Glass ] -O ilQ.Cl Book_L£lX2_ .

COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT

POETICAL WORKS

OF

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

HOUSEHOLD EDITION.

^

..,,^)S-

I

NEW YOEK: i

D. APPLETON & CO., .549 & .5.51 BROADWAY. \

LONDON: 16 LITTLE BRITAIN. '

1879.

Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1854, by "W. C. BEYANT, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the Southern District of New York.

Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1871, by W. C. BEY ANT, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.

Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 487^, by D. APPLETON & CO., in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at WashingtoD., _• ' ■

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

The ancestry of William CuUen Bryant might have been inferred from the character of his writings, which reflect what- ever is best and noblest in the life and thought of Kew Eng- land. It was a tradition that the first Bryant of whom there is any account in the annals of the 'New World came over in the Mayflower, but the tradition is not authenticated. What is known of this gentleman, Mr. Stephen Bryant, is that he came over from England, and that he was at Plymouth, Massachu- setts, as early as 1632. He married Abigail Shaw, who had emigrated with her father, and who bore him several children between 1650 and 1665, it is to be presumed at Plymouth, of which town he was chosen constable in 1663. Stephen Bryant had a son named Ichabod, who was the father of Philip Bry- ant, who was born in 1732. Philip Bryant married Silence Howard, the daughter of Dr. Abiel Howard, of West Bridge- water, whose profession he adopted, being a practitioner in medicine in North Bridgewater. He was the father of nine hildren, one of whom, Peter Bryant, born in 1767, succeeded

iv WILLIAM CULLEX BRYANT.

him in his profession. Young Dr. Bryant beeame enamored

of Miss Sarah Snell, the daughter of Mr. Ebenezer Snell, of;

Bridgewater, who removed his family to Cummington, whither

he was followed by his future son-in-law, who married the lady

of his love in 1792. Two years later, on the 3d of l^ovember,

there v\"as born to him a man-child, who was to win, and to

leave,

" One of the few immortal names That were not born to die."

Dr. Bryant was proud of his profession ; and in the hope, no doubt, that his son would become a shining light therein, he perpetuated at his christening the name of a great medical au- thority, who had departed this life four years before — William Cullen. Dr. Bryant was the last of his family to practise the healing art ; for jS^ature, wiser than he, early determined the future course of Master William Cullen Bryant. He was not to be a doctor, but a poet. A poet, that is, if he lived to be anything ; for the chances were against his living at all. The lad was exceedingly frail, and had a head the immensity of which troubled his anxious father. How to reduce it to the normal size was a puzzle which Dr. Bryant solved in a spring of clear, cold water, which burst out of the ground on or near his homestead, and into which the child was immersed every morning, head and all, by two of Dr. Bryant's students — kick- ing lustily, Ave may be sure, at this matutinal dose of hydro- pathy.

William Cullen Bryant came of Mayflower stock, his moth- er being a descendant of John Alden ; and the characteristics

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. y i

of liis family included some of the sterner qualities of the i Puritans. Grandfather Snell was a magistrate, and, without ; doubt, a severe one, for the period was not one which favored | leniency to criminals. The whipping-post was still extant in '. Massachusetts, and the poet remembered that it stood about a ' mile from his early home at Cummington, and that he once i saw a young fellow of eighteen who had received forty lashes : as a punishment for a theft he had committed. It was, he .^ thought, the last example of corporal punishment inflicted by ; law in that neighborhood, though the whipping-post remained ■ in its place for several years, a possible terror to future evil- doers. " Spare the rod, spoil the child," was the Draconian ; code then ; and the rod, in- the shape of a little bundle of ' birchen twigs, bound together with a small cord, was generally i suspended on a nail against the wall in the kitchen, and was as : much a part of the necessary furniture as the crane that hung ? in the fireplace or the shovel and tongs. -! Magistrate Snell was a disciplinarian of the stricter sort ; \ and as he and his wife resided with Dr. Bryant and his family, ] the latter stood in awe of him, so much so that young William ' Cullen was prevented from feeling anything like affection for i him. It was an age of repression, not to say oppression, for , children, who had few rights that their elders were bound to : respect. To the terrors of the secular arm were added the \ deeper terrors of the spiritual law, for the people of that primi- tive period were nothing if not religious. The minister was ■ the great man, and his bodily presence was a restraint upon the ■ unruly, and the ruly too, for that matter. The Hues of om* an-

yi WILLIAM CTJLLEN BRYANT.

cestors did not fall in pleasant places as far as recreations were concerned ; for they were few and far between, consisting, for the most part, of mihtia musters, "raisings," corn-huskings, and singing-schools, diversified with the making of maple sugar and cider. Education was confined to the three R's, though the children of wealthy parents were sent to colleges as they now are. It was not a genial social condition, it must be con- fessed, to which Wilham CuUen Bryant was born, though it might have been worse but for his good father, who was in many respects superior to his rustic neighbors. A broad-shoul- dered, muscular gentleman, proud of his strength, his manners were gentle and reserved, his disposition was serene, and he was fond of society. He was not without political distinction, for he was elected to the Massachusetts House of Representa- tives for several terms, and afterward to the State Senate, and he associated with the cultivated circles of Boston both as a legislator and a physician.

William CuUen Bryant was fortunate in his father, who, if he was disappointed when he found that his son was born to be a follower of Apollo and not of ^sculapius, kept his dis- appointment to himself, and encouraged the lad in his poetical attempts. We have the authority of the poet himself that his father taught his youth the art of verse, and that he offered him to the Muses in the bud of life. His first efforts were several clever " Enigmas," in imitation of the Latin writers, a translation from Horace, and a copy of verses which were written in his twelfth year, to be recited at the close of the winter school, " in the presence of the Master, the Minister of

WILLIAM CTJLLEN BRYANT. ^jj

the parish, and a number of private gentlemen." They were printed on the 18th of March, 1807, in the Hampshire Gazette, from which these particulars are derived, and which was fa- vored with other contributions from the pen of " C. B."

The juvenile poems of William CuUen Bryant are as clever as those of Chatterton, Pope, and Cowley ; but they are in no sense original, and it would have been strange if they had been. There was no original writing in America at the time they were written ; and if there had been, it would hardly have commended itself to the old-fashioned taste of Dr. Bry- ant, to whom Pope was still a power in poetry, as Addison, no doubt, was in prose. It was natural, therefore, that he should offer his boy to the strait-laced Muses of Queen Anne's time ; that the precocious boy should lisp in heroic couplets, and that he should endeavor to be satirical. Politics were running high in the first decade of the present century, and the favorite bug- bear in ^Qw England was President Jefferson, who in 1807 had laid an embargo on American shipping, in consequence of the de- crees of mpoleon, and the British orders in council in relation thereto. This act was denounced, and by no one more warmly than by Master Bryant, who made it the subject of a satire, which was published in Boston in 1808. It was entitled " The Embargo ; or. Sketches of the Times," and was printed for the purchasers, who were found in sufficient numbers to ex- liaust the first edition. It is said to have been well received, but doubts were expressed as to whether the author was really a youth of thirteen. His friends came to his rescue in an "Advertisement," which was prefixed to a second edition of

viii WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT,

his little IrocMtre, pubKslied in the following year, and certi- fied to liis age from their personal knowledge of himseK and his family. They also certified to his extraordinary talents, though they should prefer to have him judged by his works, without favor or affection. They concluded by stating that the printer was authorized to disclose their names and places of residence.

The early poetical exercises of William Cullen Bryant, like those of all young poets, were colored by the books which he read. Among these were the works of Pope, as I have al- ready intimated, and, no doubt, the works of Cowper and Thomson. The latter, if they were in the library of Dr. Bry- ant, do not appear to have impressed his son at this time ; nor, indeed, does any English poet except Pope, so far as we can judge from his contributions to the JSarrvpshire Gazette, which were continued from time to time. They were bookish and patriotic ; one, which was written at Cummington on the 8th of January, 1810, being " The Genius of Columbia ; " and another, " An Ode for the Fourth of July, 1812," to the tune of " Ye Gentlemen of England." These productions are un- deniably clever, but they are not characteristic of their writer, nor of the nature which surrounded his birthplace, with which he was familiar, and of which he was a close observer, as his poetry was soon to disclose.

He entered "Williams College, in Williamstown, Mass., in his sixteenth year, and remained there until 1812, distinguishing himself for aptness and industry in classical learning and polite hterature. At the end of two years he withdrew, and com-

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. ix

menced the study of law, first with Judge Howe, of Worth- ington, and afterward with Mr. WilKam Baylies, of Bridge- water. So far he had written notliing but clever amateur verse ; but now, in his eighteenth year, he wrote an imperish- able poem. The circumstances under which it was composed have been variously stated, but they agree in the main particu- lars, and are thus given in " The Bryant Homestead Book " (1870), apparently on authentic information : " It was here at Cummington, while wandering in the primeval forests, over the floor of which were scattered the gigantic trunks of fallen trees, mouldering for long years, and suggesting an indefinitely remote antiquity, and where silent rivulets crept along through the carpet of dead leaves, the spoil of thousands of summers, that the poem entitled ' Thanatopsis ' was composed. The young poet had read the poems of Kirke White, which, edited by Southey, were j)ublished about that time, and a small vol- ume of Southey's miscellaneous poems ; and some lines of those authors had kindled his imagination, which, going forth over the face of the inhabitants of the globe, sought to bring under one broad and comprehensive view the destinies of the human race in the present life, and the pei'jjetual rising and passing away of generation after generation who are nourished by the fruits of its soil, and find a resting-place in its bosom." We should like to know what lines in Southey and Kirke Wliite suggested " Thanatopsis," that they might be printed in letters of gold hereafter.

When the young poet quitted Cummington to begin his law studies, he left the manuscript of this incomparable poem 3

X WILLIAM CULLEN BKYANT.

among his papers in the honse of his father, who found it after his departure. " Here are some hnes that our "William has been writing," he said to a lady to whom he showed them. She read them, and, raising her eyes to the face of Dr. Bryant, burst into tears — a tribute to the genius of his son in which he was not ashamed to join. Blackstone bade his Muse a long adieu before he turned to wrangling courts and stubborn law ; and our young lawyer intended to do the same (for poetry was starvation in America seventy years ago), but habit and nature were too strong for him. There is no difficulty in tracing the succession of his poems, and in a few instances the places where they were written, or with which they concerned them- selves. " Thanatopsis," for example, was followed by " The Yellow Yiolet," which was followed by the " Inscription for the Entrance to a "Wood," and the song beginning " Soon as the glazed and gleaming snow." The exquisite lines " To a Waterfowl " were written at Bridge water, in his twentieth year, where he was still pursuing the study of law, which ap- pears to have been distasteful to Mm. The concluding stanza sank deeply into a heart that needed its pious lesson :

" He who, from zone to zone, Guides througli the boundless sky thy certain flight, In the long way that I must tread alone, Will lead my steps aright.''''

The lawyer-poet had a long way before him, but he did not tread it alone ; for, after being admitted to the bar in Ply- mouth, and practising for a time in Plainfield, near Gumming-

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. xi

ton, he removed to Great Barrington, in Berkshire, where he saw the dwelling of the Genevieve of his chiUy little " Song," his Genevieve being Miss Frances Fairchild of that beautiful town, whom he married in his twenty-seventh year, and who was the light of his household for nearly half a century. It was to her, the reader may like to know, that he addressed the ideal poem beginning " O fairest of the rural maids " {circa 1825), " The Future Life " (183Y), and " The Life that Is " (1858) ; and her memory and her loss are tenderly embalmed in one of the most touching of his later poems, " October, 1866." " Thanatopsis " was sent to the North American Review (whether by its author or his father we are not told), and with such a modest, not to say enigmatical, note of introduction, that its authorship was left in doubt. The Heview was man- aged by a club of young literary gentlemen, who styled them- selves " The l^orth American Club," two of whose members, Mr. Kichard Henry Dana and Mr. Edward Tyrrel Channing, were considered its editors. Mr. Dana read the poem care- fully, and was so surprised at its excellence that he doubted whether it was the production of an American, an opinion in which his associates are understood to have concurred. While they were hesitating about its acceptance, he was told that the writer was a member of the Massachusetts Senate ; and, the Senate being then in session, he started immediately from Cambridge for Boston. He reached the State House, and in- quired for Senator Bryant. A tail, middle-aged man, with a business-like look, was pointed out to him. He was satisfied that he could not be the poet he sought, so he posted back to

xii WILLIAM OULLEN BRYANT,

Cambridge without an introduction. The story ends here, and rather tamely ; for the original narrator forgot, or perhaps never loiew, that Dr, Bryant was a member of the Senate, and that it was among the possibilities that he was the Senator with a similar name. American poetry may be said to have com- menced in 1817 with the September number of the North American Review, which contained " Thanatopsis " and the " Inscription for the Entrance of a Wood," the last being printed as a " Fragment," Six months later, in March, 1818, the impression which " Thanatopsis " created was strengthened by the appearance of the lines " To a Waterfowl," and the " Version of a Fragment of Simonides,"

Mr. Biyant's literary Kfe may now be said to have begun, though he depended upon the practice of his profession for his daily bread. He continued his contributions to the North Ajnerican Revieio in the shape of prose papers on literary topics, and maintained the most friendly relations with its con- ductors ; notably so with Mr, Dana, who was seven yeare his elder, and who possessed, hke himself, the accomplishment of verse. At the suggestion of this poetical and critical brother, he was invited to deliver a poem l^efore the Phi Beta Kappa Society at Harvard College — an honor which is offered only to those who have already made a reputation, and are likely to reflect credit on the Society as well as on themselves. He ac- cepted, and in 1821 wrote his first poem of any length, " The Ages," which still remains the best poem of the kind that was ever recited before a college society either in this countrj' or in England; grave, stately, thoughtful, presenting in animated,

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. xiii

picturesque stanzas a compact summary of the history of man- kind. A young Enghshman of twenty-one — Thomas Babing- ton Macaulay — delivered in the same year a poem on " Even- ing,-' before the students of Trinity College, Cambridge ; and it is instructive to compare his conventional heroics with the sj^irited Spenserian stanzas of William Cullen Bryant,

The lines " To a Waterfowl," which were written at Bridge- water in 1S15, were followed by " Green Kiver," " A Winter Piece," " The West Wind," " The Burial-Place," " Blessed are they that mourn," '' ^o man laioweth his Sepulchre," " A Walk at Sunset," and " The Hymn to Death."

These poems, which cover a period of six busy years, are interesting to the poetic student as examples of the different styles of their writer, and of the changing elements of his thoughts and feelings. " Green River," for example, is a mo- mentary revealment of his shy temperament and his daily pursuits. Its glimpses of nature are charming, and his Avisli to be beside its waters is the most natural one in the world. The young lawyer is not complimentary to his clients, whom he styles " the dregs of men," while his pen, which does its best to serve them, becomes " a barbarous pen." He is de- jected, but a visit to the river will restore his spirits ; for, as he gazes upon its lonely and lovely stream,

" An image of that calm life appears That won my heart in my greener years,"

" A Winter Piece " is a gallery of woodland pictures which surpasses anything of the kind in the language. " A Walk at

xiv WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

Sunset " is notable in that it is the first poem in whicli we see (faintlj, it must be confessed) the aboriginal element, wliicli was soon to become a prominent one in Mr. Bryant's poetry. It was inseparable from the primeval forests of tlie 'New World, but he was the first to perceiye its poetic value. The " Hymn to Death " — stately, majestic, consolatory — concludes with a touching tribute to the worth of his good father, who died while he was writing it, at the age of fifty-four. The year 1821 was an important one to Mr. Bryant, for it witnessed the publication of his first collection of verse, his marriage, and the death of his father.

The next four years of Mr. Bryant's life were more produc- tive than any that had preceded them, for he wrote upward of thirty poems dm*ing that time. The aboriginal element was creative in " The Indian Girl's Lament," " An Indian Story," " An Indian at the Burial-Place of his Fathers," and, noblest of all, '"'• Monument Mountain ; " the Hellenic element pre- dominated in "' The Massacre at Scio " and " The Song of the Greek Amazon ; " the Hebraic element touched him lightly in " Eizpah " and the " Song of the Stars ; " and the pure poetic element was manifest in '' March," " The Eividet " (which, by the way, ran through the grounds of the old home- stead at Cunmiington), " After a Tempest," " The Murdered Traveler," "Hymn to the K'orth Star," "A Forest Hymn," " O fairest of the rm-al maids," and the exquisite and now most pathetic poem, '" June." These poems and others not specified here, if read continuously and in the order in which they were composed, show a wide range of sympathies, a per-

WILLIAM CULLEX BRYANT. XV

feet acquaintance with many measures, and a clear, capacious, ever-growing intellect. They are all distinctive of the genius of their author, but neither exhibits the full measure of his powers. We can say of none of them, " The man who wrote this will never write any better."

