 | Western windows and other poems |  |
9
WESTERN WINDOWS.
11
WESTERN WINDOWS.
Crimsoning the woodlands dumb and hoary,
Bleak with long November winds and rains,
Lo, at sunset, breathes a sudden glory,
Breaks a fire on all the western panes!
Bleak with long November winds and rains,
Lo, at sunset, breathes a sudden glory,
Breaks a fire on all the western panes!
Eastward far I see the restless splendor
Shine through many a window-lattice bright;
Nearer all the farmhouse gables render
Flame for flame and melt in breathless light.
Shine through many a window-lattice bright;
Nearer all the farmhouse gables render
Flame for flame and melt in breathless light.
Many a mansion, many a cottage lowly,
Lost in radiance, palpitate the same
At the touch of Beauty strange and holy,
All transfigured in the evening flame.
Lost in radiance, palpitate the same
At the touch of Beauty strange and holy,
All transfigured in the evening flame.
Luminous, within—a marvellous vision—
Things familiar half-unreal show;
In the effluence of Land Elysian,
Every bosom feels a holier glow.
Things familiar half-unreal show;
In the effluence of Land Elysian,
Every bosom feels a holier glow.
12
Faces lose, as at some wondrous portal,
Earthly masks, and heavenly features wear;
Many a mother, like a saint immortal,
Folds her child, a halo'd angel fair.
Earthly masks, and heavenly features wear;
Many a mother, like a saint immortal,
Folds her child, a halo'd angel fair.
13
THE MOWER IN OHIO.
JUNE, MDCCCLXIV.
The bees in the clover are making honey, and I am making my hay:
The air is fresh, I seem to draw a young man's breath to-day.
The air is fresh, I seem to draw a young man's breath to-day.
The bees and I are alone in the grass: the air is so very still
I hear the dam, so loud, that shines beyond the sullen mill.
I hear the dam, so loud, that shines beyond the sullen mill.
Yes, the air is so still that I hear almost the sounds I can not hear—
That, when no other sound is plain, ring in my empty ear:
That, when no other sound is plain, ring in my empty ear:
The chime of striking scythes, the fall of the heavy swaths they sweep—
They ring about me, resting, when I waver half asleep;
14
So still I am not sure if a cloud, low down, unseen there be,
Or if something brings a rumor home of the cannon so far from me:
Or if something brings a rumor home of the cannon so far from me:
Far away in Virginia where Joseph and Grant, I know,
Will tell them what I meant when first I had my mowers go!
Will tell them what I meant when first I had my mowers go!
Joseph he is my eldest one, the only boy of my three
Whose shadow can darken my door again, and lighten my heart for me.
Whose shadow can darken my door again, and lighten my heart for me.
Joseph he is my eldest—how his scythe was striking ahead!
William was better at shorter heats, but Jo in the long-run led.
William was better at shorter heats, but Jo in the long-run led.
William he was my youngest; John, between them, I somehow see,
When my eyes are shut, with a little board at his head in Tennessee.
When my eyes are shut, with a little board at his head in Tennessee.
15
But William came home one morning early, from Gettysburg, last July
(The mowing was over already, although the only mower was I:)
(The mowing was over already, although the only mower was I:)
William, my captain, came home for good to his mother; and I'll be bound
We were proud and cried to see the flag that wrapt his coffin around;
We were proud and cried to see the flag that wrapt his coffin around;
For a company from the town came up ten miles with music and gun:
It seem'd his country claim'd him then—as well as his mother—her son.
It seem'd his country claim'd him then—as well as his mother—her son.
But Joseph is yonder with Grant to-day, a thousand miles or near,
And only the bees are abroad at work with me in the clover here.
And only the bees are abroad at work with me in the clover here.
Was it a murmur of thunder I heard that humm'd again in the air?
Yet, may be, the cannon are sounding now their Onward to Richmond there.
Yet, may be, the cannon are sounding now their Onward to Richmond there.
16
But under the beech by the orchard, at noon, I sat an hour it would seem—
It may be I slept a minute, too, or waver'd into a dream.
It may be I slept a minute, too, or waver'd into a dream.
For I saw my boys, across the field, by the flashes as they went,
Tramping a steady tramp as of old with the strength in their arms unspent;
Tramping a steady tramp as of old with the strength in their arms unspent;
Tramping a steady tramp, they moved like soldiers that march to the beat
Of music that seems, a part of themselves, to rise and fall with their feet;
Of music that seems, a part of themselves, to rise and fall with their feet;
Tramping a steady tramp, they came with flashes of silver that shone,
Every step, from their scythes that rang as if they needed the stone—
Every step, from their scythes that rang as if they needed the stone—
(The field is wide and heavy with grass)—and, coming toward me they beam'd
With a shine of light in their faces at once, and—surely I must have dream'd!
