 | Miami Woods : a golden wedding and other poems |  |
9
I.
Miami Woods.
Well known to me is every alley green,
Dingle, and bushy dell, in this wild wood,
And every bosky bourn from side to side,
My daily walk, and ancient neighborhood.
Milton: “Comus.”
Dingle, and bushy dell, in this wild wood,
And every bosky bourn from side to side,
My daily walk, and ancient neighborhood.
Milton: “Comus.”
A solitary sorrow, antheming
A lonely grief.
Keats: “Hyperion.”
A lonely grief.
Keats: “Hyperion.”
11
Proem.
Miami Woods!—What says the mighty Past
To the still mightier Present, from the midst
Of all these vestiges of centuries gone,
That strew the plains and hills around? I ask
The question thousands have thus asked before,
And get the common answer—echo! Here,
Green on the crown'd acclivities, or dark
In the dim twilight of o'erarching trees
That clothe the valleys, we behold remains
Of human toil and triumph and dismay,
O'er which the oak that counts five hundred years
Spreads his protecting branches:—walls of earth;
Tlascalan gateways; sacrificial mounds;
The altars of a worship we know not;
And, beautiful in their silence, tombs of men
Who died before the parent tree had cast
The seed from which arose this hoary trunk,
That lies so low at last! But though the eye
Meets these rude records, turn where'er it will,
They tell no story that is understood,
Of all the human love and hate and pride,
And all the joy, and strife and agony,
That once were known within these Sylvan homes,
So populous then, so void and silent now:
And vainly leans the listening ear to catch
A sound or syllable revealing more
Than these mute records to the eye disclose.
To the still mightier Present, from the midst
Of all these vestiges of centuries gone,
That strew the plains and hills around? I ask
The question thousands have thus asked before,
And get the common answer—echo! Here,
Green on the crown'd acclivities, or dark
In the dim twilight of o'erarching trees
That clothe the valleys, we behold remains
Of human toil and triumph and dismay,
O'er which the oak that counts five hundred years
Spreads his protecting branches:—walls of earth;
Tlascalan gateways; sacrificial mounds;
The altars of a worship we know not;
And, beautiful in their silence, tombs of men
Who died before the parent tree had cast
The seed from which arose this hoary trunk,
That lies so low at last! But though the eye
Meets these rude records, turn where'er it will,
12
Of all the human love and hate and pride,
And all the joy, and strife and agony,
That once were known within these Sylvan homes,
So populous then, so void and silent now:
And vainly leans the listening ear to catch
A sound or syllable revealing more
Than these mute records to the eye disclose.
Pierce far into the depths of these old woods,
Where seem to meet the Present and the Past;
Hasten not hence, but with still lingering steps
Move to and fro; stand on the tumulus
That rises o'er a chieftain's ashes; trace
The circle and the square, which still remain
Distinct and beautiful; with reverent step
Approach the altar where of old were lit
The fires of sacrifice; snatch from its sleep
Of centuries, beneath the pregnant earth,
The sculptured image; and then question all.
—Question as well the winds, or waves! as well
The child that's with me here, as wise as I!
How silent, where a hundred tongues should speak,
If curiosity had but the power
To bid and be obeyed: how silent all!
There comes down from the Past no voice to tell
The tale so often asked. The Present points
To these rude works alone, and they are mute.
E'en the high chambers of the tumuli,
In which were laid the bones of chiefs and kings
Who ruled here in the ages lost, withhold
The revelation sought. The marvelous skill
And learning that in other lands have read
The secrets of the Past on images,
On stones, and on the corpses of the dead
Exhumed from the repose of centuries,
Read nothing here. The garrulous tongue of Time
—Time, that has hung the forests round like clouds
Upon the hillsides: Time, that here has cut
Grooves in the rocks which antedate the pits
Hewn in the hills of Latium for the first
Foundations of old Rome,—throughout these wilds
Makes not a sign, and syllables no sound,
To break the eternal seal that rests on all!
Where seem to meet the Present and the Past;
Hasten not hence, but with still lingering steps
Move to and fro; stand on the tumulus
That rises o'er a chieftain's ashes; trace
The circle and the square, which still remain
Distinct and beautiful; with reverent step
Approach the altar where of old were lit
The fires of sacrifice; snatch from its sleep
Of centuries, beneath the pregnant earth,
The sculptured image; and then question all.
—Question as well the winds, or waves! as well
The child that's with me here, as wise as I!
How silent, where a hundred tongues should speak,
If curiosity had but the power
To bid and be obeyed: how silent all!
There comes down from the Past no voice to tell
The tale so often asked. The Present points
13
E'en the high chambers of the tumuli,
In which were laid the bones of chiefs and kings
Who ruled here in the ages lost, withhold
The revelation sought. The marvelous skill
And learning that in other lands have read
The secrets of the Past on images,
On stones, and on the corpses of the dead
Exhumed from the repose of centuries,
Read nothing here. The garrulous tongue of Time
—Time, that has hung the forests round like clouds
Upon the hillsides: Time, that here has cut
Grooves in the rocks which antedate the pits
Hewn in the hills of Latium for the first
Foundations of old Rome,—throughout these wilds
Makes not a sign, and syllables no sound,
To break the eternal seal that rests on all!
So let it be! Why seek to know what God,
In his inscrutable ways, has hidden thus?
It may be wise such mysteries to explore;
To probe the Past for what it holds so dark;
But in familiar things that lie along
Our daily walks, are lessons for us all:
And he who seeks the profit of his soul
In free communings with the things that speak
Most reverently of God on earth, may ask
The Present with humility, and find
In all about him revelations deep,
As I do now, here in Miami Woods.
In his inscrutable ways, has hidden thus?
It may be wise such mysteries to explore;
To probe the Past for what it holds so dark;
But in familiar things that lie along
Our daily walks, are lessons for us all:
And he who seeks the profit of his soul
In free communings with the things that speak
14
The Present with humility, and find
In all about him revelations deep,
As I do now, here in Miami Woods.
15
1. Part First.
1839.
The autumn time is with us!—Its approach
Was heralded, not many days ago,
By hazy skies that veiled the brazen sun,
And sea-like murmurs from the rustling corn,
And low-voiced brooks that wandered drowsily
By pendent clusters of empurpling grapes
Swinging upon the vine. And now, 'tis here!
And what a change hath pass'd upon the face
Of nature, where the waving forest spreads,
Then robed in deepest green! All through the night
The subtle frost has plied its magic art;
And in the day the golden sun hath wrought
True wonders; and the winds of morn and even
Have touch'd with magic breath the changing leaves.
And now, as wanders the dilating eye
Athwart the varied landscape, circling far,
What gorgeousness, what blazonry, what pomp
Of colors, bursts upon the ravished sight!
Here, where the poplar rears its yellow crest,
A golden glory; yonder, where the oak
Stands monarch of the forest, and the ash
Is girt with flame-like parasite, and broad
The dogwood spreads beneath, and, fringing all,
The sumac blushes to the ground, a flood
Of deepest crimson; and afar, where looms
The gnarlèd gum, a cloud of bloodiest red;
While, intermix'd, maples of various hues,
Scarlet and gold, and delicate streaks of pink
And purple blotches curiously wrought,
Inwoven with rich orange traceries
And dash'd with carmine, take the wandering eye
With ravishment, and dazzle at each glance:—
All quiet, in the calm of noon that now
Scarce floats the thistle's down, or stirs the leaf
Of tallest aspen on its poising stem,—
But toss'd against the blue-wall'd heavens, anon
And streaming in the fitful breezes, like
Banners and bannerets tumultuous borne
In conflict o'er the deadly battle-field!
Was heralded, not many days ago,
By hazy skies that veiled the brazen sun,
And sea-like murmurs from the rustling corn,
And low-voiced brooks that wandered drowsily
By pendent clusters of empurpling grapes
Swinging upon the vine. And now, 'tis here!
And what a change hath pass'd upon the face
Of nature, where the waving forest spreads,
Then robed in deepest green! All through the night
The subtle frost has plied its magic art;
And in the day the golden sun hath wrought
True wonders; and the winds of morn and even
Have touch'd with magic breath the changing leaves.
And now, as wanders the dilating eye
Athwart the varied landscape, circling far,
What gorgeousness, what blazonry, what pomp
Of colors, bursts upon the ravished sight!
Here, where the poplar rears its yellow crest,
A golden glory; yonder, where the oak
Stands monarch of the forest, and the ash
16
The dogwood spreads beneath, and, fringing all,
The sumac blushes to the ground, a flood
Of deepest crimson; and afar, where looms
The gnarlèd gum, a cloud of bloodiest red;
While, intermix'd, maples of various hues,
Scarlet and gold, and delicate streaks of pink
And purple blotches curiously wrought,
Inwoven with rich orange traceries
And dash'd with carmine, take the wandering eye
With ravishment, and dazzle at each glance:—
All quiet, in the calm of noon that now
Scarce floats the thistle's down, or stirs the leaf
Of tallest aspen on its poising stem,—
But toss'd against the blue-wall'd heavens, anon
And streaming in the fitful breezes, like
Banners and bannerets tumultuous borne
In conflict o'er the deadly battle-field!
Out in the woods of Autumn! I have cast
Aside the shackles of the town, that vex
The fetterless soul, and come to hide myself,
Miami! in thy venerable shades.
Here where seclusion looks out on a scene
Of matchless beauty, I will pause awhile,
And on this bank with varied mosses crown'd
Gently recline. The forest has a voice
That comes to me with memories of her
Who bore me; and the beauty of the scene
Brings recollections up of some who here
Roam'd with me in my boyhood, who now walk
The ways of life no more: a thousand thoughts
Press on me, mingled with regretful pangs
For slight unkindnesses, not thought of then,
That now reproach me. What has been, thus haunts
What is. I feel the present and the past
Around me and within me. Earth is old,
And new; and so the heart, which is my world.
Aside the shackles of the town, that vex
The fetterless soul, and come to hide myself,
Miami! in thy venerable shades.
Here where seclusion looks out on a scene
Of matchless beauty, I will pause awhile,
And on this bank with varied mosses crown'd
Gently recline. The forest has a voice
17
Who bore me; and the beauty of the scene
Brings recollections up of some who here
Roam'd with me in my boyhood, who now walk
The ways of life no more: a thousand thoughts
Press on me, mingled with regretful pangs
For slight unkindnesses, not thought of then,
That now reproach me. What has been, thus haunts
What is. I feel the present and the past
Around me and within me. Earth is old,
And new; and so the heart, which is my world.
Far in the quiet woodland! The calm sky
Looks smilingly upon me, and the air
Comes laden with the sweets of autumn time,
And living with the murmurs of the bee,
And insect tribes. Around me on the slopes
The aster blooms, and in the valley waves
The golden-rod. Beneath me, silver-bright,
Glide the calm waters, with a plaintive moan
For summer's parting glories. High o'erhead,
Seeking the sedgy brinks of still lagoons
That bask in southern suns the winter through,
Sails tireless the unerring waterfowl,
Screaming among the cloud-racks. Oft from where,
In bushy covert hid, the partridge stands,
Bursts suddenly the whistle clear and loud,
Far-echoing through the dim wood's fretted aisles.
Deep murmurs from the trees, bending with brown
And ripened mast, are interrupted oft
By sounds of dropping nuts; and warily
The turkey from the thicket comes, and swift
As flies an arrow darts the pheasant down,
To batten on the autumn; and the air,
At times, is darkened by a sudden rush
Of myriad wings, as the wild pigeon leads
His squadrons to the banquet. Far away,
Where tranquil groves on sunny slopes supply
Their liberal store of fruits, the merry laugh
Of children, and the truant school-boy's shout,
Ring on the air, as, from the hollows borne,
Nuts load their creaking carts, and lush pawpaws
Their motley baskets fill, with clustering grapes
And golden-sphered parsimmons spread o'er all.