The publication of Mr. Bryant's little volume of verse was indirectly the cause of his adopting literature as a profession. It was warmly commended, and by no one more so than by Mr, Gulian C Yerplanck, in the columns of the New York Ameri- can. He was something of a literary authority at the time, a man of fortune and college-bred, known in a mild way as the author of an anniversary discourse delivered before the Xew York Historical Society in 1818, of a political satire entitled •■' The Bucktail Bards," and later of an " Essay on the Doc- trine of Contracts." Among his friends was Mr. Henry D. Sedgwick, a summer neighbor, so to speak, of Mr. Bryant's, having a country-house at Stockbridge, a few miles from Great Barrington, and a house in town, which was frequented by the literati of the day, such as Yerplanck, Halleck, Percival, Coo- per, and others of less note. An admirer of Mr. Bryant, Mr. Sedgwick set to work, with the assistance of Mr. Yei-plauck, to procure him literary employment in Xew York, in order to enable him to escape his hated bondage to the law ; and he was appointed assistant editor of a projected periodical called the New York Review and Atliencsum Magazine. The at last enfranchised lawyer dropped his barbarous pen, closed his law-books, and in the winter or spring of 1825 removed with his household to New York. The projected periodical was

xvi WILLUM CULLEX BRYANT

snvited, as these sanguine veutnres alAvavs are, witli fair hopes of sneeess. It M"as well edited, and its contributors were men of acknowledged ability. The Jime nimiber contained two poems which ought to have made a great hit. One was '* A Song of Pit cairn's Island ; " the other was " Marco Bozzaris." There -was no tionrish of trumpets over them, as there would he now ; the writers merely prefixed their initials, " B." and *' li." The reading public of Xew York were not ready for the I^evieic, which had been projected for their mental enlight- enment ; so. after about a year's struggle, it was merged in the JTcic Yoi'l: Zitenxi'i/ Crazett<\ which began its mission about four yeai's before. This mag'azine shared the fate of its com- panion in a few months, when it was consolidated with the United States Zitem?*)/ Gasette, which in two months was swallowed np in the United States I^evieia. The honor of publishing and finishing the last was shared by Boston and Xew York. Profit in these publications there was none, though Bryant, Halleck, TTiUis, Dana, Bancroft, and Longfel- low wrote for them. Too good, or not good enough, they lived and died prematurely. Mr. Bryant's sticcess as a metro- politan man of letters was not brilliant so fiu- : bnt there were other walks than those of pure literatnre open to him, as to others, and into one of the most bustling of these he entered in his thirty -second year. In other words, he became one of the editors of the Evening JPost. Henceforth he was to lire by journalism.

•Toumalism. though an exacting pursuit, leaves its skillful followers a little leisure in which to cultivate literature. It

WILLIAM CULLE.V BRYANT. Xvii

wafi the lieyday of those ephemeral trifles, Annuals, and Mr, lirjant found time to edit one, with the assistance of his friend Mr. Verplanck, and Ijis acquaintance Mr. Robert C. Sands (who, by the way, was one of the editors of the Coraraercial Advertiner), and a very creditable work it was. His contribu- tions to " Tlie Talisman " included some of his best poems. Poetry was the natural expression of his genius — a fact which he could never understand, for it always seemed to him that j^rose was the natural expression of all mankind. His prose was, and always continued to be, masterly. Its earliest exam- ples, outside of his critical papers in the Nf/rth American B&i'iew and other periodicals (and outside of the Evenimj Post, of course), are two stories entitled " Medfleld '' and '• The Skeleton's Cave," contributed by him to " Tales of the Glauber Spa " (1832) — a collection of original stories by Mr. James K. Paulding, Mr. Yerplanck, Mr. Sands, Mr. "William Leggett, and Miss Catharine Sedgwick. Three years before (1 828) he had become the chief editor of the Evening Post. Associated with him was Mr. Leggett, who had sho^vn some talent as a writer of sketches and stories, and who had failed, like himself, in conducting a critical publication, for which his countrymen were not ready. He made a second collection of his poems at this time (1832), a copy of which was sent by Mr. Verplanck to Mr. Washington Irving, who was then, what he had been for years, the idol of English readers, and not without weight with the Trade. "Would he see if some English house would not reprint it ? Ko leading publisher nibbled at it, not even Murray, who was Mr. Irving's publisher ; but an obscure book-

\

xviii WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

seller named Andi'ews finally agreed to undertake it, if Mr, ; Irving would put his valuable name on the title-page as the i editor. He was not acquainted with Mr. Bryant, but he was a ! kind-hearted, large-souled gentleman, who knew good poetry ■ when he saw it, and he consented to " edit " the book. He i was not a success in the estimation of Andrews, who came to ^ him one day, by no means a merry Andi'ew, and declared that i the book would ruin him unless one or more changes were ■ made in the text. What was amiss in it ? He turned to the ;• " Song of Marion's Men," and stumbled over an obnoxious ] couplet in the first stanza : ■

" The British soldier trembles When Marion's name is told." -■

"That won't do at all, you know." The absurdity of the :

objection must have struck the humorist comically ; but as he j

wanted the volume repubhshed, he good-naturedly saved the i

proverbial valor of the British soldier by changing the fii'st :

line to i

"The foeman trembles in bis camp," i

and the tempest in a teapot was over, as far as England was )

concerned. Not as far as the United States was concerned, l

however; for when the circumstance became known to Mr. '

Leggett, he excoriated Mr. Irving for his subserviency to a •

bloated aristocracy, and so forth. Mr. John "Wilson reviewed \

the book in Blackwood's Magazine in a half-hearted way, ;

patronizing the writer with his praise. ]

The poems that Mr. Bryant wrote during the first seven ;

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. xix

years of his residence in Xew York (some forty in number, not including translations) exhibited the qualities which distin- guished his genius from the beginning, and were marked by characteristics which were rather acquired than inherited. In other words, they were somewhat different from those which were written at Great Barrington. The Hellenic element was still visible in " The Greek Partisan " and " The Greek Boy," and the aboriginal element in "The Disinterred "Warrior." The large imagination of " The Hymn to the Korth Star " was radiant in "The Firmament," and in "The Past." Ardent love of nature found expressive utterance in " Lines on Revis- iting the Country," " The Gladness of Nature," " A Summer Ramble," " A Scene on the Banks of the Hudson," and " The Evening Wind." Tlie little book of immortal dirges had a fresh leaf added to it in " The Death of the Flowers," which was at once a pastoral of autumn and a monody over a beloved sister. A new element appeared in " The Summer "Wind," and was always present afterward in Mr. Bryant's meditative poetry — the association of humanity with nature — a calm but sympathetic recognition of the ways of man and his presence on the earth. The power of suggestion and of rapid general- ization, which was the key-note of " The Ages," lived anew in every line of " The Prairies," in which a series of poems pre- sent themselves to the imagination as a series of pictures in a gallery — ^pictures in which breadth and vigor of treatment and exquisite delicacy of detail are everywhere harmoniously blend- ed, and the unity of pure Art is attained. It was worth going to the ends of the world to be able to write " The Prairies."

XX WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

Confiding in tJie discretion of Ms associate Mr. Leggett,

and anxious to escape from his daily editorial labors, Mr. Bry- ^ ant sailed for Europe with his family in the summer of 1834. It was his intention to perfect his literary studies while abroad, and to devote himself to the education of his children ; but his

intention was frustrated, after a short course of travel in France, |

Germany, and Italy, by the illness of Mr. Leggett, whose mis- \

taken zeal in the advocacy of unpopular measures had seriously \

injured the Evening Post. He returned in haste early in .

1836, and devoted his time and energies to restoring the pros- ',

perity of his paper. ISTine years passed before he ventured to \

return to Europe, though he managed to visit certain portions ^

of his own country. His readers tracked his journeys through \

the letters which he wrote to the Evening Post, and which )

were noticeable for justness of observation and clearness of •

expression. A selection from Mr. Bryant's foreign and home \

letters was published in 1852, under the title of "Letters of a i

Traveler." J

The life of a man of letters is seldom eventful. There '

are, of course, exceptions to the rule ; for literature, like other \

polite professions, is never without its disorderly followers. It ;

is instructive to trace their careers, which are usually short ;

ones ; but the contemplation of the calm, well-regulated, self- j

respecting lives of the elder and wiser masters is much more i

satisfactory. We pity the Maginns, and Mangans, and Poes, I

whom we have always with us ; but we admire and reverence \

such writers as Wordsworth, and Thackeray, and Bryant, -^ho i

dignify their high calling. The last thirty years of the Kfe of ■

WILLIAM CULLEX BRYANT. ,;!

Mr. Bryant were devoid of incidents, though one er-?

(1860) was not without the supreme sorrow — death. i

voted himself to journalism as conscientiously as if he j

his spurs to win, discussing all public questions with

dence and fearlessness; and from time to time, as i.io spiiii,]

moved him, he added to our treasures of song, contr luting to]

the popular magazines of the period, and occasional ', iNf-jiin-j^l

these contributions in separate volumes. He publisl : ' ' :

Fountain and Other Poems" in 1842; "The Whii>Foote<i^

Deer and Other Poems" in 1814; a collected edit' V' .,1 1. ^i

poems, with illustrations by Leutze, in 1846 ; an edit

volumes in 1855; "Thirty Poems" in 1866; an.: .m'J'

a complete illustrated edition of his poetical wrilni;.-. Tol

the honors which these volumes brought him he a-idt 1 f.-.-%;

1 laurels in 1870 and 1871 by the publication of his t j

of the "Iliad" and the "Odyssey" — a translation " ]

highly praised both at home and abroad, and wl ' ;

the best that the English language is capable of, • . ]

respects, the best which any English- writing pc ■ r \

produced.

There comes a day in the intellectual lives of • 'Cts^

when their powers cease to be progressive and pr • |

are productive only in the forms to which they ui^ < • i

tomcd themselves, and which have become manaerismB. Ifcj

was not so with Mr. Bryant. He enjoyed the dangerous dis-t

tinction of proving himself a great poet at an ej.rlyagf; lie^

preserved this distinction to the last, for the sixt ^<>vr y^^'arsl

which elapsed between the writing of " Thanatopt a>-.

^^,: WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

'iting 01 "The Flood of Years" witnessed no decay of Ms

- ;, cities, but rather the growth and development of

. .. nought and forms of verse of which there was no

L 7'"3 ii his early writings. His sympathies were enlarged

. ; went on, and the crystal clearness of his mind was

iored with human emotions.

To Bri mt, beyond all other modern poets, the earth was a

catre iipjn which the great drama of life was everlastingly

lyed. The remembrance of this fact is his inspiration in

The Foiiiitain," " An Evening Revery," " The Antiquity of

reedom," "The Crowded Street," "The Planting of the

;^ple-Tree," " The N'ight Journey of a River," " The Sower,"

1? Flood of Tears." The most poetical of Mr. Bry-

: . s poems are, perhaps, " The Land of Dreams," " The

;rial of Love," " The May Sun sheds an Amber Light," and

^lip Voir. 9 of Autumn;" and they were written in a succes-

:. >py hours, and in the order named. ISText to these

xamples of pure poetry, should be placed " Sella "

Little People of the Snow," which are exquisite

rj i'aittbdes. The qualities by which Mr. Bryant's poetry

Ciiieiiy distinguished are serenity and gravity of thought ;

J in'i^ry^e though repressed recognition of the mortality of

ranrd ..' m ardent love for human freedom ; and unrivaled

11 in painting the scenery of his native land. He had no

i this walk of poetic art — it might almost be said no

! his descriptions of nature are never inaccurate or

r j.Ount. " The Excursion " is a tiresome poem, which con-

ht v.s K: i'orjii exquisite episodes. Mr. Bryant knew how to

TLLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. Xxiii

write exqm % and to omit the platitudes throiigli

wliicli we reat. tlier poets.

It is not giv> / poets to possess as many residences

as Mr. Bryant, fo. .o had three — a town-house in ISTew York, a country-house, called " Cedarmere," at Eoslyn, Long Island, and the old homestead of the Bryant family at Cummington. He passed the winter months in New York, and the summer and early autumn months at his country-houses. 'No distin- guished man in America was better known by sight than he.

" O good gray head that all men knew "

rose unbidden to one's lips as he passed his fellow-pedestrians in the streets of the great city, active, alert, with a springing step and a buoyant gait. He was seen in all weathers, walking down to his office in the morning, and back to his house in the afternoon — an observant antiquity, with a majestic white beard, a pair of sharp eyes, and a face which, noticed closely, recalled the line of the poet :

"A million wrinkles carved his skin."

Mr. Bryant had a peculiar talent, in which the French el — ^the talent of delivering discourses upon the Hves and tings of eminent men ; and he was always in request after death of his contemporaries.

Beginning with a eulogy on his friend Cole, the painter, ) died in 1848, he paid his weU-considered tributes to the nory of Cooper and Irving, and assisted at the dedication he Central Park of the Morse, Shakespeare, Scott, and Hal-

xxiv WILLIAM CULLEN BRYA' \

leek monuments. His addresses on t^ s, and others :

that might be named, were mode] jf appreciation ■

and felicity of expression. His la. .ppearance was at j

the Central Park, on the afternoon oi ay 29, 18Y8, at the 1

unveiling of a statue to Mazzini. It was an unusually hot \

day, and after delivering his address, which was remarkable \

for its eloquence, he accompanied General James Grant Wil- \

son, an acquaintance of some years' standing, to his residence :

in East Seventy-fourth street. General Wilson reached his ^

door with Mr. Bryant leaning on his arm ; he took a step in •

advance to open the inner door, and while his back was turned j

the poet fell, striking his head on the stone platform of the ^

front steps. It was his death-blow ; for, though he recovered ■

his consciousness sufficiently to converse a little, and was able :

to ride to his own house with General Wilson, his fate was ]

sealed. He lingered until the morning of the 12th of June, ]

when his capacious spirit passed out into the Unknown. Two ^

days later all that was mortal of him was buried beside the ; grave of his wife at Eoslyn.

Such was the life and such the life-work of William Cullen i Bryant.

K. H. STODDAED. i

TO THE EEADEH.

The poems in this volume follow eacli other in the ordei in which they were written, it being believed that this arrange- ment would be as satisfactory to the reader as any classifica- tion founded on the nature of the subjects or their mode of treatment.

COJSTTEl^TS.

The Ages .... Thanatopsis .... The Yellow Violet . Inscription for the Entrance to a Wood Song ....

To a Waterfowl Green Eiver A Winter Piece The West Wind . The Burial-place — A Fragment " Blessed are they that Mourn " . " No Man knoweth his Sepulchre " A Walk at Sunset Hymn to Death The Massacre at Scio The Indian Girl's Lament Ode for an Agricultural Celebration Rizpah .

The Old Man's Funeral The Rivulet March

Consumption An Indian Story Summer Wind . An Indian at the Burial- Song

Hymn of the Waldenses Monument Mountain After a Tempest . Autumn Woods

place of his Fathers

G

CONTENTS,

Poems :

Mutation .... NoTcmber ....

Soug of the Greek Amazon To a Cloud .... The Murdered Traveller . Iljmn to the North Star The Lapse of Time Song of the Stars A Forest Hymn

'' Oh Fairest of the Rural Maids " " I broke the Spell that held me long" June ..... A Song of Pitcairn's Island The Firmament

" I cannot forget M-ith what Fervid Devotion To a Mosquito .... Lines on Revisiting the Country , The Death of the Flowers Eomero . . .

A Meditation on Rhode Island Coal The New Moon

October ....

The Damsel of Peru The African Chief Spring in Town The Gladness of Nature The Disinterred Warrior . Midsummer .... The Greek Partisan The Two Graves

The Conjunction of Jupiter and Venus A Simimer Ramble A Scene on the Banks of the Hudson The Hurricane .... WilHamTell The Himter's Serenade The Greek Boy . The Past ....

" Upon the Mountain's Distant Head " The Evening Wind ..... "When the Firmament Quivers with Dayhght's Young Beam '' Innocent Child and Snow-white Flower " To the River Arve .... To Cole, the Painter, departing for Europe To the Fiinsed Gentian . ...

CONTENTS. 7

Poems : page

The Twenty-second of December . . .129

Hymn of the City . . . . . . .129

The Prairies . . . .ISO

Song of Marion's Men . . . . . . 1.3 1

The Arctic Lover . . . . . IS.j

The Journey of Life . . . . . . .137

Translations:

Version of a Fragment of Simonldes . . . .138

From the Spanish of Villegas ...... 139

Mary Magdalen. (From the Spanish of Bartolome Leonardo dc Argen-

sola) . . . . . . . . .139

The Life of the Blessed. (From the Spanish of Luis Ponce dc Leon) 140

Fatima and Raduan. (From the Spanish) . . .112 Love and Folly. (From La Fontaine) .... H'.i

The Siesta. (From the Spanish) . .144

The Alcavde of Molina. (From the Spanish) . . . .145

The Death of Aliatar. (From the Spanish) . . . . 14G

Love in the Age of Chivalry. (From Peyre Vidal, the Troubadour) . 148

The Love of God. (From the Proven9al of Bernard Rascas) . . 149

From the Spanish of Pedro de Castro y Afiaya . . .150

Sonnet. (From the Portuguese of Semedo) . . .151

Song. (From the Spanish of Iglcsias) . . . . .151

The Count of Greiers. (From the German of Uhland) . . . 152

The Serenade. (From the Spanish) . . . .153

A Northern Legend. (From the German of Uhland) . . 155

The Paradi.<e of Tears. (From the German of N. Miiller) . 15G

The Lady of Castle Windeck. (From the German of Chamisso) . .157

Later Poems :

To the Apennines

Earth . . . .

The Knight's Epitaph .

The Hunter of the Prairies.

Seventy-six

The Living Lost

Catterskill Falls

The Strange Lady .

Life ....

" Earth's Children Cleave to Earth '

The Hunter's Vision

The Green Mountain Boys .

A Presentiment

Tlie Child's Funeral

The Battle-field

159

160 163 165 166 168 169 172 174 176 176 178 179 180 181

CONTENTS.

Later Poems:

The Future Life . The Death of Schiller . The Pountain The Wmds

The Old Man's Counsel In Memory of William Leggett, An Evening Revery The Painted Cup A Dream .