With a shine of light in their faces at once, and—surely I must have dream'd!
17
For I sat alone in the clover-field, the bees were working ahead.
There were three in my vision—remember, old man: and what if Joseph were dead!
There were three in my vision—remember, old man: and what if Joseph were dead!
But I hope that he and Grant (the flag above them both, to boot,)
Will go into Richmond together, no matter which is ahead or afoot!
Will go into Richmond together, no matter which is ahead or afoot!
Meantime alone at the mowing here—an old man somewhat gray—
I must stay at home as long as I can, making myself the hay.
I must stay at home as long as I can, making myself the hay.
And so another round—the quail in the orchard whistles blithe—
But first I'll drink at the spring below, and whet again my scythe.
But first I'll drink at the spring below, and whet again my scythe.
18
READING THE MILESTONE.
I stopp'd to read the Milestone here,
A laggard school-boy, long ago;
I came not far—my home was near—
But ah, how far I long'd to go!
A laggard school-boy, long ago;
I came not far—my home was near—
But ah, how far I long'd to go!
Behold a number and a name,
A finger, Westward, cut in stone:
The vision of a city came,
Across the dust and distance shown.
A finger, Westward, cut in stone:
The vision of a city came,
Across the dust and distance shown.
Around me lay the farms asleep
In hazes of autumnal air,
And sounds that quiet loves to keep
Were heard, and heard not, every-where.
In hazes of autumnal air,
And sounds that quiet loves to keep
Were heard, and heard not, every-where.
I read the Milestone, day by day:
I yearn'd to cross the barren bound,
To know the golden Far-away,
To walk the new Enchanted Ground!
I yearn'd to cross the barren bound,
To know the golden Far-away,
To walk the new Enchanted Ground!
19
THE PIONEER'S CHIMNEY.
We leave the highway here a little space—
(So much of life is near so much of death:)
The chimney of a dwelling still is seen,
A little mound of ruin, overgrown
With lithe, long grasses and domestic weeds,
Among the apple-trees (the ancestors
Of yonder orchard fruited from their boughs)—
The apple-trees that, when the place was rough
With the wild forests, and the land was new,
He planted: one, departed long ago,
But still a presence unforgotten here,
Who bless'd me in my boyhood, with his hands
That seem'd like one's anointed. Gentle, strong,
And warm'd with sunny goodness, warming all,
Was he, familiar by the reverend name
Of Uncle Gardner in our neighborhood:
His love had grown to common property
By ties that Nature draws from man to man,
And so at last had claim'd the bond of blood.
(So much of life is near so much of death:)
The chimney of a dwelling still is seen,
A little mound of ruin, overgrown
With lithe, long grasses and domestic weeds,
Among the apple-trees (the ancestors
Of yonder orchard fruited from their boughs)—
The apple-trees that, when the place was rough
With the wild forests, and the land was new,
He planted: one, departed long ago,
But still a presence unforgotten here,
Who bless'd me in my boyhood, with his hands
That seem'd like one's anointed. Gentle, strong,
And warm'd with sunny goodness, warming all,
Was he, familiar by the reverend name
Of Uncle Gardner in our neighborhood:
His love had grown to common property
By ties that Nature draws from man to man,
And so at last had claim'd the bond of blood.
20
He was an elder in the land, and held
His first proprietary right, it seem'd,
From Nature's self; for, in an earlier day,
He came with others, who of old had reach'd
Their neighbor hands across New England farms,
Over the mountains to this Western Land—
A journey long and slow and perilous,
With many hardships and the homesick look
Of wife and children backward; chose his farm,
Builded his house, and clear'd, by hard degrees,
Acres that years ago were meadows broad,
Or wheat-fields rocking in the summer heat.
His first proprietary right, it seem'd,
From Nature's self; for, in an earlier day,
He came with others, who of old had reach'd
Their neighbor hands across New England farms,
Over the mountains to this Western Land—
A journey long and slow and perilous,
With many hardships and the homesick look
Of wife and children backward; chose his farm,
Builded his house, and clear'd, by hard degrees,
Acres that years ago were meadows broad,
Or wheat-fields rocking in the summer heat.
His children grew, and son and daughter pass'd
Into the world that grew around, and some
Into that world which evermore unseen
Is still about us, and the graveyard where
Their bodies slept (a few half sinking stones,
A stranger's eyes would hardly see them, show
Seventy rods yonder in the higher ground)
Gave still a tenderer title, year by year,
To the dear places earn'd by earlier toil.
