University of Virginia Library

How bland and beautiful this stilly Eve!
The Autumnal sun sinks glorious to his rest,
And hearts o'erworn may now in joyance leave
Dark care, and dwell in Nature's blessing blest.
Lo! how the mottled clouds drink in the hues
Of the far sun, while silent shadows wave
O'er wooded vales, as erst the holier muse
O'er Tempé shook her purpled wings and gave
Mysterious glories to the holy few
Who dared to dwell in solitude, and be
Their own one world, creating from the dew
And sun, things beautiful celestially.
And look thou, with a meditative eye,
Where with a slow and solemn motion, glides
The full moon tow'rd her palace in the sky,
Casting her power upon the rushing tides!
With what a softened and serene delight
Up from the blue horizon, meek and pale,
Dian ascends, and at the noon of night
Bends o'er to hear the timid lover's tale!

The deep lone twilight of the soundless woods
Floating below while all is bright above,
Comes o'er the spirit in its dreamy moods,
Like images of blest remembered love—
—Blest in its young fair spring and full of buds,
From whose soft bosoms fragrant flowers looked forth,
Ere came the mildew blight, the waste of floods,
The desolation of the virgin earth!
And the deep glory of the pictured skies,
Albeit vanishing as visions are,
Throws o'er the hills the light of angel eyes,
The smile of every seraph from his star.
As memory bears above all earthly woes
The radiant features of a well loved face,
Lost in this life, but waiting, at its close,
To smile above with all Love's matchless grace.
Touched by the molten beams that burst along
Yon glorious company of clouds, each tree
Seems to lift up its sweet but voiceless song,
And bend its crowned head to Deity.
And rivulets, that revel on their way
Through meadows green, and over hanging woods,
Gurgle and gleam their blithe farewell to day,
And onward leap through darkening solitudes.
The leaves grow crisp and sere, and yet they greet
Chill airs that kiss and kill them, as the maid
Rejoices, e'en in death, the smile to meet
Of him who slew her with glozed words, and bade
The tortured and wrecked heart believe and bear,
In silence and good cheer, the last rebuke
Of eyes remorseless over her despair,—
And conscious guilt, that slayeth with a look.
The homilies we read on autumn eves,
Beneath the vast blue vault of yon calm sky,
The eloquent rustle of the blighted leaves,
The universal readiness to die—
The lore of cloisters or of councils far
Transcend, in sight of Him, whose seasons come
Like oracles to warn us what we are,
And, in their lapse, to bear our spirits home.
Who doles out doits to mendicants, and wears
The rough rock in his prayers, contemning men
But where his pride exacts their plaudits, bears,
In convent gloom, or shagged lonely glen,
A haughty heart, which He accepteth not
Who doth rejoice in cheerfulness and mirth
Chastened by love, that from one sacred spot
Pours its soft glory over all the earth.
But he, whose spirit holds, through every change,
With sun, moon, stars, hills, vales and shrubs and flowers,
The commune of devotion, ne'er can range
Beyond the guidance of those holy Powers,
Which give to earth its beauty, and to man
His conscious triumph over sin and death,
And unto heaven the glories that began
When from the first heart gushed the vital breath.
The cricket's chirup—I remember well
It was the music of my boyhood, when
My heart o'erflowed with thoughts I could not tell
To worldly wise and world devoted men;
And it comes o'er me like the tones once heard
Breathing affection at a time estranged:
'T is sweeter than the song of any bird—
I heard it ere my wayward fortunes changed!
The whip-poor-will—its slow, unchanging chant,
Its lone, unlistened, melancholy song
Hath sadly cheered me in each woe and want,
And sorrow, and bereavement, and deep wrong;
For I have lived unseen, like that poor thing,
And sung unheard, unsolaced, and in vain
As that doth ever—and I cannot fling
My early thoughts aside, nor rend in twain
The mantle that hath wrapt my silent breast,
To join the revel of the world, and feel
No more as I have felt, when, calmly blest,
That lone bird's notes had power to lull and heal.
No more in plashy brook web-footed fowl
Plunge with their tender brood in moulting glee,—
Wails the wild heron, hoots the cynic owl,
From reedy marsh and thunderstricken tree.
Like summer morning friends, the dryades
No more glide through the shadows of the grove;
Their whispers steal not through the moaning trees:
Their smiles salute not young and holy love.
But by the reeking frith the torpid hind
Weaves wattles mopingly the livelong day;
Throwing all thought upon the whiffling wind,
He whistles time and rankling care away.
He knows not mind; its agony and pride;
Its secret rapture and its public woe;
Dull as the dank lagoon, his seasons glide—
He little gains, and nothing can bestow—
No alms to soothe despair or wan disease,
Nor heartfelt words of solace, hope and health;
Like matted weeds on lone, unvoyaged seas,
He breathes and dies—his wherry all his wealth.
Dredging the slimy depth of waters dark,
He marks not nature but to serve his toil;
Hushed Twilight lights and guides his trundling bark;
He gropes and drudges 'neath the morning's smile.

Not thus like hutted peasant, spectre led,
Soulless in sunshine, quaking in the shade,
At morn the living, and at eve the dead,
The bard beholds before his eye arrayed;
In every leaf there's music to his ear,
In every rivulet and every breeze;
He knoweth not the shapes of earthly Fear,
In the deep fear of Heaven, that quelleth these.
To the divinity, that dwells within
And sheds o'er earth and heaven its glorious light,
Nature becomes beloved and akin,
And, as celestials, pure and deeply bright.
Mind wanders forth, and throws o'er every flower,
And lake, and wood, or shaken or serene,
The deathless memory of some hallowed hour,
The deep affection of some trying scene;
And field and forest are companions bound
To gifted hearts, by ties no power can rend;
The soul may mingle with a half heard sound,
And float in raptures that can have no end.

The timid throstle still a few low notes
Pours forth, preluding her farewell to frost;
On sylvan scenes beloved the robin dotes,
Loth to believe his springtime pleasures lost.
Grasshoppers pitter on the mead no more,
The nighthawk's swoop sounds faintly in the air,
The twittering swallow mourns the season o'er,
And 'mid her ruins, Nature kneels in prayer
That He whose smile spread beauty o'er her brow,
And clothed with loveliness the cheerful earth,
Will guide wayfaring man through drifted snow,
And pour his peace and love around the household hearth.