Looks smilingly upon me, and the air
Comes laden with the sweets of autumn time,
And living with the murmurs of the bee,
And insect tribes. Around me on the slopes
The aster blooms, and in the valley waves
The golden-rod. Beneath me, silver-bright,
Glide the calm waters, with a plaintive moan
For summer's parting glories. High o'erhead,
Seeking the sedgy brinks of still lagoons
That bask in southern suns the winter through,
Sails tireless the unerring waterfowl,
Screaming among the cloud-racks. Oft from where,
In bushy covert hid, the partridge stands,
18
Far-echoing through the dim wood's fretted aisles.
Deep murmurs from the trees, bending with brown
And ripened mast, are interrupted oft
By sounds of dropping nuts; and warily
The turkey from the thicket comes, and swift
As flies an arrow darts the pheasant down,
To batten on the autumn; and the air,
At times, is darkened by a sudden rush
Of myriad wings, as the wild pigeon leads
His squadrons to the banquet. Far away,
Where tranquil groves on sunny slopes supply
Their liberal store of fruits, the merry laugh
Of children, and the truant school-boy's shout,
Ring on the air, as, from the hollows borne,
Nuts load their creaking carts, and lush pawpaws
Their motley baskets fill, with clustering grapes
And golden-sphered parsimmons spread o'er all.
Deep in the solemn forest! From the tops
Of these old trees, swept by the evening wind,
Which swells among their leaves, and dies away,
And gathers strength again, float softly down
Strange, wild, deep harmonies. And I have been
All day among the Voices of the Wood,
That are but echoes of perpetual tones
With which God fills the universe. The noon,
Gairish and still, and midnight's calm repose,
And dewy eve, and fresh, rejoicing morn,
Are full of them. I hear them in the breeze
That stirs the reed to music: in the faint,
Sad murmur of the stream that glides below,
Bearing away the fallen leaves, as pass
The dreams of childhood and the hopes of life,
I hear them: and I hear them in the spring
That, bubbling from beneath yon moss-clad root,
Falls tinkling o'er the shimmering rock below:
And in the billowy chimes that wake aloft
When freshening winds sweep through the ancient trees,
They speak with organ-tones, that reach the depths
Stirring within me, and an echo find
In the roused soul. ... O God! Thou art in all
I now behold! the essence and the life,
The germ and the vitality! the birth,
The being, and the end! else Reason gropes
In darkness all her days, and knowledge dies.
What but the high intelligence, the hand
Almighty, and the sempiternal life—
What but the omnipresence, and the will,
All which we feel thou art, and all that fills
Our great Idea of a primal cause,
And fix'd design beyond the power of chance
To change or check, could speak this glorious world
From wildest Chaos and profoundest Night?
What poise the planets in the void, and set
The infinite stars in order, and confine
Each in its separate path on high? What fill
Earth with its countless forms of Life, and raise
Eternally, as ages glide along,
New being from the ashes of decay?
Of these old trees, swept by the evening wind,
Which swells among their leaves, and dies away,
And gathers strength again, float softly down
Strange, wild, deep harmonies. And I have been
All day among the Voices of the Wood,
That are but echoes of perpetual tones
With which God fills the universe. The noon,
19
And dewy eve, and fresh, rejoicing morn,
Are full of them. I hear them in the breeze
That stirs the reed to music: in the faint,
Sad murmur of the stream that glides below,
Bearing away the fallen leaves, as pass
The dreams of childhood and the hopes of life,
I hear them: and I hear them in the spring
That, bubbling from beneath yon moss-clad root,
Falls tinkling o'er the shimmering rock below:
And in the billowy chimes that wake aloft
When freshening winds sweep through the ancient trees,
They speak with organ-tones, that reach the depths
Stirring within me, and an echo find
In the roused soul. ... O God! Thou art in all
I now behold! the essence and the life,
The germ and the vitality! the birth,
The being, and the end! else Reason gropes
In darkness all her days, and knowledge dies.
What but the high intelligence, the hand
Almighty, and the sempiternal life—
What but the omnipresence, and the will,
All which we feel thou art, and all that fills
Our great Idea of a primal cause,
And fix'd design beyond the power of chance
To change or check, could speak this glorious world
From wildest Chaos and profoundest Night?
20
The infinite stars in order, and confine
Each in its separate path on high? What fill
Earth with its countless forms of Life, and raise
Eternally, as ages glide along,
New being from the ashes of decay?
Alone, with God and Nature, and this child
In whom I witness both.—Around me now
Is pressing onward the unceasing change.
And here, amid the thick-strewn vestiges
Of many centuries, whose paths are seen
Where time has worn these hollows in the hills,
And after beautified the ruin wrought
With all this growth of interlacing trees,
I contemplate the mysteries sublime
Of birth, and life, and death! .. From the dark womb
Of winter comes the spring with mild, warm breath;
And instantly the chains that bound the streams
Are loosened, and the waters leap to light,
And shout with gladness. Soon the spell that long
Has held the earth, is broken; and the grass
Pierces the sod, and from the sheltering leaves
That strew the ground, look out the fresh young flowers,
Smiling to heaven. Then the gray, leafless trees,
Long desolate in their utter nakedness,
Feel the new presence; and although no sign
Of life is visible, a delicate green
Creeps out along the tender twigs, where swell
The germ-infolding buds, and in the warm
And sunny day, and through the breezy night,
Come forth the myriad leaves, courting the light
And wantoning with the zephyr, till a robe
Of brightest green bursts on the wondering eye.
O'er the cold bosom of the sluggish clod
Soon steals the influence; and from the broad
And seeded field shoots up the waving grain,
Till spreads a sea of verdure far around,
Toss'd by the winds, and with the clouds at play.
Then comes the long and sunny summer time,
And for the garners of the husbandman
Ripens, and to the sickle lays, the grain;
And for the cherish'd tribes of air, that make
The cool groves vocal, strews the briary slope
With berries; and for the innumerous flocks
That shun the haunts of men, and hang their nests
High in the endless wood, or in the low
Dark thicket build, matures the beechen mast;
And takes the worm upon the leaf, and wraps
A silken tissue round it; and prepares
For many an insect race befitting tombs,
Where each shall sleep the winter hours away.
Then comes the lone and quiet autumn on,
With tinkling waterfalls, and moaning woods,
And arid wastes o'er which the night winds sigh.
And this is here; and now the flower hath closed
And cast its petals, and the naked stalk
Stands shriveling in the frost; the feathered grass
Is heavy in the head; the painted leaf
Flies twittering on the wind; and to the earth
Falls the brown nut, with melancholy sound.
Yet the low, moaning autumn wind, that sweeps
The seeded grass and lately-blossoming flower,
Bears the light germs of future life away,
And sows them by the gliding rivulet,
And o'er the plain, and on the mountain-side,
To clothe anew the earth, when comes again
The quickening breath of spring. And on the place
Where fall the ripened nuts, the frosty night
Will heap the stricken leaves; and thence shall spring,
In many an after age, another growth
Of stately trees, when those around me now,
Fallen with eld, shall moulder, and enrich
The ground that now sustains their lofty pride.
In whom I witness both.—Around me now
Is pressing onward the unceasing change.
And here, amid the thick-strewn vestiges
Of many centuries, whose paths are seen
Where time has worn these hollows in the hills,
And after beautified the ruin wrought
With all this growth of interlacing trees,
I contemplate the mysteries sublime
Of birth, and life, and death! .. From the dark womb
Of winter comes the spring with mild, warm breath;
And instantly the chains that bound the streams
Are loosened, and the waters leap to light,
And shout with gladness. Soon the spell that long
Has held the earth, is broken; and the grass
Pierces the sod, and from the sheltering leaves
That strew the ground, look out the fresh young flowers,
Smiling to heaven. Then the gray, leafless trees,
Long desolate in their utter nakedness,
Feel the new presence; and although no sign
21
Creeps out along the tender twigs, where swell
The germ-infolding buds, and in the warm
And sunny day, and through the breezy night,
Come forth the myriad leaves, courting the light
And wantoning with the zephyr, till a robe
Of brightest green bursts on the wondering eye.
O'er the cold bosom of the sluggish clod
Soon steals the influence; and from the broad
And seeded field shoots up the waving grain,
Till spreads a sea of verdure far around,
Toss'd by the winds, and with the clouds at play.
Then comes the long and sunny summer time,
And for the garners of the husbandman
Ripens, and to the sickle lays, the grain;
And for the cherish'd tribes of air, that make
The cool groves vocal, strews the briary slope
With berries; and for the innumerous flocks
That shun the haunts of men, and hang their nests
High in the endless wood, or in the low
Dark thicket build, matures the beechen mast;
And takes the worm upon the leaf, and wraps
A silken tissue round it; and prepares
For many an insect race befitting tombs,
Where each shall sleep the winter hours away.
Then comes the lone and quiet autumn on,
With tinkling waterfalls, and moaning woods,
22
And this is here; and now the flower hath closed
And cast its petals, and the naked stalk
Stands shriveling in the frost; the feathered grass
Is heavy in the head; the painted leaf
Flies twittering on the wind; and to the earth
Falls the brown nut, with melancholy sound.
Yet the low, moaning autumn wind, that sweeps
The seeded grass and lately-blossoming flower,
Bears the light germs of future life away,
And sows them by the gliding rivulet,
And o'er the plain, and on the mountain-side,
To clothe anew the earth, when comes again
The quickening breath of spring. And on the place
Where fall the ripened nuts, the frosty night
Will heap the stricken leaves; and thence shall spring,
In many an after age, another growth
Of stately trees, when those around me now,
Fallen with eld, shall moulder, and enrich
The ground that now sustains their lofty pride.
Changing, forever changing!—So depart
The glories of the old, majestic wood;
So pass the pride and garniture of fields,
The growth of ages, and the bloom of days,
Into the dust of centuries; and so
Are both renewed. The scattered tribes of men,
The generations of the populous earth,
All have their seasons too. And jocund Youth
Is the green springtime—Manhood's lusty strength
Is the maturing summer—hoary Age
Types well the autumn of the year—and Death
Is the real winter, which forecloses all.
—And shall the forests have another spring,
And shall the fields another garland wear,
And shall the worm come forth renewed in life
And clothed upon with beauty, and not man?
No!—in the Book before me now, I read
Another language; and my faith is sure,
That though the chains of death may hold it long,
This mortal will o'ermaster them, and break
Away, and put on immortality.
The glories of the old, majestic wood;
So pass the pride and garniture of fields,
The growth of ages, and the bloom of days,
Into the dust of centuries; and so
Are both renewed. The scattered tribes of men,
23
All have their seasons too. And jocund Youth
Is the green springtime—Manhood's lusty strength
Is the maturing summer—hoary Age
Types well the autumn of the year—and Death
Is the real winter, which forecloses all.
—And shall the forests have another spring,
And shall the fields another garland wear,
And shall the worm come forth renewed in life
And clothed upon with beauty, and not man?
No!—in the Book before me now, I read
Another language; and my faith is sure,
That though the chains of death may hold it long,
This mortal will o'ermaster them, and break
Away, and put on immortality.
Almighty Father! such the lesson is,
That, in these cool and venerable woods,
Amid the relics of a mighty Past,
From which look out the strong and swelling germs
Of a still mightier Future,—Father, such
Is the great lesson that I read to-day,
With love and awe; and firmer in my breast,
By every syllable, these truths are fixed:
That Thou art the beginning, and the end,
Of all this wondrous work; and that Thy love
Pervades the universe; and that Thy smile
Seeketh all hearts to sun them; and that Thou
In every glorious thing we here behold,
Declarest and reveal'st Thyself to be
The Majesty Supreme—Eternal God.
That, in these cool and venerable woods,
Amid the relics of a mighty Past,
From which look out the strong and swelling germs
Of a still mightier Future,—Father, such
Is the great lesson that I read to-day,
With love and awe; and firmer in my breast,
By every syllable, these truths are fixed:
That Thou art the beginning, and the end,
Of all this wondrous work; and that Thy love
Pervades the universe; and that Thy smile
24
In every glorious thing we here behold,
Declarest and reveal'st Thyself to be
The Majesty Supreme—Eternal God.
25
2. Part Second.
1844.