Into the world that grew around, and some
Into that world which evermore unseen
Is still about us, and the graveyard where
Their bodies slept (a few half sinking stones,
A stranger's eyes would hardly see them, show
Seventy rods yonder in the higher ground)
Gave still a tenderer title, year by year,
To the dear places earn'd by earlier toil.
Meanwhile the years that made these woody vales
An eager commonwealth of crowding men
Pass'd, one by one, and every thing was changed;
And he, whose limbs were like the hickory's when
He came with life's wrought vigor here, was changed:
He heard the voice that tells men they are old.
Yet not the less he moved his usual rounds,
Walk'd his old paths; not idle, sweated still
With scythe or sickle in the hay or wheat;
Follow'd his plow when in the April sun
The blackbird chatter'd after and the crow
Far-off look'd anxious for the new-dropp'd corn;
And gave the winter hours their services,
With sheep abroad on slopes that, slanting south,
Breathe off the snow and show a warming green,
With cattle penn'd at home or bounding flail:
So, not forgetting social offices
Throughout all seasons, (gaining so the love
That went acknowledged in his common name,)
He, like the Servant in the Parable,
Doing his duty, waited for his Lord.
An eager commonwealth of crowding men
21
And he, whose limbs were like the hickory's when
He came with life's wrought vigor here, was changed:
He heard the voice that tells men they are old.
Yet not the less he moved his usual rounds,
Walk'd his old paths; not idle, sweated still
With scythe or sickle in the hay or wheat;
Follow'd his plow when in the April sun
The blackbird chatter'd after and the crow
Far-off look'd anxious for the new-dropp'd corn;
And gave the winter hours their services,
With sheep abroad on slopes that, slanting south,
Breathe off the snow and show a warming green,
With cattle penn'd at home or bounding flail:
So, not forgetting social offices
Throughout all seasons, (gaining so the love
That went acknowledged in his common name,)
He, like the Servant in the Parable,
Doing his duty, waited for his Lord.
The chimney shows enough for memory,
And, it may be, a stranger passing close,
If thoughtful, well might think a tender thought
Of vanish'd fireside faces, in his dream
Suddenly lighted by a vanish'd fire.
And should the apple-trees that linger, loth
To end their blossoming, attract his eye,
Their fragrance would not pass unrecognized
For deeper gifts than fragrance. He is gone
Who planted them, and thirty years are gone.
Now, if you look a quarter-mile away,
Beyond the toll-gate and its lifted sweep,
You see a prouder house—not new nor old—
Beneath whose later roof no spirit dwells
That had its tenure here: a stranger holds
The secondary ownership of law.
And, it may be, a stranger passing close,
If thoughtful, well might think a tender thought
Of vanish'd fireside faces, in his dream
Suddenly lighted by a vanish'd fire.
22
To end their blossoming, attract his eye,
Their fragrance would not pass unrecognized
For deeper gifts than fragrance. He is gone
Who planted them, and thirty years are gone.
Now, if you look a quarter-mile away,
Beyond the toll-gate and its lifted sweep,
You see a prouder house—not new nor old—
Beneath whose later roof no spirit dwells
That had its tenure here: a stranger holds
The secondary ownership of law.
It is a story, common though it seem,
Tender and having pathos for the heart
Which knows, but will not know, that he who says
“My own,” and looks to-day on willing fields,
And sets his family tree in trusted ground,
To-morrow hears another answer “Mine.”
Listen, if you will listen. It is hard
To go an alien from familiar doors
When we are young, to wrestle where we go,
And win or lose exulting—we are strong;
But it is pitiful when weak and old,
When only for the near in life we seek,
And heaven, yearn'd after, is not thought of far,
To lose our shelter and to want for rest.
Tender and having pathos for the heart
Which knows, but will not know, that he who says
“My own,” and looks to-day on willing fields,
And sets his family tree in trusted ground,
To-morrow hears another answer “Mine.”
Listen, if you will listen. It is hard
To go an alien from familiar doors
When we are young, to wrestle where we go,
And win or lose exulting—we are strong;
But it is pitiful when weak and old,
When only for the near in life we seek,
23
To lose our shelter and to want for rest.
Of Uncle Gardner's children three were dead—
Yonder they lie. Their mother and two with him
(Two youngest: one a boy of fourteen years,
His latest child—a girl three years beyond)
Breathed in his close, contented atmosphere;
An elder daughter, wedded years before,
Lived far away in watery Michigan;
His eldest son—and the first-born of all—
Thrived as a merchant in the city near,
Had thriven, at least, or so 'twas said, and he
For some keen chance had got the old man's will
To be his bond. The father pledged the land—
Willing for the grown man, yet for the boy
And for his girl at home regretfully,
Deeming the chance a rash one. From that day
He wrought his daily labors ill-content,
And with a trouble in his countenance,
That would not put a false face on his heart.
