 | The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer |  |
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THE QUIET ARBOR
“Hence let me haste into the midwood shade,
And on the dark green grass, beside the brink
Of haunted stream, that by the roots of oak
Rolls o'er the rocky channel, lie at large.”
And on the dark green grass, beside the brink
Of haunted stream, that by the roots of oak
Rolls o'er the rocky channel, lie at large.”
When study pales my visage, and I feel
Oppressive languor chaining heart and brain,
Away from toil and books I often steal,
Exploring haunts where Quiet holdeth reign.
I love the wild, the picturesque—and when
Her nest of moss the roving linnet weaves,
And the low thorn is beautiful with flowers,
I seek my favorite glen,
While warm winds wanton with the twinkling leaves
And pass in pleasant idleness the hours.
Oppressive languor chaining heart and brain,
Away from toil and books I often steal,
Exploring haunts where Quiet holdeth reign.
I love the wild, the picturesque—and when
Her nest of moss the roving linnet weaves,
And the low thorn is beautiful with flowers,
I seek my favorite glen,
While warm winds wanton with the twinkling leaves
And pass in pleasant idleness the hours.
Where a dark arbor, by the mingling boughs
Of two gigantic hemlock trees, is made,
I rest my limbs, and with wild shout arouse
The ruffed grouse from her cover in the shade.
The tapping flicker does not keep aloof,
But plies his noisy bill above my head,
To greet my coming, while the summer heat
Falls on the verdant roof
That canopies my green, luxurious bed,
With the fresh odors of the forest sweet.
Of two gigantic hemlock trees, is made,
I rest my limbs, and with wild shout arouse
The ruffed grouse from her cover in the shade.
The tapping flicker does not keep aloof,
But plies his noisy bill above my head,
To greet my coming, while the summer heat
Falls on the verdant roof
That canopies my green, luxurious bed,
With the fresh odors of the forest sweet.
I lie and listen to the lulling tones
Of the clear brook that works its winding way,
Far down through brush, and over mossy stones,
The green marge wetting with its silver spray.
The path is steep and perilous that leads
To the cold, flashing waters—and few dare
Descend to quaff refreshment from their flow;
For thick, entangling weeds
In the loose soil seem matted to ensnare
The foot of him that ventureth below.
Of the clear brook that works its winding way,
Far down through brush, and over mossy stones,
The green marge wetting with its silver spray.
286
To the cold, flashing waters—and few dare
Descend to quaff refreshment from their flow;
For thick, entangling weeds
In the loose soil seem matted to ensnare
The foot of him that ventureth below.
In the rich bottom of the dale, a grove
Of sylvan giants woos the roving eye;
The topmost limbs wave not their leaves above
The shrubby brow of the declivity.
Sometimes in musing indolence I stand,
And drink in rapture from the peaceful scene,
Or call up old rememberings from sleep;
Then pluck with careless hand
The ripe red berries of the winter-green,
That blush like rubies on the verdant steep.
Of sylvan giants woos the roving eye;
The topmost limbs wave not their leaves above
The shrubby brow of the declivity.
Sometimes in musing indolence I stand,
And drink in rapture from the peaceful scene,
Or call up old rememberings from sleep;
Then pluck with careless hand
The ripe red berries of the winter-green,
That blush like rubies on the verdant steep.
I watch the wild bees, from my cool retreat,
Hum tunefully around the blue harebell,
Before they enter to extract the sweet
That lieth hidden in each fragrant cell.
The small ground-squirrels leave their dwellings dark,
In the black, slaty soil, and gambol oft
On an old oak with star-moss overgrown,
And reft of branch and bark;
While the fierce hawk forsakes his realm aloft,
And settles on the blasted pine, his throne.
Hum tunefully around the blue harebell,
Before they enter to extract the sweet
That lieth hidden in each fragrant cell.
The small ground-squirrels leave their dwellings dark,
In the black, slaty soil, and gambol oft
On an old oak with star-moss overgrown,
And reft of branch and bark;
While the fierce hawk forsakes his realm aloft,
And settles on the blasted pine, his throne.
Where the broad banks slope gently downward, grow
The sassafras and other fragrant trees;
And the bright lilies of the wave below
Give nods of recognition to the breeze.
In mild accordance with the quiet scene,
Beat tranquilly the pulses of my heart;
While fancy populates the place with fays,
In robes of dazzling sheen,
Who dance to merry music and depart,
While other fairy visions cheat the gaze.
The sassafras and other fragrant trees;
And the bright lilies of the wave below
Give nods of recognition to the breeze.
