Prose sketches and poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

The light of morning now begins to thrill
Upon the purple mountains, and the gray
And mist-enveloped pines; and on the still,
Deep banks of snow, looks out the eye of day;
The constant stream is plashing on its way,
As molten stars might roll along the heaven—
And its white foam grows whiter, with the play
Of sunlight, that adown its bed is driven,
Like the eternal splendor from God's forehead riven.
And tree, and rock, and pine, are wreathed now
With light, as with a visible soul of love;
The breeze along the mountain sides doth blow,
And in and out each grass-enshaded cove,
Making the darkness from those dens remove,
And be dissolved within the splendor shower,
Which raineth to the depth of each dim grove,
And under all the rocks that sternly lower,
And even in the caves, and jagged grots doth pour.
Yet here and there, there is a plume of mist,
Whose only care is up the hill to float,
Until the sun be broad and fair uprist;
And then the unseen angels, that take note
To steer in safety this etherial boat,
Will turn its helm to heaven's untroubled seas,
Where its white sail will glimmer, like a mote,
One moment, and then vanish: now the trees
Through it are seen, like shadows through transparencies.
And now the dew from off the flower-bells,
And from the quivering blades of bending grass,
Begins to rise invisibly, and swells
Into the air—(the valley's silent mass)—

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Like to the incense which to God doth pass
From out the bruised heart; the cricket's hymn—
The anthem from bright birds of many a class—
All people with their influence, the dim
Soul's solitude, in this most brief, sweet interim.
And Sorrow, though she be not wholly still,
Hath yet a certain gentle look and kind,
And mingling with all nature's joyous thrill,
Breathes a delicious feeling on the mind—
A soothing melancholy, hope-inclined—
Like the dim memory of a saddened dream,
Which made the heart once weep itself stone-blind,
And now doth like both pain and pleasure seem,
Until we know not which the feeling we should deem.
But Sorrow will full soon regain her own,
Although this golden and delicious calm,
Hath made her gentle as the water-tone,
Till she doth sleep, like Peace, with open palm,
And closed eyelid, and enfolded arm;
Soon Memory beneath her eye will sting,
And like a fiend that does his best to harm,
From the dark past will gather up, and bring,
Full many a torturing, and half-forgotten thing.
And she will point to home and hope forsaken—
And friends grown old, perhaps inimical;
And Love beneath her eye again will waken,
From troublous slumber; and again will fall
Foul Poverty, that hid with icy pall
My hope and happiness and father-land;
And I once more shall stand amid them all,
Cast them aside with an unflinching hand,
Shiver my household gods, and mid the ruins stand.
O thou, New England! whom these jagged rocks—
These chanting pines—this stream of fluid light—
These mountains, heaved at first by earthquake shocks,
And now defying them—this upper white
Of snow, which beards the sun—this vale so bright—
And all the thousand objects here in view—
Make now most present to the memory's sight
Thy hills—thy dells—thy streams—thy ocean blue—
Thy gorgeous sky, and clouds, of such surpassing hue.
Oh! I have left thee—and perhaps forever,
Land of the free, the beautiful, the brave!
It was a mournful hour which saw me sever
The ties which bound me unto thee, and brave

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The exile's woes, and seek an exile's grave.
And now my heart is all—ay, all thine own;
Again above me thy hoar forests wave;
Again I hear thy ocean's measured tone;
I live with thee, and am with all the world alone.
And spite of thy unkindness, I am proud
To be thy son; yea, proud of thee and thine;
Although thy failing, prejudice, hath bowed
My highest hopes, and taught lone grief to twine
Around my heart, as doth the poison-vine
Around the oak, rotting it to its core—
Yet still I love thee, and my heart is thine.
And while my feet sound sadly, and forlore,
I pace, and think of thee, and on thy glories pore.
And here, beneath these mossless rocks and grey,
I think of those most venerable aisles,
Where I have passed of many a holy day,
Into the sanctity of ancient piles,
To sit and hear thy faith—of those green isles
Gemming thy bays, and quiet ocean-nooks—
Of the bright eyes, and cheeks enwreathed with smiles,
Which make thee famed for beauty's starry looks—
And more than all, I think of quietude and books.
And still, all this is like the lightning, shot
Athwart the visage of the midnight gloom;
One moment dazzling—the succeeding, not:
And when I think of one of thine, with whom
The hours seemed winged with joy's all sunny plume,
Then, then the torturing fiends again have power—
Then from the darkness of my mental tomb
Thy star doth wane, the clouds about me lower—
And on me comes anew, the dark and fearful hour.
What is there left that I should cling to life?
High hopes made desolate, while scarce expanded—
A broken censer, still with odor rife—
A waning sun—a vessel half ensanded—
Life's prospects on grey rocks and shallows stranded—
A star just setting in a midnight ocean—
A smoking altar broken and unbanded,
Lit with the flame of poetry's devotion—
A bosom shattered with its own disturbed emotion.
This scene, for once, has made my sorrow calm;
And I do thank it—though old Time may mar
Full soon his work. And Hope has held her palm
Like an old friend to me, and set her star

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Once more upon the waves of life afar;
And though it sink full soon, nor ever lift
Again its eye above the stormy bar,
Yet still I thank her for the passing gift,
Though henceforth eyeless, on life's stormy waves I drift.
Farewell to thee, New England! Once again
The echo of thy name has touched my soul,
And it has vibrated—oh! not in vain,
If thou and thine shall hear it. Now the goal
Is nearly reached—the last expiring coal
Is trampled. Lo! ere all of life be done,
And ere the wind doth o'er my dead brain roll,
Thou hast the last monotony of one,
Who has been—is—will be—and that for aye, thy son.