To things familiar came a subtle change.
The brook that long ago, companion-like,
Had grown acquainted with his solitude,
And, later, made him music when he walk'd
And led his children through the pasture-ground
Up to the haying or the harvest-gap,
A noisy mimic of their prattled words,
Now seem'd to lift a stranger's face at him,
Wondering why he came there, who he was,
Or murmur'd, with a long and low lament,
Some undercurrent of an exile's song
That is not on his lips but in his heart.
Nothing was as it had been: something vague,
That Present of the Future which is born
Within the bosom, whispering what will be,
Met him and follow'd him, and would not cease
To meet and follow him: it seem'd to say
“The place that knew you shall know you no more.”
And oftentimes he saw the highway stirr'd
With slowly-journeying dust, and, passing slow,
The many who forever in our land
Were going farther, driven by goads unseen,
Or not content and looking for the new;
And then he thought of how in those dear days
He, too, had ventured, and again he saw
With steadfast eyes forgotten faces, known
When he was young, and others dear to him
From whom he parted with regret but firm
In the strong purposes which build the world:
Thought of his consolation—she most dear
Was with him, they most helpless with him, too,
For whom he sought a newer world of hope:
“But I am old,” he murmur'd, “she is old,”
And saw his hand was shaken like his thought.
Yonder they lie. Their mother and two with him
(Two youngest: one a boy of fourteen years,
His latest child—a girl three years beyond)
Breathed in his close, contented atmosphere;
An elder daughter, wedded years before,
Lived far away in watery Michigan;
His eldest son—and the first-born of all—
Thrived as a merchant in the city near,
Had thriven, at least, or so 'twas said, and he
For some keen chance had got the old man's will
To be his bond. The father pledged the land—
Willing for the grown man, yet for the boy
And for his girl at home regretfully,
Deeming the chance a rash one. From that day
He wrought his daily labors ill-content,
And with a trouble in his countenance,
That would not put a false face on his heart.
To things familiar came a subtle change.
The brook that long ago, companion-like,
Had grown acquainted with his solitude,
And, later, made him music when he walk'd
24
Up to the haying or the harvest-gap,
A noisy mimic of their prattled words,
Now seem'd to lift a stranger's face at him,
Wondering why he came there, who he was,
Or murmur'd, with a long and low lament,
Some undercurrent of an exile's song
That is not on his lips but in his heart.
Nothing was as it had been: something vague,
That Present of the Future which is born
Within the bosom, whispering what will be,
Met him and follow'd him, and would not cease
To meet and follow him: it seem'd to say
“The place that knew you shall know you no more.”
And oftentimes he saw the highway stirr'd
With slowly-journeying dust, and, passing slow,
The many who forever in our land
Were going farther, driven by goads unseen,
Or not content and looking for the new;
And then he thought of how in those dear days
He, too, had ventured, and again he saw
With steadfast eyes forgotten faces, known
When he was young, and others dear to him
From whom he parted with regret but firm
In the strong purposes which build the world:
25
Was with him, they most helpless with him, too,
For whom he sought a newer world of hope:
“But I am old,” he murmur'd, “she is old,”
And saw his hand was shaken like his thought.
Such were his troubled fancies. When he slept,
In his slow dreams—with lagging team, the last
Of many that in yonder meadows foal'd
Grew and became a portion of the place—
Journeying far away, and never more
Reaching his journey's goal, (a weary road
Whose end came only with the waking day,)
He seem'd to pass, and always 'twas the same:
Through new-built villages of joyous homes,
Homes not for him, by openings recent-made,
But not for him, by cultivated farms
Of other men—and always 'twas the same.
Then, when he woke and found the dream a dream,
And through his window shone the sun and brought
The faint rich smell of the new-tassel'd corn,
More fragrant from the dew that weigh'd it down,
He murmur'd of his fields—“For other men;
They are not mine. The mortgage will be closed;
The mortgage goes wherever I shall go.”
In his slow dreams—with lagging team, the last
Of many that in yonder meadows foal'd
Grew and became a portion of the place—
Journeying far away, and never more
Reaching his journey's goal, (a weary road
Whose end came only with the waking day,)
He seem'd to pass, and always 'twas the same:
Through new-built villages of joyous homes,
Homes not for him, by openings recent-made,
But not for him, by cultivated farms
Of other men—and always 'twas the same.
