 | The heir of the world, and lesser poems |  |
224
THE MOUNTAIN OAK.
Beneath the banyan's grove of shade,
On a bright bed of living flowers,
In soft, voluptuous bliss I've laid,
While o'er me flew the laughing hours
On rosy wings that fann'd perfume,
And sweetly from the tambourine
Came music, breathing o'er the bloom,
That robed the rich, luxurious scene.
On a bright bed of living flowers,
In soft, voluptuous bliss I've laid,
While o'er me flew the laughing hours
On rosy wings that fann'd perfume,
And sweetly from the tambourine
Came music, breathing o'er the bloom,
That robed the rich, luxurious scene.
When summer sunset's purple glow
Hath o'er the proud magnolia hung,
Beneath its boughs, dissolved in wo,
I've sat, and to my lady sung,
As shadowy twilight dimm'd the scene,
And lovers thrilled the soft guitar,
And loving maids tripped o'er the green
Meadows and blessed the evening star.
Hath o'er the proud magnolia hung,
Beneath its boughs, dissolved in wo,
I've sat, and to my lady sung,
As shadowy twilight dimm'd the scene,
And lovers thrilled the soft guitar,
And loving maids tripped o'er the green
Meadows and blessed the evening star.
When noon hath crimsoned summer's sky,
The lithe mimosa's leaves have spread
Their soothing shadows o'er my eye,
Their odours o'er my greensward bed;
And I have watched each quivering spray,
That whispered gentle notes of love,
Till, in the waking dreams of day,
I pictured spirit-shapes above.
The lithe mimosa's leaves have spread
Their soothing shadows o'er my eye,
Their odours o'er my greensward bed;
And I have watched each quivering spray,
That whispered gentle notes of love,
Till, in the waking dreams of day,
I pictured spirit-shapes above.
Mid orange groves, I've slept and dreamed
Of pleasures earth can never know,
While back the golden fruitage gleamed
With the soft sunlight's mellow glow,
And heard celestial music pouring
O'er Heaven's eternal bright arcade,
As 'twere the seraph choirs adoring
Their Maker for the worlds He made.
Of pleasures earth can never know,
While back the golden fruitage gleamed
With the soft sunlight's mellow glow,
225
O'er Heaven's eternal bright arcade,
As 'twere the seraph choirs adoring
Their Maker for the worlds He made.
In woodbine bowers, where sunbeams glow
'Mid shades, and shed a magic light,
In arbours where the vine-wreaths throw
Their blossomed tendrils round the height
Of palm-tree vistas, long and fair,
And gently wave in every breeze,
And wanton in each playful air,
That sings amid the towering trees—
'Mid shades, and shed a magic light,
In arbours where the vine-wreaths throw
Their blossomed tendrils round the height
Of palm-tree vistas, long and fair,
And gently wave in every breeze,
And wanton in each playful air,
That sings amid the towering trees—
I oft have sat and mused and sung
Of heavenly bliss and earthly bale,
Or, when my lyre slept all unstrung,
The mazes traced of sorrow's tale—
And many a lingering hour of pain
Beneath those sunny bowers have fled
Soft o'er my head—as o'er the plain
Of glory glides a cherub's tread.
Of heavenly bliss and earthly bale,
Or, when my lyre slept all unstrung,
The mazes traced of sorrow's tale—
And many a lingering hour of pain
Beneath those sunny bowers have fled
Soft o'er my head—as o'er the plain
Of glory glides a cherub's tread.
But not for banyan's monarch shade,
Or high magnolia's tender gloom,
Or soft mimosa's frail arcade,
Or orange groves in roseate bloom,
Or arbours green or woodbine bowers,
Would I exchange the canopy,
That shadowed childhood's sunny hours,
The moss wreathed mountain oaken tree.
Or high magnolia's tender gloom,
Or soft mimosa's frail arcade,
Or orange groves in roseate bloom,
Or arbours green or woodbine bowers,
Would I exchange the canopy,
That shadowed childhood's sunny hours,
The moss wreathed mountain oaken tree.
Beneath my native oak's broad boughs
I sleep, and dream of by-gone days,
And number o'er my youthful vows,
My lays of love, my prayers of praise;
While every scene I see recals
The friends I've lost since I was young,
Who once were hailed in pleasure's halls,
Who lightly talked and gayly sung.
I sleep, and dream of by-gone days,
And number o'er my youthful vows,
My lays of love, my prayers of praise;
226
The friends I've lost since I was young,
Who once were hailed in pleasure's halls,
Who lightly talked and gayly sung.
Yes, they have gone, and I am left
To say such things as they have been,
And feel their fate from me hath reft
The joys of many a pleasant scene;
For their young bosoms were imbued
With feelings pure and proud as mine,
And they with me the paths pursued
Of knowledge lofty and divine.
To say such things as they have been,
And feel their fate from me hath reft
The joys of many a pleasant scene;
For their young bosoms were imbued
With feelings pure and proud as mine,
And they with me the paths pursued
Of knowledge lofty and divine.