The Antiquity of Freedom The Maiden's Sorrow The Eeturn of Youth . A Hymn of the Sea Noon. (From an unfinished Poem) The Crowded Street The White-footed Deer. The Waning Moon . The Stream of Life The Unknown Way " Oh Mother of a Mighty Race" The Land of Dreams The Burial of Love " The May Sun sheds an Amber Light The Voice of Autumn . The Conqueror's Grave -The Plantmg of the Apple-Tree The Snow-Shower . . - .

A Eain-Dream . Robert of Lincoln . The Twenty-seventh of March . An Invitation to the Country Song for New- Year's Eve The Wind and Stream The Lost Bird. (From the Spanish of The Night-Journey of a River . The Life that Is .

Song. — " These Prairies Glow with Flowers " . A Sick-Bed . . . . .

The Song of the Sower ....

The New and the Old .

The Cloud on the Way ....

The Tides . . . . . .

Italy ......

A Day-Dream .....

The Ruins of Italica. (From the Spanish of Eioja)

Carolina Coronado de Perry)

CONTENTS.

Later Poems:

Waiting by the Gate . , , ,

Not Yet

Our Country's Call . . , , ,

The Constellatious . . . ...

The Third of November, 1861

The Mother's Hymn .....

SeUa

The P'ifth Book of Homer's Odyssey. — Translated

The Little People of the Snow

The Poet ......

The Path . . .

The Return of the Birds ....

" He hath put all Things under His Feet "

My Autumn Walk .....

Dante ......

The Death of Lincoln .....

The Death of Slavery ....

Hymn. — " Receive thy Sight " ....

A Brighter Day .....

Among the Trees .....

May Evening .....

October, 1806 .

The Order of Nature. (From Bocthius dc Consolatione)

Tree-Burial ......

A Legend of the Delawarcs

A Lifetime ......

The Two Travellers ....

Christmas in 1875. (Supposed to be written by a Spaniard)

The Flood of Years . . . ...

Our Fellow- Worshippers ....

Notes .......

POEMS.

THE AGES

WiiEX 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, lays i

His silver temples in their last repose ; j

When, o'er the buds of youth, the death- wind blows .',

And blights the fairest ; when our bitter tears ] Stream, as the eyes of those that love us close,

We think on what they were, with many fears t

Lest goodness die with them, and leave the coming years. • *

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 told Of 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.

Peace to the just man's memory ; let it grow i

Greener with years, and blossom through the flight .

Of ages ; let the mimic canvas show His calm benevolent features ; let the light

J

12 POEMS.

Stream on his deeds of love, that shunned the sight Of all but heaven, and in the book of fame The glorious record of his rii'tues write And hold it up to men, and bid them claim A palm like his, and catch from him the hallowed flame.

But oh, despair not of their fate who rise To dwell upon the earth when we withdi-aw ! Lo ! the same shaft by which the righteous dies, Strikes through the wi'etch that scoffed at mercy's law And trode his brethren down, and felt no awe Of Him who will avenge them. Stainless worth. Such as the sternest age of virtue saw. Ripens, meanwhile, till time shall caU it forth From the low modest shade, to light and bless the earth.

Has Nature, in her calm, majestic march.

Faltered with age at last ? does the bright sun Grow dim in heaven '? or, in their far bine arch. Sparkle the crowd of stars, when day is done, Less brightly ? when the dew-lipped Spring conies on, Breathes she with airs less soft, or scents the sky With flowers less fair than when her reign begun "? Does prodigal Autumn, to our age, deny The plenty that once swelled beneath his sober eye '?

VI.

Look on this beautiful world, and read the truth In her fair page ; see, every season brings Xew 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 sleep Of ocean's aztire guKs, and where he flings The restless surge. Eternal Love doth keep, ti his complacent arms, the earth, the air, the deep.

THE AGES. i;j

Will then the merciful One, who stampefl our race With his own image, and who gave them sway O'er earth, and the glad dwellers on her face, Now that our swarming nations far away Are spread, where'er the moist earth drinks the day, Forget the ancient care that taught and nursed His latest offspring ?»will he quench the ray Infused by his own forming smile at first, And leave a work so fair all blighted and accursed ?

Oh, no ! a thousand cheerful omens give Hope of yet happier days, whose da^\^l is nigh. He who has tamed the elements, shall not live The slave of his o^vn passions ; he whose eye Unwinds the eternal dances of the sky. And in the abyss of brightness dares to span The 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 night Of years the steps of virtue she shall trace, And show the earlier ages, where her sight Can pierce the eternal shadows o'er their face ; — When, from the genial cradle of our race. Went forth the tribes of men, their pleasant lot To choose, where palm-groves cooled their dwelling-place, Or freshening rivers ran ; and there forgot The truth of heaven, and kneeled to gods that heard them not.

Then waited not the murderer for the night, But smote his brother down in the bright day, And he who felt the ^vrong, and had the might, His own avenger, girt himself to slay ;

14 POEMS.

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.

But misery brought in love ; in passion's strife Man 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, vdth locks all white. Gave laws, and judged their strifes, and taught the way of right ;

XII.

Tni bolder spirits seized the rule, and nailed On men the yoke that man should never bear. And drave them forth to battle. Lo ! unveiled The scene of those stern ages ! What is there ? A boundless sea of blood, and the wild air Moans with the crimsoned surges that entomb Cities and bannered armies ; forms that wear The 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 left A record in the desert — columns strown On the waste sands, and statues fallen and cleft. Heaped like a host in battle overthrown ; Vast ruins, where the mountain's ribs of stone Were hewn into a city ; streets that spread In the dark earth, where never breath has blown Of heaven's sweet air, nor foot of man dares tread The long and perilous ways — the Cities of the Dead !

THE AGES. 15

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 sustain The 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 reign O'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, Xew-boru, amid those glorious vales, and broke Sceptre and chain with her fair youthful hands : As rocks are shivered in the thunder-stroke. And lo I in full-grown strength, an empire stands Of leagued and rival states, the wonder of the lands.

XVI.

Oh, Greece I thy flourishing cities were a spoil Unto each other ; thy hard hand oppressed And crushed the helpless ; thou didst make thy soil Drunk 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 rest From thine abominations ; after-times. That yet shall read thy tale, will tremble at thy crimes !

Yet there was that within thee which has saved Thy glory, and redeemed thy blotted name ; The story of thy better deeds, engraved On fame's uumouldering pillar, puts to shame

16 POEMS.

Oiu" chiller vii'tue ; tlie high art to tame The 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.

xvui.

And Rome — thy sterner, yonnger sister, she Who 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 crown Of earth's wide kingdoms to a line of slaves ; Guilt reigned, and woe with guilt, and plagues came down, Tni the North broke its floodgates, and the waves Whehned the degraded race, and weltered o'er theii- graves.

XEK.

Vainly that ray of brightness from above, That shone around the Galilean lake, The light of hope, the leading star of love, Struggled, the dai'kness 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 kept Within 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.

THE AGES. 17

XXI.

Oh, sweetly the returning muses' strain Swelled over that famed stream, whose gentle tide In 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 side The emulous nations of the West repair. And kindle their quenched urns, and drink fresh spirit there.

XXIL

Still, Heaven deferred the hour ordained to rend From saintly rottenness the sacred stole ; And cowl and worshipped shrine could still defend The wretch with felon stains upon his soul ; And crimes were set to sale, and hard his dole Who 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.

xxin.

At last the earthquake came — the shock, that hurled To 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 grown O'er prostrate Europe, in that day of dread Crumbled and fell, as fire dissolves the flaxen thread.

xxrv.

The spirit of that day is, still awake. And spreads himself, and shall not sleep again ; But through the idle mesh of power shall break Like billows o'er the Asian monarch's chain ;

IS ' POEMS.

Till men are filled with him, and feel how rain, ' Instead of the pm-e heart and innocent hands. Are all the proud and pompous modes to gain The smile of Heaven ; — ^till a new age expands- Its "white and holy -wings above the peaceful lands.

For look again on the past years : — ^behold. How like the nightmare's dreams have flown away Horrible forms of worship, that, of old. Held, o'er the shuddering realms, unquestioned sway : See criuies, that feared not once the eye of day, Rooted from men, without a name or place : See nations blotted out from earth, to pay The forfeit of deep guilt ; — with glad embrace The fair disburdened lands welcome a nobler race,

XXVI.

Thus error's monstrous shapes from earth are driven ; They fade, they tiy — ^but Truth survives their flight ; Earth has no shades to quench that beam of heaven ; Each ray that shone, in e^y time, to light The faltering footstep in the path of right. Each gleam of clearer brightness shed to aid In man's maturex day his bolder sight. All blended, like the rainbows radiant braid. Pour yet, and still shall pour, the blaze that cannot fade.

XXVTL

Late, from this Western shore, that morning chased The deep and ancient night, w^hich threw its shroud O'er the green land of groves, the beautiful waste, Xurse of full streams, and lifter-up of proud Sky-mingling mountains that o'exlook the cloud. Erewhile, where yon gay spires their brightness rear, Trees waved, and the brown htmter s shouts were loud Amid the forest ; and the bounding deer Fled at the glancing plume, and the gaxmt wolf yelled near.

THE AGES. 19

xxvm.

And where his willing waves yon bright blue bay Sends up, to kiss his decorated brim. And cradles, in his soft embrace, the gay Young group of gra^y islands bom of him. And crowding nigh, or in the distance dim. Lifts the white throng of sails, that bear or bring The commerce of the worid ; — ^with tawny limb. And belt and beads in sunlight glistening, The savage tirged his skiff like wild bird on the wing.

Then all this yotithftil paradise arotmd. And all the broad and botmdless mainland, lay Cooled by the interminable wood, that frowned O'er mount and vale, where never summer ray Glanced, till the strong tornado broke his way Through the gray giants of the sylvan wild ; Yet many a sheltered glade, with blossoms gay Beneath the showery sky and sunshine mUd, Within the shaggy arms of that dark forest smiled.

There stood the Indian hamlet, there the lake Spread its blue sheet that flashed with many nn 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 p)eaoe was on the earth and in the air. The warrior lit the pile, and bound his captive there.

Xot tmavenged — ^the f oeman. from the wood. Beheld the deed, and, when the midnight shade Was stillest, gorged his battle-axe with blood ; All died — the wailing babe — the shrinkinij maid —

20 POEMS.

And 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 wi'eathed and blue, And ever, by their lake, lay moored the bark canoe.

Look now abroad — another race has filled These 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 breeze Their virgin waters ; the full region leads New colonies forth, that toward the western seas Spread, like a rapid flame among the autumnal trees.

xxxni.

Here the free spirit of mankind, at length. Throws its last fetters off ; and who shall place A 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 chain To earth her struggling multitude of states ; She too is strong, and might not chafe in vain Against them, but might cast to earth the train That trample her, and break their iron net. Yes, she shall look on brighter days and gain The meed of worthier deeds ; the moment set To rescue and raise up, draws near — but is not yet.

THANATOPSIS. 21

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 air Are the wide barrier of thy borders, where. Among thy gallant sons who guard thee well, Thou laugh'st at enemies : who shall then declare The date of thy deep-founded strength, or tell How happy, in thy lap, the sons of men shall dwell ?

THANATOPSIS.

To him who in the love of Nature holds Communion with her visible forms, she speaks A various language ; for his gayer hours She has a voice of gladness, and a smile And eloquence of beauty, and she glides Into his darker musings, with a mild And healing sympathy, that steals away Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts Of the last bitter hour come like a blight Over thy spirit, and sad images Of 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 list To 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 thee The all-beholding sun shall see no more In 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 exist Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again,

POEMS.

And, lost each human trace, surrendering up Thine individual being, shalt thou go To mix for ever with the elements, To be a brother to the insensible rock And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould. ~)

Yet not to thine eternal resting-place Shalt thou retire alone, nor couldst thou wish Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down With patriarchs of the infant world — v,T.th kings, The powerful of the earth — the wise, the good, Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past. All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun, — the vales Stretching in pensive quietness between ; The venerable woods — rivers that move In majesty, and the complaining brooks That make the meadows green ; and, poured round all, Old Ocean's gray and melancholy waste,-^ Are but the solemn decorations all Of 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 tread The globe are but a handful to the tribes That slumber in its bosom. — Take the wings Of morning, pierce the Barcan wilderness, Or losethyself in the continuous woods Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound. Save his own dashings^yet the dead are there : And millions in those solitudes, since first The flight of years began, have laid them down . In their last sleep — the dead reign there alone. So shalt thou rest, and what if thou withdraw In silence from the living, and^o friend Take note of thy departure ? itAll that breathe Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh

THE YELLOW VIOLET. 23

^V^len thou art gone, the solemn brood of caie Plod on, and each one as before will chase His favorite phantom ; yet all these shall leave Their mirth and their employments, and shall come And make their bed with thee. As the long train Of ages glide away, the sons of men. The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes In 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 join The innumerable caravan, which moves To that mysterious realm, where each shall take HLs chamber in the silent halls of death. Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night. Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed By an imfaltering trust, approach thy grave. Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams. V

THE YELLOW ^^OLET.

When beechen buds begin to swell. And woods the blue-bird's warble know.

Tlie yellow violet's modest bell

Peeps 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 perfume Alone is in the virgin air.

Of all her train, the hands of Spring First plant thee in the watery mould.

And I have seen thee blossoming Beside the snow-bank's edges cold^

24 POEMS.

Thy parent sun, -who bade thee view Pale skies, and chilling moisture sip,

Has bathed thee in his own bright hne. 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,

"WTien 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, forget The friends in darker fortunes tried.

I copied them — but I regret

That I should ape the ways of pride.

And when again the genial hour V^^wakes the painted tribes of light, I'll not o'erlook the modest flower

That made the woods of April bright.

mSCRIPTION FOR THE ENTRANCE TO A ^OOD.

> Stka'N'&eb, if thou hast learned a truth which needs No school of long experience, that the world Is full of guilt and misery, and hast seen Enough of all its sorrows, crimes, and cares. To tire thee of it, enter this wild wood And view the haunts of Nature. The calm shade Shall bring a kindred calm, and the sweet breeze That makes the green leaves dance, shall waft a balm To thy sick heart. Thou wilt find nothing here

INSCRIPTION FOR THE ENTRANCE TO A WOOD. 25

Of all that pained thee in the haunts of men,

And made thee loathe thy life. The primal curse

Fell, it is true, upon the unsinning earth,

But not in vengeance. God hath yoked to guilt

Her pale tormentor, misery. Hence, these shades

Are still the abodes of gladness ; the thick roof

Of green and stirring branches is alive

And musical with birds, that sing and sport

In wantonness of spirit ; while below

The squirrel, with raised paws and form erect,

Chirps merrily. Throngs of insects in the shade

Try their thin wings and dance in the warm beam

That waked them into life. Even the green trees

Partake the deep contentment ; as they bend

To the soft winds, the sun from the blue sky

Looks in and sheds a blessing on the scene.

Scarce less the cleft -bom wild-flower seems to enjoy

Existence, than the ^nged plunderer

That sucks its sweets. The mossy rocks themselves.

And the old and ponderous trunks of prostrate trees

That lead from knoll to knoll a causey rude

Or bridge the sunken brook, and their dark roots,

With all their earth upon them, twisting high.

Breathe fixed tranquillity. The rivulet

Sends forth glad soimds, and tripping o'er its bed

Of pebbly sands, or leaping down the rocks,

Seems, with continuous laughter, to rejoice

In its own being. Softly tread the marge,

Lest from her midway perch thou scare the wren

That 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 pass

Ungreeted, and shall give its light embrace.

26 POEMS.

SONG.

Soon as tlie glazed and gleaming snow Reflects tlie day-dawn cold and clear,

The hunter of the West must go In 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.

TO A WATERFOWL.

Whithee, midst falling dew, While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue

Thy solitary way?

Yainly the fowler's eye Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, As, darkly seen against the crimson sky,

Thy figure floats along.

Seek'st thou the plashy brink Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide. Or' where the rocking billows rise and sink

On the chafed ocean-side ?

GREEN RIVER. 27

There is a Power whose care Teaches 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 heaven Ilath swallowed up thy form ; yet, on my heart Deeply 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.

GREEN RIVER,

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 brink Had given their stain to the waves they drink ; And they, whose meadows it murmurs through, Have named the stream from its own fair hue.

28 POEMS.

Yet pure its waters — its shallows are bright With 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'ershoot The swifter current that mines its root. Through whose shifting leaves, as you walk the hill, The quivering glimmer of sun and rill With 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 day In 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 feed On the river cherry and seedy reed, And thy own wild music gushing out With 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.

A WINTER riECE. 29

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 free To 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 along Through 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 stream An image of that calm life appears That won my heart in my greener years.

A WINTER PIECE.

The time has been that these Avild solitudes, Yet beautiful as wild, were trod by me Oftener than now ; and when the ills of life Had chafed my spirit — when the unsteady pulse Beat with strange flutterings — I would wander forth And seek the woods. The sunshine on my path Was to me as a friend. The swelling hills, The quiet dells retiring far between. With gentle invitation to explore Their windings, were a calm society That talked with me and soothed me. Then the chant Of birds, and chime of brooks, and soft caress

30 POEMS.

Of tlie fresh sylvan air, made me forget

The thoughts that broke my peace, and I began

To gather simples by the fountain's brink.

And lose myself in day-dreams. While I stood

In Nature's loneliness, I was with one

"With whom I early grew familiar, one

Who never had a frown for me, whose voice

Never rebuked me for the hours I stole

From cares I loved not, but of which the world

Deems highest, to converse with her. When shrieked

The 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 seemed

Like old companions in adversity.