Then, when he woke and found the dream a dream,
And through his window shone the sun and brought
The faint rich smell of the new-tassel'd corn,
More fragrant from the dew that weigh'd it down,
He murmur'd of his fields—“For other men;
They are not mine. The mortgage will be closed;
The mortgage goes wherever I shall go.”
26
So pass'd the quarter of a year, and so
The old man, burden'd with his little world,
Felt it upon his shoulders, stooping down,
Bent more with this than every other year.
And summer pass'd to autumn: in his door
He sat and saw the leaves, his friends of old,
Audible in the sunshine, falling, falling,
With a continuous rustle—music fit
For his accompanying thought. At last it came,
The blow that reach'd his heart before it came,
For all was lost: the son whose risk he placed
Both on his children's home and on his heart
Was ruin'd, as the careless worldlings say—
Ruin'd indeed, it seem'd, for on his brain
The quick stroke flash'd: for many years the son
Breathed in a world in which he did not live.
The old man, burden'd with his little world,
Felt it upon his shoulders, stooping down,
Bent more with this than every other year.
And summer pass'd to autumn: in his door
He sat and saw the leaves, his friends of old,
Audible in the sunshine, falling, falling,
With a continuous rustle—music fit
For his accompanying thought. At last it came,
The blow that reach'd his heart before it came,
For all was lost: the son whose risk he placed
Both on his children's home and on his heart
Was ruin'd, as the careless worldlings say—
Ruin'd indeed, it seem'd, for on his brain
The quick stroke flash'd: for many years the son
Breathed in a world in which he did not live.
The old man took the blow but did not fall—
Its weight had been before. The land was sold,
The mortgage closed. That winter, cold and long,
(Permitted by the hand that grasp'd his all
That winter pass'd he here,) beside his fire,
He talk'd of moving in the spring, he talk'd
(While the shrill sap cried in a troubled blaze)
Like one whose life was not all broken down,
Cheerfully garrulous, with words that show
False witnesses of hope and seeming strength
When these are gone and come not. In the spring,
When the first warmth had brooded every-where,
He sat beside his doorway in that warmth,
Watching the wagons on the highway pass,
With something of the memory of his dread
In the last autumn; and he fell asleep.
Perhaps within his sleep he seem'd again
Journeying far away for evermore,
Leaving behind the homes of other men,
Seeking a newer home for those he loved,
A pioneer again. And so he slept—
Its weight had been before. The land was sold,
The mortgage closed. That winter, cold and long,
(Permitted by the hand that grasp'd his all
That winter pass'd he here,) beside his fire,
He talk'd of moving in the spring, he talk'd
(While the shrill sap cried in a troubled blaze)
Like one whose life was not all broken down,
27
False witnesses of hope and seeming strength
When these are gone and come not. In the spring,
When the first warmth had brooded every-where,
He sat beside his doorway in that warmth,
Watching the wagons on the highway pass,
With something of the memory of his dread
In the last autumn; and he fell asleep.
Perhaps within his sleep he seem'd again
Journeying far away for evermore,
Leaving behind the homes of other men,
Seeking a newer home for those he loved,
A pioneer again. And so he slept—
And still he sleeps: his grave is one of those.
His wife soon joined his sleep beside him there.
Their children Time has taken and the world.
The chimney shows enough for memory,
The graves remain; all other trace is gone,
Except the apple-trees that linger, loth
To end their blossoming. In restless moods
I used to wander hither oftentimes,
And often linger'd till the twilight came,
Touch'd with the melancholy breathed by change;
And something in the atmosphere, I thought,
Remain'd of hours and faces that had been.
Then, thinking of the Past and all I knew
And all remember'd of it—most of him
Whose vanish'd fireside blazed so near me here—
My fancy, half unconscious, shaped the things
Which had been, and among the quiet trees
The chimney from its burial mound arose;
The ruin'd farm-house grew a quiet ghost—
Its walls were thrill'd with murmur-music, humm'd
By inner voices scarcely heard without;
And from the window breathed a vaporous light
Into the outer mist of vernal dark,
And lo! a crowd of sparks against the sky
Sprang suddenly, at times, and from the wood
(The wood?—no wood was here for forty years!)
Bark'd the shrill fox and all the stars hung bright.