After long-wandering in the crowded streetsOf busy cities, where Humanity
Is least and greatest; after gay saloons,
And soft, seductive luxuries, and forms
Languidly beautiful, and oft-heard tones
Have pall'd upon the senses; what delight
Steals o'er the spirit, in the beautiful haunts
Of Nature, 'mid the silence, and the shade,
And low, sweet murmurs from the earth and air,
And all the holy influences that come
With blesséd gleams of the blue heavens above!
Society grows stale, and men become
Not what they were, or seemed to be. We change—
All change, both to each other, and ourselves.
Our habitudes, our passions, our delights,
Are ever mutable. But in these shades,
Amid these venerable trees, beneath
Yon blue o'erarching canopy, where'er
The unshorn majesty of Nature reigns,
26
Forever. Not to haunts like these belong
The pallid cheek, the sickly frame, the roll
Of feelings grown untimely old:—But you,
Ye wild and wooded hills, ye flowery dales
That stretch between and bask in light, ye rocks
O'er which the cool springs trickle, and ye clear
And flashing rivulets, that run along
And murmur to the winds, which murmur back,
—Audible voices of the Deity!
—Visible impress of Almighty Power!
—Bright, bland expression of Creative Love!
Ye still are new and beautiful: and still
Within your calm and unpolluted depths
The thoughts are fresh, and springy limb doth long
Retain its elasticity, the heart
Broods not and sickens not o'er ills that fast
Beget each other, and the feelings know
An almost perpetuity of youth.
Far-seated in these mighty groves, I hear
The solemn Anthem of the Centuries
Roll up, as if the Majesty of God
Swept o'er the Universe, and spoke: the low,
Deep plaint of millions that have lived, and toil'd,
And died, in bondage—the despairing cry
Of struggling hearts that pour'd their torrents out,
And sank exhausted down beneath the hard
27
Sad interludes of mercy, and of love—
The glad songs of deliverance—the thick
And smothered voice of hate—the taunt of scorn—
The terrible threat of vengeance—the intense
Though whispered oaths that league determined men,
And know no revocation—and, o'er all,
The exulting shout of Freedom from the hills,
And from the plains, and from the empurpled seas!
And then peals out from billowy chimes of thought,
A wild, irregular song, that has such tune
As the sea sings with, and a symphony
Like unto that which gales from Labrador
Pipe in the shrouds when waves roll mountain high.
1.
Lift up your hearts, oh men!From the long sorrow that has weigh'd them down:
Eternal Justice, from her starry height,
Stoops earthward through the dusk of centuries,
To poise anew the balance that shall weigh
Henceforth the relative rights
Of master and of man,
Of ten and of ten thousand, here on earth.
Lift up your weary hearts!—
Rejoice! rejoice!
Weighed in the scales, Oppression kicks the beam.
28
2.
Wrong liveth not for aye!'Tis not immortal, as is common Right:
Right and the Truth exist eternally,
But Wrong and Falsehood perish day by day;
They perish by their own inherent ill—
While Truth, with brow serene,
Lives in immortal bloom;
And Right, though baffled oft, in many ways,
Rises and reigns at last.—
Rejoice! rejoice!
Wrong cometh to its fall, as God is good.
3.
Lift up your hearts, oh men!Stretch forth the arm, and try its unused strength;
Plant the foot firmly on the galling chain;
Brace every sinew to its utmost power;
Now with invincible will each muscle clothe:—
Ha! how the fetters fall!
Was this—was this a slave?
It looks so like a MAN, 'tis hard to think
It other than a man!—
Rejoice! rejoice!
The Man ascends: the King comes to the dust.
29
The laboring bosom of the Carib Sea,
Isle after isle has sprung, rooted in rock
And ribb'd with adamant, which even now
Are to each other reaching out strong arms,
That yet shall clasp, and firmly interlace,
And circle into states confederate,
The beauty and the wonder of the world:
So, from the great profound of Thought, comes up
Truth after truth, compact and luminous,
Which, each with each uniting, intertwine,
Till, girt with principle and grooved in right,
Broad systems form that are the strength of man
And bulwarks of his freedom.—We behold
Cycle and epicycle rounding back
Into infinitude. We cannot see
The end from the beginning. Only this
With something like assurance stamps itself
Upon the mind: that the great cycle of all,
In which these cycles move, starts from the base
In an ascending grade that knows no check,
Runs circle after circle, never joined,
And strengthens to the summit. This supplies
Larger and larger fields for man, and gives
The soul that larger freedom which it seeks,
And has sought from the first, continually:
And with the larger freedom, still must come
30
The full enfranchisement of man, which is
The aim and the attainment of the Soul:
For full enfranchisement is faith, and love,
And charity, and peace o'er all the earth.
Hope is from Heaven: then let man not despair!
The Plan of the Eternal moves right on:
It knows no ebb—it makes no pause—it has
No Ajalon. The cycles fill the void,
In the great Cycle upward moving still,
And resting in Perfection, full-attained
Here and Hereafter—not in either state
Alone, but in both only.—Men despair,
Sicken and die, believing that the base,
Unscrupulous arts by which their fellow men
O'erreach each other, must destroy the poise
Of Right forever, and to chaos back
Hurl frail Humanity. But God's high scheme
Depends not on contingencies like these:
Men, the poor instruments, may fail in faith
Among themselves, and lack fidelity
To truth, to justice, mercy, love, and all
That human reason deems essential: yet,
God overrules each wrong for right, and still
The great design moves on and on, while all
Who falter, perish in their faithlessness.
31
Sitting in solitude on mossy rocks,
Or walking hand in hand with Nature, here
In her great temples, arch'd with heaven's own blue,
And pillared with the majesty of trees
That have the strength of centuries.—To one
Who in these quiet halls is far removed
From human passions, vain desires, the throes
Of party, and the conflicts of the field,
How paltry, wicked, miserable, mean,
Seem the contentions of society!
Turn, thou whose ears have drunk the jarring sounds
Of wrangling tongues, in crowded thoroughfares
And busy marts—or thou whose eyes have looked
On the red battle-field, and there beheld
The quivering limb, the writhing countenance,
The blackened and the putrifying corpse—
Turn from all this, which liker is to hell
Than to aught else, and with thy soul commune,
Here in the quiet of Miami Woods.
—Look out upon the bordering fields, where spreads
The yellow wheat, and waves the tasseling corn;
Look in, where the great heart of Nature beats
Steadily, peacefully, ever full of love;
Look down, at the sweet flowers that clothe the ground,
32
Their perfume for the light that visits them;
Look up, at the blue heavens that bend o'er all,
Serene, and beautiful, and grand, and good:
Then, if thou wonderest, ask this little child,
Whose soul is awed to silence, what there is
In all this scene, that thou should'st thus be call'd
From the great world where beats the human heart
In all its power, and she will answer—“God,
And God's own peace, and majesty, and strength!”
—In such a Presence, bend thy stubborn neck,
And stand uncovered. God, not man, is here;
Nature, not art; dissimulation not,
But frankness; falsehood never, only truth.
And if thou go not hence a better man,
Pray fervently for help—for thou hast need.
Sage monitors of youth are wont to say
The eye grows early dim to nature's charms,
And commerce with the world soon dulls the ear
To heavenliest sounds. It may be so; but I,
Whose feet were on the hills from earliest life,
And in the vales, and by the flashing brooks,
Have not so found it:—deeper in my heart,
Deeper and deeper year by year, has sunk
The love of nature, in my close, and long,
And fond companionship with woods and waves,
33
The mountain-height, the rocky gorge, the slope
Mantled with flow'rs, and the far-reaching plain
That mingles with the heavens. It is not so—
It is not so save where the ear grows dull
To God's own voice, and the averted eye,
Thick film'd with sin, is darkened thus, and lost
To all his visible glory. The green fields
Are studded with their golden buttons still,
And living with their gilded butterflies,
That pass not unobserved. The rocky pool,
In which the robin bathes his dusky plumes,
The tufted flow'rs that smile beyond, the slope
That from its margin greenly steals away
To bordering woodlands fill'd with airy tongues,
Still lure us from the hot and dusty road
As in the years gone by. There come at morn,
From the cool groves and from the orchards round,
The same sweet songs of birds that charm'd the ear
Of childhood, and of youth; and in the eve
Floats up from the broad meadows still, the same
Sweet smell of new-made hay. Day and the Sun
In all his glory—Night and all she hath
Of beauty, or of mystery, or joy,
Still hold their spell upon the heart, and fill
The soul with wonder and with awe. The earth
Fades not, and fails not in its wealth of charms:—
34
And find them: we plunge far into the woods,
And roam the flowery fields, and climb the hills,
Not less the child that we are more the man:
We loiter where the waters of the brook
Dance down the pebbly slope, and watch the leaf
Or feather that is on its bosom borne,
Till lost to sight: the little hand that scoop'd
The cool wave up in childhood, larger grown,
Needs now no prompting, but supplies the draught
To thirsty lip or heated forehead. Now,
As then, we marvel at the growing grass,
And at the blooming flower, and at the tree
That rises up and pierces the blue sky
Among the clouds. The high heav'n-spanning arch,
That evening builds when storm has roll'd away
And dies far east, the purple sunset's hue,
The unmatch'd iris of the humming-bird,
The rose's cup, the lily's silver bell,
The blue-eyed violet—all sights and sounds
That won the eye or charm'd the ear in youth,
Are living still. Eternal beauty dies
Within man's heart but through eternal sin,
Or with annihilation. He who has
The love of right, the fear of wrong, the hate
And scorn of evil, multiform and dark—
Who hearkens to the still small voice within—
35
Who loves his fellow-men—who leaves to Heav'n
The judgment of his enemies: not to him,
Not to his eye, not to his ear, will God
Willingly suffer the glad sights and sounds
Of nature to grow dim, or to become
Inaudible. Years change us not so much,
Nor commerce with the world; but groveling thoughts,
Vaulting ambitions, unrepressed desires,
Whose oft-indulgence blunts the edge of youth:
These early dim the eye to nature's charms,
And early dull the ear to heavenliest sounds.
My thoughts, exultant o'er the strides of time,
Flow as they list in novel cadences.—
A cheerful melody, learned long ago,
But half forgotten now, comes stealing up
Among remembered tones of other years,
And breaks in fitful murmurs from my lips:—
To this the currents of my musing flow
1.
How lightly on yon wave the wild duck sits,Now floating with the current, and anon
Eddying the drowsy hours of noon away
Where minnows sport, and where
The lushest sedges grow!—
So lightly sits the youth upon my heart.
36
2.
How brightly yet, down this sequestered dell,Lie the cool drops of rain that fell last night,
In the leaf's hollow and the wildflower's cup,
Though the hot, scorching sun,
Has been for hours athirst!—
So brightly lies the youth upon my heart.
3.
How fondly unto yon high tree, that liftsIts folds from chilling shadows to the sun,
And there supports them when the tempests rage,
Clings the dependent vine,
By every tendril clings!—
So fondly clings the youth unto my heart.
4.
How sweetly on this knoll the sunshine rests,Filling with joy the moss's wondrous cup,
And calling violets, bluer than the sky,
From their long winter sleep,
To bless the earth again!—
So sweetly rests the youth upon my heart.
5.
How freshly lies, within the sweet embraceOf these encircling hills, whose flowery slopes
37
Whose waters ever flow
From yon half hidden rock!—
So freshly lies the youth within my heart.
A cheerful thought, more difficult to learn.—
So lightly, fondly, sweetly, freshly lies
The youth within my heart: so rest it there!
'Tis only feeling makes us old: our years
But bear us toward the grave. We all must die,
But must not all grow old, except in years.
—The groves, whose beauty and whose music stole
Into my wondering spirit long ago,
Were ne'er more beautiful than now, were ne'er
More musical. I come and walk the ways
Of boyhood, and I find the flowers the same:
I pause, and sit in old familiar seats,
And see no change, save that the gathering mold
Is greener, and that now upon them press
Mosses and lichens of a few more years.—
The youth is in the heart of Nature, too!
Beautiful, beautiful Youth!—Freshness is youth,
And truthfulness is youth, and innocence:
And faith, and love, and joyousness are youth:
Whatever undistorted stands, and wears
38
It came from God, is panoplied in youth.
