University of Virginia Library

The spring is here, an ever-welcome joy,
With all its gifts of leaf, and bud, and flower,
And all its wealth of breeze, and bird, and song:
And I am with the spring—a sharer free
In all the sweet delights she brings from heaven,
And scatters o'er the earth with liberal hand.

How grateful are these haunts, up into which
I now ascend, to one whose spirit chafes
Amid the din of cities, where so much
That is the work of human hands appears,
And where remains so little that was God's!
Above me, patches of blue sky are shown;
Below, mosaic-plats reach far away,
Of varied mosses made, and shining grass,
And early flowers, lit up by quivering flakes
Of sun that, struggling through the swaying trees,
Fall warm to earth; while scattered all around,
Where openings give the breeze and sun free play,
Are sweet-briar clumps, and natural arbors made
By wild-grapes clambering over dogwood tops,
And trailing thence to earth. About my brow,
Drying the locks which the long winding walk
Has moistened, freshly play soft meadowy winds,
That bear the violet's breath from sunny nooks,
And from the blossoms of the pendant vine
Steal odors sweeter than the spicy airs
Of Eden, that revisit us in dreams.
Clear, purling rills, that lave the calamus-root,
And gently glide among the mint and cress,
Then dance and sparkle where the pebbly bed
Slopes to the brimming pool, sing o'er again
The songs of Siloa's brook, erst heard of old
By prophets in the groves of Palestine.
Nor wind and wave alone; but all the wide
Green wood is voiceful; and from fretted roof,
And groined arch, rolls out an anthem sound,
Whose clear, deep tones, make these primeval halls,
Spreading in many-pillared majesty,
Holy and beautiful. .... Eternal God!
Thanks for the freshness of the early spring!
Thanks for the flowers in unfrequented ways
That bud and bloom! and for the feathered tribes
Which dart like arrows by, and fill the groves
With melody! and for the towering trees
That wall this temple in, ‘not made with hands,’
In which I worship! Thanks, Supremest Good,
For the soft airs that blow upon me now!
And for the sunny hills and grassy plains
O'er which they wander, like the murmuring bee,
Gathering all subtle essences at will!
And for all sights, and sounds, and perfumes sweet,
That make the ecstasy which here I feel,
Accept these thanks, O Father. ... I am here,
Again, Miami! mid the holy calm
That in the soul of thy vast solitude
Reigns ever, save when broken by the rush
Of tempests, or the harsh and terrible tones
Of thunder, that with arrowy lightnings come
And pierce thy still recesses. I am here—
The same, yet not the same, as when at first,
In mild, reflective mood, and artless verse,
I sang thy charms, and lifted from their midst
My heart to God. The same, yet not the same:
For on the dial-plate of Life, since then,
The shadow of my quickly rounding years
Has numbered twelve. And I have wandered far,
And much have seen of glory and of grief;
And much have known of pleasure and of pain;
And much have thought of human pride and pomp,
Which are the sorriest and baldest things
The indulgent eye of Heaven looks down upon.
The same, yet not the same: three cherub forms
Have lain within my partner's breast, since then,
That now lie in the earth—three birdlings fair
Sung on my knee, that sing in heaven now.
And one who oftenest wandered with me here,
The wildest and the merriest that then
Had blessed our love and hope, in whom I saw
Renewed the freshness of my youth, and felt
Again its mantling bloom, in darkness now
And dreariness is whelm'd, by sad eclipse
Of reason, and attending woes that wear
The body thin, and vex the spirit. Here,
Haply, she may not come again; but here,
In her bright youth and all-abounding love,
She'll live with me forever, though the gloom
That wraps her now mysterious Providence
May ne'er dispel. The same, yet not the same:
'T was Autumn then in thy deep heart, which mourn'd
Its summer glories, passing fast away;
But in my own, perpetual fountains played,
And to perpetual hopes, that clustered there,
Gave brightest bloom. But Autumn now has come
To my bereavèd heart, which inly moans
For withered hopes and blighted flowers of love,
While thine is full of gushing melodies,
And sunniest slopes, and green and bloomy nooks.