Still there was beauty in my walks ; the brook,

Bordered with sparkling frost-work, was as gay

As with its fringe of summer flowers. Afar,

The village ^'ith its spires, the path of streams

And dim receding valleys, hid before

By interposing trees, lay visible

Through the bare grove, and my familiar haunts

Seemed new to me. Nor was I slow to come

Among 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 heard

Love-call of bird nor merry hum of bee.

Was not the air of death. Bright mosses crept

Over 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 sj)irit of the North.

The snow-bird twittered on the beechen bough.

And 'neath the hemlock, whose thick branches bent

Beneath its bright cold burden, and kept dry

A circle, on the earth, of withered leaves.

The partridge found a shelter. Through the snow

The rabbit sprang away. The lighter track

A WINTER PIECE. 31

Of fox, and the raccoon's broad path, were there, Crossing each other. From his hollow tree The squirrel was abroad, gathering the nuts Just fallen, that asked the winter cold and sway Of winter blast, to shake them from their hold.

But Winter has yet brighter scenes — he boasts S])lendors beyond what gorgeous Summer knows ; Or Autumn with his many fruits, and woods All Hushed with many hues. Come when the rains Have glazed the snow and clothed the trees with ice, While the slant sun of February pours Into the bowers a flood of light. Approach ! The incrusted surface shall upbear thy steps, And the broad arching ])ortals of the grove Welcome thy entering. Look ! the massy trunks Are cased in the ])ure crystal ; each light si)ray, 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 boughs Bend, in a glittering ring, and arbors hide The glassy floor. Oh ! you might deem the spot The spacious cavern of some virgin mine. Deep in the womb of earth — where the gems grow, And diamonds put forth radiant rods and bud With amethyst and topaz — and the place Lit up, most royally, with the pure beam That dwells in ihem. Or haply the vast hall Of fairy palace, that outlasts the night. And fades not in the glory of the sun ; — Where crystal columns send forth slender shafts And crossing arches ; and fantastic aisles Wind from the sight in brightness, and are lost Among the crowded pillars. Raise thine eye ; Thou secst no cavern roof, no palace vault ; There the blue sky and the white drifting cloud Look in. Again the wildered fancy dreams Of spouting fountains, frozen as they rose,

32 POEMS.

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 away With the next sun. From numberless vast trunks Loosened, the crashing ice shall make a sound Like the far roar of rivers, and the eve Shall close o'er the brown woods as it was wont.

And it is pleasant, when the noisy streams Are just set free, and milder suns melt off The plashy snow, save only the firm di'ift In the deep glen or the close shade of pines — 'Tis pleasant to behold the wreaths of smoke Roll up among the maples of the hill, Where the shrill sound of youthful voices wakes The 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 axe Makes the woods ring. Along the quiet air. Come and float calmly off the soft light clouds, Such as you see in summer, and the winds Scarce stir the branches. Lodged in sunny cleft. Where the cold breezes come not, blooms alone The little wind-flower, whose just opened eye Is blue as the spring heaven it gazes at — Startling the loiterer in the naked groves With unexpected beauty, for the time Of blossoms and green leaves is yet afar. And ere it comes, the encountering winds shall oft Muster their wi*ath again, and rapid clouds Shade heaven, and bounding on the frozen earth Shall fall their volleyed stores, rounded like hail And white like snow, and the loud North again Shall buffet the vexed forest in his rage.

TUE WEST WIND. 33

THE WEST WIND.

Beneath the forest's skirt I rest,

Whose branching pines rise dark and high, And hear the breezes of the West

Among 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 head The loose white clouds are bonie away.

And there the full broad river runs.

And many a fount wells fresh and sweety

To cool thee when the mid-day suns

Have made thee faint beneath their heat.

Thou wind of joy, and youth, and love ;

Spirit of the now-wakened year ! The sun in his blue realm above

Smooths 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 bird Takes wing, half happy, half afraid.

Ah ! thou art like our wayward race ; — When not a shade of pain or ill

Dims llie bright smile of Nature's face. Thou lov'st to sigh and munnur still.

•34: POEMS.

THE BITKIAL-PLACE.

A FKAGMENT.

Erewiiilis;, on England's pleasant sliores, oui* sires Loft not tlieir ehurchyards nnadorned -with shades Ov blossoms, but indulgent to tlie strong And natural dread of man's last liome, the grave, Its frost and silenee — they disposed around, To soothe the melaneholy spirit that dwelt Too sadly on life's elose, the forms and hues Of vegetable beauty. There the yew, Green ever amid the snows of winter, told Of immortality, and gracefully The willow, a perpetual mourner, drooped ; And there the gadding woodbine crept about, And there the ancient ivy. From the spot Where the sweet maiden, in her blossoming years Out otf, was laid with streaming eyes, and hands That trembled as they placed her there, the rose Sprung modest, on bowed stalk, and better spoke Her graces, than the proudest monument. There children set about their playmate's grave The pansy. On the infant's little bed, Wet at its planting with maternal tears, Emblem of early sweetness, early death, Xestled the lowly primrose. Childless dames. And maids that would not raise the reddened eye — • Orphans, from whose young lids the light of joy Fled early — silent lovers, who had given All that they lived for to the arms of earth, Caiiie often, o'er the recent graves to strew Their offerings, rue, and rosemary, and liowers.

Tlie pilgrim bands who passed the sea to keep Their Sabbaths in the eye of God alone, In his wide temple of the wilderness, Brouixht not these sunple custonxs of the heart

"ULESHKD AUK TUEY THAT MOUKN " 35

With them. It might bo, while th<;y lai'l tix ir <u:i<l

\iy the vaHt Kolemn HkirtH of the oM g^rovoH,

And the fre.sh virgin Hoil ]>ourcA fortli Ktrange flowerM

About their graven ; and the familiar shadeH

Of their own native isle, and wonted blooniH,

And herbs were wanting, which the piouH hand

Might plant or Hcatter there, these gentle riten

PaHsed out of use. Now they are scarcely known,

And rarely in our borders may you meet

'J'he tall larch, nighing in the burial-plaee,

Or willow, trailing low its boughs to hide

'J'he gleaming marble. Naked rowH of graves

And melancholy ranks of monuments

Are seen instead, where tlie coarse grass, between,

Shoots up its dull green spikes, and in tlie wind

niiises, and the neglected bramble nigh.

Offers its l>erries 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,

ITje brier-rose, and upon the broken turf

lliat clothes the fresher grave, the strawberry plant

Sprinkles its swell with blossowLc, and lays forth

Her ruddy, pouting fruit

"BLESSED ARE TilEY THAT MOURN."

Oh, deem not they are blest alone Whose lives a peaceful tenor keep ;

The Power who pitias man, hath shown A blessing for the eyes that weep.

T}ie light of smiles shall fill again The lids that overflow with tearo ;

And weary hours of woe and pain Are promises of happier years.

36 roEMS.

There is a clay of sunny rest

For every dark and troubled night :

And grief may hide an evening guest, But joy shall come with early light.

And thou, who, o'er thy friend's low bier, Dost shed the bitter drops like rain,

Hope that a brighter, happier sphere Will give him to thy arms again.

Nor let the good man's trust depart, Though life its comnion gifts deny, —

Though with a pierced and bleeding heart And spurned of men, he goes to die.

For God hath marked each sorrowing day And numbered every secret tear.

And heaven's long age of bliss shall pay For all his childi-en sulf er here.

"NO MAN KNOAYETH HIS SEPFLCHRE."

"WHEJf he, Avho, from the scom-ge of wrong, Aroused the Hebrew tribes to fly,

Saw the fair region, promised long. And bowed him on the hills to die ;

God made his grave, to men imkuown, Where Moab's rocks a vale infold.

And laid the aged seer alone

To slumber while the world grows old.

Thus still, whene'er the good and jiist Close the dim eye on life and pain.

Heaven watches o'er their sleeping dust Till the pure spu'it comes again.

A WALK AT F-XWf-ET. 37

Though nameless, trampled, and forgot,

His servant's humble ashes lie, Yet God hath marked and sealed the spot.

To call its inmate to the skv.

A WAI.K AT SUNSET.

WiiEX insect ^^ings are glistening in the beam

Of the low sun, and mountain-tops are bright, Oh, let me, by the crystal valley-stream. Wander amid the mild and mellow light ; And while the wood-thrush pipes his evening lay. Give me one lonely hour to hymn the setting day.

Oh, sun ! that o'er the western mountains now

Go'st down in glory ! ever beautiful And blessed Ls thy radiance, whether thou

Colorest the eastern heaven and night-mist cool. Till the bright day-star vanish, or on high Climbest and streamest thy white splendors from mid-sky.

Yet, loveliest are thy setting smiles, and fair, Fairest of all that earth beholds, the hues. That live among the clouds, and'^ush the air, Lingering and deepening at the hour of dews. Then softest gales are breathed, and softest heard The plaining voice of streams, and pensive note of bird.

They who here roamed, of yore, the forest wide. Felt, by such charm, their simple bosoms won ; They deemed their quivered warrior, when he died, "Went to bright isles beneath the setting sun ; WTiero winds are aye at peace, and skies are fair, And purple-skirted clouds curtain the crimson air.

38 roEMS.

So, with the glories of the dying" day,

Its thousand trembling lights and changing hues, The memory of the brave who passed away Tenderly mingled ; — fitting hour to muse On such grave theme, and sweet the dream that shed Brightness aiul beaiity round the destinj of the dead.

For ages, on the silent forests here.

Thy beams did fall before the red man came To dwell beneath them ; in theu- shade the deer Fed, and feared not the arrow's deadly aim. Nor tree was felled, in all that world of woods, Save by the beaver's tooth, or ^N-inds, or rush of floods.

Then came the hunter tribes, and thou didst look.

For ages, on their deeds in the hard chase, And well-fought wars ; green sod and silver brook Took the first stain of blood ; before thy face The warrior generations came and passed. And glory was laid up for many an age to last.

Now they are gone, gone as thy setting blaze

Goes down the west, while night is pressing on^ And Avith them the old tale of better days. And trophies of remembered power, are gone. Yon field that gives the harvest, where the plough Strikes the white bone, is all that tells their story now.

I stand upon their ashes in thy beam.

The offspring of another race, I stand, Beside a stream they loved, this valley-stream ; And where the night-tire of the quivered band Showed the gray oak by tits, and war-song rung, I teach the quiet shades the strains of this new tongue.

Farewell ! but thou shalt come again — thy light

Must shine on other changes, and behold The place of the thronged city still as night — States fallen — new empires built upon the old — But never shalt thou see these realms again Darkened by boxmdless groves, and roamed by savage men.

HYMN TO DEATH. 39

IIYMN TO DEATH.

Oh ! could I hope the wine and pure in heart Might hear my song without a frown, nor deem My voice unworthy of the theme it tries, — I would take up the hymn to Death, and say 'iVj the grim power, The world hath slandered thee And mocked thee. On thy dim and nhadowy brow 'J'hey place an iron crown, and call thee king Of terrors, and the spoiler of the world. Deadly assassin, that strik'st down the fair. The loved, the good — that breathest on the lights Of virtue set along the vale of life, And they go out in darkness. I am come, Not with reproaches, not with cries and prayers. Such as have stormed thy stern, insensible car From the beginning ; I am come to speak Thy praises. True it is, that I have wept Thy conquests, and may weep them yet again. And thou from some I love wilt take a life Dear to me as my own. Yet while the spell Is on my spirit, and I talk M'ith thee In sight of all thy trophies, face to face. Meet is it that my voice should utter forth Thy nobler triumphs ; I will teach the world To thank thee. "Who are thine accusers ? — Who ? The living ! — they who never feh, thy power, And know thee not. The curses of the wretch "Whose crimes are ripe, his sufferings when thy hand Is on him, and the hour he dreads is come, Are writ among thy praises. But the good — Does he whom thy kind hand dismissed to peace, Upbraid the gentle violence that took off His fetters, and unbarred his prison-cell?

Raise then the hymn to Death. Deliverer ! God hath anointed thee to free the oppressed

40 roKMS.

And oru5il\ tlio opprossoi". AVhon the armed eliief.

The oonquoror of nations, Nvnlks the M'orld,

And it iij changed beneath his feet, and all

Its kingdon\s nielt into one mighty realm —

Thon, while his head is loftiest and his heart

Blasphemes, imagining his own right hand

Almighty, thon dost set thy sndden grasp

Upon him, aiid the litiks of that strong chain

AVhich bonnd mankind are crnmhled ; thon dost break

Sceptre and crown, and beat his throne to dust^

Then the e:irth slioiits with gladness, ;ind her tribes

Gather within their ancient bonnds ag-ain.

Else had the mighty of the olden time,

Ximrv^d. Sesostris, or the yonth Avho feiscned

His birth from Libyan Ammon, smitten yet

The nations witli a rod of iron, and driven

Their chariot o'er our necks. Thoti dost avenge.

In thy goovi time, the wrv^ngs of those w-ho know

Ko other friend. Xor dost thou interpose

Only to lay the sufferer asleep,

AVhere he who tiiade him wretched troubles not

His rt>st — thou dost strike down his tyr:int too.

Oh, there is joy when hands that held the scourge

I>rop lifelesss, and the pitiless heart is cold.

Tho\i too dost piirge from earth its horrible

And old iviolatrics : — from the proud fanes

Each to his grave their priests go out, till none

Is left to teach their worship ; then the fires

Of sacrifice are chilled, and the green moss

O'ercreeps their altars : the fallen images

Cumber the weedy courts, and for loud hymns,

Chanted by kneeling multitude the wind

Shrieks in the solitary aisles. TVhen he

Who gives his life to guilt, and laughs at all

The laws that G\>d or man has made, and roimd

Hedges his seat with powi?r, and shines in wealth, —

lifts up his atheist frvmt to seoff at Heaven.

And celebrates his shame in open day.

Thou, in the pride of ail his crimes, cutt'st off

HTM5 TO DEATU. 41

TTie hf}Tn\A*i example. T<>ucbe>d by tbi&e,

'JTae extortioner'* hard band foreg'.*i; the gold

\V'nting from the o"er-worn poor. The perjurer,

U'bo?>e ton^e was lithe, e'en now, and voluble

A;^ain«ft hi* neighbors life, and he who laa^ied

And leaped for joy to i»ee a «potle*s fame

Khathd ]>efore hU own foul calumnie*.

Are «nit with deadly silence. He, who gold

His conscience to preserve a worthless life.

Even while he hu^ himself on hi= escape,

Trembles, a=, doubly terrible, at length.

Thy steps overtake him, and there is no time

for parley, nor will bribes unclench thy grasp,

Oft, too, df^t thou reform thy victim, long

Ere hia last hour. And when the reveller,

ilad in the chase of pleasure, stretches on.

And strains each ner^e, and clears the path of life

Like wind, thou point'st him to the dreadful goal.

And shak'st thy hour-gla^ in his reeling eye.

And check'st biTn in mid course. Thy skeleton hand

Shows to the faint of spirit the ri^t path.

And he is warned, and fears to step aeide.

7 ■ en the ruffian and his crime

': ^nance, and his slack hand

Drops the drawn knife. But, oh, most fearfully

Dost thou show forth Heaven's justice, when thy snaite

Drink up the ebbing spirit — then the hard

Of heart and violent of hand restones

The treasure to the friendless wretch he wronged-

Then from the writhing bosom thou dost pluck

The guilty secTet ; lips, for ages sealed.

Are faithless to their dreadful trust at length,

.\nd give it up ; the felon's latest breath

Absolves the innocent man who bears his cxbae ;

The slanderer, hc«ror-6mitt«i, and in tears.

Recalls the deadly obloquy he forged

To work his brother's ruin. Thou doet make

Thy penitent victim utter to the air

The dark conspiracy that strikes at life.

42 POEMS.

And aims to wlielm the laws ; ere yet the hour Is come, and the dread sign of nivirder given.

Thus, from the first of time, hast thou been found On virtue's side ; the wicked, but for thee, Had been too strong for the good ; the great of earth Had crushed the weak for ever. Schooled in guile For ages, while each passing year had brought Its baneful lesson, they had filled the world With their abominations ; while its tribes. Trodden to earth, imbruted, and despoiled. Had knelt to them in worship ; sacrifice Had smoked on many an altar, temple-roofs Had echoed with the T^lasphemous prayer and hymn : But thou, the great reformer of the world, Tak'st off the sons of violence and fraud In their green pupilage, their lore half learned — Ere guilt had quite o'errun the simple heart God gave them at their birth, and blotted out His image. Thoit dost mark them flushed with hope, As on the threshold of their vast designs Doubtful and loose they stand, and strik'st them down.

Alas ! I little thought that the stern power. Whose fearful praise I sang, would try me thus Before the strain was ended. It must cease — For he is in his grave who taught my youth The art of verse, and in the bud of life Offered me to the Muses. Oh, cut off Untimely ! when thy reason in its strength. Ripened by years of toil and studious search, ^Vnd watch of Nature's silent lessons, taught Thy hand to practise best the lenient art To which thou gavest thy laborious days, And, last, thy life. And, therefore, when the earth Received thee, tears were in imyielding eyes And on hard cheeks, and they who deemed thy skill Delayed their death-hour, shuddered and turned pale When thou wert gone. This faltering verse, which thou

THE MASSACRE AT SCIO. 43

Shalt not, as wont, o'erlook, is all I have

To offer at thy grave — this — and the hope

To copy thy example, and to leave

A name of which the wretched shall not think

As of an enemy's, whom they forgive

As all forgive the dead. Rest, therefore, thou

Whose early guidance trained my infant steps —

Rest, in the bosom of God, till the brief sleep

Of death is ovei*, and a happier life

Shall dawn to waken thine insensible dust.

