 | Verses of a life time |  |
101
“BEYOND THE SABBATH.”
[_]
The Backwoodsmen of North America, when they throw off the forms of society, and retreat into the forests, say, they will “fly beyond Sabbath.”—
Flint's Valley of the Mississippi.[_]
[The record-tree alluded to in the following stanzas, refers to the custom of some settlers, who preserve the date of time by marking the seventh day.]
THE BACKWOODSMAN.
He flies!
He seeks the moaning forest trees,
The sunny prairie, or the mountain sweep,
The swelling river rushes to the seas,
The cataract, foaming 'neath the dizzy steep,
Or softer streams, that by the green banks sleep,
To these he flies.
He seeks the moaning forest trees,
The sunny prairie, or the mountain sweep,
The swelling river rushes to the seas,
The cataract, foaming 'neath the dizzy steep,
Or softer streams, that by the green banks sleep,
To these he flies.
102
He lists
The crackling of the springing deer,
The shrill cry of the soaring water-fowl,
The serpent hissing at his lone couch near,
The wild bear uttering loud her hungry howl,
The panther with his low expecting growl,
Unmov'd he lists.
The crackling of the springing deer,
The shrill cry of the soaring water-fowl,
The serpent hissing at his lone couch near,
The wild bear uttering loud her hungry howl,
The panther with his low expecting growl,
Unmov'd he lists.
Wanderer,
“Beyond the Sabbath,” tell me why,
With eager step you shun the haunts of men,
And from the music of the church bells fly,
That floating sweetly o'er your native glen,
Call you to worship by their chime again?
Say, wanderer, why?
“Beyond the Sabbath,” tell me why,
With eager step you shun the haunts of men,
And from the music of the church bells fly,
That floating sweetly o'er your native glen,
Call you to worship by their chime again?
Say, wanderer, why?
You know,
You feel, beneath the woodland skies,
When comes the seventh day of sacred rest,
Deep wells of fond remembrance struggling rise,
Within the caverns of your rocky breast—
A gush of thought, like visions of the blest,
At times you know.
You feel, beneath the woodland skies,
When comes the seventh day of sacred rest,
Deep wells of fond remembrance struggling rise,
Within the caverns of your rocky breast—
A gush of thought, like visions of the blest,
At times you know.
103
And you
Will turn, and mark the record-tree
In stealthy silence, and a gentle prayer
Unconsciously will struggle to get free,
And you will feel there is a purer air,
More holy stillness over nature fair,
Which softens you.
Will turn, and mark the record-tree
In stealthy silence, and a gentle prayer
Unconsciously will struggle to get free,
And you will feel there is a purer air,
More holy stillness over nature fair,
Which softens you.
How sweet
The strain of skyey minstrelsy,
That floats above you in the wild bird's song!
Seems it to you, the hymn of infancy,
Borne on the breezes of remembrance long,
When you were foremost in the Sabbath throng!
Those strains were sweet!
The strain of skyey minstrelsy,
That floats above you in the wild bird's song!
Seems it to you, the hymn of infancy,
Borne on the breezes of remembrance long,
When you were foremost in the Sabbath throng!
Those strains were sweet!
Such tones
Are swelling yet in many a spot,
Sacredly twining out with praise and joy;
And there 's a group, Oh, they forget you not,
Who prayers and tears for you, for you employ,
And hopes, that even time cannot destroy,
Are in their tones.
Are swelling yet in many a spot,
Sacredly twining out with praise and joy;
And there 's a group, Oh, they forget you not,
Who prayers and tears for you, for you employ,
And hopes, that even time cannot destroy,
Are in their tones.
104
They call,
They call you, rover, back again!
There is a mound beneath your village spire,
Where, touch'd by love, your tears would fall like rain
It shields a holy man, your aged sire,
Who sought in life to curb your youthful fire,
Hear his death call!
They call you, rover, back again!
There is a mound beneath your village spire,
Where, touch'd by love, your tears would fall like rain
It shields a holy man, your aged sire,
Who sought in life to curb your youthful fire,
Hear his death call!
In vain;—
Alas, you heed not e'en that call;
Proudly you stand upon the red man's ground,
And woman's tears, that slow and silent fall,
Slighted, from your resolved breast rebound,
Your free words thro' the woodland depths resound,
“Her call is vain!”
Alas, you heed not e'en that call;
Proudly you stand upon the red man's ground,
And woman's tears, that slow and silent fall,
Slighted, from your resolved breast rebound,
Your free words thro' the woodland depths resound,
“Her call is vain!”
Farewell,
Forever, roamer of the wild!
God, whom you can forget, his own will see;
His sun still shines upon his erring child,
His breezes fan you, with their current free,
And his green sod your burial place shall be.
Oh, fare you well!
Forever, roamer of the wild!
God, whom you can forget, his own will see;
His sun still shines upon his erring child,
His breezes fan you, with their current free,
And his green sod your burial place shall be.
Oh, fare you well!
1835.
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