It gathers not the dust of time—it takes
No tarnish from the earth—but walks abroad
Effulgent with the glory of its Source,
And trailing robes of beauty evermore.
My soul is full; and from its stirring depths,
Oh, beautiful young heart! whose tendrils cling
So closely round my own, flow, overflow,
These fervent strains to thine:—
1.
Child of my love!Count it a blessing that thou also art
The child of Nature, and the lineal heir
Of all the wealth of charms that she bestows
Upon her votaries
2.
The morning air,That to thy chamber, ere thou art awake,
Comes with cool lips, fresh-bathed in meadowy dews,
And kisses thy young cheek; the choral songs,
That on the freshening breeze, from ringing groves,
Float sweetly up and sing thee from thy sleep;
The glittering grass, that in the sun's first beam
39
That, like a blessed influence from God,
Prompts thy young heart to prayer: these, loved one, these
Are of thy heritage.
3.
The solemn hushOf summer noons,—when o'er the city sweeps,
Sirocco-like, each fitful breath of air,
Till men sink down exhausted, and for hours,
In languid half-repose, fond mothers lie
And fan their suffering infants,—comes to thee
With cheerful gleams of blue and peaceful skies,
And quiet whispers from sweet pebbly brooks,
That glide along in shadow, mingled oft
With drowsy murmurs, in the sunny air,
Of many insect tribes, and fitful songs
From dark ancestral cedars stealing out,
Where wearied wings are folded. Blessed lot!
Which thou inheritest, and dost possess,
As Nature's child and mine.
4.
Thine is the eveOf healthful breezes that come freshening up
From springy dells and wooded wild ravines,
40
And stolen its coolness, and from pastoral slopes
Alive with herds, whose breath they've gathered up
In all its sweetness, and now bring to thee.
The oriole greets thee from his hanging bower;
The sparrow sings for thee; the southern wren
Echoes the cardinal's resounding notes;
The catbird leads the Vespers sweetly on,
Till sets the sun; and then the hermit thrush,
Quiet all day in far-off thickets, comes
Nearer at night's approach, and pours his soul
In ravishing melodies, till all the air
Is living with his spirit.
5.
And thine the night,All starr'd with glory, and all fill'd with tones
That come down from the Infinite, and link
Our being with the elder-born of Time,
Eternity, Existence uncreate:
Voices that speak in dreams, or memories,
Or consciousness yet faint and undefined,
Of Pre-existence—states, conditions, forms,
That are not now, but whither we are borne,
To the Inevitable and the Doom,
May be again, or not, as now and here
We haply win or lose.
41
6.
Child of my love!Oh, count it fortunate thou art the child
Of Nature also. To this double bond
Be faithful. Coming years will tempt thee sore—
But in the trials and the triumphs Life
May have in store for thee, forget thou not
The haunts wherein thy childhood met with love,
And peace, and beauty; where in tranquil ways
Thy chafing spirit thou didst often soothe;
And where, as thy young heart has felt, God walked
With Nature and with thee.
42
3. Part Third.
1851.
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.
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.
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,
43
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!
44
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
45
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.
And thus again my pensive musings flow
To snatches of another melody,
46
On the dim plain of memory, as stamps
Worn and obliterated long from coin,
By fire are to the surface brought again.
1.
Ah! well-a-way!The cloud will come; but after comes the sun.
Youth lies within the heart, and youth and sorrow
Were never strangers since the Eden-fall.
Sorrow descends upon the flower of youth,
As snow upon the crimson April-bloom,
Not with a blighting chill, but with a soft
And kindly pressure, that to youth gives strength,
Warmth to the crimson blossom, and to both
The panoply that shields
From after-coming storms.
2.
Ah! well-a-way!Sin was begot in Hell, and sorrow born
In Eden, but the two are ever twinn'd.
Without the sin the sorrow might not come:
But with the sin, the sorrow is a bright,
Redeeming angel, pointing to a time
When sin was not; to an eternity
When sin shall be no more; and to a God
47
That thus the sin might die,
And man again be pure.
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.
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.
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,
48
—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
49
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
50
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.
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.
51
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.
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;
52
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.
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,
53
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.
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.
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.
1.
Sweet bird that, deep in beechen shades embower'd,Sittest and pour'st the sorrow of thy heart,
54
Throb as in heavy grief—
Mourn now with me: in deepest shades of sorrow
Sits my lone heart, and pours its plaint of woe,
Till in sad unison
Throbs every heart around.
2.
Sweet brook, that over shining pebbles glidestIn quiet, with a low and plaintive moan,
Made to the listening woods
And to the leaning flowers—
Mourn now with me: like thine my life in quiet
Glides on and on, with songs of flowers and woods;
Nor asks a gayer scene,
Or other auditors.
3.
Sweet summer wind, that, high among the branchesOf elm, and poplar, and of towering oak,
Sighest the morning out,
Sighest the evening in—
Mourn now with me: in and from early boyhood,
I've loved with you these lone and sinless haunts,
Nor asked to pour my song
Where the proud world might hear.
55
4.
Sweet bird, sweet brook, sweet summer wind, oh listen!Come to me from the throbbing beechen shade,
From moaning hollows come,
And from the sighing trees—
Mourn now with me: mourn for the dear one absent,
Who loved you with a love as strong as mine:
Mourn for the mind's eclipse—
Unutterable woe!
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.
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.
56
4. Part Fourth.
1852.
Miami Woods! From busy scenes of life,
Of vaunting littleness and fretting state,
Of vain ambitions and repulsive pride,
Of sin, and sorrow, and nefarious wrong,
I come again for meditation, peace,
And healthful exercise, to these far haunts,
Where human passions have not yet destroy'd
The calm repose, the majesty, the might,
Of Nature. Summer here has garlanded
The pillars of these glorious temples round,
And laid the light mosaic floor, and built
The groinèd arches, and spread out above
The fretted roof. And here I gladly steal
From the hot glare of day, and from the strife
Of ever-clashing interests, that make
Society the thing it should not be,
Not only to commune with my own soul
In solitude, but 'mid these calm retreats
To contemplate the busy world without,
Its higher aims, its littleness, its pride,
And the gigantic meannesses that make
Sin of repute by contrast! ... Come with me,
Ye whose hearts sicken at the tales of woe,
Oppression, avarice, hatred, lust and war,
Which faster than the winds now fly about:
Stand with me here upon the forest's edge,
And look out on the quiet, happy homes,
That dot the landscape, each with plenty bless'd,
And crown'd with sweet content, so rarely found:
See the broad, sunny fields of ripening grain,
How peacefully they lie! the orchards see,
Loaded with shining fruits! the garden spots,
Bright with their vegetation! and the wide,
Smooth meadow-lands, with lowing herds alive,
And bleating flocks! Look out upon it all—
Its peace, its plenty, its sequestered joys—
And say if this shall e'er become the scene
Of blood and carnage: if disastrous war,
With rampant horrors and unsparing lust,
Shall ever desolate these happy homes!
—The plains of Greece, Italia's sunny vales,
All Europe's broad expanse, fit answer give,
If human passions rule without restraint,
And bold ambition be not held in check.
Of vaunting littleness and fretting state,
Of vain ambitions and repulsive pride,
Of sin, and sorrow, and nefarious wrong,
I come again for meditation, peace,
And healthful exercise, to these far haunts,
Where human passions have not yet destroy'd
The calm repose, the majesty, the might,
Of Nature. Summer here has garlanded
The pillars of these glorious temples round,
And laid the light mosaic floor, and built
The groinèd arches, and spread out above
The fretted roof. And here I gladly steal
From the hot glare of day, and from the strife
Of ever-clashing interests, that make
Society the thing it should not be,
Not only to commune with my own soul
In solitude, but 'mid these calm retreats
To contemplate the busy world without,
Its higher aims, its littleness, its pride,
And the gigantic meannesses that make
57
Ye whose hearts sicken at the tales of woe,
Oppression, avarice, hatred, lust and war,
Which faster than the winds now fly about:
Stand with me here upon the forest's edge,
And look out on the quiet, happy homes,
That dot the landscape, each with plenty bless'd,
And crown'd with sweet content, so rarely found:
See the broad, sunny fields of ripening grain,
How peacefully they lie! the orchards see,
Loaded with shining fruits! the garden spots,
Bright with their vegetation! and the wide,
Smooth meadow-lands, with lowing herds alive,
And bleating flocks! Look out upon it all—
Its peace, its plenty, its sequestered joys—
And say if this shall e'er become the scene
Of blood and carnage: if disastrous war,
With rampant horrors and unsparing lust,
Shall ever desolate these happy homes!
—The plains of Greece, Italia's sunny vales,
All Europe's broad expanse, fit answer give,
If human passions rule without restraint,
And bold ambition be not held in check.
What is the lesson of the past? O'er earth,—
So runs the bloody chronicle,—the sword
Has claim'd dominion ever. By the plow
Patient and toiling industry has striven,
And turn'd the soil, and planted; but the sword
Has cut the harvest, and its myrmidons
Have filled their garners first. To charge and hold
The distaff, and to ply the busy wheel,
Has been the woman's office; but the spear
Has caught the thread upon its gory point,
And had it woven into trappings gay
For conquering legions. Where the falchion flash'd
The cross has crumbled: where the battle-shout
Has risen, there the prayer has died away:
And in the populous valleys, where the tramp
Of armèd hosts has sounded like the sea,
'Mid rapine, and debauch, and smoke, and flame,
The happy homes of innocence and peace
Have disappeared. Ambition, leagued with lust,
Laid his red hand upon the ancient world,
And it stood still with terror.—Earth again,
In these the later years, has been the scene
Of deadliest conflicts, till terrific throes
Have rent the bosom of society.
Thrones then have rock'd, and rulers stood aghast,
As if this solid and substantial orb
Were quaking under them, and gaping seams
Hissed for their quick engulfment. Wild, and fierce,
And desolating periods have pass'd,
Till Horror's maw was glutted, and he sank
Sated with blood. Peace then has come again,
With her benignant voice, and countenance
Haloed like a divinity's; and men,
Led captive by her many beautiful ways,
And by the majesty that girt her round,
And by the providence that she displayed,
And by the prosperous arts that sprung to life
Where'er she pass'd, have risen and followed her.
So runs the bloody chronicle,—the sword
Has claim'd dominion ever. By the plow
58
And turn'd the soil, and planted; but the sword
Has cut the harvest, and its myrmidons
Have filled their garners first. To charge and hold
The distaff, and to ply the busy wheel,
Has been the woman's office; but the spear
Has caught the thread upon its gory point,
And had it woven into trappings gay
For conquering legions. Where the falchion flash'd
The cross has crumbled: where the battle-shout
Has risen, there the prayer has died away:
And in the populous valleys, where the tramp
Of armèd hosts has sounded like the sea,
'Mid rapine, and debauch, and smoke, and flame,
The happy homes of innocence and peace
Have disappeared. Ambition, leagued with lust,
Laid his red hand upon the ancient world,
And it stood still with terror.—Earth again,
In these the later years, has been the scene
Of deadliest conflicts, till terrific throes
Have rent the bosom of society.
Thrones then have rock'd, and rulers stood aghast,
As if this solid and substantial orb
Were quaking under them, and gaping seams
Hissed for their quick engulfment. Wild, and fierce,
And desolating periods have pass'd,
Till Horror's maw was glutted, and he sank
59
With her benignant voice, and countenance
Haloed like a divinity's; and men,
Led captive by her many beautiful ways,
And by the majesty that girt her round,
And by the providence that she displayed,
And by the prosperous arts that sprung to life
Where'er she pass'd, have risen and followed her.
But still the sword asserts dominion; still
War eateth out the substance of the lands:
And when, oh! when shall human tongue proclaim,
Peace is the throned divinity of Earth!
Order and Freedom are her ministers!
War eateth out the substance of the lands:
And when, oh! when shall human tongue proclaim,
Peace is the throned divinity of Earth!
Order and Freedom are her ministers!
Order and Freedom! this God's highest gift,
That his primordial law—distinct, yet one—
For without union neither can endure,
This running wild, that darting from the grooves
Of due adjustment. How the equipoise
Fails in the roll of nations from the first!