Till, busy with the silence far away,
(And whether heard or heard not hardly known,)
First indistinct, then louder, nearer still,
And ever louder, grew a tremulous roar;
Then, sudden, flared a torch from out the night,
And, eastward half-a-mile, the shimmering train
Hurried across the darkness and the dream,
And all my fantasy was gone, at once—
The lighted window and the fireside sound:
I saw the heap of ruin underfoot,
And overhead the leaves were jarr'd awake,
Whispering a moment of the flying fright,
And far away the whistle, like a cry,
Shrill in the darkness reach'd the waiting town.
The graves remain; all other trace is gone,
Except the apple-trees that linger, loth
To end their blossoming. In restless moods
I used to wander hither oftentimes,
28
Touch'd with the melancholy breathed by change;
And something in the atmosphere, I thought,
Remain'd of hours and faces that had been.
Then, thinking of the Past and all I knew
And all remember'd of it—most of him
Whose vanish'd fireside blazed so near me here—
My fancy, half unconscious, shaped the things
Which had been, and among the quiet trees
The chimney from its burial mound arose;
The ruin'd farm-house grew a quiet ghost—
Its walls were thrill'd with murmur-music, humm'd
By inner voices scarcely heard without;
And from the window breathed a vaporous light
Into the outer mist of vernal dark,
And lo! a crowd of sparks against the sky
Sprang suddenly, at times, and from the wood
(The wood?—no wood was here for forty years!)
Bark'd the shrill fox and all the stars hung bright.
Till, busy with the silence far away,
(And whether heard or heard not hardly known,)
First indistinct, then louder, nearer still,
And ever louder, grew a tremulous roar;
Then, sudden, flared a torch from out the night,
And, eastward half-a-mile, the shimmering train
29
And all my fantasy was gone, at once—
The lighted window and the fireside sound:
I saw the heap of ruin underfoot,
And overhead the leaves were jarr'd awake,
Whispering a moment of the flying fright,
And far away the whistle, like a cry,
Shrill in the darkness reach'd the waiting town.
30
FIRE BEFORE SEED.
How bright to-night lies all the Vale,
Where Autumn scatter'd harvest gold
And, far off, humm'd the rumbling flail
When dark autumnal noons were cold!
Where Autumn scatter'd harvest gold
And, far off, humm'd the rumbling flail
When dark autumnal noons were cold!
The fields put on a mask of fire,
Forever changing, in the dark;
Lo, yonder upland village spire
Flashes in air a crimson spark!
Forever changing, in the dark;
Lo, yonder upland village spire
Flashes in air a crimson spark!
I see the farm-house roofs arise,
Among their guardian elms asleep:
Redly the flame each window dyes,
Through vines that chill and leafless creep.
Among their guardian elms asleep:
Redly the flame each window dyes,
Through vines that chill and leafless creep.
31
Along the lonely lane, that goes
Darkening beyond the dusky hill,
Amid the light the cattle doze
And sings the 'waken'd April rill.
Darkening beyond the dusky hill,
Amid the light the cattle doze
And sings the 'waken'd April rill.
The mill by rocks is shadow'd o'er,
But, overhead, the shimmering trees
Stand sentinels of the rocky shore
And bud with fire against the breeze!
But, overhead, the shimmering trees
Stand sentinels of the rocky shore
And bud with fire against the breeze!
Afar the restless ripple shakes
Arrows of splendor through the wood,
Then all its noisy water breaks
Away in glimmering solitude.
Arrows of splendor through the wood,
Then all its noisy water breaks
Away in glimmering solitude.
Gaze down into the bottoms near,
Where all the darkness broadly warms:
The priests who guard the fires appear
Gigantic shadows, pigmy forms!
Where all the darkness broadly warms:
The priests who guard the fires appear
Gigantic shadows, pigmy forms!
The enchanted Spring shall here awake
With harvest hope among her flowers;
And nights of holy dew shall make
The morning smile for toiling hours.
With harvest hope among her flowers;
And nights of holy dew shall make
The morning smile for toiling hours.
32
Behold the Sower's sacrifice
Upon the altars of the Spring!—
O dead Past, into flame arise:
New seed into the earth we fling!
Upon the altars of the Spring!—
O dead Past, into flame arise:
New seed into the earth we fling!
It is customary in some portions of the West to rake the last year's stubble of corn into windrows and burn it preparatory to breaking the ground in Spring for a new planting. This burning is generally done after nightfall: its effect on the landscape these lines were intended to describe.
33
KING'S TAVERN.
Far-off spires, a mist of silver, shimmer from the far-off town;
Haunting here the dreary turnpike stands the tavern, crumbling down.
Haunting here the dreary turnpike stands the tavern, crumbling down.
Half-a-mile before you pass it, half-a-mile when you are gone,
Like a ghost it comes to meet you, ghost-like still it follows on.
