 | Poems of "Frank Forester" (Henry William Herbert) |  |
20
THE FRESHET.
“Yes! there they sat like lambs within the fold,
While all around the swelling waters rolled,
Making an island of the little space
Where they had found their pleasant resting-place.
Close to their pent-up feet the torrent passed,
And every moment seemed as 'twere their last.”
J. K. Paulding, The Backwoodsman.
While all around the swelling waters rolled,
Making an island of the little space
Where they had found their pleasant resting-place.
Close to their pent-up feet the torrent passed,
And every moment seemed as 'twere their last.”
J. K. Paulding, The Backwoodsman.
'Tis summer morn; yet the new-risen sun,
Shorn of his beams, a dim discrowned king,
Peers through his watery tabernacle wan
In desolate eclipse. The winds are out,
Careering through the wilderness: huge pines,
The Titans of the forest, rent like straws,
With all their leafy honors full and fair,
Crash constantly; while trees of feebler growth
Bow prostrate to the tempest demon's sway.
Hark to that sullen roar! Near and more near,
Blent with the sobbing of the gale and groan
Of immemorial oaks, it drowns the ear—
The gush of mighty waters! Lo! it comes,
Red with the soil of many a ravaged field,
Heaping its foam against the sturdy stems,
Rock-moored, which bar its fury—deep and strong,
Whirling like feathers on its tortured breast
The woodland ruins. From a hundred hills,
Swelled by a thousand founts, it raves along,
A torrent—broader than that southern stream,
Boundless Marañon, swifter than the rush
Of Indian Tigris—where anon it flowed
O'er many-colored pebbles clearly seen,
A bright translucent river, with sweet sound
Soothing the greenwood echoes, fringed with reeds,
And garlanded with lilies meet to grace
The golden ringlets of a Nereid's hair.
Shorn of his beams, a dim discrowned king,
Peers through his watery tabernacle wan
In desolate eclipse. The winds are out,
Careering through the wilderness: huge pines,
The Titans of the forest, rent like straws,
With all their leafy honors full and fair,
Crash constantly; while trees of feebler growth
Bow prostrate to the tempest demon's sway.
Hark to that sullen roar! Near and more near,
Blent with the sobbing of the gale and groan
Of immemorial oaks, it drowns the ear—
The gush of mighty waters! Lo! it comes,
Red with the soil of many a ravaged field,
Heaping its foam against the sturdy stems,
Rock-moored, which bar its fury—deep and strong,
Whirling like feathers on its tortured breast
The woodland ruins. From a hundred hills,
Swelled by a thousand founts, it raves along,
A torrent—broader than that southern stream,
Boundless Marañon, swifter than the rush
Of Indian Tigris—where anon it flowed
O'er many-colored pebbles clearly seen,
21
Soothing the greenwood echoes, fringed with reeds,
And garlanded with lilies meet to grace
The golden ringlets of a Nereid's hair.
Where shall he shield him from the coming wrath,
The exile emigrant, the pioneer
Of nature, journeying from the populous east
To tame the western solitudes, the reign
Of buffalo, and beaver, till man came,
Sole architect to bridge the brawling stream?
The exile emigrant, the pioneer
Of nature, journeying from the populous east
To tame the western solitudes, the reign
Of buffalo, and beaver, till man came,
Sole architect to bridge the brawling stream?
Lo! where to leeward of the rifted rock,
Girt by the foamy tide, he stands erect
In native hardihood—erect to brave
The battling tempest—with his sturdy arm
Propping the shelter frail, wherein they crouch
Who deem each gust their last, each loftier wave
Their summoning to doom, his sunburnt mate,
And fledgeless swarm, that soon shall strip the earth,
Sweeping the forest as with whirlwind's power
Before their footsteps! Cheering words and high
Burst from his dauntless lips—high words of hope—
Hope which himself feels not—to cheer the woe
Of that wan mother and her perishing brood—
Of safety, desperate but to Him who bade
The waters peace—and “lo! there was a calm.”
Girt by the foamy tide, he stands erect
In native hardihood—erect to brave
The battling tempest—with his sturdy arm
Propping the shelter frail, wherein they crouch
Who deem each gust their last, each loftier wave
Their summoning to doom, his sunburnt mate,
And fledgeless swarm, that soon shall strip the earth,
Sweeping the forest as with whirlwind's power
Before their footsteps! Cheering words and high
Burst from his dauntless lips—high words of hope—
Hope which himself feels not—to cheer the woe
Of that wan mother and her perishing brood—
Of safety, desperate but to Him who bade
The waters peace—and “lo! there was a calm.”
| Poems of "Frank Forester" (Henry William Herbert) | |