That is not Freedom, which of old in Greece
Oiled the glib tongues of cunning orators,
Till with proclaimed respect for human rights
The walls of senates echoed that which was,
If not the hollowest mockery and scorn,
A blistering satire on the very name
Of Liberty. That is not Freedom which
Has fed so oft Parisian guillotines
With blood that cried to God and man for quick
And terrible revenge. Nor freedom that,
No matter who or what may call it so,
Which is, in any form, but foul misuse
Of liberty to think, and speak, and act:
'T is but licentiousness, and soon or late,
By boisterous and brutish courses, thwarts
The end it aims at. Nor is Order that
Which reigned in Warsaw, when the red-winged scourge
From Russia madly swept o'er Poland's plains.
Nor Order that which gave to modern Rome
A seeming quiet, when the serried ranks
Pass'd from the bubbling chaos that is France,
And stifled the awakening soul of Right
And Freedom on the fields of old renown.
Order is never that, whate'er its name,
Which moves engirt by intellectual thralls,
Or bristling iron flashing stern command:
This is but chain'd disorder, that, with eyes
Which never sleep, and sinews ne'er unbraced,
Watches and waits its moment, when, self-loosed,
It breaks all bounds, and mocks all consequence—
Prostrating by its fierce, convulsive throes,
Order and freedom both: then Chaos reigns.
That his primordial law—distinct, yet one—
For without union neither can endure,
This running wild, that darting from the grooves
Of due adjustment. How the equipoise
Fails in the roll of nations from the first!
That is not Freedom, which of old in Greece
Oiled the glib tongues of cunning orators,
Till with proclaimed respect for human rights
The walls of senates echoed that which was,
If not the hollowest mockery and scorn,
A blistering satire on the very name
60
Has fed so oft Parisian guillotines
With blood that cried to God and man for quick
And terrible revenge. Nor freedom that,
No matter who or what may call it so,
Which is, in any form, but foul misuse
Of liberty to think, and speak, and act:
'T is but licentiousness, and soon or late,
By boisterous and brutish courses, thwarts
The end it aims at. Nor is Order that
Which reigned in Warsaw, when the red-winged scourge
From Russia madly swept o'er Poland's plains.
Nor Order that which gave to modern Rome
A seeming quiet, when the serried ranks
Pass'd from the bubbling chaos that is France,
And stifled the awakening soul of Right
And Freedom on the fields of old renown.
Order is never that, whate'er its name,
Which moves engirt by intellectual thralls,
Or bristling iron flashing stern command:
This is but chain'd disorder, that, with eyes
Which never sleep, and sinews ne'er unbraced,
Watches and waits its moment, when, self-loosed,
It breaks all bounds, and mocks all consequence—
Prostrating by its fierce, convulsive throes,
Order and freedom both: then Chaos reigns.
61
Dread picture—dark and dread! My Country, thou
Who sitt'st among the nations like a queen
On whom all eyes are fixed, upon thy brow
The Khoinoor of regal gems in worn—
The Mount of Light, within whose steady ray
The wandering feet of millions hither tend:
Oh, may the blight of faction, and the curse
Of dark cabal, be spared thy generous breast!
Thou art the hope of Freedom, and the dread
Of Tyranny. Within thy bosom lies
A nursling giant, slumbering now, who thence
Shall draw the strength which fabling bards of old
Bestowed on world-sustaining Atlas. Grant,
Oh, Thou who mak'st the courses of the stars,
And art no less the guide and guard of man,
That when this germ of mightiest power shall reach
Its certain and its due development,
It shall not smite, with matricidal hand,
The bosom that hath nourished it; but give
Its majesty of strength, its cumulate
Of wisdom, its capacity for good,
To Man, to Truth, to Freedom, and to God!
Who sitt'st among the nations like a queen
On whom all eyes are fixed, upon thy brow
The Khoinoor of regal gems in worn—
The Mount of Light, within whose steady ray
The wandering feet of millions hither tend:
Oh, may the blight of faction, and the curse
Of dark cabal, be spared thy generous breast!
Thou art the hope of Freedom, and the dread
Of Tyranny. Within thy bosom lies
A nursling giant, slumbering now, who thence
Shall draw the strength which fabling bards of old
Bestowed on world-sustaining Atlas. Grant,
Oh, Thou who mak'st the courses of the stars,
And art no less the guide and guard of man,
That when this germ of mightiest power shall reach
Its certain and its due development,
It shall not smite, with matricidal hand,
The bosom that hath nourished it; but give
Its majesty of strength, its cumulate
Of wisdom, its capacity for good,
To Man, to Truth, to Freedom, and to God!
Time writes upon the earth, in many ways,
Wise admonition, that man's eagle eye,
Bent on the stars in cold ambition's heaven,
Stoops not to read. The far-away, the dim,
The difficult, who sees not? 'T is the plain,
Whose lessons lie along our daily paths,
That none behold, or comprehend. And yet,
The palpable is eloquent. There lies
A column, where a Grecian temple stood:
There stands a crumbling wall where Roman might
Built up its proudest structure:—Both relate
The self-same story of aggressive power,
Of wild ambition for extended rule,
And of intestine strifes that live on blood,
And die in desolation. Far away
From these dark relics and their lesson—far,
Where the adventurous Genoese descried
Another world, and gave it to the free,
There hangs a picture of gigantic size
And wonderful design. Although, as yet,
In any part unfinished, and in some
Almost untouched, it still displays in all
A towering genius, and a master hand.
It shows a nearly limitless expanse
Of hill and vale, of mountain and of plain.
Wide-spreading forests strike the wildered eye,
At first, of gorgeous foliage, varied hue,
And most majestic height. Savannas green
Between the mountain ranges stretch away,
Till in the endless wood they lose themselves,
Or mingle with the sky, and of its blue
Become an undistinguishable part.
Down the deep gorges of the mountain sides
Careering torrents tumble. Runnels leap
In cataracts white as wool from rock to rock,
And plunge in dark abysses. O'er the plains
Gigantic rivers hold their solemn way,
Now disappearing in the wilderness,
Now flashing back the light of sun and stars.
Far in the background of this wondrous scene,
Where matchless Power has stooped and hollowed out
Stupendous basins in the eternal rock,
Vast lakes repose in majesty, that have
No parallels on earth. Minuter view,
Scanning the picture close in all its parts,
Discloses habitations on the slopes
Of gentle hills, and sunny intervales
Covered with grain, and orchards bending low
With rich and ripening fruits, and grassy fields
Where the cow fills her udder, and the lamb
Crops undisturbed. And other scrutiny
Reveals the prosperous city here and there,
Wherein are practiced the fair arts of peace,
And virtue brings its crowning joy, content.
The prostrate column, and the crumbling wall,
That tell of desolation, are not here.
No footprints of the Past reveal themselves
O'er all this wide domain, save in the wrecks
Of an extinguished race that lie around—
The tomb, the altar and the citadel,
Which Time in his long lapse has robed in green
Softer than velvet, making beautiful
Not only what were desolation else,
But the wide prospect round. The pillar'd pride
Of lofty groves, the dark luxuriant growth
Of virgin plains, and the resistless sweep
Of rivers on whose marge the bison-herd
And antlered elk feed quietly, proclaim,
That for the footsteps of the Future, here
Lie the appointed ways. Above the lone
And prostrate column, Memory may weep,
And by the crumbling wall: but joyous Hope
Comes with high courage and elastic limb,
And to each mountain of this marvelous scene,
And to each valley, points and leads the way.
Wise admonition, that man's eagle eye,
Bent on the stars in cold ambition's heaven,
Stoops not to read. The far-away, the dim,
62
Whose lessons lie along our daily paths,
That none behold, or comprehend. And yet,
The palpable is eloquent. There lies
A column, where a Grecian temple stood:
There stands a crumbling wall where Roman might
Built up its proudest structure:—Both relate
The self-same story of aggressive power,
Of wild ambition for extended rule,
And of intestine strifes that live on blood,
And die in desolation. Far away
From these dark relics and their lesson—far,
Where the adventurous Genoese descried
Another world, and gave it to the free,
There hangs a picture of gigantic size
And wonderful design. Although, as yet,
In any part unfinished, and in some
Almost untouched, it still displays in all
A towering genius, and a master hand.
It shows a nearly limitless expanse
Of hill and vale, of mountain and of plain.
Wide-spreading forests strike the wildered eye,
At first, of gorgeous foliage, varied hue,
And most majestic height. Savannas green
Between the mountain ranges stretch away,
Till in the endless wood they lose themselves,
Or mingle with the sky, and of its blue
63
Down the deep gorges of the mountain sides
Careering torrents tumble. Runnels leap
In cataracts white as wool from rock to rock,
And plunge in dark abysses. O'er the plains
Gigantic rivers hold their solemn way,
Now disappearing in the wilderness,
Now flashing back the light of sun and stars.
Far in the background of this wondrous scene,
Where matchless Power has stooped and hollowed out
Stupendous basins in the eternal rock,
Vast lakes repose in majesty, that have
No parallels on earth. Minuter view,
Scanning the picture close in all its parts,
Discloses habitations on the slopes
Of gentle hills, and sunny intervales
Covered with grain, and orchards bending low
With rich and ripening fruits, and grassy fields
Where the cow fills her udder, and the lamb
Crops undisturbed. And other scrutiny
Reveals the prosperous city here and there,
Wherein are practiced the fair arts of peace,
And virtue brings its crowning joy, content.
The prostrate column, and the crumbling wall,
That tell of desolation, are not here.
No footprints of the Past reveal themselves
O'er all this wide domain, save in the wrecks
64
The tomb, the altar and the citadel,
Which Time in his long lapse has robed in green
Softer than velvet, making beautiful
Not only what were desolation else,
But the wide prospect round. The pillar'd pride
Of lofty groves, the dark luxuriant growth
Of virgin plains, and the resistless sweep
Of rivers on whose marge the bison-herd
And antlered elk feed quietly, proclaim,
That for the footsteps of the Future, here
Lie the appointed ways. Above the lone
And prostrate column, Memory may weep,
And by the crumbling wall: but joyous Hope
Comes with high courage and elastic limb,
And to each mountain of this marvelous scene,
And to each valley, points and leads the way.
Ah! Hope is strong to nations—strong to me:
But the bright ray that broke upon my path
When last I wandered in these silent shades,
Soon blackened like the night around my heart:
For darkness dreader than its first eclipse
O'erwhelmed again that young and struggling mind,
Which here had opened first to gleams of Truth,
And brightened to the Beautiful around.
But the bright ray that broke upon my path
When last I wandered in these silent shades,
Soon blackened like the night around my heart:
For darkness dreader than its first eclipse
O'erwhelmed again that young and struggling mind,
Which here had opened first to gleams of Truth,
And brightened to the Beautiful around.
65
Miami Woods! from these sequestered haunts
For many a long and weary month, till now,
Again I've been an exile, sick at heart,
And brooding o'er the sorrow of my life—
A sorrow that has been baptized in tears
So often, it is holier grown than love,
Or hope, or memories that perish not.
For many a long and weary month, till now,
Again I've been an exile, sick at heart,
And brooding o'er the sorrow of my life—
A sorrow that has been baptized in tears
So often, it is holier grown than love,
Or hope, or memories that perish not.
Again I stand by the remembered shrines
At which she earliest worship'd God with me.
How strongly seems her youthful impress fixed
On every thing around! E'en now my soul
Is busy with a faint and simple chime,
To which the waving leaf and murmuring breeze
Bear sweet accompaniment, in full accord.
At which she earliest worship'd God with me.
How strongly seems her youthful impress fixed
On every thing around! E'en now my soul
Is busy with a faint and simple chime,
To which the waving leaf and murmuring breeze
Bear sweet accompaniment, in full accord.
1.
Cool summer woods! I walk not now alone:The form of her whose darkness makes my woe,
Childlike as when she last was with me here,
Gleams brightly on me from the undergrowth,
And glides anear me in the deepening shade,
As if she were not far, ah! far away.
66
2.
