancient footprints stamped beside the pool.

Still this great solitude is quick with life. Myriads of insects, gaudy as the flowers They flutter over, gentle quadrupeds, And birds, that scarce have learned the fear of man, Are here, and sliding reptiles of the ground, Startlingly beautiful. The graceful deer Bounds to the wood at my approach. The bee, A more adventurous colonist than man, With whom he came across the eastern deep, Fills the savannas with his murmurings, And hides his sweets, as in the golden age, Within the hollow oak. I listen long To his domestic hum, and think I hear The sound of that advancing multitude Which soon shall fill these deserts. From the ground Comes up the laugh of children, the soft voice Of maidens, and the sweet and solemn hymn Of Sabbath worshippers. The low of herds Blends with the rustling of the heavy grain Over the dark-brown furrows. All at once A fresher wind sweeps by, and breaks my dream, And I am in the wilderness alone.

SONG OF MARION'S MEN.°