 | Poems of "Frank Forester" (Henry William Herbert) |  |
17
THE SUMMER STORM.
Forth to the dewy champaign—to the banks
Of that bright river, by whose margent clear
The gentle wind makes music evermore,
Tuning his harp amid the breezy ranks
Of juniper “with foliage never sere,”
And plumed locusts old and poplars hoar!
Forth from the crowded haunts—the gilded pen
Of toiling myriads—from the dust and din,
Splendor, and want, and wretchedness, and sin,
To the broad meadows, and the wildwood glen,
Whence the free mind may soar, with joyous flight,
Unchained and buoyant toward the throne of light!
Of that bright river, by whose margent clear
The gentle wind makes music evermore,
Tuning his harp amid the breezy ranks
Of juniper “with foliage never sere,”
And plumed locusts old and poplars hoar!
Forth from the crowded haunts—the gilded pen
Of toiling myriads—from the dust and din,
Splendor, and want, and wretchedness, and sin,
To the broad meadows, and the wildwood glen,
Whence the free mind may soar, with joyous flight,
Unchained and buoyant toward the throne of light!
Glorious—how glorious!—is the sunny face
Of the fresh earth—fresh as a youthful bride
Waking to hail her earliest wedded morrow,
What time, half shrinking from his fond embrace,
She meets with radiant eyes a husband's pride,
Radiant through tears that tell of all but sorrow!
In tranquil beauty, redolent of bloom,
Each opening floweret lifts its diamond crown,
From every tangled brake or grassy down
Mingling its tribute with the rare perfume,
Which floats, meet incense—with the strains that rise
From thousand matin birds—to reach the skies.
Of the fresh earth—fresh as a youthful bride
Waking to hail her earliest wedded morrow,
What time, half shrinking from his fond embrace,
She meets with radiant eyes a husband's pride,
Radiant through tears that tell of all but sorrow!
In tranquil beauty, redolent of bloom,
Each opening floweret lifts its diamond crown,
From every tangled brake or grassy down
Mingling its tribute with the rare perfume,
Which floats, meet incense—with the strains that rise
From thousand matin birds—to reach the skies.
Better to watch the slant rays stealing by,
The shadows sweeping o'er the herbage cool,
The maize-leaves twinkling as the breezes play,
The early vapors, as they mount the sky—
Vapors that mantled late each lowly pool—
Changing with saffron tints their curtains gray!
Better—far better—so to greet the morn,
With the free gales about our temples blowing,
And the bright waters nigh our pillow flowing,
Than start to see the gorgeous day-god born,
In halls of splendor, faint, forlorn, and jaded,
Amid the waning lamps, and garlands faded!
The shadows sweeping o'er the herbage cool,
The maize-leaves twinkling as the breezes play,
The early vapors, as they mount the sky—
Vapors that mantled late each lowly pool—
18
Better—far better—so to greet the morn,
With the free gales about our temples blowing,
And the bright waters nigh our pillow flowing,
Than start to see the gorgeous day-god born,
In halls of splendor, faint, forlorn, and jaded,
Amid the waning lamps, and garlands faded!
The very air exults with blissful life.
Glitters the gem-like humbird to and fro,
The robin trills his soft domestic note,
The insect hordes career, in sport or strife,
Quick-glancing; while with measured motion slow,
Lo! the poised hawk on gliding pinions float!
As fancy swift, through glassy ripples seen,
Momently springs the silver trout on high;
The tiny snipe elude the gazer's eye,
Skimming the pebbled marge, or current sheen;
While ever and anon the far cascade
Sends its faint echoes through the greenwood shade.
Glitters the gem-like humbird to and fro,
The robin trills his soft domestic note,
The insect hordes career, in sport or strife,
Quick-glancing; while with measured motion slow,
Lo! the poised hawk on gliding pinions float!
As fancy swift, through glassy ripples seen,
Momently springs the silver trout on high;
The tiny snipe elude the gazer's eye,
Skimming the pebbled marge, or current sheen;
While ever and anon the far cascade
Sends its faint echoes through the greenwood shade.