Dim forest walks! That young and radiant faceLooks out from every silent bush around,—
And that glad voice, which rang so often here,
Breaks ever and anon from flowery nooks
And sunny knolls that were her chief delight,
As if she were not far, ah! far away.
3.
Sweet, calm retreats! From old familiar paths,From favorite seats beside the babbling spring,
From leafy coverts close along my way,
I see her start in many a graceful bound,
With wildwood garlands bright upon her brows,
As if she were not far, ah! far away.
Sad, soothing chime—it lingers on the air
In sweet reverberations, like the sounds
Of far-off bells, that in the hush of night
Cease not, but pass into our dreams; and now,
The waving leaf and murmuring breeze prolong
Its closing cadence, till the creeping brook,
The tinkling water-fall, the drowsy eve,
Repeat the burden, echoing to my heart
In plaintive measures, “Far, ah! far away!”
In sweet reverberations, like the sounds
Of far-off bells, that in the hush of night
Cease not, but pass into our dreams; and now,
The waving leaf and murmuring breeze prolong
Its closing cadence, till the creeping brook,
The tinkling water-fall, the drowsy eve,
Repeat the burden, echoing to my heart
In plaintive measures, “Far, ah! far away!”
67
5. Part Fifth.
1852.
Calm, still retreats, I visit you again:
Now with a face of gladness, and a heart
None the less swelling with its gratitude
Because despair was never quite despair.
God has been merciful! Where darkness dwelt
The light has come again, and with its rays
The phantoms of the mind have vanished. Hush
Even the whispering zephyrs, while I kneel
And breathe my invocation! ... Come to me,
Ye birds that go not when the summer goes:
Pause in your winding way, ye murmuring streams:
Gather about me, ye soft autumn airs
That linger in the woodlands yet, and play
Above the sunny meadows: still look up,
Pale, perishing blossoms, from your dusky couch
Of fallen leaves: lean forward now, ye rocks,
And trees, and hills, that your dull ears may catch
The faintest accent of my trembling voice,
While fervently I thank the God of all
For this last mercy to me! ... Father! Thou
Hast taken from my heart its weight of woe;
Hast rent the veil that shut the light of hope
Long from my spirit; hast lifted up the black
And terrible pall that lay upon my soul—
Transforming it to white and shining robes,
For the fair form long hidden from my view,
And given the dear one back into my arms
Thus panoplied in Light. Thanks, thanks, oh God!
Adorable—Supreme—Eternal One!
Now with a face of gladness, and a heart
None the less swelling with its gratitude
Because despair was never quite despair.
God has been merciful! Where darkness dwelt
The light has come again, and with its rays
The phantoms of the mind have vanished. Hush
Even the whispering zephyrs, while I kneel
And breathe my invocation! ... Come to me,
Ye birds that go not when the summer goes:
Pause in your winding way, ye murmuring streams:
Gather about me, ye soft autumn airs
That linger in the woodlands yet, and play
Above the sunny meadows: still look up,
Pale, perishing blossoms, from your dusky couch
Of fallen leaves: lean forward now, ye rocks,
And trees, and hills, that your dull ears may catch
The faintest accent of my trembling voice,
While fervently I thank the God of all
For this last mercy to me! ... Father! Thou
Hast taken from my heart its weight of woe;
Hast rent the veil that shut the light of hope
68
And terrible pall that lay upon my soul—
Transforming it to white and shining robes,
For the fair form long hidden from my view,
And given the dear one back into my arms
Thus panoplied in Light. Thanks, thanks, oh God!
Adorable—Supreme—Eternal One!
Ah! not an answering tone from all the groves!
My joyous heart, that craves the sympathy
Of whatsoe'er is nearest, beats alone.
The flowers that were the glory of the spring,
The singing birds that made the summer glad,
And the green leaves that through the changing months
Danced in the sun and whispered to the breeze,
All, all have pass'd away. The weary gales
Come sighing from the meadows up the slope,
And die in plaintive murmurs: in the elm
The jay screams hoarsely, and the squirrel barks
Where the old oak stands naked: from the leaves,
That rustle to my tread, an odor comes
As of mortality. It is the sad,
Sweet period of the year our calends call
The “Indian Summer.” Beautifully pass
The seasons into this. The harvest done,
The summer days round slowly with a hush
Into the quiet of the August noons.
Fields then lie bare; the skies grow milky-blue;
The streams run lazily; the tiniest child
Can jump the brooks, or wade them dry at knee;
One far retired in this wide Wood, can hear
Its deep heart throb, so still is every thing:
Out o'er the meadows, where from earliest morn
The grazing herds have fed, they quit the dry,
Hot grasses, and seek out the shadiest pools,
Where, plunging belly-deep, they thus await
The cooler eve's approach so quietly,
They look like statues from red granite hewn,
Or cast in bronze, or cut in ivory;
The restless sheep are scattered, each with nose
Thrust in protecting grasses; by the bars,
Beneath the walnut shade, the horses dose
The mid-day hours away; around the fields,
The groves are silent; dotting here and there
The faded landscape, like gray clouds at rest,
The old farm-houses lie; the lolling dog,
That ever claims the shadow of the porch,
Frets the hot noon through; all is still beside.
My joyous heart, that craves the sympathy
Of whatsoe'er is nearest, beats alone.
The flowers that were the glory of the spring,
The singing birds that made the summer glad,
And the green leaves that through the changing months
Danced in the sun and whispered to the breeze,
All, all have pass'd away. The weary gales
Come sighing from the meadows up the slope,
And die in plaintive murmurs: in the elm
The jay screams hoarsely, and the squirrel barks
Where the old oak stands naked: from the leaves,
That rustle to my tread, an odor comes
As of mortality. It is the sad,
Sweet period of the year our calends call
The “Indian Summer.” Beautifully pass
The seasons into this. The harvest done,
The summer days round slowly with a hush
Into the quiet of the August noons.
69
The streams run lazily; the tiniest child
Can jump the brooks, or wade them dry at knee;
One far retired in this wide Wood, can hear
Its deep heart throb, so still is every thing:
Out o'er the meadows, where from earliest morn
The grazing herds have fed, they quit the dry,
Hot grasses, and seek out the shadiest pools,
Where, plunging belly-deep, they thus await
The cooler eve's approach so quietly,
They look like statues from red granite hewn,
Or cast in bronze, or cut in ivory;
The restless sheep are scattered, each with nose
Thrust in protecting grasses; by the bars,
Beneath the walnut shade, the horses dose
The mid-day hours away; around the fields,
The groves are silent; dotting here and there
The faded landscape, like gray clouds at rest,
The old farm-houses lie; the lolling dog,
That ever claims the shadow of the porch,
Frets the hot noon through; all is still beside.
The quivering flame of August noons, at length,
Burns out; and with September's equinox
The earth grows cooler, and the quicken'd airs
More freshly touch the cheek: but summer's breath
Yet lingers, till the still October comes
With frosty nights, and slumberous, sunny days:
Then falls the leaf; then fades along the fence
The golden-rod; then turns the aster pale;
Then fly the song-birds, by the robin led,
Whose voices through the summer months have fill'd
The woods with music, far to southern haunts,
In orange thickets by Suwanee's shore,
And Mississippi's broad magnolia groves.
Burns out; and with September's equinox
The earth grows cooler, and the quicken'd airs
More freshly touch the cheek: but summer's breath
Yet lingers, till the still October comes
70
Then falls the leaf; then fades along the fence
The golden-rod; then turns the aster pale;
Then fly the song-birds, by the robin led,
Whose voices through the summer months have fill'd
The woods with music, far to southern haunts,
In orange thickets by Suwanee's shore,
And Mississippi's broad magnolia groves.
Another haze now overspreads the sky,
That thickens into dark November clouds;
And soon, from where the stormy Saginaw
Lets loose the northern blasts, come driving down
Fierce wintry winds o'er wide and frozen plains,
Till drizzly days bring snowy nights, and all
Is desolate.—But vainly yet the light
And feathery flakes descend on earth, and cling
Upon the trees; for often still come warm
And sunny noons, which lift the thin white shroud
From limbs it prematurely wraps, and lay
The folded linen back from Nature's face.
—Again the sunshine lightens up the vales,
And sleeps upon the hillsides: heav'n looks love—
And earth looks gratitude—and all the air
Sinks to a holy calm, like that which comes
Upon cathedral aisles when the last chant
Of voices, and the organ's closing peals,
Die lingeringly away. Another change
Now follows silently; and from the broad
And grassy plains, and from the fallen leaves
That strew the forest-walks, and from the hills
And from the streams, like incense rises up
A gentle, all-pervading, softening haze,
As quiet and as soothing as the prayer
Last breathed in life from holiest Christian lips.
That thickens into dark November clouds;
And soon, from where the stormy Saginaw
Lets loose the northern blasts, come driving down
Fierce wintry winds o'er wide and frozen plains,
Till drizzly days bring snowy nights, and all
Is desolate.—But vainly yet the light
And feathery flakes descend on earth, and cling
Upon the trees; for often still come warm
And sunny noons, which lift the thin white shroud
From limbs it prematurely wraps, and lay
The folded linen back from Nature's face.
—Again the sunshine lightens up the vales,
And sleeps upon the hillsides: heav'n looks love—
And earth looks gratitude—and all the air
Sinks to a holy calm, like that which comes
Upon cathedral aisles when the last chant
Of voices, and the organ's closing peals,
71
Now follows silently; and from the broad
And grassy plains, and from the fallen leaves
That strew the forest-walks, and from the hills
And from the streams, like incense rises up
A gentle, all-pervading, softening haze,
As quiet and as soothing as the prayer
Last breathed in life from holiest Christian lips.
A sweet, voluptuous languor, fills the air:
The sun is shorn of his bright beams, and looks
Redly and dimly down upon the earth:
The moon glows like a buckler, as she mounts
In quiet from the misty depths, which now
No marked horizon separates from the dome
That spreads above: the starry hosts are lost,
All but the larger lights, which dimly walk
The heavens alone. The breezes of the night
Catch the last lingering sweets of autumn-time,
And with them bring the murmurs of the brooks
To lull the senses to repose. The warm
And wanton airs that through the slumberous day
Steal gently up from southern climes, caress
The willing cheek, and fold the languid frame
In long embraces, and on couches spread
In sunny spots of silence, thickly strewn
With sweetest smelling leaves, lie down with it
In panting ecstasies of soft delights.
The sun is shorn of his bright beams, and looks
Redly and dimly down upon the earth:
The moon glows like a buckler, as she mounts
In quiet from the misty depths, which now
No marked horizon separates from the dome
That spreads above: the starry hosts are lost,
All but the larger lights, which dimly walk
The heavens alone. The breezes of the night
Catch the last lingering sweets of autumn-time,
And with them bring the murmurs of the brooks
To lull the senses to repose. The warm
And wanton airs that through the slumberous day
Steal gently up from southern climes, caress
The willing cheek, and fold the languid frame
In long embraces, and on couches spread
In sunny spots of silence, thickly strewn
72
In panting ecstasies of soft delights.
Now all the woodlands round, and these fair vales,
And the broad plains that from their borders stretch
Away to the blue Unica, and run
Along the Ozark range, and far beyond
Find the still groves that shut Itasca in,
But, more than all, these old Miami Woods,
Are robed in golden exhalations, dim
As half-remembered dreams, and beautiful
As aught of Valambrosa, or the plains
Of Arcady, by fabling poets sung.
The night is fill'd with murmurs, and the day
Distils a subtle atmosphere, that lulls
The senses to a half repose, and hangs
A rosy twilight over nature, like
The night of Norway summers, when the sun
Skims the horizon through the tedious months.
And the broad plains that from their borders stretch
Away to the blue Unica, and run
Along the Ozark range, and far beyond
Find the still groves that shut Itasca in,
But, more than all, these old Miami Woods,
Are robed in golden exhalations, dim
As half-remembered dreams, and beautiful
As aught of Valambrosa, or the plains
Of Arcady, by fabling poets sung.
The night is fill'd with murmurs, and the day
Distils a subtle atmosphere, that lulls
The senses to a half repose, and hangs
A rosy twilight over nature, like
The night of Norway summers, when the sun
Skims the horizon through the tedious months.