Now thou art not — and yet the men whose guilt Has wearied Heaven for vengeance — he who bears False witness — he who takes the orphan's bread, And robs the widow — he who spreads abroad Polluted hands in mockery of prayer, Are left to cumber earth. Shuddering I look On what is written, yet I blot not out The desultory numbers ; let them stand, The record of an idle revery.

THE MASSACRE AT SCIO.

Weep not for Scio's children slain ;

Their blood, by Turkish falchions shed, Sends not its cry to Heaven in vain

For vengeance on the murderer's head.

Though high the warm red torrent ran Between the flames that lit the sky,

Yet, for each drop, an armed man Shall rise, to free the land, or die.

And for each corpse, that in the sea Was thrown, to feast the scaly herds,

A liundred of the foe shall be

A banquet for the mountain-birds.

44 POEMS.

Stern rites and sad shall Greece ordain To keep that day along hor shore,

Till the last link of slavery's chain Is shattered, to be Avorn no more.

THE INDIAN GIRL'S LAIklENT.

Aisr Indian girl "was sitting where Her lover, slain in battle, slept ;

Her maiden veil, her own black hair, Came down o'er eyes that wept ;

And wildly, in her woodland tongue,

This sad and simple lay she sung :

" I've pulled away the shrubs that grew Too close above thy sleeping head,

And broke the forest-boughs that threw Their shadows o'er thy bed.

That, shining from the sweet southwest,

The sunbeams might rejoice thy rest.

" It was a weary, weary road That led thee to the pleasant coast,

Where thou, in his serene abode, Hast met thy father's ghost ;

Where everlasting autumn lies

On yellow woods and sunny skies.

" 'Twas I the broidered mocsen made. That shod thee for that distant land ;

'Twas I thy bow and aiTows laid Beside thy still cold hand ;

Thy bow in many a battle bent,

Thy arrows never vainly sent.

" With wampum-belts I crossed thy breast, And wrapped thee in the bison's hide,

THE INDUN GIRL'S LAMENT. 45

And laid the food that pleased thee best,

In plenty, by ihy wide, And decked thee bravely, as became A warrior of illustrious name,

"Thou'rt happy now, for thou hast passed

The long dark journey of the grave. And in the land of light, at last,

I last joined the good and brave ; Amid the flushed and balmy air, 'J'he hravest and the loveliest there.

" Yet, oft to thine own Indian maid

Even there thy thoughts will earthward stray — To her who sits where thou wert laid,

And weeps the hours away, Yet almost can her grief forget, I'o think that thou dost love her yet.

" And thou, by one of those still lakes

That in a shining cluster lie, On which the south wind scarcely breaks

The image of the sky, A bower for thee and me hast made Beneath the many-colored shade.

"And thou dost wait and watch to meet

My spirit sent to join the blessed, And, wondering what detains my feet

From that bright land of rest. Dost seem, in every sound, to hear The rustling of my footsteps near."

4-6 POEMS.

ODE FOR AN AGRICULTURAL CELEBRATION.

Fae back in tlie ages,

The plough with wi-eaths was crowned ; The hands of kings and sages

Entwined the chaplet round ; Till men of spoil disdained the toil

By which the world was nourished, And dews of blood enriched the soil

Where green their laurels flourished. — Now the world her fault repairs —

The guilt that stains her story ; And weeps her crimes amid the cares

That formed her earliest glory.

The proud throne shall crumble.

The diadem shall wane, The tribes of earth shall humble

The pride of those who reign ; And War shall lay his pomp away ; —

The fame that heroes cherish. The glory earned in deadly fray

Shall fade, decay, and perish. Honor waits, o'er all the earth.

Through endless generations. The art that calls her harvest forth.

And feeds th' expectant nations.

lU'/A'All. 47

RIZPAH.

And he delivered them into the hands of the Gibeonites, and they hanged them the hill before the Lord ; and they fell all seven together, and were put to death the days of the harvest, in the first days, in the beginning of barley-harvest.

And Rizpah, the daughter of Aiah, took sackcloth, and spread it for her upon c rock, from the beginning of harvest until the water dropped upon them out of lavcn, and suffered neither the birds of the air to rest upon them by day, nor the lasts of the field Ijy nij^ht. 2 Samuel, xxi. 10.

Hear what the desolate Rizpah said, As on Gibcah's rocks she watched the dead. The sons of Michal before her lay, And her own fair children, dearer than they : By a death of shame they all had died, And were stretched on the bare rock, side by side. And Rizpah, once the loveliest of all That bloomed and smiled in the court of Saul, All wasted with Avatching and famine now. And scorched by the sun her haggard brow, Sat mournfully guarding their corpses there. And murmured a strange and solemn air ; The low, heart-broken, and wailing strain Of a mother that mourns her children slain :

" I have made the crags my home, and spread On their desert backs my sackcloth bed ; I have eaten the bitter herb of the rocks. And drunk the midnight dew in my locks ; I have wept till I could not weep, and the pain Of the burning eyeballs went to my brain. Seven blackened corpses before me lie. In the blaze of the sun and the winds of the sky. I have watched them through the burning day. And driven the vulture and raven away ; And the cormorant wheeled in circles round. Yet feared to alight on the guarded ground.

48 POEiis.

And when tlie shadows of twilight came,

I have seen the hyena's eyes of flame,

And heard at my side his stealthy tread.

But aye at my shout the sayage fled :

And I threw the lighted brand to fright i

The jackal and wolf that yelled in the night.

" Te were foully murdered, my hapless sons, j

By the hands of wicked and cruel ones ; '

Te fell, in your fresh and hlooming prime, !

All innocent, for your father's crime.

He sinned — ^but he paid the price of his guilt '

When his blood by a nameless hand was spilt ;

When he strove with the heathen host in vain, '

And fell with the flower of his people slain.

And the sceptre his children's hands should sway

'From his injured lineage passed away. j

i " But I hoped that the cottage-roof would be '

A safe retreat for my sons and me ;

And that while they ripened to manhood fast, I

They should wean my thoughts from the woes of the past ; i

And my bosom swelled with a mother's pride, [

As they stood in their beauty and strength by my side, i

Tall like their sire, with the princely grace I

Of his stately form, and the bloom of his face. . i

1

'• Oh, what an hour for a mother's heart, '

When the pitiless ruffians tore us apart ! I

When I clasped their knees and wept and prayed, '

And struggled and shrieked to Heaven for aid, ■

And clung to my sons with desperate strength, ,

Till the murderers loosed my hold at length. And bore me breathless and f aiut aside. In their iron arms, while my children died. They died — and the mother that gave them birth Is forbid to cover their bones with earth.

" The barley-harvest was nodding white. When my children died on the rocky height,

TUE OLD MAN'S FUNERAL. 49

And the reapers were singing on lull and plain, When I came to my task of sorrow and pain. But now the season of rain is nigh, The sun is dim in the thickening sky, And the clouds in sullen darkness rest Where he hides his light at the doors of the west. I hear the howl of the wind that brings The long drear storm on its heavy wings ; But the howling wind and the driving rain Will beat on my houseless head in vain : I shall stay, from my murdered sons to scare The beasts of the desert, and fowls of air."

THE OLD MAN'S FUNERAL.

I SAW an aged man upon his bier,

His hair was thin and white, and on his brow

A record of the cares of many a year ; — Cares that were ended and forgotten now.

And there was sadness round, and faces ])Owed,

And woman's tears fell fast, and children wailed aloud.

Then rose another hoary man and said.

In faltering accents, to that weeping train :

" Why mourn ye that our aged friend is dead ? Ye are not sad to see the gathered grain.

Nor when their mellow fruit the orchards cast.

Nor when the yellow woods let fall the ripened mast.

" Ye sigh not when the sun, his course fulfdled, His glorious course, rejoicing earth and sky,

In the soft evening, when the winds are stilled, Sinks where his islands of refreshment lie.

And leaves the smile of his departure, «j>rea«l

O'er the warm-colored heaven and ruddy mountain head.

50 POEMS.

" Why weep ye then for him, who, having won The bound of man's appointed years, at last,

Life's blessings all enjoyed, life's labors done, Serenely to his final rest has passed ;

While the soft memory of his virtues, yet,

Lingers like twilight hues, when the bright sun is set ?

'' His youth was innoeent ; his riper age

Marked with some aet of goodness every day ;

And watched by eyes that loved him, calm and sage, Faded his late declining years away.

Meekly he gave his being up, and went

To share the holy rest that waits a life well spent.

" That life was happy ; every day he gave Thanks for the fair existence that was his ;

For a sick fancy made him not her slave. To mock him with her phantom miseries.

No chronic tortures racked his aged limb.

For luxury and sloth had nourished none for him.

" And I am glad that he has lived thus long, And glad that he has gone to his reward ;

Nor can I deem that Nature did him wrong. Softly to diseugage the vital cord.

For when his hand grew palsied, and his eye

Dai'k -w-itli the mists of as2:e, it was his time to die."

THE RR'ITLET.

This little rill, that from the springs Of yonder grove its current brings. Plays on the slope awhile, and then Goes prattling into groves again. Oft to its Avarblir.g waters drew My little feet, when life Avas new.

J I IK JtlVULET. 5 J

When woorlH in early green were dreBKerl, And from tlie cliarnherH of Uk; west The warm hroe/es, travelling out, Breatlied the new fieent of flowers about, My truant HtepH from home would stray.

Upon its grassy side to play.

List the. ]>ro\vn thrasher's vernal hymn,

And (;rop the violet on its brim,

With blooming cheek and open brow,

Ah young and gay, sweet rill, as thou.

And when the days of boyhood came, And I had grown in love with fame. Duly I sought thy banks, and tried My first rude numbers by thy side. Words cannot tell liow bright and gay The scenes of lif<i before me lay. Then glorious hopes, that now to speak Would bring the blood into my ch(!ek, Passed o'er me ; and I wrote, on high, A name I deemed should never die.

Years change thee not. Upon yon hill The tall old maples, verdant still. Yet tell, in grandeur of decay. How swift the years have passed away, Since first, a child, and half afraid, I wandered in the forest sliade. Thou, ever-joyous rivulet, Dost dimple, leap, and prattle yet ; And sporting with the sands that pave The windings of thy silver wave, And flanging to thy own wild chime, Thou laughest at the lapse of time. The same sweet sounds are in my ear My early childhood loved to hear ; As pure thy limjjid waters run ; As bright they sparkle to the sun ;

52 roEMS.

As fi'esli and thick the bonding ranks Of hovlis that line thy oozy banks ; The violet there, in soft May dew, Oonies tip, as modest and as blue ; As g-reen an\id thy current's stress, Floats the scarce-rooted watercress ; And the brown ground-bird, in thy glen, Still chirps as merrily as then.

Thou changest not — but I am changed Since first thy pleasant banks I ranged ; And the grave stranger, come to see The play-place of his infancy. Has scarce a single trace of him ^^^10 sported once upon thy brim. The visions of my youth are past — Too bright, too beautiful to last. I've tried the world — it wears no more The coloring of romance it wore. Yet well has Xature kept the truth She promised in my earliest youth. The radiant beauty shed abroad On all the glorious works of God, Shows freshly, to my sobered eye. Each charm it wore in days gone by.

Yet a fev,' years shall pass away. And' I, all trembling, weak, and gray. Bowed to tlie earth, whiehi Avaits to fold My ashes in the embracing mould, (If haply the dark will of Fate Indulge my life so long a date), May come for the last time to look Upon my childhood's favorite brook". Then dimly on my eye shall gleam Tlie sparkle of thy dancing stream ; iVnd faintly on my ear shall fall Thy prattling ciirrent's merry call ; Yet shalt thoxi tlow as glad and bright As when thoxi met' st my infant sight.

MAKCU.

Aji'I I Hhall Hleop — and on thy side, Ak am'.H nfUtr -A'^cH f<Ii*le, (/liildn-n lluiir early Kj>ortH Kliall try, And paHH to lioary a^e and die. ]iut thou, unchanged from year to year, (jJayly Hhalt play and glitter here ; Amid young JlowerH and tender grasH Thy endlesH infancy nhall pans ; And, Hinging down thy narrow glen, Shalt mock the fading race of men.

MARCH.

Tin-: Btormy Mardi in come at last,

With wind, and cloufl, and changing skies ;

I hear the rushing of the blast,

That through the snowy valley flies.

Ah, passing few are they who speak,

Wild, stormy month ! in praise of thee ;

Yet though thy winds arc loud and bleak. Thou art a welcome month to rae.

For thou, to northern lands, again The glad and glorious sun flost bring,

And thou hast joined the gentle train And wear'st the gentle name of .Spring.

And, in thy reign of blast and storm, Smiles many a long, bright, sunny day.

When the changed winds are soft and warm, And heaven puts on the blue of May.

Then sing aloud the gushing rills

In joy that they again are free, And, brightly leaping down the hills,

Renew their journey to the sea.

54: POEMS.

The year's departing beauty hides Of wintry storms the sullen threat ;

But in thy sternest frown abides A look of kindly promise yet.

Thou bring'st the hope of those calm skies, And that soft time of sunny showers,

When the wide bloom, on earth that lies, Seems of a brighter world than ours.

CONSUjVIPTIOK

Ay, thou art for the grave ; thy glances shine

Too brightly to shine long ; another Spring Shall deck her for men's eyes — ^biit not for thine —

Sealed in a sleep which knows no wakening. The fields for thee have no medicinal leaf,

And the vexed ore no mineral of power ; And they who love thee wait in anxious grief

Till the slow plague shall bring the fatal hour. Glide softly to thy rest then ; Death should come

Gently, to one of gentle mould like thee, As light winds wandering through groves of bloom

Detach the delicate blossom from the tree. Close thy sweet eyes, calmly, and without pain ; And we wUl trust in God to see thee yet again.

AN INDIAN STORY.

" I KNOW where the timid f a^m abides

In the depths of the shaded dell. Where the leaves are broad and the thicket hides, With its many stems and its tangled sides,

Fi'om the eye of the hunter well.

AN INDIAN STORY. 65

" I know where the young May violet grows,

In its lone and lowly nook, On the mossy bank, where the larch-tree throws Its broad dark bough, in solemn repose.

Far over the silent brook.

" And that timid fawn starts not with fear

When I steal to her secret bower ; And that young May violet to me is dear. And I visit the silent streamlet near.

To look on the lovely flower."

Thus Maquon sings as he lightly walks

To the hunting-ground on the hills ; 'Tis a song of his maid of the woods and rocks. With her bright black eyes and long black locks,

And voice like the music of rills.

He goes to the chase — but evil eyes

Are at watch in the thicker shades ; For she was lovely that smiled on his sighs, And he bore, from a hundred lovers, his prize,

The flower of the forest maids.

The boughs in the morning wind arc stin*ed.

And the woods their song renew. With the early carol of many a bird, And the quickened tune of the streamlet heard

Where the hazels trickle with dew.

And Maquon has promised his dark-haired maid.

Ere eve shall redden the sky, A good red deer from the forest shade. That bounds with the herd through grove and glade,

At her cabin-door shall lie.

The hollow woods, in the setting sun.

Ring shrill with the fire-bird's lay ; And Maquon's sj'^lvan labors are done. And his shafts are spent, but the spoil they won

He bears on his homeward way.

56 POEMS.

He stops near his bower — his eye perceives

Strange traces along the ground — At once to the earth his burden he heaves ; He breaks through the veil of boughs and leaves ;

And gains its door with a bound.

But the vines are torn on its walls that leant.

And all from the young shrubs there By struggling hands have the leaves been rent, And there hangs on the sassafras, broken and bent. One tress of the well-known hair.

But where is she who, at this calm hour.

Ever watched his coming to see ? She is not at the door, nor yet in the bower ; He calls — ^but he only hears on the flower

The hum of the laden bee.

It is not a time for idle grief.

Nor a time for tears to flow ; The horror that freezes his limbs is brief — Pie grasps his war-axe and bow, and a sheaf

Of darts made sharp for the foe.

And he looks for the print of the ruffian's feet

Where he bore the maiden away ; And he darts on the fatal path more fleet Than the blast hurries the vapor and sleet

O'er the wild November day.

'Twas early summer when Maquon's bride

Was stolen away from his door ; But at length the maples in crimson are dyed. And the grape is black on the cabin-side — "

And she smiles at his hearth once more.

But far in the pine-grove, dark and cold.

Where the yellow leaf falls not. Nor the autumn shines in scarlet and gold. There lies a hillock of fresh dark mould.

In the deepest gloom of the spot.

SUMMER WIND. 57

And the Indian girls, that pass that way,

Point out the ravislier's grave ; " And how soon to the bower she loved," they say, " Returned the maid that was borne away

From Maquon, the fond and the brave."

SUMMER WIND.