Like a ghost it comes to meet you, ghost-like still it follows on.
Never more the sign-board, swinging, flaunts its gilded wonder there:
“Philip King”—a dazzled harvest shock'd in western sunset air!
“Philip King”—a dazzled harvest shock'd in western sunset air!
Never, as with nearer tinkle through the dust of long ago,
Creep the Pennsylvania wagons up the twilight—white and slow.
Creep the Pennsylvania wagons up the twilight—white and slow.
34
With a low, monotonous thunder, yonder flies the hurrying train—
Hark, the echoes in the quarry!—in the woodland lost again!
Hark, the echoes in the quarry!—in the woodland lost again!
Never more the friendly windows, red with warmth and Christian light,
Breathe the traveler's benediction to his brethren in the night.
Breathe the traveler's benediction to his brethren in the night.
Old in name The Haunted Tavern holds the barren rise alone—
Standing high in air deserted, ghost-like long itself has grown.
Standing high in air deserted, ghost-like long itself has grown.
Not a pane in any window—many a raggéd corner-bit:
Boys, the strolling exorcisors, gave the ghost their notice—“Quit.”
Boys, the strolling exorcisors, gave the ghost their notice—“Quit.”
Jamestown-weeds have close invaded, year by year, the bar-room door,
Where, within, in damp and silence gleams the lizard on the floor.
Where, within, in damp and silence gleams the lizard on the floor.
35
Through the roof the drear Novembers trickle down the midnight slow;
In the Summer's warping sunshine green with moss the shingles grow.
In the Summer's warping sunshine green with moss the shingles grow.
Yet in Maying wind the locust, sifting sunny blossom, snows,
And the rose-vine still remembers some dear face that loved the rose:
And the rose-vine still remembers some dear face that loved the rose:
Climbing up a Southern casement, looking in neglected air;
And, in golden honey-weather, careful bees are humming there.
And, in golden honey-weather, careful bees are humming there.
In the frozen moon at midnight some have heard, when all was still—
Nothing, I know! A ghostly silence keeps the tavern on the hill!
Nothing, I know! A ghostly silence keeps the tavern on the hill!
36
FIRES IN ILLINOIS.
How bright this weird autumnal eve—
While the wild twilight clings around,
Clothing the grasses every-where,
With scarce a dream of sound!
While the wild twilight clings around,
Clothing the grasses every-where,
With scarce a dream of sound!
The high horizon's northern line,
With many a silent-leaping spire,
Seems a dark shore—a sea of flame—
Quick, crawling waves of fire!
With many a silent-leaping spire,
Seems a dark shore—a sea of flame—
Quick, crawling waves of fire!
I stand in dusky solitude,
October breathing low and chill,
And watch the far-off blaze that leaps
At the wind's wayward will.
October breathing low and chill,
And watch the far-off blaze that leaps
At the wind's wayward will.
These boundless fields, behold, once more,
Sea-like in vanish'd summers stir;
From vanish'd autumns comes the Fire—
A lone, bright harvester!
Sea-like in vanish'd summers stir;
From vanish'd autumns comes the Fire—
A lone, bright harvester!
37
I see wide terror lit before—
Wild steeds, fierce herds of bison here,
And, blown before the flying flame,
The flying-footed deer!
Wild steeds, fierce herds of bison here,
And, blown before the flying flame,
The flying-footed deer!
Long trains (with shaken bells, that moved
Along red twilights sinking slow)
Whose wheels grew weary on their way,
Far westward, long ago;
Along red twilights sinking slow)
Whose wheels grew weary on their way,
Far westward, long ago;
Lone wagons bivouack'd in the blaze,
That, long ago, stream'd wildly past;
Faces from that bright solitude
In the hot gleam aghast!
That, long ago, stream'd wildly past;
Faces from that bright solitude
In the hot gleam aghast!
A glare of faces like a dream,
No history after or before,
Inside the horizon with the flames,
The flames—nobody more!
No history after or before,
Inside the horizon with the flames,
The flames—nobody more!
That vision vanishes in me,
Sudden and swift and fierce and bright;
Another gentler vision fills
The solitude, to-night:
Sudden and swift and fierce and bright;
Another gentler vision fills
The solitude, to-night:
38
The horizon lightens every-where,
The sunshine rocks on windy maize;
Hark, every-where are busy men,
And children at their plays!
The sunshine rocks on windy maize;
Hark, every-where are busy men,
And children at their plays!
Far church-spires twinkle at the sun,
From villages of quiet born,
And, far and near, and every-where,
Homes stand amid the corn.
From villages of quiet born,
And, far and near, and every-where,
Homes stand amid the corn.