Now airs as warm and sweet as those that kiss
The blossoms of the groves in Florida,
Steal softly whispering through the woods, and crimp
The sleeping streams. New leases of new life
Seem given to him whose evanescent years
Are rounding to a long repose. His couch
Is near the window wheeled, his weary head
Is bolstered up, that he may thus look out
Upon the hazy landscape, and inhale
The grateful air. Anon he feels his heart
Thrill with a subtle influence, that lifts
His thoughts above the world; and then his brain
Throbs with delight a moment, when he sinks
Silently back in beatific dreams,
That give his soul a foretaste of the bliss
It soon shall know in heaven. While over him
Whose life is in the vigor still of youth,
Comes a sweet languor, touching first his limbs,
Then creeping stealthily along each vein,
And spreading till he yields himself at will
To the delicious sense of life alone.
The blossoms of the groves in Florida,
Steal softly whispering through the woods, and crimp
The sleeping streams. New leases of new life
Seem given to him whose evanescent years
Are rounding to a long repose. His couch
Is near the window wheeled, his weary head
73
Upon the hazy landscape, and inhale
The grateful air. Anon he feels his heart
Thrill with a subtle influence, that lifts
His thoughts above the world; and then his brain
Throbs with delight a moment, when he sinks
Silently back in beatific dreams,
That give his soul a foretaste of the bliss
It soon shall know in heaven. While over him
Whose life is in the vigor still of youth,
Comes a sweet languor, touching first his limbs,
Then creeping stealthily along each vein,
And spreading till he yields himself at will
To the delicious sense of life alone.
Such is the “Indian Summer,”—named by those
Who hither came while yet the Redman held
Dominion here. No fabling pen portrays
This season's sweet, luxurious, transient sway.
Not man alone, though he in chief, enjoys
Its brief career: the summer-working bee,
Voluptuous in his tastes, is tempted forth,
And forages with skill; across my path
The hoarding squirrel springs with fresh-got spoil;
The winter birds discard the sumach seed,
And dry wild-grapes, and haunt the sunny nooks
That lure the worm and insect out, for food
Of daintier sort. All nature seems to feel,
Throughout her frame, the genial influence;
And woods and streams, and hills and valleys, look
Praises to God, the Infinite, the Good.
Who hither came while yet the Redman held
Dominion here. No fabling pen portrays
This season's sweet, luxurious, transient sway.
Not man alone, though he in chief, enjoys
Its brief career: the summer-working bee,
Voluptuous in his tastes, is tempted forth,
And forages with skill; across my path
The hoarding squirrel springs with fresh-got spoil;
The winter birds discard the sumach seed,
And dry wild-grapes, and haunt the sunny nooks
74
Of daintier sort. All nature seems to feel,
Throughout her frame, the genial influence;
And woods and streams, and hills and valleys, look
Praises to God, the Infinite, the Good.
Miami Woods! day after day, for near
A fortnight now, I've come at early morn
And loitered till the eve, from point to point
Threading the forest mazes many a mile;
Now sitting, like the soul of Solitude,
On a brown hill-side backed by naked elms,
Gazing into the waters of the stream
That kissed its base, of many shadows full,
As if they were futurity; anon,
Hanging above the vestiges of life
In the world's infancy, that strew the plains,
And dot the slopes, and crown the highest hills;
Then lingering amid the stately groves
That girdle in the broad white fields of corn,
Whose golden ears yet hang within the husk;
Then passing with the farmer's children up
From underneath the beech and hack-berry trees,
Partaking freely soon of wholesome fare,
And cheating the long evening in discourse
Of Boone and Kenton and the Pioneers,
Of Pontiac and Ellenipsico,
Of Logan, the heart-broken chief, of bold
Tecumseh and the Prophet, Raisin's red
And terrible massacre, and Erie's great
And glorious victory—then all to bed:
Next morn, with only thanks given and received
For all this hospitality, away
Into the rustling forest-paths again,
Deep-lost in admiration at the brave
Resistance which the Redmen here had made
To the encroaching tides that drove them back
Farther and farther in the wilderness,
And kindred admiration of the bold,
Resistless progress of the Pioneers,
Whose spirit hardest toil could not subdue,
Whom dangers daunted not, nor death appall'd.
A fortnight now, I've come at early morn
And loitered till the eve, from point to point
Threading the forest mazes many a mile;
Now sitting, like the soul of Solitude,
On a brown hill-side backed by naked elms,
Gazing into the waters of the stream
That kissed its base, of many shadows full,
As if they were futurity; anon,
Hanging above the vestiges of life
In the world's infancy, that strew the plains,
And dot the slopes, and crown the highest hills;
Then lingering amid the stately groves
That girdle in the broad white fields of corn,
Whose golden ears yet hang within the husk;
Then passing with the farmer's children up
From underneath the beech and hack-berry trees,
Partaking freely soon of wholesome fare,
And cheating the long evening in discourse
Of Boone and Kenton and the Pioneers,
Of Pontiac and Ellenipsico,
75
Tecumseh and the Prophet, Raisin's red
And terrible massacre, and Erie's great
And glorious victory—then all to bed:
Next morn, with only thanks given and received
For all this hospitality, away
Into the rustling forest-paths again,
Deep-lost in admiration at the brave
Resistance which the Redmen here had made
To the encroaching tides that drove them back
Farther and farther in the wilderness,
And kindred admiration of the bold,
Resistless progress of the Pioneers,
Whose spirit hardest toil could not subdue,
Whom dangers daunted not, nor death appall'd.
The “Indian Summer” thus hath pass'd away—
The soft, luxurious days of indolence,
Voluptuous and wildering as a dream
Of Hafiz in the Persian citron groves,
Fann'd by the spicy zephyrs of the East,
And sung to slumber by the Bulbul rocked
In sweetest folds of the imperial rose.
—Now, from the stormy Huron's broad expanse,
From Mackinaw and from the Michigan,
Whose billows beat upon the sounding shores
And lash the surging pines, come sweeping down
Ice-making blasts, and raging sheets of snow:
The heavens grow darker daily; bleakest winds
Shriek through the naked woods; the robber owl
Hoots from his rocking citadel all night;
And all the day unhousèd cattle stand
Shivering and pinch'd. By many a potent sign
The dark and dreary days of Winter thus
Inaugurate their king. A summer bird,
I fly before his breath.—Loved haunts, farewell!
The soft, luxurious days of indolence,
Voluptuous and wildering as a dream
Of Hafiz in the Persian citron groves,
Fann'd by the spicy zephyrs of the East,
And sung to slumber by the Bulbul rocked
In sweetest folds of the imperial rose.
—Now, from the stormy Huron's broad expanse,
From Mackinaw and from the Michigan,
Whose billows beat upon the sounding shores
And lash the surging pines, come sweeping down
76
The heavens grow darker daily; bleakest winds
Shriek through the naked woods; the robber owl
Hoots from his rocking citadel all night;
And all the day unhousèd cattle stand
Shivering and pinch'd. By many a potent sign
The dark and dreary days of Winter thus
Inaugurate their king. A summer bird,
I fly before his breath.—Loved haunts, farewell!
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6. Part Sixth.
1853.
A year ago—a little year ago—
How long I lingered in these quiet haunts!
The earth was ne'er more beautiful than then,
Day darkened into night so peacefully,
And night so freshly brightened into day:
But storm and darkness pass'd upon the scene,
And swept it like a scourge. A year ago,
A little year ago, the stricken one
From scattering shadows look'd out on that earth,
And brightened in its beauty. Her young heart
And mine took lesson of the night and day,
And pass'd like them each into either's depths:
But storm and darkness visit not the earth
Alone, to desolate and to destroy;
They fall upon the human heart as well,
And sweep it also like a deadly scourge.
How long I lingered in these quiet haunts!
The earth was ne'er more beautiful than then,
Day darkened into night so peacefully,
And night so freshly brightened into day:
But storm and darkness pass'd upon the scene,
And swept it like a scourge. A year ago,
A little year ago, the stricken one
From scattering shadows look'd out on that earth,
And brightened in its beauty. Her young heart
And mine took lesson of the night and day,
And pass'd like them each into either's depths:
But storm and darkness visit not the earth
Alone, to desolate and to destroy;
They fall upon the human heart as well,
And sweep it also like a deadly scourge.
1.
I had a little sprite whose name was Hope—It sang glad songs into my eager ear;
78
And now its songs are still'd forevermore—
Forevermore.
2.
I heard a voice, born of my human love,Speak to my human weakness words of joy;
Each was as sweet as sounds of dulcimers,
But all are silent now forevermore—
Forevermore.
3.
I held within my own a little hand,White as the moon, and it became as cold;
I pressed it to my lips in agony;
'T was then withdrawn—withdrawn forevermore—
Forevermore.
4.
I've worn a faded lily on my breastThese many days, these many weary days;
But now, by unseen fingers touch'd, it falls,
It falls away, and falls forevermore—
Forevermore.
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5.
I held a beautiful and precious gemAgainst my beating heart, for many a year;
But while most cherished it hath turn'd to dust,
And here I lay it down forevermore—
Forevermore.
Oh, many are the sweet and gentle flowers,
Caught by untimely frosts, that droop and die
Ere half their beauty has disclosed itself:
The dews of evening and the stars of night
Watch o'er and weep for them, and kindly airs
Bear them to earth, and lay them in repose.
And many are the pure and gentle hearts,
Untimely touched by Death, that render up
The hopes and promises of opening life
Without a murmur, and go calmly down,
Along the way of shadows, to the grave.
And such an one has just been laid to rest,
Here, where the hectic leaf of autumn falls
And strews the fresh-heap'd earth, and where the pale
And perishing blossoms of the year lie low.
Caught by untimely frosts, that droop and die
Ere half their beauty has disclosed itself:
The dews of evening and the stars of night
Watch o'er and weep for them, and kindly airs
Bear them to earth, and lay them in repose.
And many are the pure and gentle hearts,
Untimely touched by Death, that render up
The hopes and promises of opening life
Without a murmur, and go calmly down,
Along the way of shadows, to the grave.
And such an one has just been laid to rest,
Here, where the hectic leaf of autumn falls
And strews the fresh-heap'd earth, and where the pale
And perishing blossoms of the year lie low.
1.
Birds of the greenwood groves, and sunny meads!Whose voices ever fill'd her with delight,
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Come from the thicket's edge where berries hang,
Come from each airy perch and favorite haunt,
And from your sweet and ever-plaintive throats
Pour forth, in soft and melancholy staves,
A dirge above the loved and early lost!
2.
Winds of the spring-time! ye that bear the soundsOf far-off murmurs on your dewy wings,
And steal a cadence from the running brook,
That rob the insect of its hum, and catch
The harp's last note, still trembling on the strings,
Pause here a little while, above this grave,
And in the tenderest tones of all, breathe out
A requiem for the loved and early lost.
3.
Light breezes of the summer! wandering far,Combine in one the many sounds of grief
Ye gather in your long and lonely way,
And wed with them all sounds of earth and air
Too sorrowful for other company,
And murmur them at morn and eventide,
And in the hush of noon, above the spot
Where sleeps in death the loved and early lost!
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4.
Soft, sighing gales of autumn! from the brownAnd melancholy meadows, from the gloom
Of rocky caverns, from the plaining woods,
That mourn the hectic leaf and fading flower,
From deepest hollows and from highest hills,
Bring all the soft, sweet voices that are born,
And pour the saddest plaint that ever yet
Was uttered for the loved and early lost!
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7. Part Seventh.
1856.