It is a sultry day ; the sun has di'unk The dew that lay upon the morning grass ; There is no rustling in the lofty elm That canopies my dwelling, and its shade Scarce cools me. All is silent, save the faint And interrupted murmur of the bee, Settling on the sick flowers, and then again Instantly on the wing. The plants around Feel the too potent fervors : the tall maize Rolls up its long green leaves ; the clover droops Its tender foliage, and declines its blooms. But far in the fierce sunshine tower the hills, With all their groAvth of woods, silent and stern, As if the scorching heat and dazzling light Were but an element they loved. Bright clouds, Motionless pillars of the brazen heaven — Their bases on the mountains — their white tops Shining in the far ether — fire the air With a reflected radiance, and make turn The gazer's eye away. For me, I lie Languidly in the shade, where the thick turf. Yet virgin from the kisses of the sun, Retains some freshness, and I woo the wind That still delays his coming. Why so slow. Gentle and voluble spirit of the air ? Oh, come and breathe upon the fainting earth Coolness and life. Is it that in his caves He hears me ? See, on yonder woody ridge,

58 POEMS.

The pine is bending bis proud top, and now Among tbe nearer groves, cbestnut and oak Are tossing their green boughs about. He comes ; Lo, -svhere the grassy meadow runs in waves ! The deep distressful silence of the scene Breaks up with mingling of unnumbered sounds And universal motion. He is come, Shaking a shower of blossoms from the shrubs, And bearing on their fragrance ; and he brings Music of birds, and rustling of young boughs, And soimd of swaying branches, and the voice Of distant waterfalls. All the green herbs Are stirring in his breath ; a thousand flowers, By the road-side and the borders of the brook, Nod gayly to each other ; glossy leaves Are twinkling in the sun, as if the dew Were on them yet, and silver waters break Into small waves and sparkle as he comes.

AN INDIAN AT THE BURIAL-PLACE OF HIS FATHERS.

It is the spot I came to seek —

My father's ancient Innrial-place, Ere from these vales, ashamed and weak,

"Withdrew our wasted race. It is the spot — I know it well — Of which our old traditions tell.

For here the upland bank sends out

A ridge toward the river-side ; I know the shaggy hills about.

The meadoAvs smooth and wide, The plains, that, toward the southern sky, Fenced east and west by mountains lie.

AN INDIAN AT THE liUKIAL-rLACE OF UIS FATHERS. 59

A white mail, gazing on tlie scene,

Would Kay a lovely spot was here. And praise the lawns, bo fresh and green.

Between the hills so sheer. I like it not— I would the plain Lay in its tall old groves again.

The sheep are on the slopes around,

The cattle in the meadows feed, And laborers turn the crumbling ground,

Or drop the yellow seed, And prancing steeds, in trappings gay. Whirl the bright chariot o'er the way.

Methinks it were a nobler sight

To see these vales in woods arrayed,

Their summits in the golden light, Their trunks in grateful shade.

And herds of deer that bounding go

O'er hills and prostrate trees below.

And then to mark the lord of all.

The forest hero, trained to wars. Quivered and plumed, and lithe and tall,

And seamed with glorious scars, Walk forth, amid his reign, to dare The wolf, and grapple with the bear.

This bank, in which the dead were laid.

Was sacred when its soil was ours ; Hither the silent Indian maid

Brought wreaths of beads and flowers. And the gray chief and gifted seer Worshipped the god of thunders here.

But now the wheat is green and high On clods that hid the warrior's breast,

And scattered in the furrows lie The weapons of his rest ;

60 POEMS.

And tliere, in the loose sand, is thrown Of his hirge arm the mouldering bone.

Ah, little thought the strong and brave Who bore their lifeless chieftain forth —

Or the young wife that weeping gave Her first-born to the earth,

That the pale race, who waste us now,

Among their bones should guide the plough.

They waste us — ay — like April snow In the warm noon, we shrink away ;

And fast they follow, as we go Toward the setting day —

Till they shall fill the land, and we

Are driven into the Western sea.

But I behold a fearful sign.

To which the white men's eyes are blind ; Their race may vanish hence, like mine.

And leave no trace behind. Save ruins o'er the region spread. And the white stones above the dead.

Before these fields were shorn and tilled. Full to the brim our rivers flowed ;

The melody of waters filled

The fresh and boundless wood ;

And torrents dashed and rivulets played.

And fountains spouted in the shade.

Those grateful sounds are heard no more. The springs are silent in the sun ;

The rivei-s, by the blackened shore. With lessening current run ;

The realm our tribes are crushed to get

May be a barren desert yet.

SONG. ei

SONG.

Dost thou idly ask to hear

At what gentle Bcasons Nymph.s relent, when lovers near

Press the tenderest reasons ? Ah, they give their faith too oft

To the careless wooer ; Maidens' hearts are always soft :

Would that men's were truer !

Woo the fair one when around

Early birds are singing ; When, o'er all the fragrant ground,

Early herbs arc springing : When the brookside, bank, and grove,

All with blossoms laden, iShine with beauty, breathe of love, —

Woo the timid maiden.

Woo her when, with rosy blush.

Summer eve is sinking ; When, on rills that softly gush.

Stars are softly winking ; When through boughs that knit the bower

Moonlight gleams are stealing ; Woo her, till the gentle hour

Wake a gentler feeling.

Woo her when autumnal dyes

Tinge the woody mountain ; When the dropping foliage lies

In the weedy fountain ; Let the scene, that tells how fast

Youth is passing over. Warn her, ere her bloom is past.

To secure her lover.

62 POEMS.

Woo her when the north winds call

At the lattice nightly ; When, within the cheerful hall,

Blaze the fagots brightly ; While the wintry tempest round

Sweeps the landscape hoary, Sweeter in her ear shall sound

Love's delightful story.

HYMN OF THE WALDENSES.

Heae, Father, hear thy faint afflicted flock Cry to thee, from the desert and the rock ; While those, who seek to slay thy childi'en, hold Blasphemous worship under roofs of gold ; And the broad goodly lands, with pleasant airs That nurse the grape and wave the grain, are theirs.

Yet better were this mountain wilderness, And this wild life of danger and distress — Watchmgs by night and perilous flight by day, And meetings in the depths of earth to pray — Better, far better, than to kneel mth them, And pay the impious rite thy laws condemn.

Thou, Lord, dost hold the thunder ; the firm land Tosses in billows when it feels thy hand ; Thou dashest nation against nation, then Stillest the angry world to peace again. Oh, touch their stony hearts who hunt thy sons — The murderers of our wives and little ones.

Yet, mighty God, yet shall thy frown look forth Unveiled, and terribly shall shake the earth. Then the foul power of priestly sin and all Its long-upheld idolatries shall fall. Thou shalt raise up the trampled and oppressed, And thy delivered saints shall dwell in rest.

MONUMENT MOUNTAIN. 63

MONUMENT MOUNTAIN.

Tirou who wouldst see the lovely and the wild Mingled in harmony on Nature's face, Ascend our rocky mountains. Let thy foot Fail not with weariness, for on their tops The beauty and the majesty of earth, Spread wide beneath, shall make thee to forget The steep and toilsome way. There, as thou stand'st, The haunts of men below thee, and around The mountain-summits, thy expanding heart Shall feel a kindred with that loftier world To which thou art translated, and partake The enlargement of thy vision. Thou shalt look Upon the green and rolling forest-tops. And down into the secrets of the glens. And streams that with their bordering thickets strive To hide their windings. Thou shalt gaze, at once, Here on white villages, and tilth, and herds, And swarming roads, and there on solitudes That only hear the torrent, and the wind, And eagle's shriek. There is a precipice That seems a fragment of some mighty wall. Built by the hand that fashioned the old world, To separate its nations, and thrown down AYhen the flood drowned them. To the north, a path Conducts you up the narrow battlement. Steep is the western side, shaggy and wild With mossy trees, and pinnacles of flint, And many a hanging crag. But, to the east. Sheer to the vale go down the bare old cliffs — Huge pillars, that in middle heaven upbear Their weather-beaten capitals, here dark With moss, the growth of centuries, and there Of chalky whiteness where the thunderbolt Has splintered them. It is a fearful thing To stand upon the beetling verge, and see Where storm and lightning, from that huge gray wall.

64 POEMS.

Have tumbled down vast blocks, and at the base

Dashed them in fragments, and to lay thine ear

Over the dizzy depth, and hear the sound

Of winds, that struggle with the woods below,

Come up like ocean murmurs. But the scene

Is lovely round ; a beautiful river there

Wanders amid the fresh and fertile meads,

The paradise he made unto himself,

Mining the soil for ages. On each side

The fields swell upward to the hills ; beyond,

Above the hills, in the blue distance, rise

The mountain-columns with which earth props heaven.

There is a tale about these reverend rocks, A sad tradition of unhappy love. And sorrows borne and ended, long ago, When over these fair vales the savage sought His game in the thick woods. There was a maid, The fairest of the Indian maids, bright-eyed. With wealth of raven tresses, a light form, And a gay heart. About her cabin-door The wide old woods resounded with her song And fairy laughter all the summer day. She loved her cousin ; such a love was deemed, By the morality of those stern tribes. Incestuous, and she struggled hard and long Against her love, and reasoned with her heart, As simple Indian maiden might. In vain. Then her eye lost its lustre, and her step Its lightness, and the gray-haired men that j^assed Her dwelling, wondered that they heard no more The accustomed song and laugh of her, whose looks Were like -the cheerful smile of Spring, they said. Upon the Winter of their age. She went To Weep where no eye saw, and was not found Where all the merry girls were met to dance, And all the hunters -of the tribe were out ; ISTor when they gathered from the rustling husk The shining ear ; nor when, by the river's side,

MONUMENT MOUNTAIN. 65

Tliey pulled the grape and stai'tled the wild shades AV'itli sounds of mirth. The keen-eyed Indian dames Would whisper to each other, as they saw Iler wasting form, and say. The girl icill die.

One day into the bosom of a friend, A playmate of her young and innocent years, Mie poured her griefs. " Thou know'st, and thou alone," Slie said, "for I have told thee, all ray love, And guilt, and sorrow. I am sick of life. All night I weep in darkness, and the morn Glares on me, as upon a thing accursed, That has no business on the earth. I hate The pastimes and "the pleasant toils that once I loved ; the cheerful voices of my friends Sound in my ear like mockings, and, at night, In dreams, my mother, from the land of souls, Calls me and chides me. All that look on me Do seem to know my shame ; I cannot bear Their eyes ; I cannot from my heart root out The love that wrings it so, and I must die."

It was a summer morning, and they went To this old precipice. About the cliffs Lay garlands, ears of maize, and shaggy skins Of wolf and bear, the offerings of the tribe Here made to the Great Spirit, for they deemed, Like worshippers of the elder time, that God Doth walk on the high places and affect The earth-o'erlooking mountains. She had on The ornaments with which her father loved To deck the beauty of his bright-eyed girl, And bade her wear when stranger Avarriors came To be his guests. Here the friends sat them down, And sang, all day, old songs of love and death. And decked the poor wan victim's hair with floAvcrs, And prayed that safe and swift might be her way To the calm world of sunshine, where no grief Makes the heart heavy and the eyelids red.

QQ POEMS.

Beautiful lay the region of her tribe

Below her — waters resting in the embrace

Of the wide forest, and maize-planted glades

Opening amid the leafy wUderness.

She gazed upon it long, and at the sight

Of her own village peeping through the trees,

And her own dwelling, and the cabin roof

Of him she loved with an unlawful love.

And came to die for, a warm gush of tears

Ran from her eyes. But when the sun grew low

And the hill shadows long, she threw herself

From the steep rock and perished. There was scoojDed,

Upon the mountain's southern slope, a grave ;

And there they laid her, in the very garb

With which the maiden decked herself for death,

With the same withering wild-flowers in her hair.

And o'er the mould that covered her, the tribe

Built up a simple monument, a cone

Of small loose stones. Thenceforward all who passed,

Hunter, and dame, and virgin, laid a stone

In silence on the pUe. It stands there yet.

And Indians from the distant West, who come

To visit where their fathers' bones are laid.

Yet tell the sorrowful tale, and to this day

The mountain where the hapless maiden died

Is called the Mountain of the Monument.

AFTER A TEMPEST.

The day had been a day of wind and storm. The wind was laid, the storm was overpast. And stooping from the zenith, bright and warm, Shone the great sun on the wide earth at last. I stood upon the upland slope, and cast Mine eye upon a broad and beauteous scene. Where the vast plain lay girt by mountains vast. And hills o'er hills lifted their heads of green. With pleasant vales scooped out and villages between.

AFTE'l A TEMPEST. 67

The rain-drops glistened on the trees around, Whose shadows on the tall grass were not stirred, Save when a shower of diamonds, to the ground, Was shaken by the flight of startled bird ; For birds were warbling round, and bees were heard About the flowers ; the cheerful rivulet sung And gossiped, as he hastened oceanward ; To the gray oak the squirrel, chiding, clung. And chirping from the ground the grasshopper upsprung.

And from beneath the leaves that kept them dry Flew many a glittering insect here and there. And darted up and down the butterfly, That seemed a living blossom of the air, The flocks came scattering from the thicket, where The violent rain had pent them ; in the way Strolled groups of damsels frolicsome and fair ; The farmer swung the scythe or turned the hay. And 'twixt the heavy swaths his childi-en were at play.

It was a scene of peace — and, like a spell, Did that serene and golden sunlight fall Upon the motionless wood that clothed the fell, And precipice upspringing like a wall. And glassy river and white waterfall, And happy living things that trod the bright And beauteous scene ; while far beyond them all. On many a lovely valley, out of sight. Was poured from the blue heavens the same soft golden light.

I looked, and thought the quiet of the scene An emblem of the peace that yet shall be, When o'er earth's continents, and isles between, The noise of war shall cease from sea to sea. And married nations dwell in harmony ; When millions, crouching in the dust to one, No more shall beg their lives on bended knee, Nor the black stake be dressed, nor in the sun The o'erlabored captive toil, and wish his life were done.

68 POEMS.

Too long, at clash of arms amid her bowers And pools of blood, the earth has stood aghast, The fair earth, that should only blush with flowers And ruddy fruits ; but not for aye can last The storm, and sweet the sunshine when 'tis past. Lo, the clouds roll away — they break — they fly, And, like the glorious light of summer, cast O'er the wide landscape from the embracing sky. On all the peaceful world the smile of heaven shall lie.

AUTUMN WOODS.

Ere, in the northern gale, The summer tresses of the trees are gone, The woods of Autunm, all around oui" vale,

Have put their glory on .

The mountains that infold, In their wide sweej), the colored landscape round, Seem groups of giant kings, in purj^le and gold,

That guard the enchanted ground.

I roam the woods that crown The uplands, where the mingled splendors glow. Where the gay company of trees look down

On the green fields below.

My steps are not alone In these bright walks ; the sweet southwest, at play, Flies, rustling, where the painted leaves are strown

Along the winding way.

And far in heaven, the while. The sun, that sends that gale to wander here, Poiu's out on the fair earth his quiet smile —

The sweetest of the year.

AUTUMN WOODS. QQ

Where now the solemn shade, Venlure and clooni whore many hranelies moot ; 80 grateful, when the noon of sunimer made

The valleys siek with heat ?

Let in through all the trees Come the strange rays ; the forest depths are bright ; Their sunny colored foliage, in the breeze,

Twinkles, like beams of light.

The rivulet, late unseen, Where bickering through the shrubs its wa Shinos with the image of its golden screen,

And glimmerings of the sun.

]>ut 'neath you crimson tree. Lover to listening maid might breathe his f^ame, Nor mark, within its roseate canopy,

Iler blush of maiden shame.

Oh, Autumn ! why so soon Depart the hues that make thy forests glad, Thy gentle wind and thy fair sunny noon.

And leave thee wild and sad !

Ah ! 'twere a lot too blest Forever in thy colored shades to stray ; Amid the kisses of the soft southwest

To roani and droan\ for aye ;

And leave tlu' vain low strife That makes men mad — tho lug for wealth and power — The ]vvssions and the cares that, wither life,

And waste its little hour.

70 POEMS.

MUTATION.

They talk of short-lived pleasure — be it so —

Pain dies as quickly : stern, hard-featured pain Expires, and lets her weary prisoner go.

The fiercest agonies have shortest reign ;

And after dreams of horror, conies again The welcome morning with its rays of peace,

Ohlivion, softly wiping out the stain, iakes the strong secret pangs of shame to cease : lemorse is virtue's root ; its fair increase

Are fruits of innocence and blessedness : Thus joy, o'erborne and bound, doth still release

His young limbs from the chains that round him press. "Weep not that the world changes — did it keep A stable, changeless state, 'twere cause indeed to weep.

NOVEMBER.

Yet one smile more, departing, distant sun !

One mellow smile through the soft vapory air. Ere, o'er the frozen earth, the loud winds run,

Or snows are sifted o'er the meadows bare. One smile on the brown hills and naked trees.

And the dark rocks whose summer wreaths are cast. And the blue gentian-flower, that, in the breeze,

Nods lonely, of her beauteous race the last. Yet a few sunny days, in which the bee

Shall murmur by the hedge that skirts the way, The cricket chirp upon the russet lea.

And man delight to linger in thy ray. Yet one rich smile, and we will try to bear The piercing winter frost, and winds, and darkened air.

SONG OF THE GREEK AMAZOX. 71

SONG OF THE GREEK AJklAZON.

I BUCKLE to my slender side

The pistol and the scimitar, And in my maiden flower and pride

Am come to share the task of war. And yonder stands the fiery steed,

That paws the ground and neighs to go, My charger of the Arab breed —

I took him from the routed foe.

My mirror is the mountain-spring,

At which I dress my ruffled hair ; My dimmed and dusty arms I bring,

And wash away the blood-stain there. Why should I guard from wind and sun

This cheek, whose virgin rose is fled "? It was for one — oh, only one —

I kept its bloom, and he is dead.

But they who sle^v him — unaware

Of coward murderers lurking nigh — And left him to the fowls of air.