Sorrow is not despair, but rather hope:—
And thus again my pensive musings flow
To snatches of another melody,
That in the heat of feeling now come out
On the dim plain of memory, as stamps
Worn and obliterated long from coin,
By fire are to the surface brought again.

So sang I but a little month ago,
Walking within ambrosial groves, that look'd
Out on green pastures, over gleaming waves.
And now, so quickly in this genial clime
The fair and fruitful seasons follow on,
The bright and full-robed summer-time is here.
—How beautifully glimmer on my sight
The fresh green fields afar! How grandly rise
The groves that gloom around me! What a hush
Broods o'er this dell! And how yon hillside basks
In the full blaze of this unspotted day!
All these have been my haunts from childhood up;
And only recent years have made my feet
Once unfamiliar with their flowery paths.
But absence has not robbed them of a charm,
Nor distance of their sweet attractiveness;
And my heart turns to them as to old friends.

Morn after morn my footsteps hither tend;
Noon after noon the slumberous silence fills
My yearning heart, which still has aching voids;
Eve after eve I linger here alone,
Piercing the shadow of the day that is,
To find the sunlight of the days that were.
—The April flush has parted from the woods;
The redolent airs of May have gone to rest
With locust-tassels and the wild-grape's bloom;
The blue-eyed violet no more is seen
Peeping from mossy coverts at the sky
That looks down through the tree-tops; from the slopes
The tremulous anemone is gone;
The dandelions, that on the grassy plains
Were beautiful,—flecks from the golden curls
Of bright Aurora thrown,—have pass'd away.
These were the firstlings of the opening Year;
And like the firstlings of the human heart,
The beautiful young hopes that spring to light
And perish as the sterner days come on,
They are no more. A statelier growth is now
Giving green glory to the forest-aisles,
And beauty to the meadows. Far away
The alder-thicket, robed in brightest bloom,
Is shining like a sunlit cloud at rest;
Nearer, the briar-roses load the air
With sweetness; and where yon half-hidden fence
And toppling cabin mark the Pioneer's
First habitation in the wilderness,
The gay bignonia to the ridge-pole climbs,
The yellow willow spreads its generous shade
Around the cool spring's margin, and the old
And bent catalpa waves its fan-like leaves
And lifts its milk-white blossoms. Beautiful!
Around me here rise up majestic trees
That centuries have nurtured: graceful elms,
Which interlock their limbs among the clouds;
Dark-columned walnuts, from whose liberal store
The nut-brown Indian maids their baskets fill'd
Ere the first Pilgrims knelt on Plymouth Rock;
Gigantic sycamores, whose mighty arms
Sheltered the Redman in his wigwam prone,
What time the Norsemen roamed our chartless seas;
And towering oaks, that from the subject plain
Sprang when the builders of the tumuli
First disappeared, and to the conquering hordes
Left these, the dim traditions of their race
That rise around, in many a form of earth
Tracing the plain, but shrouded in the gloom
Of dark, impenetrable shades, that fall
From the far centuries. Eternal night,
Rayless and ruthless, where this luminous day
Displays its varied and resplendent charms!
I turn from that to these, as from a book
Whose lids are sealed, to one whose open leaves
Are full of wisdom and of beauty. See!
How through the high-arch'd windows of the trees
That line this bank, the fresh green landscape glows!
And how from the broad mirror of yon stream
The glinting rays of the bright sun are turn'd!
Like fiery arrows quivering through the gloom
Of forest-aisles, they glance upon me now,
But break in golden fragments round my feet.