Miami Woods! once more, in pilgrim guise,
I seek your venerable shades. My heart
Is swelling with a thousand memories
Of her who, in her youthful beauty, roamed
The child of Nature here. The lapsing years
Came with their seasons redolent of bloom,
Abounding fruitfulness, and garnered wealth:
Chances and changes left their impress here,
On many a scene: the glory of the woods
Faded and fell where migratory man
Spied out the land, and chose his new abode:
The quiet of the sylvan Solitude
Was broken by unusual sounds, that woke
New echoes in its depths, as through them rush'd,
With arrowy speed, careering Power, that dragg'd
The freighted car, along whose mighty track
The monarchs of the forest disappeared:
Where the rude cabin of the pioneer
Lay like a shadow on the grassy plain,
Or on the wooded slope, when first her feet
Wandered in prattling infancy along
Meandering rivulet and bounding brook,
The trellised cottage with its crown of flowers
Appeared, and statelier mansions rose anon:
The hand of civilization touch'd each scene,
And changed it: even our last retreats were not
Exempt, but into far secluded haunts,
Whose natural beauty art could only mar,
The axe, the compass, and the chain were borne,
Dividing and despoiling: onward came
The multitudes who people now these plains
And hills, not as a calm-careering stream,
But like a rushing torrent:—Still, the love
Of Nature, in her quiet, far retreats,
Oft brought us to these old majestic groves,
That even avarice hath not yet laid low.
I seek your venerable shades. My heart
Is swelling with a thousand memories
Of her who, in her youthful beauty, roamed
The child of Nature here. The lapsing years
Came with their seasons redolent of bloom,
Abounding fruitfulness, and garnered wealth:
Chances and changes left their impress here,
On many a scene: the glory of the woods
Faded and fell where migratory man
Spied out the land, and chose his new abode:
The quiet of the sylvan Solitude
Was broken by unusual sounds, that woke
New echoes in its depths, as through them rush'd,
With arrowy speed, careering Power, that dragg'd
The freighted car, along whose mighty track
The monarchs of the forest disappeared:
Where the rude cabin of the pioneer
Lay like a shadow on the grassy plain,
Or on the wooded slope, when first her feet
Wandered in prattling infancy along
83
The trellised cottage with its crown of flowers
Appeared, and statelier mansions rose anon:
The hand of civilization touch'd each scene,
And changed it: even our last retreats were not
Exempt, but into far secluded haunts,
Whose natural beauty art could only mar,
The axe, the compass, and the chain were borne,
Dividing and despoiling: onward came
The multitudes who people now these plains
And hills, not as a calm-careering stream,
But like a rushing torrent:—Still, the love
Of Nature, in her quiet, far retreats,
Oft brought us to these old majestic groves,
That even avarice hath not yet laid low.
In this our long companionship with woods,
And waters, and the star-like flowers that line
Each rustling path, and the bright, wingèd tribes,
That give the incorporeal air a voice,
And all but an embodiment, she became,
To me, a part of every sight and sound
Throughout this wide domain. And on each breeze
That steals up softly from yon babbling brook,
Her joyous tones come floating to me now;
And turn where'er I will I see her form,
For every mossy nook and flowery slope
Is living with her image. Here, where time
Has spared a leafy covert of old days,
We sat when last she visited these scenes.
The shadow of a mighty sorrow still
Rested upon her soul; but day by day
Returning light was lifting up the veil;
And in among these old familiar haunts
I saw the struggle memory made with doubt,
And viewed the gradual triumph. Soon we left,
For other scenes that lay in sweet repose,
And golden beauty, where the winter's reign
Is mild, and shortened by a kindlier clime.
And waters, and the star-like flowers that line
Each rustling path, and the bright, wingèd tribes,
That give the incorporeal air a voice,
And all but an embodiment, she became,
To me, a part of every sight and sound
Throughout this wide domain. And on each breeze
That steals up softly from yon babbling brook,
Her joyous tones come floating to me now;
And turn where'er I will I see her form,
For every mossy nook and flowery slope
84
Has spared a leafy covert of old days,
We sat when last she visited these scenes.
The shadow of a mighty sorrow still
Rested upon her soul; but day by day
Returning light was lifting up the veil;
And in among these old familiar haunts
I saw the struggle memory made with doubt,
And viewed the gradual triumph. Soon we left,
For other scenes that lay in sweet repose,
And golden beauty, where the winter's reign
Is mild, and shortened by a kindlier clime.
Once more in beauty came the blesséd spring,
And garlanded the earth. We were away,
Mid buds and blossoms of the sweet South-West,
Seeking to strengthen still the nestling hope
That God again had sent us. From her brow
Faded the darkness of its late eclipse;
And with the gentle, spicy airs, that oft
Stole up from the far Gulf of Mexico,
Bearing the sweets of rifled orange groves
And jasmine thickets, she drank in what seemed
To be a new and rarer life, and grew
Stronger and stronger, till her heart again
Yearned for the gloom of woods, the glance of waves,
The arrowy gleam of wings among the trees,
And the glad songs of birds. And hence we went
Out where the groves had a familiar look,
When she roused up as from a dream, and shook
With passionate joy. She held but slight discourse
Herself, as yet, but gave a willing ear,
And more than pleased assent, to converse framed
Of Nature, and the visible Universe,
Of Faith, and Hope, and Love,—and at the name
Of God, or Christ, would humbly bow her head.
To singing birds and blooming flowers she gave
Quick recognition, and her lips would part,
And her cheeks flush, when memories awoke
That long had slumbered. She would fondly pause
Where rippling waters made a soothing sound,
And where in crystal pools the bright blue heaven
Was mirrored, and the fleck of passing clouds.
And garlanded the earth. We were away,
Mid buds and blossoms of the sweet South-West,
Seeking to strengthen still the nestling hope
That God again had sent us. From her brow
Faded the darkness of its late eclipse;
And with the gentle, spicy airs, that oft
Stole up from the far Gulf of Mexico,
Bearing the sweets of rifled orange groves
And jasmine thickets, she drank in what seemed
To be a new and rarer life, and grew
Stronger and stronger, till her heart again
Yearned for the gloom of woods, the glance of waves,
The arrowy gleam of wings among the trees,
85
Out where the groves had a familiar look,
When she roused up as from a dream, and shook
With passionate joy. She held but slight discourse
Herself, as yet, but gave a willing ear,
And more than pleased assent, to converse framed
Of Nature, and the visible Universe,
Of Faith, and Hope, and Love,—and at the name
Of God, or Christ, would humbly bow her head.
To singing birds and blooming flowers she gave
Quick recognition, and her lips would part,
And her cheeks flush, when memories awoke
That long had slumbered. She would fondly pause
Where rippling waters made a soothing sound,
And where in crystal pools the bright blue heaven
Was mirrored, and the fleck of passing clouds.
But hope is vain—and human strength is vain—
And tears and agony and love and life,
All, all are vain. As transient as the spring
Were the fair promises that bade our hearts
Rejoice. The jewel still retain'd its light,
But the enshrining casket had been rent,
And might not be made whole again. She knew,
Ere yet suspicion had aroused our fears,
That Death with ruthless hand was cutting loose
The cords of life. Yet still through meadowy fields,
That stretched in quiet beauty to the shade
Of neighboring groves, whose calm retreats she loved,
We bore her often. But her feeble frame
Grew feebler as the passing spring went by
With its cool airs; and when the summer came,
She faded like a flower before its breath;
And ere the first of autumn moons grew round,
She told us, as the sad and weary winds
Came sighing up the slope, that she should die.
We bade her hope: she looked up at the heavens,
To tell us that her only hope was there.
We told her God was merciful, and good,
And just, and that he would not call her hence,
So young, so beautiful, so loved of all.
A momentary shade across her face
Pass'd like an agony, and disappeared.
Then with a light upon her countenance
That awed us into silence, it became
So like a halo, she with steady hand
Drew in clear lines the far-off grassy slope
Where she would lie, beside the younger three
Who pass'd to death before her—traced a slab,
Whereon she wrote her name, and these few words,
“She sleeps in peace,”—then with prophetic ken
Inscribed the year below. Ere many days,
Though sorrow came and dimm'd again her brow,
Without a tear she press'd our swelling hearts
To hers, and on the ashen lips of each
Printed her farewell kiss—then gave her thoughts
To God, who had her heart and all her hopes,
Breathing her life away without a moan,
Or audible sigh, and sank to sleep in death.
And tears and agony and love and life,
All, all are vain. As transient as the spring
Were the fair promises that bade our hearts
Rejoice. The jewel still retain'd its light,
But the enshrining casket had been rent,
And might not be made whole again. She knew,
Ere yet suspicion had aroused our fears,
That Death with ruthless hand was cutting loose
The cords of life. Yet still through meadowy fields,
86
Of neighboring groves, whose calm retreats she loved,
We bore her often. But her feeble frame
Grew feebler as the passing spring went by
With its cool airs; and when the summer came,
She faded like a flower before its breath;
And ere the first of autumn moons grew round,
She told us, as the sad and weary winds
Came sighing up the slope, that she should die.
We bade her hope: she looked up at the heavens,
To tell us that her only hope was there.
We told her God was merciful, and good,
And just, and that he would not call her hence,
So young, so beautiful, so loved of all.
A momentary shade across her face
Pass'd like an agony, and disappeared.
Then with a light upon her countenance
That awed us into silence, it became
So like a halo, she with steady hand
Drew in clear lines the far-off grassy slope
Where she would lie, beside the younger three
Who pass'd to death before her—traced a slab,
Whereon she wrote her name, and these few words,
“She sleeps in peace,”—then with prophetic ken
Inscribed the year below. Ere many days,
Though sorrow came and dimm'd again her brow,
Without a tear she press'd our swelling hearts
87
Printed her farewell kiss—then gave her thoughts
To God, who had her heart and all her hopes,
Breathing her life away without a moan,
Or audible sigh, and sank to sleep in death.
We bore her body to the grave she wish'd,
And laid it with her kindred. Earth contains,
In her enfolding bosom, few more bright,
More beautiful, more loved: and fewer still,
Who, taken in the blossom of their years,
So willingly, so trustingly, went down
To the dark chambers of the silent tomb.
And laid it with her kindred. Earth contains,
In her enfolding bosom, few more bright,
More beautiful, more loved: and fewer still,
Who, taken in the blossom of their years,
So willingly, so trustingly, went down
To the dark chambers of the silent tomb.
Sorrow is of the Earth, and joy of Heaven.
The dust of what she was, is here—the soul,
That clothed it with a glory from above,
Roams now untrammel'd through eternal space,
Singing with angels round the Throne of God,
And in the fountains of perpetual peace
Bathing its shining plumes. Such is our faith—
And yet we mourn for her, and can but mourn,
She walked the shadowy shores of death so long,
And struggled through their gloom so patiently,
Only to close her little dream of life,
And lay the casket of her soul aside,
When the thick mists were rising, and the world
Spread out beneath them, bright and beautiful.
The dust of what she was, is here—the soul,
That clothed it with a glory from above,
Roams now untrammel'd through eternal space,
Singing with angels round the Throne of God,
And in the fountains of perpetual peace
Bathing its shining plumes. Such is our faith—
And yet we mourn for her, and can but mourn,
She walked the shadowy shores of death so long,
And struggled through their gloom so patiently,
Only to close her little dream of life,
And lay the casket of her soul aside,
When the thick mists were rising, and the world
Spread out beneath them, bright and beautiful.
88
L'EnVoy.
Miami Woods!—The glory of a DreamRests on and beautifies the Real now.
What unto me your friendly shades have been,
That will they be forever—even more.
A sorrow common makes a common bond
Where else there would be none. Ye have beheld
My human anguish, and my human joy:
Ye are the friend to whom, in after years,
My heart will oftenest turn, amid its toil,
And sorrow, and dismay: your bosom holds
What unto it was more than words can tell:
But hence my voice is silent in these groves—
I sing no more the beauty and the strength
Here traced in many a green and flowery line,
And standing in the arching majesty
Of temples whose gigantic pillars rest
In the foundations of far centuries:
I sing no more the passion and the pain
That here o'ercame me: the triumphant joy
With which, when last I bade these scenes farewell,
I went upon my way, all starr'd with light,
I sing no more forever. The sweet hope,
89
And sang away its sorrow then, hath since
Gone down in desolation. That which was
The central harmony of all this song,
The beautiful young Life that to each swell
And cadence gave the spirit that it hath,
It is no more a bodily presence here,
It is no more of earth; and now the last
Faint strain of this prolonged and fitful lay,
Which but for her, and for the love she bore
These scenes, had known no second touch, must die
Into a murmurous sound—a sigh—a breath.
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