Are yet alive — and they must die ! They slew him — and my virgin years

Are vowed to Greece and vengeance now, And many an Othman dame, in tears.

Shall rue the Grecian maiden's vow.

I touched the lute in better days,

I led in dance the joyous band ; Ah ! they may move to mirthful lays

Whose hands can touch a lover's hand. The march of hosts that haste to meet

Seems gayer than the dance to me ; The lute's sweet tones are not so sweet

As the fierce shout of victory.

72 POEMS.

TO A CLOUD.

Beautiful cloiid ! with folds so soft and fair,

Swimming in tlie pure qniet air ! Thy fleeces bathed in smilight, while below

Thy shadow o'er the vale moves slow ; A"STiere, midst their labor,- pause the reaper train.

As cool it comes along the grain. "R-^-^'itiful cloud ! I would I were with thee thy calm way o'er land and sea ; ?st on thy unrolling skirts, and look I Earth as on an open book ; v-^ ^vreains that tie her realms with silver bands.

And the long ways that seam her lands ; And hear her humming cities, and the sound

Of the great ocean breaking round. Ay — I would sail, upon thy au--boriie car,

To blooming regions distant far, To where the sun of Andalusia shines

On his own olive-groves and vines. Or the soft lights of Italy's clear sky

In smiles upon her ruins lie. But I would woo the winds to let us rest

O'er Greece, long fettered and oppressed, Whose sons at length have heard the call that comes

From the old battle-fields and tombs. And risen, and drawn the sword, and on the foe

Have dealt the swift and desperate blow, And the Othman power is cloven, and the stroke

Has touched its chains, and they are broke. Ay, we would linger, till the simset there

Should come, to purple all the air, And thou retiect upon the sacred ground

The ruddy radiance streaming round. Bright meteor ! for the stunmer noontide made !

Thy peerless beauty yet shall fade. Tlie sun, that fills with light each glistening fold,

Shall set, and leave thee dark and cold :

THE MURDERED TRAVELLER. 73

The blast shall rend thy skirtH, or thou raayst frown In the dark heaven when ntorrns eome down ;

And weep in rain, till man's inquirinj^ eye Miss thee, forevec, from the sky.

THE MURDERED TRAVELLER.

Whev Spring, to woods and wastes around,

Brought bloom and joy again, The murdered traveller's bones were found,

Far down a narrow glen.

The fragrant birch, above him, hung

Her tassels in the sky ; And many a vernal blossom sprung,

And nodded careless by.

The red-bird warbled, as he wrought

His hanging nest o'erhead. And fearless, near the fatal spot.

Her young the partridge led.

But there was weeping far away.

And gentle eyes, for him. With watching many an anxious day,

Were sorrowful and dim.

They little knew, who loved him so.

The fearful death he met. When shouting o'er the desert snow,

Unarmed, and hard beset ; —

Nor how, when round the frosty pole

The northern dawn was red. The mountain-wolf and wild-cat stole

To banquet on the dead ; —

74 POEMS.

]N"or how, when strangers found his hones, They dressed the hasty hier,

And marked his grave with nameless stones, Unmoistened by a tear.

But long they looked, and feared, and wept,

Within his distant home ; And dreamed, and started as they slept,

For joy that he was come.

Long, long they looked — hut never spied

His welcome step again, Nor knew the fearful death he died

Far down that narrow glen.

HYMN TO THE NORTH STAR,

The sad and solemn night Hath yet her multitude of cheerful fires ;

The glorious host of light Walk the dark hemisphere till she retires ; All through her silent watches, gliding slow. Her constellations come, and climb the heavens, and go.

Day, too, hath many a star To grace his gorgeous reign, as bright as they :

Through the blue fields afar. Unseen, they follow in his flaming way : Many a bright lingerer, as the eve grows dim, Tells what a radiant troop arose and set with him.

And thou dost see them rise. Star of the Pole ! and thou dost see them set.

Alone, in thy cold skies, Thou keep'st thy old unmoving station yet, Nor join'st the dances of that glittering train. Nor dipp'st thy virgin orb in the blue western main.

THE LAPSE OF TIJIE. 75

There, at morn's rosy birth, Thou lookest meekly througli the kindling air.

And eve, that round the earth Chases the day, beholds thee watching there ; There noontide finds thee, and the hour that calls The shapes of polar flame to scale heaven's azure walls.

Alike, beneath thine eye. The deeds of darkness and of light are gone ;

High toward the starlit sky Towns blaze, the smoke of battle blots the sun, The night storm on a thousand hills is loud. And the strong wind of day doth mingle sea and cloud.

On thy unaltering blaze The half -wrecked mariner, his compass lost,

Fixes his steady gaze, And steers, undoubting, to the friendly coast ; And they who stray in perilous wastes, by night, Are glad when thou dost shine to guide their footsteps right.

And, therefore, bards of old, Sages and hermits of the solemn wood,

Did in thy beams behold A beauteous type of that unchanging good, Tliat bright eternal beacon, by whose ray The voyager of time should shape his heedful way.

THE LAPSE OF TBIE.

Lament who will, in fruitless tears,

The speed with which our moments fly ;

I sigh not over vanished years.

But watch the years that hasten by.

76 POEMS.

Look, how they come — a mingled crowd Of bright and dark, but rapid days ;

Beneath them, like a summer cloud, The wide world changes as I gaze.

What ! grieve that time has brought so soon The sober age of manhood on !

As idly might I weep, at noon, To see the blush of morning gone.

Could I give up the hopes that glow

In prospect like Elysian isles ; And let the cheerful future go,

With all her promises and smiles ?

The future ! — cruel were the power

Whose doom would tear thee from my heart,

Thou sweetener of the present hour ! We cannot — no — we will not part.

Oh, leave me, still, the rapid flight That makes the changing seasons gay,

The grateful speed that brings the night, The swift and glad return of day ;

The months that touch, with added grace,

This little prattler at my knee. In whose arch eye and speaking face

New meaning every hour I see ;

The years, that o'er each sister land Shall lift the country of my birth,

And nurse her strength, till she shall stand The pride and pattern of the earth :

Till younger commonwealths, for aid, Shall cling about her ample robe,

And from her frown shall shrink afraid The crowned oppressors of the globe.

THE KONG OF THE STARS. 77

True — time Avill seam and blanch my brow —

Well — I shall sit with aged men, And my good glass will tell me how

A grizzly beard becomes me then.

And then, should no dishonor lie

Upon my head, when I am gray, Love yet sliall watch my fading eye,

And smooth the path of my decay.

Then haste thee, Time — 'tis kindness all

That speeds thy winged feet so fast : Thy pleasures stay not till they pall.

And all thy pains are quickly past.

Thou fliest and bear'st away our woes,

And as thy shadowy train depart, The memory of sorrow grows

A liirhter burden on the heart.

THE SONG OF THE STARS.

WiiEX the radiant morn of creation broke.

And the world in the smile of God awoke.

And the empty realms of darkness and death

Were moved through their depths by his mighty breath,

And orbs of beauty and spheres of flame

From the void abyss by myriads came —

In the joy of youth as they darted away.

Through the widening wastes of space to play,

Their silver voices in chorus rang,

And this was the song the bright ones sang :

" Away, away, through the wide, wide sky,

The fair blue fields that before us lie —

Each sun with the worlds that round him roll,

Each planet, poised on her turning pole ;

With her isles of green, and her clouds of white.

And her waters that lie like fluid light.

Y8 rOEMS.

" For the source of glory tincovers his face, And the brightness o'erilows unbounded space, And we drink as we go to the luminous tides In our ruddy air and our blooming sides : Lo, yonder the living splendors play ; Away, on our joyous path, away !

" Look, look, through our glittering ranks afar.

In the infinite azure, star after star.

How they brighten and bloom as they swiftly pass !

How the verdure runs o'er each rolling mass !

And the path of the gentle winds is seen,

Where the small waves dance, and the young woods lean.

" And see, where the brighter day-beams pour, How the rainbows hang in the sunny shower ; And the morn and eve, with their pomp of hues. Shift o'er the bright planets and shed their dews ; And 'twixt them both, o'er the teeming ground, With her shadowy cone the night goes round !

" Away, away ! in our blossoming bowers.

In the soft airs wrapping these spheres of ours,

In the seas and fountains that shine with morn,

See, Love is brooding, and Life is born.

And breathing mp-iads are breaking from night.

To rejoice, like us, in motion and light.

" Glide on in your beauty, ye youthful spheres,

To weave the dance that measures the years ;

Glide on, in the glory and gladness sent

To the furthest wall of the firmament —

The boundless visible smile of Him

To the veil of whose brow your lamps are dim."

A FOREST HYMN. 79

A FOREST HYMN.

The groves were God's first temples. Ere man learned To hew the shaft, and lay the architrave, And spread the roof above them — ere he framed The lofty vault, to gather and roll back The sound of anthems ; in the darkling wood, Amid the cool and silence, he knelt down. And offered to the Mightiest solemn thanks And supplication. For his simple heart Might not resist the sacred influences Which, from the stilly twilight of the place, And from the gray old trunks that high in heaven Mingled their mossy boughs, and from the sound Of the invisible breath that swayed at once All their green tops, stole over him, and bowed His spirit with the thought of boundless power And inaccessible majesty. Ah, why Should we, in the world's riper years, neglect God's ancient sanctuaries, and adore Only among the crowd, and under roofs That our frail hands have raised ? Let me, at least, Here, in the shadow of this aged wood. Offer one hymn — thrice happy, if it find Acceptance in His ear.

Father, thy hand Hath reared these venerable columns, thou Didst weave this verdant roof. Thou didst look dov/n Upon the naked earth, and, forthwith, rose All these fair ranks of trees. They, in thy sun. Budded, and shook their green leaves in thy breeze. And shot toward heaven. The century-living crow Whose birth was in their tops, grew old and died Among their branches, till, at last, they stood. As now they stand, massy, and tall, and dark, Fit shrine for humble worshipper to hold Communion with his Maker. These dim vaults.

80 POEMS.

Those winding aisles, of Iniman pomp or j>ride

Koport not. Xo fantastic carvings sho\s'

The boast of oitr vain race to change the form

Of thy fair works. But thoii art here — ^thou fill'st

The solitude. Thon art in the soft Avinds

That run along the summit of these trees

In music ; thoii art in the cooler breath

That from the inmost darkness of the place

Comes, scarcely felt ; the barky trunks, the ground.

The fresh moist groiind, are all instinct with thee.

Here is continual worship ; — Nature, here,

In the tranquillity that thou dost love.

Enjoys thy presence. Noiselessly, around.

From perch to perch, the solitary bird

Passes ; and yon clear spring, that, midst its herbs,

Wells softly forth and wandering steeps the roots

Of half the mighty forest, tells no tale

Of all the good it does. Thou hast not left

Thyself without a witness, in the shades.

Of thy perfections. Grandeur, strength, and grace

Ai'e here to speak of thee. This mighty oak —

By whose immovable stem I stand and seem

Almost annihilated — not a prince.

In all that proud old world beyond the deep,

E'er wore his croT\^l as loftily as he

Wears the green coronal of leaves with which

Thy hand has graced him. Nestled at hi^ root

Is beauty, such as blooms not in the glare

Of the broad sun. That delicate forest tiower,

"With scented breath and look so like a smile.

Seems, as it issues from the shapeless mould.

An emanation of the indwelling Life,

A visible token of the upholding Love,

That are the soul of this great universe.

My heart is awed within me when I think Of the great miracle that still goes on, Inliiknce, round me — the perpetual work Of thy creation, finished, yet renewed

A FOREST HYMN. 81

Forever. Written on thy works I read The lesson of thy o\*ti eternity. Lo ! all grow old and die — but see again, How on the faltering footsteps of decay Youth presses — ever gay and beautiful youth In all its beautiful forms. These lofty trees Wave not less proudly that their ancestors Moulder beneath them. Oh, there is not lost One of earth's charms : upon her bosom yet, After the flight of untold centuries. The freishness of her far beginning lies And yet shall lie. Life mocks the idle hate Of his arch-enemy Death — yea, seats himself Upon the tyrant's throne — the sepulchre. And of the triumphs of his ghastly foe JSIakes his own nourishment. For he came forth From thine own bosom, and shall have no end.

There have been holy men who hid themselves Deep in the woody wilderness, and gave Their lives to thought and prayer, till they outlived The generation bom with them, nor seemed Less aged than the hoary trees and rocks Around them ; — and there have been holy men Who deemed it were not well to pass life thus. But let me often to these solitudes Retire, and in thy presence reassure My feeble virtue. Here its enemies. The passions, at thy plainer footsteps shrink And tremble and are still. O God ! when thou Dost scare the world with tempests, set on fire The heavens with falling thunderbolts, or fill. With all the waters of the firmament, The swift dark whirl\^'ind that uproots the woods And drowns the villages ; when, at thy call, L"p»rises the great deep and throws himself Upon the continent, and overwhelms Its cities — who forgets not, at the sight Of these tremendous tokens of thy power.

S3 POEMS.

His pride, and lays his strifes and follies by ? Oh, from these sterner aspects of thy face Spare nie and mine, nor let xis need the -svrath Of the mad imchained elements to teach AVho rnles them. Be it ours to meditate. In these ealm shades, thy milder majesty, And to the beautiful order of thy works Learn to conform the order of our lives.

OH FAIREST OF THE RURAL MAIDS."

Oh fairest of the rural maids ! Thy birth -was in the forest shades ; Green boughs, and giunpses of the sky, AVere all that met thine infant eye.

Thy sports, thy wanderings, when a child, Were ever in the sylvan wild ; And all the beauty of the place Is in thy heart and on thy face.

The twilight of the trees and rocks Is in the light shade of thy looks ; Thy step is as the wind, that weaves Its playful way among the leaves.

Thine eyes are springs, in whose serene And silent waters heaven is seen ; Their lashes are the herbs that look On their young figures in the brook.

The forest depths, by foot unpressed. Are not more sinless than thy breast ; The holy peace, that fills the air Of those calm solitudes, is there.

"I JiliOKK THE FPEI.L THAT HELD ME LONG

I BROKE TUE SPELL THAT HELD ME LONG."

I BROKE the Bpell that held me long,

Tlie dear, dear witchery of song.

I nai'l, the poet's idle lore

Shall wante rny prime of years no more,

For Poetry, though heavenly bom.

Consorts with poverty and scorn.

I broke the J^pell — nor deemed its power

Could fetter me another hour.

Ah, thoughtless ! how could I forget

Its causes were around me yet ?

For wheresoe'er I ]ook(,d, the while,

Was Nature's everlasting smile.

Still came and lingered on my sight

Of flowers and streams the bloom and light,

And glory of the stars and sun ; —

And these and x>oetry are one.

They, ere the world had held me long,

Recalled me to the love of song.

JL^'^E.

I GAZED upon the glorious sky

And the green mountains round, And thought that when 1 came to lie

At rest within the ground, 'Twere pleasant, that in flowery June, When brooks send up a cheerful tune,

And groves a joyous sound. The sexton's hand, my grave to make, The rich, green mountain-turf should break.

SJ: POEMS.

A cell Avithin the frozen moxild, A coffin borne tlirouo-li sleet,

And icy clods above it rolled,

While fierce the tempests beat —

Away ! — I will not think of these —

Blue be the sky and soft the breeze, Earth groen beneath the feet,

And be the damp mould gently pressed

Into my narroAV place of rest.

There through the long, long summer hours.

The golden light should lie, And thick young herbs and groups of flowers

Stand in their beaxity by. The oriole should build and tell His love-tale close beside my cell ;

The idle butterfly Should rest him there, and there be heard The housewife bee and humming-bird.

And what if cheerful shouts at noon Come, from the village sent,

Or songs of maids, beneath the moon AYith fairy laughter blent ?

And what if, in the evening light.

Betrothed lovers walk in sight Of my low monument ?

I would the lovely scene around

Might know no sadder sight nor sound.

I know that I no more should see

The season's glorious show, Nor would its brightness shine for me,

Nor its wild music flow ; But if, around my place of sleep, The friends I love should come to weep.

They might not haste to go. Soft airs, and song, and light, and bloom Should keep them lingering by my tomb.

A SONG OF PITCAIRN'S ISLAND. 85

These to their Hoftened hearts Bhould bear

TIjc tJiouglit of. what has heen, And Kpoak of one who cannot whare

'J'he gladnesH of tlie scene ; Who.se part, in all the pomp that fills The circuit of the summer hills,

Is that his grave is green ; And deeply would their hearts rejoice To hear again his living voice.

A SONG OF PITCAIRN'S ISLAND.

CoMK, take our hoy, and we will go

iiefore our cabin-door ; The winds shall bring us, as they blow,

The murmurs of the shore ; And we will kiss his young blue eyes. And I will sing him, as he lies,

Songs that were made of yore : I'll sing, in his delighted ear. The island lays thou lov'st to hear.

And thou, while stammering I repeat, Thy country's tongue shalt teach ; 'Tis not so soft, but far more sweet

Than my own native speech : For thou no other tongue didst know, When, scarcely twenty moons ago.

Upon Tahete's beach. Thou cam'st to woo me to be thine. With many a speaking look and sign.

I knew thy meaning — thou didst praise My eyes, my locks of jet ;

Ah ! well for me they won thy gaze. But thine were fairer yet !

86 roEMS.

I'm glad to see ray infant wear Thy soft blue eyes and sunny hair,

And "Nvhen my sight is met By his white brow and blooming cheek, I feel a joy I cannot speak.

Come, talk of Europe's maids with me, Wliose necks and cheeks, they tell, Ontshine the beauty of the sea.