Oh, who that might refresh his spirit so,
Bathing it all in ecstasy divine
Of natural devotion—who would bear,
His soul oppressed by the dark city's woe,
In that great wilderness, the world, to pine,
Without one heart his yearnings strange to share?
Oh, who would mingle with that loathsome crew,
Foul in their pleasure, sordid in their gain,
Coward to feel, as slow to pity, pain,
Without or love unbought or anger true—
Who that might lie on this luxurious sod,
“Alone with Nature, and with Nature's God”?
Bathing it all in ecstasy divine
Of natural devotion—who would bear,
His soul oppressed by the dark city's woe,
In that great wilderness, the world, to pine,
Without one heart his yearnings strange to share?
Oh, who would mingle with that loathsome crew,
Foul in their pleasure, sordid in their gain,
Coward to feel, as slow to pity, pain,
Without or love unbought or anger true—
Who that might lie on this luxurious sod,
“Alone with Nature, and with Nature's God”?
Now 'tis the very hush of summer noon:
The breeze has sunk to sleep; and slowly pass,
Scaling the peaceful azure, one by one,
The volumed clouds, snow-white, but changing soon
To deepest purples, edged with paly brass
By the sick radiance of the shrouded sun.
There is no life abroad: the trout lies still;
The insect swarms are hushed in death-like sleep;
Silent the birds in shadowy coverts deep;
The aspen waves not on the distant hill;
Nor sound nor motion wakes the sullen rest
That steeps in horror brown the river's breast.
The breeze has sunk to sleep; and slowly pass,
19
The volumed clouds, snow-white, but changing soon
To deepest purples, edged with paly brass
By the sick radiance of the shrouded sun.
There is no life abroad: the trout lies still;
The insect swarms are hushed in death-like sleep;
Silent the birds in shadowy coverts deep;
The aspen waves not on the distant hill;
Nor sound nor motion wakes the sullen rest
That steeps in horror brown the river's breast.
There is a quivering of the loftier trees,
A quick, wild rustle; and a sad repose,
River and field and forest mute as death.
Again—the boughs are crashing in the breeze,
The leaves are whirled aloft; the noisy crows
Fly diverse from the coming tempest's breath;
Before the gale dark streams the driving wrack
In shattered masses, like a charger's mane,
Who snorts amid the trumpets; and the rain
Patters in gouts no more, but broad and black,
Reeling in columns from the bursten cloud,
Veils the near landscape with its misty shroud.
A quick, wild rustle; and a sad repose,
River and field and forest mute as death.
Again—the boughs are crashing in the breeze,
The leaves are whirled aloft; the noisy crows
Fly diverse from the coming tempest's breath;
Before the gale dark streams the driving wrack
In shattered masses, like a charger's mane,
Who snorts amid the trumpets; and the rain
Patters in gouts no more, but broad and black,
Reeling in columns from the bursten cloud,
Veils the near landscape with its misty shroud.
Glorious—how glorious—is the stirring din
Of the strong elements!—the thunder's roar
Splitting the ear; the sun's unnatural glare,
Shot from his throne the curtained storm within;
The baleful lightnings, and the fierce uproar
Of the dread powers that ride the tortured air.
Nature, great Nature, let me dwell with thee
In thy far forest home—aloof the crime
Of mean ambition, that arch-mock of time;
Lord of myself, content, serene, and free;
Regretting naught society can give,
And pleased, if friendless, passionless to live.
Of the strong elements!—the thunder's roar
Splitting the ear; the sun's unnatural glare,
Shot from his throne the curtained storm within;
The baleful lightnings, and the fierce uproar
Of the dread powers that ride the tortured air.
Nature, great Nature, let me dwell with thee
In thy far forest home—aloof the crime
Of mean ambition, that arch-mock of time;
Lord of myself, content, serene, and free;
Regretting naught society can give,
And pleased, if friendless, passionless to live.
| Poems of "Frank Forester" (Henry William Herbert) | |