The poems of John G. C. Brainard A new and authentic collection, with an original memoir of his life |
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TO THE MEMORY OF CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN. |
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 | The poems of John G. C. Brainard |  |
TO THE MEMORY OF CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN.
We seek not mossy bank, or whispering stream,
Or pensive shade, in twilight softness decked,
Or dewy canopy of flowers, or beam
Of autumn's sun, by various foliage checked.
Or pensive shade, in twilight softness decked,
Or dewy canopy of flowers, or beam
Of autumn's sun, by various foliage checked.
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Our sweetest river, and our loveliest glen,
Our softest waterfalls, just heard afar,
Our sunniest slope, or greenest hillock, when
It takes its last look at the evening star,
Our softest waterfalls, just heard afar,
Our sunniest slope, or greenest hillock, when
It takes its last look at the evening star,
May suit some softer soul. But thou wert fit
To tread our mighty mountains, and to mark,
In untracked woods, the eagle's pinions flit
O'er roaring cataracts and chasms dark:
To tread our mighty mountains, and to mark,
In untracked woods, the eagle's pinions flit
O'er roaring cataracts and chasms dark:
To talk and walk with Nature, in her wild
Attire, her boldest form, her sternest mood;
To be her own enthusiastic child,
And seek her in her awful solitude.
Attire, her boldest form, her sternest mood;
To be her own enthusiastic child,
And seek her in her awful solitude.
There, when through stormy clouds, the struggling moon
On some wolf-haunted rock, shone cold and clear,
Thou couldst commune, inspired by her alone,
With all her works of wonder and of fear.
On some wolf-haunted rock, shone cold and clear,
Thou couldst commune, inspired by her alone,
With all her works of wonder and of fear.
Now thou art gone, and who thy walks among,
Shall rove, and meditate, and muse on thee?
No whining rhymster with his schoolboy song,
May wake thee with his muling minstrelsy!
Shall rove, and meditate, and muse on thee?
No whining rhymster with his schoolboy song,
May wake thee with his muling minstrelsy!
Some western muse, if western muse there be,
When the rough wind in clouds has swathed her form,
Shall boldly wind her wintry horn for thee
And tune her gusty music to the storm.
When the rough wind in clouds has swathed her form,
Shall boldly wind her wintry horn for thee
And tune her gusty music to the storm.
The cavern's echoes and the forest's voice
Shall wake in concord to the waking tone
And winds and water with their wishing noise
For thee shall make a melancholy moan.
Shall wake in concord to the waking tone
And winds and water with their wishing noise
For thee shall make a melancholy moan.
| The poems of John G. C. Brainard | |