White foam and crimson shell. I'll shape like theirs my simple dress, And bind like them each jetty tress,

A sight to please thee well ; And for my dusky brow will braid A bonnet like an English maid.

Come, for the soft low sunlight calls,

"We lose the pleasant hours ; "Tis lovelier than these cottage walls, —

That seat among the flowers. And I will learn of thee a prayer. To Him who gave a home so fair,

A lot so blest as ours — The God who made, for thee and me, This sweet lone isle amid the sea.

THE FIRMAjMENT.

At ! glorioxisly thoii standest there. Beautiful, boundless firmament !

That, swelling wide o'er eai'th and aii". And roiuid the horizon bent,

With thy bright vault, and sapphire wall.

Dost overhang and circle all.

THE FIRMAMEXT. 87

Far, far IkjIow thee, tall gray trecH

Arise, and piles built up of oM, And bill.", wbo.«e ancient HumrnitK intC'/At

In tho ^itxvM light and cold. The eagle Koars bis utmost height, Yet far thou j-tretcheht o'er hifi flight.

Thou hast thy frowns — with thee on high

'J'he storm has made bi.s airy geat, Beyond that soft blue curtain lie

I lis stores of liail and sleet. Thence the consuming lightnings break. There the Btrong hurricanes awake.

Yet art thou prodigal of smiles —

Smiles, sweeter tlian thy frowns are steriL

f^arth sends, from all her thousand isles, A shout at their return.

The glory that comes down from tliee,

liathes, in deep joy, the land and sea.

The sun, the gorgeous sun is thine,

The pomp tliat brings and shuts the day,

TTie clouds that round him change and .'shine, ITie airs that fan his way.

Thence look the thoughtful stars, and there

The meek moon walks the silent air.

The sunny Italy may boast

The beauteous tints that flush her skies. And lovely, round the Grecian coa«t,

May thy blue pillars rise, I only know how fair they stand Around my own beloved land.

And they are fair — a charm is theirs,

Tliat earth, the proud green earth, has not.

With all the forms, and hues, and airs. That haunt her sweetest spot.

88 POEMS.

We gaze upon tliy calm pure sphere, And read of Heaven's eternal year.

Oli, wlien, amid the throng of men, The heart grows sick of hollow mii'th,

How willingly we turn us then Away from this cold earth,

And look into thy azure breast,

For seats of innocence and rest !

"I CANNOT FORGET WITH WHAT FERVID DEVOTION."

I CAKifOT forget with what fervid devotion

I worshipped the 'S'isions of verse and of fame ;

Each gaze at the glories of earth, sky, and ocean. To my kindled emotions, was wind over tiame.

And deep were my musings in life's early blossom,

Mid the twilight of mountain-groves wandering long ;

How thrilled my young veins, and how throbbed my full bosom, T^Tien o'er me descended the spu-it of song !

'Mong the deep-cloven fells that for ages had listened To the rush of the pebble-paved river between,

"V^liere the kingfisher screamed and gray precipice glistened, All breathless with awe have I gazed on the scene ;

Till I felt the dark power o'er my reveries stealing. From the gloom of the thicket that over me hung.

And the thoughts that awoke, in that rapture of feeling, Were formed into verse as they rose to my tongue.

Bright visions ! I mixed with the world, and ye faded.

No longer your pure rural worshipper now ; In the haimts your continual presence pervaded.

Ye shrink from the signet of care on mv brow.

TO A MOSQUITO. 89

Til the old mossy groves on the breast of the mountains, In deep lonely glens where the waters complain,

iiy the shade of the rock, by the gush of the fountain, I seek your loved footsteps, but seek them in vain.

Oh, leave not forlorn and forever forsaken,

Your pupil and victim to life and its tears ! But sometimes return, and in mercy awaken

The glories ye showed to his earlier years.

TO A MOSQUITO.

Faie insect ! that, with threadlike legs spread out. And blood-extracting bill and filmy wing.

Dost murmur, as thou slowly sail'st about, In pitiless ears full man}- a plaintive thing,

And tell how little our large veins would bleed,

Would we but yield them to thy bitter need.

Unwillingly, I own, and, what is worse. Full angrily men hearken to thy plaint ;

Thou gettest many a brush, and many a curse.

For saying thou art gaunt, and starved, and faint ;

Even the old beggar, while he asks for food,

Would kill thee, hapless stranger, if be could.

I call thee stranger, for the town, I ween, Has not the honor of so proud a birth, —

Thou com'st from .Jersey meadows, fresh and green, The offspring of the gods, though bom on earth ;

For Titan was thy sire, and fair was she,

The ocean-nymph that nursed thy infancy.

iieneath the rushes was thy cradle swung,

And when at length thy gauzy wings grew strong,

Abroad to gentle airs their folds were flung. Rose in the sky and bore thee soft along ;

The south wind breathed to waft thee on the way.

And danced and shone beneath the billowy bay.

90 POEMS.

Calm rose afar the city spires, and thence Came the deep murmur of its throng of men,

And as its grateful odors met thy sense,

They seemed the perfumes of thy native fen.

Fair lay its crowded streets, and at the sight

Thy tiny song grew shi-iller with delight.

At length thy pinions fluttered in Broadway — Ah, there were fairy steps, and white necks kissed

By wanton airs, and eyes whose killing ray

Shone through the snowy veils like stars through mist ;

And fresh as morn, on many a cheek and chin.

Bloomed the bright blood through the transparent skin.

Sure these were sights to touch an anchorite !

What ! do I hear thy slender voice complain ? Thou wailest when I talk of beauty's light.

As if it brought the memory of pain : Thou art a wayward being — well — come near, And pour thy tale of sorrow in my ear.

What sayest thou — slanderer ! — rouge makes thee sick ?

And China bloom at best is sorry food ? And Rowland's Kalydoi', if laid on thick,

Poisons the thirsty wi'etch that bores for blood ? Go ! 'twas a just reward that met thy crime — But shun the sacrilege another time.

That bloom was made to look at, not to touch ;

To worship, not approach, that radiant white ; And well might sudden vengeance light on such

As dared, like thee, most impiously to bite. Thou shouldst have gazed at distance and admired. Murmured thy adoration, and retired,

Thou'rt welcome to the town ; but why come here To bleed a brother poet, gaunt like thee ?

Alas ! the little blood I have is dear. And thin will be the banquet drawn from me.

Look round — the pale-eyed sisters in my cell.

Thy old acquaintance, Song and Famine, dwell.

LINES ON REVISITING THE COUNTRY. 91

'J'ry some plump alderman, and suck the blood Enriched by generous wine and costly meat ;

On well-filled skins, sleek as thy native mud. Fix thy light pump and press thy freckled feet.

Go to the men for whom, in ocean's halls,

The oyster breeds, and the green turtle sprawls.

There corks are drawn, and the red vintage flows

To fill the swelling veins for thee, and now The I'uddy cheek and now the ruddier nose Shall tempt thee, as thou flittest round the brow ; Antl when the hour of sleep its quiet brings, No angry hands shall rise to brush thy wings.

LINES ON REVISITING THE COUNTRY.

I STAND upon my native hills again,

Broad, round, and green, that in the summer sky With garniture of waving grass and grain,

Orchards, and beechen forests, basking lie. While deep the sunless glens are scooped between, Where brawl o'er shallow beds the streams unseen.

A lisjMug voice and glancing ej^es are near, And ever-restless feet of one, who, now.

Gathers the blossoms of her fourth bright year ; There plays a gladness o'er her fair young brow

As breaks the varied scene upon her sight.

Upheaved and spread in verdure and in light.

For I have taught her, with delighted eye, To gaze upon the mountains, — to behold.

With deep affection, the pure ample sky And clouds along its blue ab)^sses rolled,

To love the song of waters, and to hear

The melody of winds with charmed ear.

92 POEMS.

Here, have I 'scaped the city's stifling heat, Its horrid sounds, and its polluted air.

And, where the season's milder fervors beat, And gales, that sweep the forest borders, bear

The song of bird and sound of running stream,

Am come awhile to wander and to dream.

Ay, flame thy fiercest, sun ! thou canst not wake, In this pure air, the plague that walks unseen.

The maize-leaf and the maple-bough but take. From thy strong heats, a deeper, glossier green.

The mountain wind, that faints not in thy ray,

Sweeps the blue steams of pestilence away.

The mountain wind ! most spiritual thing of all The wide earth knows ; when, in the sultry time,

He stoops him from his vast cerulean hall. He seems the breath of a celestial clime !

As if from heaven's wide-open gates did flow

Health and refreshment on the world below.

THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS.

The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year.

Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and

sere. Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the autumn leaves lie dead ; They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's tread ; The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrubs the jay, And from the wood-top calls the crow through all the gloomy

day.

Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprang

and stood In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood ? Alas ! they all are in their graves, the gentle race of flowers Are lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and good of ours. The rain is falling where they lie, but the cold November rain Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely ones again.

i

ROMERO. 93

The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long ago,

And the brier-rose and the orchis died amid the sumraer glow ;

But on the hills the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood,

And the yellow sun-flower by the brook in autumn beaijty stood,

Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as falls the plague

on men, And the brightness of their smile was gone, from upland, glade,

and glen.

And now, when comes the calm mild day, as still such days will come.

To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home ;

When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees f are still,

i And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill.

The south wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he > bore,

And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more.

And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty died.

The fair meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side.

In the cold moist earth we laid her, when the forests cast the

leaf, And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief : Yet not unmeet it was that one, like that young friend of ours, So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers.

ROMERO.

When freedom, from the land of Spain, By Spain's degenerate sons was driven.

Who gave their willing limbs again To wear the chain so lately riven ;

Romero broke the sword he wore — " Go, faithful brand," the warrior said,

" Go, undishonored, never more

94 POEMS.

The blood of man shall make thee red.

I grieve for that already shed ; And I am sick at heart to know, That faithful friend and noble foe Have only bled to make more strong The yoke that Spain has worn so long. Wear it who will, in abject fear —

I wear it not who have been free ; The perjured Ferdinand shall hear

No oath of loyalty from me." Then, hunted by the hounds of power,

Romero chose a safe retreat, Where bleak Nevada's summits tower

Above the beauty at then- feet. There once, when on his cabin lay The crimson light of setting day, When, even on the mountain's breast, The chainless winds were all at rest. And he could hear the river's flow From the calm paradise below ; Warmed with his former fires again He framed this rude but solemn strain :

" Here will I make my home — for here at least I see. Upon this wild Sierra's side, the steps of Liberty ; Where the locust chirps unscared beneath the unpruned lime, And the merry bee doth hide from man the spoil of the moun- tain-thyme ; Where the pure winds come and go, and the wild-vine strays at

will, An outcast from the haunts of men, she dwells with Nature still.

" I see the valleys, Spain ! where thy mighty rivers run, And the hills that lift thy harvests and vineyards to the sun,

A MEDITATION ON RHODE ISLAND COAL. 95

And the flocks that drink thy brooks and sprinkle all the green, Where lie thy plains, with sheep-walks seamed, and olive-shades

between : I see thy fig-trees bask, with the fair pomegranate near. And the fragrance of thy lemon-groves can almost reach me here.

III.

" Fair — fair — but fallen Spain ! 'tis with a swelling heart, That I think on all thou mightst have been, and look at what

thou art ; But the strife is over now, and all the good and brave. That would have raised thee up, are gone, to exile or the grave. Thy fleeces are for monks, thy grapes for the convent feast, And the wealth of all thy harvest-fields for the pampered lord

and priest.

rv.

" But I shall see the day — it vnW come before I die — I shaH 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, obscunis, vilis, non illc I'cpcxam Cesarieni rcgum, non Candida virgini3 omat CoUa, ncc insigni splcndet per cingula morsu Sed nova si nigri videas miracula saxi, Tune supcrat pulchros cultus et quicquid Eoia Indus litoribus rubra sorutatur in alga."

Claudiajj.

I SAT beside the glowing grate, fresh heaped

With Newport coal, and as the flame grew bright

— The many-colored flame — and played and leaped, I thought of rainbows, and the northern light,

96 POEMS.

Moore's Lalla RookL, 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 hoUower grew

The deep-worn path, and horror-struck, I thought,

"V^Hiere 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 ; the 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.

A MEDITATION ON KUODE LSLAND (OAI- 'J 7

Beautiful island ! then it only seemed

A lovely stranger ; it has grown a friend. I gazed on its smooth slopes, but never dreamed

llow soon that green and quiet 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 ; furthest Maine shall hear of thee, And cold New Brunswick gladden at thy name ; 5

98 POEMS.

And, faintly ttrougli 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.

OCTOBER. 99

That glimmoring curve of tender rays Just planted in the sky.

The sight of that young crescent brings Thouirhts 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 sweet 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.

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.

100 POEMS.

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 valor, in the noble Spanish tongue, That once upon the sunny plains of old Castile was simg ; When, from their mountain-holds, on the Moorish rout below, Had rushed the Christians like a flood, and swept away the foe. Awhile 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. % youthful lover's side, And sent him to the war the d*y 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 miist 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.

THE AKKICAX CHIEF. \()l

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 hiui who died in battle, the youthful and the brave, And her wlio died of sorrow, upon his early grave.

And see, along that mountain-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 rain, There's blood upon his charger's flank and foam upon the mane He speeds him toward the olive-grove, along that shaded hill I 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 tender 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 (lark eye on the ground : — And silently they gazed on him,

As on a liou bound.

POEMS.

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 that 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.

SPRING IN TOWN. 103

Take it — my wife, the long, long clay.

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,

POEMS.

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-mountains 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 color keepest,

And sellest, it is said, the blackest cheapest.

And well thoxi 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 ribbon 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

THE GLADNESS OF NATURE. 105

Threads the long way, plumes wave, and twinkling feet

Fall liglit, as bastes that crowd of beauty by. The ostrich, hurrying o'er the desert space, Scarce bore those tossing j>luraes with fleeter pace.

No swimming Juno gait, of languor bom, Is theirs, but a light step of freest grace,—

Light as Camilla's o'er the unbent com, — 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 o];en sky.

And your loud wheels unheeded rattle by.

THE GLADNESS OF NATURE.

Is this a time to l)e 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 ^vren, And the gossip of swallows througli all the sky ;

The ground-squirrel gayly chirjis 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.

106 POEMS.

There's a dance of leaves in that aspen bower, There's a titter of winds in that heechen 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.

MIDSUMMER.

Then tbey 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 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 a^l 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.

POEMS.

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 hosoms 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.

TUE TWO GRAVES. 109

THE TWO GRAVES.

'Tis a Lleak wild hill, but green and briglit In the summer warmth and the m^id-day light ; There's the hum of the bee and the chirj) 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 graveyard 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 neighborhood 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 huml^le 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.

110 POEMS.

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, IsTor 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.

TUE CONJUNCTION OF JUl'lTKli AND VENUS. [[

Patient, ami 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 wf)ULD not always reason. The straight path Wearies us with the never-varying lines, And we grow melancholy. 1 would make Reason my guide, but she should sometimes sit Patiently by the way-side, while I traced The mazes of the ])leasant wilderness Around me. 8he 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 tinu' — Illusions that shed brightness over life. And glory over Nature. Look, even now, Where two bright planets in the twilight meet, Ui)on the saffron heaven, — the imperial star Of Jove, and she that from her radiant urn Pours forth the light of love. Let mc 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 (juiel of the time. Meekly the mighty river, that infolds This mighty city, smooths his front, and far Glitters and burns even the rooky base Of the dark heights that bound him to the west ;

112 POEMS.

And n, deep muriniir, from tlie many streets,

liises like a thanksgiving. Put we lience

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 Avithdraw Toward the groat 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 Avar, As now at other murders.

A HUMMKK UAMIiLK. ll;j

IlaplcHS Greceo I Enouf^li of hlood li;iH wot thy ro(!kH, and slaino.d Thy rivers ; decj) enough thy chairiH have won) 'J'heir liiik.s into thy flesh ; the Hacriflco Of tliy pure inaidenH, and thy innoeent babes, And reverend ])rie.stH, han expiated all Thy eriines of ohi. In yonder min^^Iing lights There in an omen of good (hiys for thee. Thou Hhalt arise from midst the dust and sit Again among tlie nations, 'i'hine own arm Shall yet redcciin thee. Not in wars like; thine The world takes ])art. He it a strife; of kings, — Despot with despot battling for a throne, — And iMirope shall b(! stirred througli<mt her realms, Nations shall j)Ut on harness, and shall fall Upon eaeh other, and in all their Ijounds The wailing of the childless shall not cease. Thine is a war for liberty, and thou Must light it single-handed, "^riie old world Looks coldly on the murderers of thy race, And leaves thee to the struggle ; and the new, — I fear me thou eouldst tell a sharnc^ful tale Of fraufl and lust of gain ; — thy tntasury 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.

Tm: quiet August noon has come ;

A slumberous silence fills the sky, The fields are still, the woods are dumb,

hi glassy sleep the waters lie.

And mark yon soft white clouds that rest Aljove our vale, a moveless throng ;

The cattle on the mountain's breast Enjoy the grateful shadow long.

114 roEMS.

Oh, how unlike those merry hours, In early Julie, 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 hell.

But noAV a joy too deep for sound, A peace no other season knows.

Hushes the heavens and wi'aps 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 diist ! 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.

A SCENE ON THE BANKS OF TUE HUDSON. m

Rest here, beneath the unmoving shade,

An<l on the silent valleys gaze, Winding and wiflening, 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 witli 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,

Unrippied, save by drojjs that fall

From shrubs that fringe his mountain