No longer driven by wind, the Fire
Makes all the vast horizon glow,
But, numberless as the stars above,
The windows shine below!
Makes all the vast horizon glow,
But, numberless as the stars above,
The windows shine below!
39
RIDING TO VOTE.
THE OLD DEMOCRAT IN THE WEST.
Yonder the bleak old Tavern stands—the faded sign before,
That years ago a setting sun and banded harvest bore:
The Tavern stands the same to-day—the sign you look upon
Has glintings of the dazzled sheaves, but nothing of the sun.
That years ago a setting sun and banded harvest bore:
The Tavern stands the same to-day—the sign you look upon
Has glintings of the dazzled sheaves, but nothing of the sun.
In Jackson's days a gay young man, with spirit hale and blithe,
And form like the young hickory, so tough and tall and lithe,
I first remember coming up—we came a wagon-load,
A dozen for Old Hickory—this rough November road.
And form like the young hickory, so tough and tall and lithe,
I first remember coming up—we came a wagon-load,
A dozen for Old Hickory—this rough November road.
40
Ah! forty years—they help a man, you see, in getting gray;
They can not take the manly soul, that makes a man, away!
It's forty years, or near: to-day I go to vote once more;
Here, half a mile away, we see the crowd about the door.
They can not take the manly soul, that makes a man, away!
It's forty years, or near: to-day I go to vote once more;
Here, half a mile away, we see the crowd about the door.
My boys, in Eighteen Sixty—what! my boys? my men, I mean!
(No better men nor braver souls in flesh-and-blood are seen!)
One twenty-six, one twenty-three, rode with their father then:
The ballot-box remembers theirs—my vote I'll try again!
(No better men nor braver souls in flesh-and-blood are seen!)
One twenty-six, one twenty-three, rode with their father then:
The ballot-box remembers theirs—my vote I'll try again!
The ballot-box remembers theirs, the country well might know—
Though in a million only two for little seem to go;
But, somehow, when my ticket slipp'd I dream'd of Jackson's day:
The land, I thought, has need of One whose will will find a way!
Though in a million only two for little seem to go;
But, somehow, when my ticket slipp'd I dream'd of Jackson's day:
The land, I thought, has need of One whose will will find a way!
41
‘He did not waver when the need had call'd for steadfast thought—
The word he spoke made plain the deed that lay behind it wrought;”
And while I mused the Present fell, and, breathing back the Past,
Again it seem'd the hale young man his vote for Jackson cast!
The word he spoke made plain the deed that lay behind it wrought;”
And while I mused the Present fell, and, breathing back the Past,
Again it seem'd the hale young man his vote for Jackson cast!
Thank God it was not lost!—my vote I did not cast in vain!
I go alone to drop my vote—the glorious vote again;
Alone—where three together fell but one to-day shall fall;
But though I go alone to-day, one voice shall speak for all!
I go alone to drop my vote—the glorious vote again;
Alone—where three together fell but one to-day shall fall;
But though I go alone to-day, one voice shall speak for all!
For when our men, awaking quick, from hearth and threshold came,
Mine did not say, “Another day!” but started like a flame;
I 'll vote for them as well as me; they died as soldiers can,
But in my vote their voices each shall claim the right of man.
Mine did not say, “Another day!” but started like a flame;
I 'll vote for them as well as me; they died as soldiers can,
But in my vote their voices each shall claim the right of man.
42
The elder left his wife and child—my vote for these shall tell;
The younger's sweet-heart has a claim—I'll vote for her as well!
Yes! for the myriad speechless tongues, the myriad offer'd lives,
The desolation at the heart of orphans and of wives!
The younger's sweet-heart has a claim—I'll vote for her as well!
Yes! for the myriad speechless tongues, the myriad offer'd lives,
The desolation at the heart of orphans and of wives!
I go to give my vote alone—I curse your shameless shame
Who fight for traitors here at home in Peace's holy name!
I go to give my vote alone, but even while I do,
I vote for dead and living, all—the living dead and you!
Who fight for traitors here at home in Peace's holy name!
I go to give my vote alone, but even while I do,
I vote for dead and living, all—the living dead and you!
See yonder tree beside the field, caught in the sudden sough,
How conscious of its strength it leans, how straight and steadfast now!
If Lincoln bends (for all, through him, my vote I mean to cast)—
What winds have blown! what storms he's known! the hickory's straight at last!
How conscious of its strength it leans, how straight and steadfast now!
If Lincoln bends (for all, through him, my vote I mean to cast)—
What winds have blown! what storms he's known! the hickory's straight at last!
November, 1864.
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