The quiet of a tranquil mind is where
Yon homestead stands amid embowering vines,
And clustering fruits; and where yon merry groups
Of children sit beneath the maple shade,
Wreathing sweet garlands for each other's bright
And sunny brows, is innocence; and where
Yon plowman meditates amidst his corn,
Dark and luxuriant, Plenty sits and smiles!
And Peace is heard, in many a gentle sound
Of tinkling bell and lowing cattle, where
Yon herd knee-deep in lushest grasses feeds,
And where yon mower from his heavy swath
Rises, and rests, and whets his ringing scythe.
On the green, skirting slope that lies beyond,
Where fitful shadows with the sunshine play,
And where white flocks in statue-like repose
Are gathered under solitary elms,
There sleeps the beauty of a dream of Heaven.
And over all the scene the calm blue sky
Bends in its summer glory, stooping down
Amid soft clouds that kiss the sunny checks
Of airy hills, and there hang motionless.

How beautiful! how joyous! how serene!
Yet oh! how desolate, bereft of her
Into whose young and all-impressive heart
The silence and the beauty of the scene
So deeply sank when first she hither came.
Her years then numbered ten; and six since then
Have woven their summer garlands for her brow;
And one has brought the cypress and the yew,
And laid upon her heart—her glad young heart!
The day was one, like this, of untold charms.
Earth, heaven, the waters, and the wandering winds,
Each lent its tribute to make up a whole
Whose memories are written, even now,
In lines of light which darkness can not dim.
We wandered up and down; now in these groves,
Now on the rims of meadow-plats, anon
Far in the silent wood. A summer's day
She gathered flowers, and mock'd the birds, and blew
The time o' the day on grey-beard dandelions.
When eve approached, we hither came, and paused,
Struck with the various beauty of the scene.
She sat beside me on this grassy knoll,
That looks out on it all, and gazed and gazed
Until that mind, so darken'd now, was fill'd
With light from heaven, and love for earth, and joy
That in such pleasant places God had cast
Our lot. We lingered till the sun went down;
Then, silent as the shadows of the night
That gathered round us, took our homeward way.

Sweet scene! sweet memories! how ye brighten up,
And throng the ways that to the burdened heart
Lead in, with incidents of many years
Crowding a single moment! ... Time wore on:
Her school—my avocations—city life,
That puts so many fetters on the limbs,
Conspired to limit, and at times prevent.
Our visits to the farther solitudes,
And green savannas, and cool, vocal groves,
That in the bosom of Miami Woods
Still offer to the over-wearied heart
The silence and the solace that it craves.
But nothing made us strangers here:—we came
When came the bluebird and the violet—
And when the summers put their glory on,
We stood within its radiance—and our hearts
Grew pensive in the golden quietude
That came when Autumn brought her misty airs,
And sang the season's requiem. Not a year,
Of five that flow'd in light and beauty on,
Pass'd over without bringing us to bathe
Our spirits in the quiet pools of Thought
That lay unruffled here. Her early love
Of Nature, fostered by these interviews,
Grew stronger day by day, and through the bonds
Of common sympathy, she soon became
A part of all this scene, and it of her.
I see her now, through shadows and through tears,
In all her beauty wandering by my side,
And hear her voice, with snatches of old song,
Swell up, and die away, and wake again.
—Vain apparition! memories vainer still!
Ye make me feel how much alone I am,
More than I felt before: ye bend the bow,
And barb the arrows that transfix my heart.

Oh, from this scene the bloom hath faded now;
And that which was the soul of it to me,
The glory and the grace, sits far away,
Beneath the shadow of a sorrow big
With all that can affright, or overwhelm.

... My heart would break—my stricken heart would break,
Could I not pour upon the murmuring winds,
When thus it swells, the burden of its woe,
In words that soothe, how sad soe'er they be.

Beyond the cloud that darkens the sweet morn
The sun shines ever. When the rain has pass'd,
The grass is robed in diamonds, and the pools
Dimple with every breeze. Behind the tears
That gather in the gentle maiden's eyes
When feelingly she sings her saddest song,
The laugh lurks ever, showing bright through all,
And bringing to her bosom quick relief.
Sorrow is strong; and from its roots, that clasp
Rebellious passions in the Eden-life,
It sends out folds that wind about the heart,
And tendrils that cling to it evermore:
But these oft beautify, and even at times
Support; and were this never so, beyond
The roots of sorrow lies the birth of hope—
And hope is mightier than sorrow, far.