 | The heir of the world, and lesser poems |  |
175
THE CHICAPEE.
On a moss-cushioned cliff o'er the stream of Montzeil,
Far away from the haunts of my loveliest days,
When the soft shades of evening in mellowness steal
O'er lawn, grove and lea amid zephyr's sweet lays,
And dewy-lipp'd naiads are scudding the stream,
While music is waving in their long sunny hair,
And sylph forms in moonlight, as they glide away, seem
Like the shapes that we lov'd in the lost days that were;
O then, as the wave of Montzeil trickles on,
I muse of the hours that smil'd brightly o'er me,
And I seem once again, with the youth that have gone,
On the musical shores of the lone Chicapee.
Far away from the haunts of my loveliest days,
When the soft shades of evening in mellowness steal
O'er lawn, grove and lea amid zephyr's sweet lays,
And dewy-lipp'd naiads are scudding the stream,
While music is waving in their long sunny hair,
And sylph forms in moonlight, as they glide away, seem
Like the shapes that we lov'd in the lost days that were;
O then, as the wave of Montzeil trickles on,
I muse of the hours that smil'd brightly o'er me,
And I seem once again, with the youth that have gone,
On the musical shores of the lone Chicapee.
Since the days of our childhood, when the heart was the heaven
Of affection and feeling by falsehood unstung,
And the soul soar'd in glory like a soft summer even,
As each young thought of beauty to paradise sprung,
I have wandered afar from the home of my love,
And read the false world with the eye of despair,
While the green earth below, and the blue sky above
The pall of my sorrows seem'd ever to wear;
And my pathway has teemed with the vipers of hate,
The insects of folly, and reptiles of scorn,
And the fierce voice of wo, and the wild shrieks of fate
Have echoed around me all lonely and lorn.
Of affection and feeling by falsehood unstung,
And the soul soar'd in glory like a soft summer even,
As each young thought of beauty to paradise sprung,
I have wandered afar from the home of my love,
And read the false world with the eye of despair,
While the green earth below, and the blue sky above
The pall of my sorrows seem'd ever to wear;
And my pathway has teemed with the vipers of hate,
The insects of folly, and reptiles of scorn,
And the fierce voice of wo, and the wild shrieks of fate
Have echoed around me all lonely and lorn.
On the proud-rolling Hudson full oft I have sailed
With a father who sleeps in the dust by its shore,
By Savannah's dark stream I have wander'd and wailed
For the heart-enshrin'd friend who can guide me no more;
Pawtuxet has lost all its charms and its hues,
For the youth, that once throng'd its wild woods with me,
Are scattered afar in their feelings and views,
Like the leaves of our bowering and revelling tree;
Pale-blue Housaton chimes the low dirge of love,
For Ellen no more tunes its music for me,
But through the yet blooming and musical grove
Still lovingly soft flows the lone Chicapee.
With a father who sleeps in the dust by its shore,
By Savannah's dark stream I have wander'd and wailed
For the heart-enshrin'd friend who can guide me no more;
176
For the youth, that once throng'd its wild woods with me,
Are scattered afar in their feelings and views,
Like the leaves of our bowering and revelling tree;
Pale-blue Housaton chimes the low dirge of love,
For Ellen no more tunes its music for me,
But through the yet blooming and musical grove
Still lovingly soft flows the lone Chicapee.
On the green-sloping banks of that beautiful stream,
Thou slumber'st, my sister, in the sleep of the dead,
While zephyrs sigh o'er thee, and bright planets beam,
And roses and violets pefume thy dark bed!
The birds of sweet voices are singing around,
And the willow I planted has grown far above
Thy grave, and the spot has become like the ground
That embraces no form of unspeakable love.
Yet I live in this world of deep sorrow alone,
And I hear those strange voices that tell me of thee,
While, mingling with crowds of bright beings, I moan
For a place by thy side on the lone Chicapee.
Thou slumber'st, my sister, in the sleep of the dead,
While zephyrs sigh o'er thee, and bright planets beam,
And roses and violets pefume thy dark bed!
The birds of sweet voices are singing around,
And the willow I planted has grown far above
Thy grave, and the spot has become like the ground
That embraces no form of unspeakable love.
Yet I live in this world of deep sorrow alone,
And I hear those strange voices that tell me of thee,
While, mingling with crowds of bright beings, I moan
For a place by thy side on the lone Chicapee.
| The heir of the world, and lesser poems | |