Few years, alas! suffice to mar
The sweetest hopes, the fondest loves;
The brightness of our natal star
Too oft its transient glory proves:
Oh! who that leaves his native place
In childhood and returns a man,
Would meet again each well known face
He met in smiles when life began?
The sweetest hopes, the fondest loves;
The brightness of our natal star
Too oft its transient glory proves:
Oh! who that leaves his native place
In childhood and returns a man,
Would meet again each well known face
He met in smiles when life began?
Back to its fountain in the skies
The troubled stream of being flows,
Its music sad though at its rise,
Yet saddest when 'tis near its close;
On shallow sands and pebbly shore
Gay bubbles rise and burst amain,—
And, grieving as he grieved before,
Man follows ever shapes of pain.
The troubled stream of being flows,
Its music sad though at its rise,
Yet saddest when 'tis near its close;
On shallow sands and pebbly shore
Gay bubbles rise and burst amain,—
And, grieving as he grieved before,
Man follows ever shapes of pain.
Repenting wrong, yet acting ill,
Wo cannot quench that strange wild fire,
Which burns in stricken bosoms still
With the mad fever of desire;
Though hope hath perished and life wear
A robe of gloom as dark as fate,
Yet man lives on, in lost despair,
Prouder as yet more desolate.
Wo cannot quench that strange wild fire,
Which burns in stricken bosoms still
With the mad fever of desire;
227
A robe of gloom as dark as fate,
Yet man lives on, in lost despair,
Prouder as yet more desolate.
So 'tis our only bliss to gaze
In lingering fondness on the hours,
When from each other's eyes the rays
Of gladness shone like Spring's first flowers,
And catch from early life the best
Revealments of that holy home,
That ever dawn to make us blest
In dark fulfilment of our doom.
In lingering fondness on the hours,
When from each other's eyes the rays
Of gladness shone like Spring's first flowers,
And catch from early life the best
Revealments of that holy home,
That ever dawn to make us blest
In dark fulfilment of our doom.
There is no scene of earth so drear,
But memory's voice of love can sooth;
Like incense from a heavenly sphere,
Come the glad thoughts of sinless youth:
And yet 'tis mournful thus to leave
The high-souled few we loved behind,
And vainly while we wander, grieve
O'er the dark wreck of so much mind.
But memory's voice of love can sooth;
Like incense from a heavenly sphere,
Come the glad thoughts of sinless youth:
And yet 'tis mournful thus to leave
The high-souled few we loved behind,
And vainly while we wander, grieve
O'er the dark wreck of so much mind.
Proud mountain oak!—round thee are twin'd
The unfolding spirit's tenderest leaves,
And still the aching heart can find
Each scene, o'er which it joys or grieves,
Near thee, thou haunt of hallowed days!
For, oh! on each broad leaf of thine
The story of our years of praise
Is writ in many a sunlight line.
The unfolding spirit's tenderest leaves,
And still the aching heart can find
Each scene, o'er which it joys or grieves,
Near thee, thou haunt of hallowed days!
For, oh! on each broad leaf of thine
The story of our years of praise
Is writ in many a sunlight line.
I would not lose—my native oak!—
One leaf of thine for India's groves,
Nor change thy site on yon bold rock,
For fairy Yemen's vale of loves;
The violet, that below thee breathes,
Is richer than the ottar-gul,
The wild-flower round thy trunk that wreathes
Than Cashmere's rose more beautiful.
One leaf of thine for India's groves,
Nor change thy site on yon bold rock,
For fairy Yemen's vale of loves;
228
Is richer than the ottar-gul,
The wild-flower round thy trunk that wreathes
Than Cashmere's rose more beautiful.
For, oh! where'er the young heart throws
Its incense, nature hath her throne;
In Chili's clime, 'mid Zembla's snows,
In arctic or in torrid zone,
The child of love will prize his home,
And those endearments, pure and bright,
Which will not with the wanderer roam,
But o'er one scene shed changeless light.
Its incense, nature hath her throne;
In Chili's clime, 'mid Zembla's snows,
In arctic or in torrid zone,
The child of love will prize his home,
And those endearments, pure and bright,
Which will not with the wanderer roam,
But o'er one scene shed changeless light.
Abide thou there, proud mountain oak!
Unscathed by aught but Heaven's own fires,
Where first the world upon me broke,
Where oft arose my young desires,
Where last I left thee, old and green,
Victor of years!—perchance, my grave
May be beneath thy leafy screen,—
Monarch of trees! wave, proudly wave!
Unscathed by aught but Heaven's own fires,
Where first the world upon me broke,
Where oft arose my young desires,
Where last I left thee, old and green,
Victor of years!—perchance, my grave
May be beneath thy leafy screen,—
Monarch of trees! wave, proudly wave!
| The heir of the world, and lesser poems | |