In mild accordance with the quiet scene,
Beat tranquilly the pulses of my heart;
While fancy populates the place with fays,
In robes of dazzling sheen,
287
While other fairy visions cheat the gaze.
Around the sapling, like a verdant belt,
The claspers of the honeysuckle twine;
The Dryads of Argos never dwelt
Within a bower more beautiful than mine:
The humming-bird is near me on the wing,
And the warm breeze with dulcet tone is stealing
Through the green plumage of the hemlocks old,
A spiritual thing;
While butterflies round marshy spots are wheeling,
Clad in their dazzling liveries of gold.
The claspers of the honeysuckle twine;
The Dryads of Argos never dwelt
Within a bower more beautiful than mine:
The humming-bird is near me on the wing,
And the warm breeze with dulcet tone is stealing
Through the green plumage of the hemlocks old,
A spiritual thing;
While butterflies round marshy spots are wheeling,
Clad in their dazzling liveries of gold.
The dusky lord of knife and hatchet roves
Near my wild haunt of loveliness no more;
He saw, amid his old ancestral groves,
Throng pale invaders from a foreign shore—
Then heard thy sylvan monarchs, one by one,
With all their leafy diadems laid low,
And sought an undiscoverable lair
Toward the dim setting sun,
With empty quiver and a broken bow,
And gloomy brow contorted by despair.
Near my wild haunt of loveliness no more;
He saw, amid his old ancestral groves,
Throng pale invaders from a foreign shore—
Then heard thy sylvan monarchs, one by one,
With all their leafy diadems laid low,
And sought an undiscoverable lair
Toward the dim setting sun,
With empty quiver and a broken bow,
And gloomy brow contorted by despair.
The game he hunted craftily is gone,
And meadow-grass conceals his ancient trail;
The flock is feeding where his camp-fire shone,
And rang his whoop of triumph on the gale:
His implements of battle and the chase
Are often found near my romantic bower,
For the rich scene about it is allied
To legends of his race;
And mournful traces of his day of power
Make classic grove, and glade, and river-side.
And meadow-grass conceals his ancient trail;
The flock is feeding where his camp-fire shone,
And rang his whoop of triumph on the gale:
His implements of battle and the chase
Are often found near my romantic bower,
For the rich scene about it is allied
To legends of his race;
And mournful traces of his day of power
Make classic grove, and glade, and river-side.
Frost, washing rain-drops, and the plough, lay bare
The rude graves of his sires on hill and plain,
Exposing their white secrets to the air,
And the rough foot-fall of the whistling swain.
When Autumn robes the forest in a dress
Of many colors, he returns no more,
To pay due homage to ancestral dust
From distant wilderness;
The wave no longer flashes with his oar,
And crusted is his tomahawk with rust.
The rude graves of his sires on hill and plain,
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And the rough foot-fall of the whistling swain.
When Autumn robes the forest in a dress
Of many colors, he returns no more,
To pay due homage to ancestral dust
From distant wilderness;
The wave no longer flashes with his oar,
And crusted is his tomahawk with rust.
His wood-land language cannot wholly die,
While swift Conesus rolls in rippling glee
Between broad, swelling banks of verdant dye,
To mix his waters with the Genesee.
These tall old hemlocks tell of other days,
When the red warrior rested in their shade,
The painted ruler of the scene around:
And the far hills, that raise
Their wooded tops, by summer lovely made,
In marks of ancient Indian rule aboud.
While swift Conesus rolls in rippling glee
Between broad, swelling banks of verdant dye,
To mix his waters with the Genesee.
These tall old hemlocks tell of other days,
When the red warrior rested in their shade,
The painted ruler of the scene around:
And the far hills, that raise
Their wooded tops, by summer lovely made,
In marks of ancient Indian rule aboud.
When the life-stream is frozen in my veins,
And hollow are my features with decay,
I fondly hope my cold and stiff remains
May not be hidden from the light of day,
In the dark yard where hundreds hide their dead;
For I would rather have a pleasant grave
Beneath the roofing of my arbor green,
With wild grass overspread;
While far below sing bird and gurgling wave,
Through the dense, rustling thicket, dimly seen.
And hollow are my features with decay,
I fondly hope my cold and stiff remains
May not be hidden from the light of day,
In the dark yard where hundreds hide their dead;
For I would rather have a pleasant grave
Beneath the roofing of my arbor green,
With wild grass overspread;
While far below sing bird and gurgling wave,
Through the dense, rustling thicket, dimly seen.
| The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer | |