 | The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer |  |
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THE MONTHS.
INSCRIBED TO HORACE GREELEY.
‘Fancy, with prophetic glance,
Sees the teeming months advance.”
T. Warton.
Sees the teeming months advance.”
T. Warton.
[_]
The following brief poems on the Months present to the reader the somewhat discursive ideas of one who is an ardent lover of Nature in all her varied aspects, and whose mind delights to dwell upon the scenery of the beautiful country where he lives, but occasionally will wander from the mountain and the valley, the forest and the glade, to the busy scenes of life, and the pages of history. Each of the months is marked by its own distinctive features, clothed in its appropriate garb, and hallowed by the recollection of events which have occurred during its continuance. The year which came with the one closes with another. There is, in this constant, never-ending change, something congenial to the nature of man, stamped on everything around him. Were our skies forever of an azure blue, clear and unclouded, we should soon become wearied with the sameness of their aspect.
Who would be doomed to gaze uponA sky without a cloud or sun?
Did our magnificent lakes present an ever-placid and unruffled surface, unmoved by the wild winds' play, the beauty of the scenery in their vicinity would lose an essential constituent. Neither sunshine nor storm heat nor cold, verdure nor snow, can singly satisfy our ever-craving appetite for change.
JANUARY.
“He lieth still: he doth not move:
He will not see the dawn of day.”
Tennyson.
He will not see the dawn of day.”
Tennyson.
When, at the middle hour of night,
Died, with a moan, the poor Old Year,
A friar came, of orders white,
And stretched the corse upon a bier:
His scapulaire was thin and pale,
And fashioned were the beads of hail
That hung his neck around;
Wild spirits of the creaking wood
Of withered leaves had made his hood,
With silver edging bound.
Died, with a moan, the poor Old Year,
A friar came, of orders white,
And stretched the corse upon a bier:
His scapulaire was thin and pale,
And fashioned were the beads of hail
That hung his neck around;
Wild spirits of the creaking wood
Of withered leaves had made his hood,
With silver edging bound.
Saint Januarius had heard
The summons of a higher power,
To don his stole with ermine furred,
And chant at midnight's dreary hour.
Long looked he on the slumberer old,
With hand upon the temples cold,
To which a hoar-frost clung;
Then requiescat for the dead,
Baring with reverence his head,
The holy father sung.
The summons of a higher power,
To don his stole with ermine furred,
And chant at midnight's dreary hour.
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With hand upon the temples cold,
To which a hoar-frost clung;
Then requiescat for the dead,
Baring with reverence his head,
The holy father sung.
Rest, Traveller! the goal is gained!
In Shadeland rest for evermore;
Thy suns have set, thy moons have waned,
Thine hours of bloom and blight are o'er:
Dark was the twilight of thy days,
No golden beams dispersed the haze,
And Winter mocked thy sighs,
While falling in the snow-drift down—
And sent his Norland blast to drown,
With savage howl, thy cries.
In Shadeland rest for evermore;
Thy suns have set, thy moons have waned,
Thine hours of bloom and blight are o'er:
Dark was the twilight of thy days,
No golden beams dispersed the haze,
And Winter mocked thy sighs,
While falling in the snow-drift down—
And sent his Norland blast to drown,
With savage howl, thy cries.
Rest, Pilgrim, rest! the burthen grew
Too heavy for thy back to bear—
The glory that thy manhood knew
Gave place to darkness and despair:
The ticking note of falling snow
Was little like the murmur low
Of Summer's gentle rain;
And, oh! unlike her roses lost
Was the pale foliage by the frost
Traced on the rattling pane.
Too heavy for thy back to bear—
The glory that thy manhood knew
Gave place to darkness and despair:
The ticking note of falling snow
Was little like the murmur low
Of Summer's gentle rain;
And, oh! unlike her roses lost
Was the pale foliage by the frost
Traced on the rattling pane.
The pine, pyramidal of form,
Though earth be drear, the tempest loud,
Tints of the spring-time, green and warm,
Discloses through its frosty shroud;—
These, cheerily, a token gave
That May's green banner yet would wave,
Birds warble in the shade;
But cheered not thy old, withered heart,
For in Earth's history thy part
Again could not be played.
Though earth be drear, the tempest loud,
Tints of the spring-time, green and warm,
Discloses through its frosty shroud;—
These, cheerily, a token gave
That May's green banner yet would wave,
Birds warble in the shade;
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For in Earth's history thy part
Again could not be played.
Thine errand hath been well performed,
If nearer thou hast brought the time
When hearts by love celestial warmed
One creed maintain in every clime;
When forts are levelled with the dust,
Gun, blade, and lance, the prey of rust,
And war-flags darkly furled;
Drum, plume, and helm, are styled at last
The mildewed lumber of the Past—
Wrecks of a darkened world.
If nearer thou hast brought the time
When hearts by love celestial warmed
One creed maintain in every clime;
When forts are levelled with the dust,
Gun, blade, and lance, the prey of rust,
And war-flags darkly furled;
Drum, plume, and helm, are styled at last
The mildewed lumber of the Past—
Wrecks of a darkened world.
Rest, Traveller! the goal is won,
The cross of peace is on thy breast;
Thy task of good and ill is done,—
For evermore in Shadeland rest!
Thy morn of blossoms passed away,
Vanished thy blushing fruits, and gray
Became thy golden hair;
Why mourn for thee, Departed Year?
In cloud and darkness thy career
Closed, though it promised fair.
The cross of peace is on thy breast;
Thy task of good and ill is done,—
For evermore in Shadeland rest!
Thy morn of blossoms passed away,
Vanished thy blushing fruits, and gray
Became thy golden hair;
Why mourn for thee, Departed Year?
In cloud and darkness thy career
Closed, though it promised fair.
The robin's hymn was wild and sweet
Where harshly croaks the raven dark,
And icy flails the meadow beat
Where woke, at dawn, the lyric lark.
Ah! frozen is the fount that gushed
In music from the rock, and hushed
The runnel's murmur low;
Pale forms along the mountain side—
Mad cavalry of Winter!—ride
Through whirling clouds of snow.
Where harshly croaks the raven dark,
And icy flails the meadow beat
Where woke, at dawn, the lyric lark.
Ah! frozen is the fount that gushed
In music from the rock, and hushed
The runnel's murmur low;
Pale forms along the mountain side—
Mad cavalry of Winter!—ride
Through whirling clouds of snow.
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Though newly-woven is thy pall,
By midnight ghost thy knell just rung,
Within a glittering palace hall
Enthroned is thy successor young—
Huzzas that hail the new-born king
Make discord in the lay I sing,
And much must be untold—
With pale hands clasped upon thy breast,
Rest, in the land of shadows, rest
Forever, Pilgrim old!
By midnight ghost thy knell just rung,
Within a glittering palace hall
Enthroned is thy successor young—
Huzzas that hail the new-born king
Make discord in the lay I sing,
And much must be untold—
With pale hands clasped upon thy breast,
Rest, in the land of shadows, rest
Forever, Pilgrim old!
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FEBRUARY.
“Come when the rains
Have glazed the snow, and clothed the trees with ice;
When the slant sun of February pours
Into the bowers a flood of light.”
Bryant.
Have glazed the snow, and clothed the trees with ice;
When the slant sun of February pours
Into the bowers a flood of light.”
Bryant.
Old churlish Winter's youngest child,
Though here so boisterous and rude,
In Egypt is Phamènoth styled,
Or the fair moon that bringeth good:
His name in Arabic is sweet—
Shasban, or month with hope replete,
Forerunner of bright days;
And Adar is his Jewish name,
For then a purifying flame
Flung far and wide its rays.
Though here so boisterous and rude,
In Egypt is Phamènoth styled,
Or the fair moon that bringeth good:
His name in Arabic is sweet—
Shasban, or month with hope replete,
Forerunner of bright days;
And Adar is his Jewish name,
For then a purifying flame
Flung far and wide its rays.
Tired of confining walls, to-day
I wandered through the woods alone,
And rime that clung to bough and spray
The richest jewelry outshone:
The bitter-sweet, on trunks of eld,
That lovingly its stalk upheld,
Hung beads of coral bright;
And tassels long, of rich brown hue,
Upon the lowly alder grew,
Refreshing to the sight.
I wandered through the woods alone,
And rime that clung to bough and spray
The richest jewelry outshone:
The bitter-sweet, on trunks of eld,
That lovingly its stalk upheld,
Hung beads of coral bright;
And tassels long, of rich brown hue,
Upon the lowly alder grew,
Refreshing to the sight.
Cold, naked arms the swamp-ash spread,
And bunches black its top that crowned
Seemed mourning badges for the dead
And shrivelled leaves that lay around:
Dry flags the brooklet overhung,
And frozen was its silver tongue,
That erst so gently spoke;
The linnet's torn, deserted nest,
Once shadowed by her downy breast,
A haunting sadness woke.
And bunches black its top that crowned
Seemed mourning badges for the dead
And shrivelled leaves that lay around:
Dry flags the brooklet overhung,
And frozen was its silver tongue,
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The linnet's torn, deserted nest,
Once shadowed by her downy breast,
A haunting sadness woke.
North-eastwardly my glance I turned,
And through disparting clouds of gray
The moon, with argent ring, discerned,
Though distant was the close of day:
Dark thoughts, that wrapped my soul in night,
Away by that enchanting sight,
Like sun-lit mist, were driven—
In presence of the silvery queen,
More beauteous grew the barren scene,
More fair the fields of heaven.
And through disparting clouds of gray
The moon, with argent ring, discerned,
Though distant was the close of day:
Dark thoughts, that wrapped my soul in night,
Away by that enchanting sight,
Like sun-lit mist, were driven—
In presence of the silvery queen,
More beauteous grew the barren scene,
More fair the fields of heaven.
A beech I spied, with mouldering heart,
That still retained its withered leaves,
Like some poor mother loth to part
With the dead brood o'er which she grieves.
Beneath my feet the crusted snow,
Crackling, aroused from ambush low
The partridge-hunted bird!
And, loosened by a gleam of sun,
Icicles falling, one by one,
With tinkling sound, I heard.
That still retained its withered leaves,
Like some poor mother loth to part
With the dead brood o'er which she grieves.
Beneath my feet the crusted snow,
Crackling, aroused from ambush low
The partridge-hunted bird!
And, loosened by a gleam of sun,
Icicles falling, one by one,
With tinkling sound, I heard.
And other music was afloat,
That gave my pulse a joyous thrill,
For louder far than bugle note
Rang bay of hound upon the hill:
I caught a glimpse of wounded fox
Steering his course toward friendly rocks
That walled a neighboring glen;
His blood soon dyed the fleecy drift,
O'ertaken by pursuer swift,
A bow-shot from his den.
That gave my pulse a joyous thrill,
For louder far than bugle note
Rang bay of hound upon the hill:
I caught a glimpse of wounded fox
Steering his course toward friendly rocks
That walled a neighboring glen;
His blood soon dyed the fleecy drift,
O'ertaken by pursuer swift,
A bow-shot from his den.
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Where, girt by groves, a clearing spread,
The stubble, like a darkening beard
On the pale visage of the dead,
Above the level snow appeared.
While, breaking through the hazel brush,
Quail rose, in coveys, with a rush
Of short, quick-flapping wings;
And, resting on its “figure four,”
I marked a trap, with straw roofed o'er,
Set for the silly things.
The stubble, like a darkening beard
On the pale visage of the dead,
Above the level snow appeared.
While, breaking through the hazel brush,
Quail rose, in coveys, with a rush
Of short, quick-flapping wings;
And, resting on its “figure four,”
I marked a trap, with straw roofed o'er,
Set for the silly things.
The forest, though disrobed and cold,
And robbed of bird and singing rill,
Is glorious with its columns old,
And cheered by Beauty's presence still:
Wild vines, to oak and elm that cling,
Like cordage of a vessel swing,
And rattle in the gale;
And moss, that gives Decay a grace,
The roughest spot on Nature's face
Hides with adorning veil.
And robbed of bird and singing rill,
Is glorious with its columns old,
And cheered by Beauty's presence still:
Wild vines, to oak and elm that cling,
Like cordage of a vessel swing,
And rattle in the gale;
And moss, that gives Decay a grace,
The roughest spot on Nature's face
Hides with adorning veil.
When noontide throws a sudden glare
On the pale scene, once brown with shade,
Semblance the frosted hollows bear
To cups of pearl with gold inlaid:
Dazzling becomes the dreary waste,
And bough and twig, with ice encased,
Prismatic hues display;
How changed the hills, all spangled o'er
With flashing gems, that towered before
So bleak, and stern, and gray!
On the pale scene, once brown with shade,
Semblance the frosted hollows bear
To cups of pearl with gold inlaid:
Dazzling becomes the dreary waste,
And bough and twig, with ice encased,
Prismatic hues display;
How changed the hills, all spangled o'er
With flashing gems, that towered before
So bleak, and stern, and gray!
The hand of lusty March, ere long,
Will February's ermine rend,
And, with a gush of joyous song,
Her way the blue-bird hither wend:
Awakened by warm, pattering showers,
The snowdrop will unclose its flowers,
The violet upspring;
And runnel, brook and waterfall,
Once more, released from icy thrall,
Their bells of silver ring.
Will February's ermine rend,
And, with a gush of joyous song,
Her way the blue-bird hither wend:
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The snowdrop will unclose its flowers,
The violet upspring;
And runnel, brook and waterfall,
Once more, released from icy thrall,
Their bells of silver ring.
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MARCH.
“March hath unlocked stern Winter's chain.”—
Street.
Street.
First of the vernal Triad, March,
Blows, with distended cheek, his horn:
Above, there is a clouded arch,
Below, a landscape drear and lorn;
Dull mists are creeping up the hill,
Though the pale flag of Winter still
Is on its top displayed;
As yet no leaflet braves the cold,
Though, here and there, the watery mould
Sends up a grassy blade.
Blows, with distended cheek, his horn:
Above, there is a clouded arch,
Below, a landscape drear and lorn;
Dull mists are creeping up the hill,
Though the pale flag of Winter still
Is on its top displayed;
As yet no leaflet braves the cold,
Though, here and there, the watery mould
Sends up a grassy blade.
The keen and frosty air that blew
Howling across the brumal waste,
Gave to the cheek a rosy hue,
With lusty health each sinew braced;
But the damp breath of opening Spring,
Wafting distemper on its wing,
Pierces the frame unstrung;
A Reaper toils of ghastly brow,
The tolling bell is busy now,
Full many a dirge-note sung.
Howling across the brumal waste,
Gave to the cheek a rosy hue,
With lusty health each sinew braced;
But the damp breath of opening Spring,
Wafting distemper on its wing,
Pierces the frame unstrung;
A Reaper toils of ghastly brow,
The tolling bell is busy now,
Full many a dirge-note sung.
Inconstant month! at times thy hand,
Parting the curtains of the storm,
Gives promise that the dreary land
Will bask again in sunlight warm;
Thy barbarous strain hath pauses brief,
In which the heart derives relief
From a low, gentle lay,
Like the soft breathing of a flute,
When harsher instruments are mute,
Dying in air away.
Parting the curtains of the storm,
Gives promise that the dreary land
Will bask again in sunlight warm;
Thy barbarous strain hath pauses brief,
In which the heart derives relief
From a low, gentle lay,
Like the soft breathing of a flute,
When harsher instruments are mute,
Dying in air away.
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From many a sugar-camp upcurls
Blue smoke above the maple boughs,
And shouting boys and laughing girls
Wild Echo from her covert rouse;
The syrup, golden in its flow,
Poured thickly on the hissing snow,
Enchains their eager eyes—
The month of March is dear to them,
Though, nodding lightly on the stem,
No violets arise.
Blue smoke above the maple boughs,
And shouting boys and laughing girls
Wild Echo from her covert rouse;
The syrup, golden in its flow,
Poured thickly on the hissing snow,
Enchains their eager eyes—
The month of March is dear to them,
Though, nodding lightly on the stem,
No violets arise.
Lakeward the swollen river rolls,
Encroaching on its barren shore;
The cry of lost, despairing souls
Seems mingling with its awful roar;
Huge ice-blocks, on its bosom borne,
Asunder, with a crash, are torn,
By ragged drift-wood smote;
The swain beholds, in wild dismay,
His stacks and fences swept away—
His drowning flock afloat.
Encroaching on its barren shore;
The cry of lost, despairing souls
Seems mingling with its awful roar;
Huge ice-blocks, on its bosom borne,
Asunder, with a crash, are torn,
By ragged drift-wood smote;
The swain beholds, in wild dismay,
His stacks and fences swept away—
His drowning flock afloat.
The musk-rat from his reedy lair
Is driven by the rising tide,
For watcher keen a target fair,
Who shoots him by the river side.
Thus oft, with wave of wild mischance,
Man battles, while the straining glance
Is cheered by land ahead;
And finds, though rude the surf, too late,
Foes on the shore his landing wait
More pitiless and dread.
Is driven by the rising tide,
For watcher keen a target fair,
Who shoots him by the river side.
Thus oft, with wave of wild mischance,
Man battles, while the straining glance
Is cheered by land ahead;
And finds, though rude the surf, too late,
Foes on the shore his landing wait
More pitiless and dread.
Though Winter was a tyrant stern,
He boasted brighter hours than these;
High did the roaring wood-fires burn,
And loud were New Year revelries;
The shout of boyhood filled our ears,
And bridges, built on crystal piers,
Rang as the skater passed;
By hoary sire and grandam old
Nightly around the hearth were told
Tales of the dreamy past.
He boasted brighter hours than these;
High did the roaring wood-fires burn,
And loud were New Year revelries;
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And bridges, built on crystal piers,
Rang as the skater passed;
By hoary sire and grandam old
Nightly around the hearth were told
Tales of the dreamy past.
A shadow on my heart is thrown
By the deep gloom that wraps the scene;
When will the blast forget to moan—
Earth wear again her mantle green?
The brooks call on the flowers to rise,
And paint their banks with varied dyes,
But call, alas! in vain:
Gray woods this mourning cry send forth—
“When will the singing birds come north,
And cheer our depths again?”
By the deep gloom that wraps the scene;
When will the blast forget to moan—
Earth wear again her mantle green?
The brooks call on the flowers to rise,
And paint their banks with varied dyes,
But call, alas! in vain:
Gray woods this mourning cry send forth—
“When will the singing birds come north,
And cheer our depths again?”
Oh, why repine! the fair and bright
Are in the lap of darkness born—
The tears of melancholy Night
Are jewels in the crown of Morn;
And March must wrestle with his foes,
The genii dread of clouds and snows,
Ere Nature's face is gay:
Then honor to the warrior grim,
For precious seeds are sown by him,
Though turbulent his sway.
Are in the lap of darkness born—
The tears of melancholy Night
Are jewels in the crown of Morn;
And March must wrestle with his foes,
The genii dread of clouds and snows,
Ere Nature's face is gay:
Then honor to the warrior grim,
For precious seeds are sown by him,
Though turbulent his sway.
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APRIL.
“When proud-pied April, dressed in al his trim,
Hath put a spirit of youth in everything.”
Shakespeare.
Hath put a spirit of youth in everything.”
Shakespeare.
A subtle masker is abroad,
Attended by a merry band,
Gemming with emerald the sod,
And breathing fragrance through the land:
Now, in a robe of blue and gold,
He wraps his form of graceful mould,
And whispers—“I am May,”
In tones of ravishment—anon
He puts more gloomy raiment on,
A sterner part to play.
Attended by a merry band,
Gemming with emerald the sod,
And breathing fragrance through the land:
Now, in a robe of blue and gold,
He wraps his form of graceful mould,
And whispers—“I am May,”
In tones of ravishment—anon
He puts more gloomy raiment on,
A sterner part to play.
By April of the sunny tress
The mighty spell of death is broke,
As marble, with a fond caress,
To life the son of Belus woke;
His magic flute of many keys
Gives to the soft, enamored breeze
Notes that recall the lost—
Plumed exiles far away that flew
When brown the leaves of Autumn grew,
Touched by a “killing frost.”
The mighty spell of death is broke,
As marble, with a fond caress,
To life the son of Belus woke;
His magic flute of many keys
Gives to the soft, enamored breeze
Notes that recall the lost—
Plumed exiles far away that flew
When brown the leaves of Autumn grew,
Touched by a “killing frost.”
The black-bird chants, musician shrill,
Perched lightly on some budding tree,
And the blithe robin opes her bill,
Flooding the grove with melody:
The blue-bird carols on the wing,
And in my frozen heart the spring
Of joy wells up again;
Yon lark, whose pulsing breast hath drawn
Its color from the golden dawn,
Whistles a cheerful strain.
Perched lightly on some budding tree,
And the blithe robin opes her bill,
Flooding the grove with melody:
The blue-bird carols on the wing,
And in my frozen heart the spring
Of joy wells up again;
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Its color from the golden dawn,
Whistles a cheerful strain.
Buds of the maple, redly tinged,
Are bursting in the naked wood,
And passing clouds, with amber fringed,
Drop diamonds on the dimpling flood:
Moist mould, disturbed by spade or plough,
A grateful smell is yielding now,
In field and garden-close;
Bright trout are leaping in the brook,
And craftily his baited hook
The silent angler throws.
Are bursting in the naked wood,
And passing clouds, with amber fringed,
Drop diamonds on the dimpling flood:
Moist mould, disturbed by spade or plough,
A grateful smell is yielding now,
In field and garden-close;
Bright trout are leaping in the brook,
And craftily his baited hook
The silent angler throws.
Few violets as yet adorn
Glade, river-bank, and meadow-sod;
But welcome to the wind of morn
The daffodil and crocus nod:
More gorgeous pets can June-time boast,
But vernal flowers call up a host
Of recollections dear,
And fair, expanding hopes that die,
Or dormant in the bosom lie,
When older grows the year.
Glade, river-bank, and meadow-sod;
But welcome to the wind of morn
The daffodil and crocus nod:
More gorgeous pets can June-time boast,
But vernal flowers call up a host
Of recollections dear,
And fair, expanding hopes that die,
Or dormant in the bosom lie,
When older grows the year.
While crimson with a quicker flow
Is coursing through the veins of age,
He deems the scroll of Long-Ago,
Though blurred, a newly-written page.
Gay Childhood, of the radiant brow,
His maddest prank is playing now—
Waking his wildest cry:
No longer closeted with brooks,
On wave and land the student looks—
Enchantment in his eye.
Is coursing through the veins of age,
He deems the scroll of Long-Ago,
Though blurred, a newly-written page.
Gay Childhood, of the radiant brow,
His maddest prank is playing now—
Waking his wildest cry:
No longer closeted with brooks,
On wave and land the student looks—
Enchantment in his eye.
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The moonshine of an April night
Is balsam to a fevered soul,
And pastures, bathed in glimmering light,
Invite me forth alone to stroll:
Young herbage decorates the ground,
And fall my feet without a sound
Upon its tender green;
Earth, late so desert-like, hath donned
Vestments, in beauty far beyond
The wardrobe of a queen.
Is balsam to a fevered soul,
And pastures, bathed in glimmering light,
Invite me forth alone to stroll:
Young herbage decorates the ground,
And fall my feet without a sound
Upon its tender green;
Earth, late so desert-like, hath donned
Vestments, in beauty far beyond
The wardrobe of a queen.
Light curtain-folds of hazy blue
Hang, star-emblazoned in the sky,
And far-off groves, that limit view,
Tower with their silvery tops on high;
The music of a ceaseless hymn
That riseth from their cloisters dim,
Quells the low plaint of Care;
Voices, inaudible when Day,
A babbler loud, holds gaudy sway,
Float on the tides of air.
Hang, star-emblazoned in the sky,
And far-off groves, that limit view,
Tower with their silvery tops on high;
The music of a ceaseless hymn
That riseth from their cloisters dim,
Quells the low plaint of Care;
Voices, inaudible when Day,
A babbler loud, holds gaudy sway,
Float on the tides of air.
Thrice welcome, April! Beauty sips
One draught of thy refreshing wine,
And song once more is on her lips,
Bloom on her countenance divine:
Retreating Winter vainly flings
A snow-flake from his feeble wings
To mar thy work of joy:
The sports of Easter are thine own,
When Manhood throws his burthen down,
And personates the boy.
One draught of thy refreshing wine,
And song once more is on her lips,
Bloom on her countenance divine:
Retreating Winter vainly flings
A snow-flake from his feeble wings
To mar thy work of joy:
The sports of Easter are thine own,
When Manhood throws his burthen down,
And personates the boy.
Earth's Laureate Bard in other years,
Warmed into being by thy breath,
Drank from thy cup of sun-lit tears,
And learned thy spell to conquer Death:
The lights and shadows of thy face
Upon his pictured leaves we trace,
Thy humors quaint and wild;
The Skeletons of Ruin heard
His awful, vivifying word,
And, like thy landscape, smiled.
Warmed into being by thy breath,
Drank from thy cup of sun-lit tears,
And learned thy spell to conquer Death:
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Upon his pictured leaves we trace,
Thy humors quaint and wild;
The Skeletons of Ruin heard
His awful, vivifying word,
And, like thy landscape, smiled.
312
MAY.
“Oh, Maye, with all thy floures and thy grene,
Right welcome be thou, fair, freshe Maye!”
Chaucer.
Right welcome be thou, fair, freshe Maye!”
Chaucer.
Airs from the clear south-west have borne
A fairy hither on their wings,
And pining grief forgets to mourn,
Transported by the psalm she sings.
Pale Want, in ragged, thin attire,
Who found no faggot for his fire
When howled the wintry storm,
Quitting his desolate retreats,
Looks forth, and with a blessing greets
The sunlight free and warm.
A fairy hither on their wings,
And pining grief forgets to mourn,
Transported by the psalm she sings.
Pale Want, in ragged, thin attire,
Who found no faggot for his fire
When howled the wintry storm,
Quitting his desolate retreats,
Looks forth, and with a blessing greets
The sunlight free and warm.
The deep, orchestral wood gives ear,
Thrilled to its heart by joyous song,
And in the laughing fields I hear
Old voices that were silent long;
In a rich suit of gold and black,
The Oriole hath wandered back,
To weave her hammock light;
And the brown thrush, a mimic wild,
For many weary moons exiled,
From bough to bough takes flight.
Thrilled to its heart by joyous song,
And in the laughing fields I hear
Old voices that were silent long;
In a rich suit of gold and black,
The Oriole hath wandered back,
To weave her hammock light;
And the brown thrush, a mimic wild,
For many weary moons exiled,
From bough to bough takes flight.
A sea of verdure overspreads
The rushy banks of pond and cove,
And wild flowers lift their jewelled heads,
Frail, air-swung censors of the grove.
Tall blue-bells, in my woodland walks,
Nod gracefully their leafy stalks,
In welcoming to me;
With luscious wine, by Night distilled,
Their cups to overflowing filled,
Allure the gauze-winged bee.
The rushy banks of pond and cove,
And wild flowers lift their jewelled heads,
Frail, air-swung censors of the grove.
Tall blue-bells, in my woodland walks,
Nod gracefully their leafy stalks,
In welcoming to me;
With luscious wine, by Night distilled,
Their cups to overflowing filled,
Allure the gauze-winged bee.
313
The rose-lipped shell on ocean's beach
Hath less of beauty in its hue
Than fragrant blossoms of the peach,
That twinkle diamonded with dew;
The cherry lifts its snowy crest—
In white the plum and pear are drest,
Diffusing odor round;
Detached, in orchards, by the breeze,
The painted drapery of the trees
Falls, carpeting the ground.
Hath less of beauty in its hue
Than fragrant blossoms of the peach,
That twinkle diamonded with dew;
The cherry lifts its snowy crest—
In white the plum and pear are drest,
Diffusing odor round;
Detached, in orchards, by the breeze,
The painted drapery of the trees
Falls, carpeting the ground.
Our sires thronged forth from cot and hall
When, sooty and grotesque of look,
Round May-poles, garlanded and tall,
His bells the morris-dancer shook:
By loyal hands a queen was crowned,
And manly pastime labor found
While cloth-yard shafts were drawn;
With laughing sky and festal earth
Comported well that scene of mirth
Upon the daisied lawn.
When, sooty and grotesque of look,
Round May-poles, garlanded and tall,
His bells the morris-dancer shook:
By loyal hands a queen was crowned,
And manly pastime labor found
While cloth-yard shafts were drawn;
With laughing sky and festal earth
Comported well that scene of mirth
Upon the daisied lawn.
The merry-making games of old
Unlocked the portals of the heart,
And rarely man his honor sold
For booty in the crowded mart;
When Woe appealed to Wealth for food,
He owned the tie of brotherhood,
Giving without disdain;
A generous valor warmed the soul
Where love of country held control,
Not low desire for gain.
Unlocked the portals of the heart,
And rarely man his honor sold
For booty in the crowded mart;
When Woe appealed to Wealth for food,
He owned the tie of brotherhood,
Giving without disdain;
A generous valor warmed the soul
Where love of country held control,
Not low desire for gain.
Capricious April sighed away
His perfumed breath with closing eyes,
And leaving crown and realm to May,
Within a grave of beauty lies.
Shelley, if living, would declare
A tenement of rest so fair,
Undarkened by a cloud,
In love with death would wanderer make,
And in his heart enamored wake
A yearning for the shroud.
His perfumed breath with closing eyes,
And leaving crown and realm to May,
Within a grave of beauty lies.
314
A tenement of rest so fair,
Undarkened by a cloud,
In love with death would wanderer make,
And in his heart enamored wake
A yearning for the shroud.
Bright drops on floral cup and bell,
When breaks the first fair morn of May,
No longer, blest by fairy spell,
Can charm the freckled mole away;
But, ah! this season of delight
Hath magic yet to make more bright
The tombstone of the Past;
And Memory “a-Maying” goes,
Reviving many a withered rose,
In gardens dim and vast.
When breaks the first fair morn of May,
No longer, blest by fairy spell,
Can charm the freckled mole away;
But, ah! this season of delight
Hath magic yet to make more bright
The tombstone of the Past;
And Memory “a-Maying” goes,
Reviving many a withered rose,
In gardens dim and vast.
Called by the flowery Queen of Spring,
Dispensing bliss without alloy,
The sportive insect-tribes take wing,
And Nature's holiday enjoy:
Oh! not in gaudy trappings clad,
Alone the proud and mighty glad
At her bright court are made;
Alike upon the great and small
Her royal favors freely fall—
Her sunshine and her shade.
Dispensing bliss without alloy,
The sportive insect-tribes take wing,
And Nature's holiday enjoy:
Oh! not in gaudy trappings clad,
Alone the proud and mighty glad
At her bright court are made;
Alike upon the great and small
Her royal favors freely fall—
Her sunshine and her shade.
Thou art the May of other hours—
Undimmed thy locks of golden sheen—
And still, with dandelion flowers,
Is starred thy plaid of living green;
But time, alas! in me hath wrought
Drear changes, both in form and thought,
Since boyhood's blissful time,
When, lulled by bird and running stream,
I couched me on thy flowers, to dream
Of Heaven's unshadowed clime.
Undimmed thy locks of golden sheen—
And still, with dandelion flowers,
Is starred thy plaid of living green;
But time, alas! in me hath wrought
Drear changes, both in form and thought,
Since boyhood's blissful time,
315
I couched me on thy flowers, to dream
Of Heaven's unshadowed clime.
“The birds, more joyous grown,
Catch once again their silver summer tone,
And they who late from bough to bough did creep,
Now trim their plumes upon some sunny steep,
And seem to sing of winter overthrown.”
Barry Cornwall.
Catch once again their silver summer tone,
And they who late from bough to bough did creep,
Now trim their plumes upon some sunny steep,
And seem to sing of winter overthrown.”
Barry Cornwall.
Mingled with her tresses wearing
Garlands wet with gentle showers,
In her hand a sceptre bearing,
Wreathed with radiant flowers,
Pleasant May hath come, bestowing
Soft, blue robes upon the sky,
On broad vale and upland throwing
Gifts of verdant dye.
Garlands wet with gentle showers,
In her hand a sceptre bearing,
Wreathed with radiant flowers,
Pleasant May hath come, bestowing
Soft, blue robes upon the sky,
On broad vale and upland throwing
Gifts of verdant dye.
Lulling winds of Heaven are stealing
Blossom-odor from the bough—
Every moment is revealing
Some new beauty now:
Housewife bees are swiftly flying
Round young flowers in airy rings—
Insects, newly born, are trying
In the sun their wings.
Blossom-odor from the bough—
Every moment is revealing
Some new beauty now:
Housewife bees are swiftly flying
Round young flowers in airy rings—
Insects, newly born, are trying
In the sun their wings.
Welcome May! yon elm is waving
Regally his leafy crest—
Tinkling streams are lightly laving
Banks in verdure drest.
While the robin plaits his dwelling
In the green depths of the wood,
Birds are in the sunlight swelling,
Fresh, and many-hued.
Regally his leafy crest—
Tinkling streams are lightly laving
Banks in verdure drest.
While the robin plaits his dwelling
In the green depths of the wood,
Birds are in the sunlight swelling,
Fresh, and many-hued.
Airless room and sofa leaving,
I will roam with idle tread,
Where the stirring grove is weaving
Broad roofs overhead;
Or, beneath some tall beach sitting,
Rooted in the virgin mould,
Read, while birds are near me flitting,
Thrilling tales of old.
I will roam with idle tread,
316
Broad roofs overhead;
Or, beneath some tall beach sitting,
Rooted in the virgin mould,
Read, while birds are near me flitting,
Thrilling tales of old.
317
JUNE.
“Now have green April and the blue-eyed May
Vanished awhile; and lo! the glorious June
(While Nature ripens in his burning noon)
Comes like a young inheritor.”
Barry Cornwall.
Vanished awhile; and lo! the glorious June
(While Nature ripens in his burning noon)
Comes like a young inheritor.”
Barry Cornwall.
Armida's garden, ever bright,
And odorous with enchanted flowers,
Was not more rich in bloom and light
Than now is this fair world of ours,
While June floats on the melting air,
With rose-buds in his lustrous hair,
Above the grave of Spring;—
On high the fleecy clouds are piled,
And round him, with a twitter wild,
Dart swallows on the wing.
And odorous with enchanted flowers,
Was not more rich in bloom and light
Than now is this fair world of ours,
While June floats on the melting air,
With rose-buds in his lustrous hair,
Above the grave of Spring;—
On high the fleecy clouds are piled,
And round him, with a twitter wild,
Dart swallows on the wing.
Where spreads the meadow, broad and long,
Its velvet to the river's brink,
There is a rivalry in song
Between the lark and bobolink;
While sunny skies drop golden rain,
The former pours a fife-like strain
From her expanding throat—
The latter, on some grassy spire,
Rocks to and fro—a feathered lyre
Of full, voluptuous note.
Its velvet to the river's brink,
There is a rivalry in song
Between the lark and bobolink;
While sunny skies drop golden rain,
The former pours a fife-like strain
From her expanding throat—
The latter, on some grassy spire,
Rocks to and fro—a feathered lyre
Of full, voluptuous note.
Gay, voiceful things, in every hue
That paints the braided rainbow clad,
And over-fed with honey-dew,
Dart by, deliriously glad;
An elfin crowd are hither drawn,
And mourning grasps King Oberon
A dimmed and broken wand.
For youthful June hath made the face
Of Earth a sweeter dwelling-place
Than even Fairy Land.
That paints the braided rainbow clad,
And over-fed with honey-dew,
Dart by, deliriously glad;
An elfin crowd are hither drawn,
And mourning grasps King Oberon
A dimmed and broken wand.
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Of Earth a sweeter dwelling-place
Than even Fairy Land.
Vans, richly striped, young butterflies,
Perched on the flowers, expand and close,
And humble-bees, with waxen thighs,
Pay noisy visits to the rose:
Urns that the wine of morning hold
Lure, clothed in purple, green and gold,
The restless humming-bird,—
An opal flashing in the light,
Compared with hues that deck the sprite,
Would dull appear and blurred.
Perched on the flowers, expand and close,
And humble-bees, with waxen thighs,
Pay noisy visits to the rose:
Urns that the wine of morning hold
Lure, clothed in purple, green and gold,
The restless humming-bird,—
An opal flashing in the light,
Compared with hues that deck the sprite,
Would dull appear and blurred.
Laburnums, by the zephyr wooed,
Their yellow ringlets lightly shake,
And, types of graceful maidenhood,
Tall lilies from their slumber wake,
Kissing each other, while they fling
Elysian fragrance forth, and swing
Upon their flexile stalks;
Syringas rustle, draped with snow,
And peonies with purple strew
The level garden walks.
Their yellow ringlets lightly shake,
And, types of graceful maidenhood,
Tall lilies from their slumber wake,
Kissing each other, while they fling
Elysian fragrance forth, and swing
Upon their flexile stalks;
Syringas rustle, draped with snow,
And peonies with purple strew
The level garden walks.
St. John's charmed eve was hailed of yore
With feast and dance in England old,
But down the verdant slope no more
The redly-blazing wheel is rolled;
No more the dewy moonlit glade
Is visited by love-lorn maid,
For plant of magic power,
That, placed beneath her pillowed head,
Would waken dreams of woe and dread,
Or the glad nuptial hour.
With feast and dance in England old,
But down the verdant slope no more
The redly-blazing wheel is rolled;
No more the dewy moonlit glade
Is visited by love-lorn maid,
For plant of magic power,
That, placed beneath her pillowed head,
Would waken dreams of woe and dread,
Or the glad nuptial hour.
319
When Tyrian dyes no longer paint
The cloudy portals of the West,
The whippowill begins her plaint
With swelling neck and throbbing breast;
Each note of Night's mysterious bird
By listener, far away, is heard
Sad as the dirge of Joy:
Or cry by pale Ænòne raised,
Hunting, while stars on Ida gazed,
For her Dardanian boy.
The cloudy portals of the West,
The whippowill begins her plaint
With swelling neck and throbbing breast;
Each note of Night's mysterious bird
By listener, far away, is heard
Sad as the dirge of Joy:
Or cry by pale Ænòne raised,
Hunting, while stars on Ida gazed,
For her Dardanian boy.
When hushed the robin's vesper song,
By moonlight to the woods I hie,
Then couch me down, and listen long
To voices that go wandering by;
Wind, wave, and leaf, in concert blend,
And tones, by day unheard, ascend
From glen and mossy floor;
That wondrous music, soft and low,
Heard by the son of Prospero,
Would not enchant me more.
By moonlight to the woods I hie,
Then couch me down, and listen long
To voices that go wandering by;
Wind, wave, and leaf, in concert blend,
And tones, by day unheard, ascend
From glen and mossy floor;
That wondrous music, soft and low,
Heard by the son of Prospero,
Would not enchant me more.
A yearning in the heart awakes
From human neighborhood to flee,
And tread the shores of breezy lakes,
Or climb the hills, a rover free;
“Away!” a voice upon me calls—
“Thy cheek its color from the walls
That hem thee in, hath caught;
Go forth! and on thy troubled brain
Will, angel-like, descend again
The holy calm of thought.”
From human neighborhood to flee,
And tread the shores of breezy lakes,
Or climb the hills, a rover free;
“Away!” a voice upon me calls—
“Thy cheek its color from the walls
That hem thee in, hath caught;
Go forth! and on thy troubled brain
Will, angel-like, descend again
The holy calm of thought.”
Oh, June! with thee return no more
The feelings of my boyhood wild;
Earth, then, a brighter vesture wore,
More graciously the morning smiled;
The ruddy strawberries of old
Drew flavor from a richer mould
Than those I gather now;
More kindly dew by night was showered,
And swathed in deeper azure towered
The mountain's piny brow.
The feelings of my boyhood wild;
Earth, then, a brighter vesture wore,
More graciously the morning smiled;
320
Drew flavor from a richer mould
Than those I gather now;
More kindly dew by night was showered,
And swathed in deeper azure towered
The mountain's piny brow.
“Man changes with the lapse of years”—
A low, rebuking voice replies—
“He hears, at length, with other ears,
And sees, alas! with other eyes.
Back comes young Summer with the glow
That flushed her features long ago,
And Nature still is true;
But hopes that charmed thy youth are dead—
The sunshine of thy heart is fled,
Its innocency too.”
A low, rebuking voice replies—
“He hears, at length, with other ears,
And sees, alas! with other eyes.
Back comes young Summer with the glow
That flushed her features long ago,
And Nature still is true;
But hopes that charmed thy youth are dead—
The sunshine of thy heart is fled,
Its innocency too.”
The violet peeps from its emerald bed,
And rivals the azure, in hue, overhead—
To the breeze sweeping by on invisible wings
Its gift of rich odor the young lily flings,
And the silvery brook in the greenwood is heard,
Sweetly blending its tones with the song of the bird.
And rivals the azure, in hue, overhead—
To the breeze sweeping by on invisible wings
Its gift of rich odor the young lily flings,
And the silvery brook in the greenwood is heard,
Sweetly blending its tones with the song of the bird.
The swallow is dipping his wing in the tide,
And the aspect of earth is to grief unallied;
Ripe fruit blushes now on the strawberry vine,
And the trees of the woodland their arms intertwine,
Forming shields which the sun pierceth not with his ray—
Screening delicate plants from the broad eye of day.
And the aspect of earth is to grief unallied;
Ripe fruit blushes now on the strawberry vine,
And the trees of the woodland their arms intertwine,
Forming shields which the sun pierceth not with his ray—
Screening delicate plants from the broad eye of day.
Oft forsaking the haunts and the dwellings of men,
I have sought out the depths of the forest and glen,
And the presence of June making vocal each bough,
Would drive the dark shadow of care from my brow:
The rustling of leaves, the blythe hum of the bee,
Than the music of viols is sweeter to me.
I have sought out the depths of the forest and glen,
And the presence of June making vocal each bough,
Would drive the dark shadow of care from my brow:
The rustling of leaves, the blythe hum of the bee,
Than the music of viols is sweeter to me.
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When the rose bends with dew on her emerald throne,
And the wren to her perch in the forest hath flown;
When the musical thrush is asleep on the nest,
And the red bird is in her light hammock at rest;
When sunlight no longer gilds streamlet and hill,
Is heard thy sad anthem, forlorn whippowill!
And the wren to her perch in the forest hath flown;
When the musical thrush is asleep on the nest,
And the red bird is in her light hammock at rest;
When sunlight no longer gilds streamlet and hill,
Is heard thy sad anthem, forlorn whippowill!
The Indian, as twilight was fading away,
Would start when his ear caught thy sorrowful lay,
And supposing thy note the precursor of woe,
Would arm for the sudden approach of the foe—
But I list to thy wild, fitful hymn with delight,
When the pale stars are winking, lone minstrel of night!
Would start when his ear caught thy sorrowful lay,
And supposing thy note the precursor of woe,
Would arm for the sudden approach of the foe—
But I list to thy wild, fitful hymn with delight,
When the pale stars are winking, lone minstrel of night!
Brightest month of the year! when thy chaplet grows pale,
I shall mourn, for the bearer of health is thy gale;
The pearl that young Beauty weaves in her dark hair,
In clearness cannot with thy waters compare—
Nor yet can the ruby or amethyst vie
With the tint of thy rose or the hue of thy sky.
I shall mourn, for the bearer of health is thy gale;
The pearl that young Beauty weaves in her dark hair,
In clearness cannot with thy waters compare—
Nor yet can the ruby or amethyst vie
With the tint of thy rose or the hue of thy sky.
322
JULY
Thrice happy he! who on the sunless side
Of a romantic mountain, forest crowned,
Beneath the whole collected shade reclines.”
Thompson.
Of a romantic mountain, forest crowned,
Beneath the whole collected shade reclines.”
Thompson.
Thronged yesterday the young and old,
With a deep murmur like the main
Ten thousand banners were unrolled,
And trumpets woke a martial strain:
While cannon flashed their reddening fires,
And clangor came from trembling spires,
Glad ears the signal caught:
The scythe hung idly on the tree,
For a great day of jubilee
The Julian month had brought.
With a deep murmur like the main
Ten thousand banners were unrolled,
And trumpets woke a martial strain:
While cannon flashed their reddening fires,
And clangor came from trembling spires,
Glad ears the signal caught:
The scythe hung idly on the tree,
For a great day of jubilee
The Julian month had brought.
Woe to a country when the weeds
Grow darkly on its altar-hearth,
And fade from memory the deeds
Of men who woke the sleep of Earth!
Cementing in the battle storm,
With their best blood, the blocks that form
A dome where millions meet—
A stately dome of many doors,
To all unfolded, and whose floors
Are trod by chainless feet.
Grow darkly on its altar-hearth,
And fade from memory the deeds
Of men who woke the sleep of Earth!
Cementing in the battle storm,
With their best blood, the blocks that form
A dome where millions meet—
A stately dome of many doors,
To all unfolded, and whose floors
Are trod by chainless feet.
What pictures to poetic eye
More beauteous than these wood-girt glades,
Fields full of oats and bearded rye,
And dark green corn with flaunting blades?
Warm airs, in dalliance with the wheat,
Awaken murmurs low and sweet,
And sturdy reapers swing
Light cradles now on hill and plain,
And from their finger-points the grain
With measured motion fling.
More beauteous than these wood-girt glades,
Fields full of oats and bearded rye,
And dark green corn with flaunting blades?
Warm airs, in dalliance with the wheat,
Awaken murmurs low and sweet,
323
Light cradles now on hill and plain,
And from their finger-points the grain
With measured motion fling.
When noon pours down his fiercest ray,
And seems a-blaze the gliding rill,
The bird sits panting on the spray,
With lifted wing and open bill;
Upon the meadow's grassy floor,
Beneath old oaks—their dinner o'er—
Hay-making groups recline;
From sunny grass-lands to the cool,
Dark waters of the shaded pool
Wend slow the weary kine.
And seems a-blaze the gliding rill,
The bird sits panting on the spray,
With lifted wing and open bill;
Upon the meadow's grassy floor,
Beneath old oaks—their dinner o'er—
Hay-making groups recline;
From sunny grass-lands to the cool,
Dark waters of the shaded pool
Wend slow the weary kine.
Ere thunder shakes the solid land,
And the big drops drench hill and vale,
Herds in the withering pasture stand,
With necks outstretched, and snuff the gale;
Changed in a moment is the sky
From azure of the deepest dye
To gloomy, funeral black;
And the broad mirror of the stream
Blinds with its brightness, while the gleam
Of lightning it gives back.
And the big drops drench hill and vale,
Herds in the withering pasture stand,
With necks outstretched, and snuff the gale;
Changed in a moment is the sky
From azure of the deepest dye
To gloomy, funeral black;
And the broad mirror of the stream
Blinds with its brightness, while the gleam
Of lightning it gives back.
When over is the pleasant shower
The birds a song of transport wake,
And diamonds, in the sheltering bower
From their oiled plumage blithely shake:
Earth laughs, endowed with newer life,
And subtle airs, with fragrance rife,
Lift the damp, whispering leaves;
And briskly, now, in fields of grain,
Toils, with a youthful band, the swain
To dry the dripping sheaves.
The birds a song of transport wake,
And diamonds, in the sheltering bower
From their oiled plumage blithely shake:
Earth laughs, endowed with newer life,
And subtle airs, with fragrance rife,
Lift the damp, whispering leaves;
And briskly, now, in fields of grain,
Toils, with a youthful band, the swain
To dry the dripping sheaves.
324
The choking summer-dust that made
The faint, wayfaring crowd complain,
Is like an evil spirit laid
By music of the pattering rain;
Thus often, in a feverish dream,
Tones, like the murmur of a stream,
Ill-boding forms disperse;
And deserts, hot and parched before,
Transformed to fruitful fields, no more
Tell of a blighting curse.
The faint, wayfaring crowd complain,
Is like an evil spirit laid
By music of the pattering rain;
Thus often, in a feverish dream,
Tones, like the murmur of a stream,
Ill-boding forms disperse;
And deserts, hot and parched before,
Transformed to fruitful fields, no more
Tell of a blighting curse.
Stained with the ruddy hue of blood,
Young berry hunters may be seen
Bearing full baskets from the wood,
With brake-leaf covers fresh and green;
And when the magic afternoon
Of Saturday, that ends too soon,
Depopulates the school,
Go forth a throng of urchins brave,
Shouting their joy, to breast the wave
In pond or dimpling pool.
Young berry hunters may be seen
Bearing full baskets from the wood,
With brake-leaf covers fresh and green;
And when the magic afternoon
Of Saturday, that ends too soon,
Depopulates the school,
Go forth a throng of urchins brave,
Shouting their joy, to breast the wave
In pond or dimpling pool.
When Day, aweary, on the breast
Of gentle Eve a pillow finds,
Lulled into soft, voluptuous rest
By rippling waves and voiceful winds;
Small fire-flies darting to and fro,
Bespangle leaves and meadows low,
And the moon, rising, fills
The calm blue vault of Heaven with light,
And dim and vapory forms take flight
From the high Eastern hills.
Of gentle Eve a pillow finds,
Lulled into soft, voluptuous rest
By rippling waves and voiceful winds;
Small fire-flies darting to and fro,
Bespangle leaves and meadows low,
And the moon, rising, fills
The calm blue vault of Heaven with light,
And dim and vapory forms take flight
From the high Eastern hills.
Month of heroic thoughts, July!
I love thy hot, embrowning ray—
The fleecy cloudlets of thy sky,
The gorgeous ending of thy day:
Well art thou named!—for did not HE
Derive his force and fire from thee
Whose legions tamed the world?
Flamed in his glance thy levin red,
Tuned by thy thunder was his tread,
With Rome's old flag unfurled.
I love thy hot, embrowning ray—
The fleecy cloudlets of thy sky,
The gorgeous ending of thy day:
325
Derive his force and fire from thee
Whose legions tamed the world?
Flamed in his glance thy levin red,
Tuned by thy thunder was his tread,
With Rome's old flag unfurled.
Black clouds, that interweave a pall
To hide, at noon, thy burning sun,
His star, in darkness plunged, recall,
When Glory's pinnacle was won:
Millions, at his eclipse, grew pale,
Like shuddering children when a veil
Is drawn thy brightness o'er—
But ah! unlike his timeless doom,
Thine orb emerges from the gloom—
Flashed out his star no more.
To hide, at noon, thy burning sun,
His star, in darkness plunged, recall,
When Glory's pinnacle was won:
Millions, at his eclipse, grew pale,
Like shuddering children when a veil
Is drawn thy brightness o'er—
But ah! unlike his timeless doom,
Thine orb emerges from the gloom—
Flashed out his star no more.
326
AUGUST.
“A power is on the earth and in the air
From which the vital spirit shrinks afraid.”
Bryant.
From which the vital spirit shrinks afraid.”
Bryant.
Dust to the robe of August clings;
A hazy belt the mountain zones,
And gushing from the golden strings
Of Summer's harp, come mournful tones:
The meadow wears a withered look,
And the low channel of the brook
Is paved with pebbles dry—
Kissed by the purling wave no more,
They catch a gleam like silver ore,
But dull and darkened lie.
A hazy belt the mountain zones,
And gushing from the golden strings
Of Summer's harp, come mournful tones:
The meadow wears a withered look,
And the low channel of the brook
Is paved with pebbles dry—
Kissed by the purling wave no more,
They catch a gleam like silver ore,
But dull and darkened lie.
Through lanes where boughs meet overhead—
That deep into the greenwood pierce,
I often stroll, with vagrant tread,
Well shielded from the noontide fierce;
To places where a deeper rut
Yawns, by the groaning cart-wheel cut,
Beneath o'er-browing hill,
Flock butterflies, bedropped with gold,
Alighting on the black, rich mould,
Indued with moisture still.
That deep into the greenwood pierce,
I often stroll, with vagrant tread,
Well shielded from the noontide fierce;
To places where a deeper rut
Yawns, by the groaning cart-wheel cut,
Beneath o'er-browing hill,
Flock butterflies, bedropped with gold,
Alighting on the black, rich mould,
Indued with moisture still.
Fields wear a wan and sickly hue,
And farmers of the drought complain
For rain-streaks, on the faded blue
Of arching skies, they look in vain;
Thrice happy now is he who dwells
Where the great heart of Ocean swells,
And far away the land,
By winds that quit their hollow caves,
Drinking refreshment from the waves,
Is into coolness fanned.
And farmers of the drought complain
For rain-streaks, on the faded blue
Of arching skies, they look in vain;
Thrice happy now is he who dwells
Where the great heart of Ocean swells,
327
By winds that quit their hollow caves,
Drinking refreshment from the waves,
Is into coolness fanned.
Perched on the skeletons of trees,
That in the grainy stubble rear
Dry tops, that wave not in the breeze,
Wild pigeons watch a flutterer near;
Decoyed, at last, upon the ground,
They settle with a roaring sound,
And o'er them flies the net,
While sportsmen, in a house of boughs,
From hushed, recumbent posture rouse,
And weariness forget.
That in the grainy stubble rear
Dry tops, that wave not in the breeze,
Wild pigeons watch a flutterer near;
Decoyed, at last, upon the ground,
They settle with a roaring sound,
And o'er them flies the net,
While sportsmen, in a house of boughs,
From hushed, recumbent posture rouse,
And weariness forget.
Where openings in the forest hall
Give passage to the ripening blaze,
Umbrella-shaped, the mandrake tall
Its lemon-tinted fruit displays:
Bee-hunters are abroad to line
Black swarms to hollow oak or pine,
With box and amber comb;
A laughing band their baskets fill
With whortleberries on the hill,
Then seek their village home.
Give passage to the ripening blaze,
Umbrella-shaped, the mandrake tall
Its lemon-tinted fruit displays:
Bee-hunters are abroad to line
Black swarms to hollow oak or pine,
With box and amber comb;
A laughing band their baskets fill
With whortleberries on the hill,
Then seek their village home.
Green clusters of the wilding grape,
Climber of oaks! hang high in air,
And seedy fruit, of oblong shape,
The rough blackberry bushes bear;
The rank cohosh wears snowy plumes,
The peppermint obscurely blooms
In hollows dark and wet;
Red beads the wintergreen adorn,
And apples of the spreading thorn
Will turn to rubies yet.
Climber of oaks! hang high in air,
And seedy fruit, of oblong shape,
The rough blackberry bushes bear;
The rank cohosh wears snowy plumes,
The peppermint obscurely blooms
In hollows dark and wet;
Red beads the wintergreen adorn,
And apples of the spreading thorn
Will turn to rubies yet.
328
The maize-leaf in the sunshine curls,
The clover-tops are brown and dead,
And spindle fine the locust twirls
Amid the leaves above my head;
By sunny fence, or wall, are seen
Grasshoppers in gay coats of green,
Clouding the sod in flight;
Webs in the pasture closely cropped
Seem flags by elvish warriors dropped
When trooping by at night.
The clover-tops are brown and dead,
And spindle fine the locust twirls
Amid the leaves above my head;
By sunny fence, or wall, are seen
Grasshoppers in gay coats of green,
Clouding the sod in flight;
Webs in the pasture closely cropped
Seem flags by elvish warriors dropped
When trooping by at night.
At twilight I behold aloft,
While rambling with enamored eye,
A flush more delicately soft
Than coral, steal across the sky;
Low whispers from the river-vale
Go up, as if a dreary wail
The Water Spirits made,
For dying waves that faintly creep
O'er greenish stones to reach the deep,
Through which a child might wade.
While rambling with enamored eye,
A flush more delicately soft
Than coral, steal across the sky;
Low whispers from the river-vale
Go up, as if a dreary wail
The Water Spirits made,
For dying waves that faintly creep
O'er greenish stones to reach the deep,
Through which a child might wade.
Deep furrows in the bank denote
Paths traced by tributary streams,
When pines, adrift, the bridges smote,
Rending stone arch and massive beams:
Plants edge the marge, in withering groups,
And the parched willow vainly stoops
To bathe its pensile bough;
The plash of leaping fish, and stroke
Of dipping oar, that Echo woke,
Are heard no longer now.
Paths traced by tributary streams,
When pines, adrift, the bridges smote,
Rending stone arch and massive beams:
Plants edge the marge, in withering groups,
And the parched willow vainly stoops
To bathe its pensile bough;
The plash of leaping fish, and stroke
Of dipping oar, that Echo woke,
Are heard no longer now.
The music of an August eve
Unlocks the fount of pensive thought,
And breathes of Beauty taking leave
In tones with melting sweetness fraught:
Far in the mossy forest, stirred
By the low wind, are voices heard
Consorting with its gloom;
They tell of Summer on the wane,
And flowers that thirst for dew in vain
Around her opening tomb.
Unlocks the fount of pensive thought,
And breathes of Beauty taking leave
In tones with melting sweetness fraught:
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By the low wind, are voices heard
Consorting with its gloom;
They tell of Summer on the wane,
And flowers that thirst for dew in vain
Around her opening tomb.
Lured by a swarm of buzzing flies,
That round my lamp disport at night,
Darts in the bat, with beaded eyes,
Flapping his leathern wing in flight;
In June no shafts of purer glow
Shot Dian from her silver bow,
When hushed the “babbling day,”
Than those that, in her radiant course,
Now to my vine-hung casement force
Through kindling leaves their way.
That round my lamp disport at night,
Darts in the bat, with beaded eyes,
Flapping his leathern wing in flight;
In June no shafts of purer glow
Shot Dian from her silver bow,
When hushed the “babbling day,”
Than those that, in her radiant course,
Now to my vine-hung casement force
Through kindling leaves their way.
Not long, dry month of potent heat!
Will Earth beneath thy glance grow sere—
A wight, with golden-slippered feet
And jolly face, is drawing near:
Fruits manifold, a painted crop,
Before his honeyed breath will drop,
And—transformation strange!—
Fields, for the velvet green of May,
The yellow livery of decay
Will joyfully exchange.
Will Earth beneath thy glance grow sere—
A wight, with golden-slippered feet
And jolly face, is drawing near:
Fruits manifold, a painted crop,
Before his honeyed breath will drop,
And—transformation strange!—
Fields, for the velvet green of May,
The yellow livery of decay
Will joyfully exchange.
Heart of the Poet!—trembling thing!—
When Passion builds his burning shrine,
And dreams of innocence take wing,
A melancholy drought is thine;
Founts waste away, that flung a shower
Of trembling pearls on leaf and flower,
Wrapped in a fiery shroud;
On Beauty's grave are ashes piled,
And dead the lark of Fancy wild
Drops from her bower of cloud.
When Passion builds his burning shrine,
And dreams of innocence take wing,
A melancholy drought is thine;
Founts waste away, that flung a shower
Of trembling pearls on leaf and flower,
Wrapped in a fiery shroud;
On Beauty's grave are ashes piled,
And dead the lark of Fancy wild
Drops from her bower of cloud.
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When ends the Summer of my days,
Oh! may thy lilies, Peace, remain!
And, shrivelled by Ambition's blaze
No longer, feel Love's dropping rain!
As fresh, once more, the landscape grows,
When hence consuming August goes,
And Autumn comes to lave
With cooling drops the weary land,
Bronzed by the Tyrant's flaming wand,
And laugh wood, wind, and wave.
Oh! may thy lilies, Peace, remain!
And, shrivelled by Ambition's blaze
No longer, feel Love's dropping rain!
As fresh, once more, the landscape grows,
When hence consuming August goes,
And Autumn comes to lave
With cooling drops the weary land,
Bronzed by the Tyrant's flaming wand,
And laugh wood, wind, and wave.
331
SEPTEMBER.
“The sultry Summer past, September comes,
Soft twilight of the slow-declining year.”
Carlos Wilcox.
Soft twilight of the slow-declining year.”
Carlos Wilcox.
“Month of my heart”—September mild!
Thy transient reign is passing bright;
The vine-hung temple of the wild
Is streaked with golden light:
Insects are singing in the grass,
And as with loitering step I pass,
Shy pigeons greet my view,
Robbing the fragrant sassafras
Of berries darkly blue.
Thy transient reign is passing bright;
The vine-hung temple of the wild
Is streaked with golden light:
Insects are singing in the grass,
And as with loitering step I pass,
Shy pigeons greet my view,
Robbing the fragrant sassafras
Of berries darkly blue.
Lifting their cups to drink the showers,
And nodding in the southern breeze,
Still a gay family of flowers
Are haunted by the bees:
Glove the Gerardia displays,
Tinged like the sunset's richest blaze;
And near my path behold
The beauteous Solidago raise
Its feathery stalk of gold.
And nodding in the southern breeze,
Still a gay family of flowers
Are haunted by the bees:
Glove the Gerardia displays,
Tinged like the sunset's richest blaze;
And near my path behold
The beauteous Solidago raise
Its feathery stalk of gold.
Nigh mouldering logs, with moss o'erspread,
Gleam the striped Arum's coral beads,
And brake-stems, shaken by my tread,
Drop their round, clustering seeds:
I mark the Gentian's azure eye,
And berries of a crimson dye
That grace the Boxwood's crown,
And, shooting from the marsh on high,
The Typha's Catkin brown.
Gleam the striped Arum's coral beads,
And brake-stems, shaken by my tread,
Drop their round, clustering seeds:
I mark the Gentian's azure eye,
And berries of a crimson dye
That grace the Boxwood's crown,
And, shooting from the marsh on high,
The Typha's Catkin brown.
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On a few children of the shade
That pale, fantastic painter—Frost—
Warm colors with cold hand hath laid,
Though not a leaf is lost:
Blood-drops may, here and there, be seen
On the low Sumach's vest of green,
As if its heart had bled,
And, where tall maples form a screen,
The grove is growing red.
That pale, fantastic painter—Frost—
Warm colors with cold hand hath laid,
Though not a leaf is lost:
Blood-drops may, here and there, be seen
On the low Sumach's vest of green,
As if its heart had bled,
And, where tall maples form a screen,
The grove is growing red.
Clusters of white and purple now
Deck garden-wall and trellis green,
And ripe to bursting, on the bough
The luscious peach is seen:
Sunset hath flushed its velvet cheeks,
And delicate vermilion streaks
Adorn the juicy pear:
Birds dart about with pecking beaks—
The wasp finds dainty fare.
Deck garden-wall and trellis green,
And ripe to bursting, on the bough
The luscious peach is seen:
Sunset hath flushed its velvet cheeks,
And delicate vermilion streaks
Adorn the juicy pear:
Birds dart about with pecking beaks—
The wasp finds dainty fare.
Across the darkly furrowed plain
The sower moves with even stride,
And gracefully a bag of grain
Is swinging at his side:
A hungry pigeon flock take heed,
While far abroad the precious seed
Streams whitening from his hand;
Soon will they flutter down, and feed,
A bold, rapacious band.
The sower moves with even stride,
And gracefully a bag of grain
Is swinging at his side:
A hungry pigeon flock take heed,
While far abroad the precious seed
Streams whitening from his hand;
Soon will they flutter down, and feed,
A bold, rapacious band.
The spider's beating clock I hear,
The meadow cricket blows his pipe,
And rising from the marsh, in fear
Whirrs by, the whistling snipe:
A listener to the rustling sound
My foot wakes in dry stubble ground,
Away the field-mouse springs;
The wheeling hawk sends out a scream,
While sunlight edges with a gleam
Of amber light his wings.
The meadow cricket blows his pipe,
And rising from the marsh, in fear
Whirrs by, the whistling snipe:
A listener to the rustling sound
My foot wakes in dry stubble ground,
Away the field-mouse springs;
333
While sunlight edges with a gleam
Of amber light his wings.
A clearing I have reached at last,
Green with a robe of sprouting wheat,
And rambling glance below I cast
On calm Autangua's circling sheet:
Touched by the day's departing beams,
Lo! like a brooch of gold it gleams
Upon the valley's breast!
Cheered by no fairer sight are dreams
Of a sweet child at rest.
Green with a robe of sprouting wheat,
And rambling glance below I cast
On calm Autangua's circling sheet:
Touched by the day's departing beams,
Lo! like a brooch of gold it gleams
Upon the valley's breast!
Cheered by no fairer sight are dreams
Of a sweet child at rest.
Yon mower, while the buckwheat falls
In reddish swaths, his task to cheer,
Some rude old ballad strain recalls
That well I love to hear:
The squirrel, frighted by his song,
A neighboring cornfield's edge along
Races in wild dismay,
And startled crows, a noisy throng,
Fly through the woods away.
In reddish swaths, his task to cheer,
Some rude old ballad strain recalls
That well I love to hear:
The squirrel, frighted by his song,
A neighboring cornfield's edge along
Races in wild dismay,
And startled crows, a noisy throng,
Fly through the woods away.
Old pastures, seamed by paths of sheep,
Fresh from the baths of gentle showers,
Are rivalling the verdure deep
Of May's enchanted hours:—
The mushroom lifts its roof of snow,
With roseate hangings draped below,
Ten meet for fairy folk!
And while his boughs wave to and fro,
Fall acorns from the oak.
Fresh from the baths of gentle showers,
Are rivalling the verdure deep
Of May's enchanted hours:—
The mushroom lifts its roof of snow,
With roseate hangings draped below,
Ten meet for fairy folk!
And while his boughs wave to and fro,
Fall acorns from the oak.
Huge wains, piled high with yellow maize,
Groan as their wheels cut through the soil,
And the blithe hunter homeward strays,
Bearing his feathered spoil;
With mist the distant hills are crowned,
And winds, in passing, waft a sound,
Pleasant to Boyhood's ear,
Of ripe fruit falling to the ground
In orchards planted near.
Groan as their wheels cut through the soil,
And the blithe hunter homeward strays,
Bearing his feathered spoil;
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And winds, in passing, waft a sound,
Pleasant to Boyhood's ear,
Of ripe fruit falling to the ground
In orchards planted near.
Month of my heart!—September bland!
When radiant Summer breathed her last,
She placed a sceptre in thy hand,
Her robe around thee cast:
That sceptre soon will broken be,
That bright robe cease to cover thee,
For God the wide Earth made
A scroll inscribed with this decree—
“Thy loveliest things must fade!”
When radiant Summer breathed her last,
She placed a sceptre in thy hand,
Her robe around thee cast:
That sceptre soon will broken be,
That bright robe cease to cover thee,
For God the wide Earth made
A scroll inscribed with this decree—
“Thy loveliest things must fade!”
335
OCTOBER.
“What is there saddening in the autumn leaves?
Have they that ‘green and yellow melancholy’
That the sweet poet spake of?”
Brainerd.
Have they that ‘green and yellow melancholy’
That the sweet poet spake of?”
Brainerd.
The tenth one of a royal line
Breathes on the wind his mandate loud,
And fitful gleams of sunlight shine
Around his throne of cloud:
The Genii of the forest dim
A many-colored robe for him
Of fallen leaves have wrought;
And softened is his visage grim
By melancholy thought.
Breathes on the wind his mandate loud,
And fitful gleams of sunlight shine
Around his throne of cloud:
The Genii of the forest dim
A many-colored robe for him
Of fallen leaves have wrought;
And softened is his visage grim
By melancholy thought.
No joyous birds his coming hail,
For Summer's full-voiced choir is gone,
And over Nature's face a veil
Of dull, gray mist is drawn:
The crow, with heavy pinion-strokes
Beats the chill air in flight, and croaks
A dreary song of dole:
Beneath my feet the puff-ball smokes
As through the fields I stroll.
For Summer's full-voiced choir is gone,
And over Nature's face a veil
Of dull, gray mist is drawn:
The crow, with heavy pinion-strokes
Beats the chill air in flight, and croaks
A dreary song of dole:
Beneath my feet the puff-ball smokes
As through the fields I stroll.
An awning broad of many dyes
Above me bends, as on I stray,
More splendid than Italian skies
Bright with the death of day;
As in the sun-bow's radiant braid
Shade melts like magic into shade,
And purple, green, and gold,
With carmine blent, have gorgeous made
October's flag unrolled.
Above me bends, as on I stray,
More splendid than Italian skies
Bright with the death of day;
As in the sun-bow's radiant braid
Shade melts like magic into shade,
And purple, green, and gold,
With carmine blent, have gorgeous made
October's flag unrolled.
336
The partridge, closely ambushed, hears
The crackling leaf—poor, timid thing!
And to a thicker covert steers
On swift, resounding wing:
The woodland wears a look forlorn,
Hushed is the wild bee's tiny horn,
The cricket's bugle shrill—
Sadly is Autumn's mantle torn,
But fair to vision still.
The crackling leaf—poor, timid thing!
And to a thicker covert steers
On swift, resounding wing:
The woodland wears a look forlorn,
Hushed is the wild bee's tiny horn,
The cricket's bugle shrill—
Sadly is Autumn's mantle torn,
But fair to vision still.
Black walnuts, in low, meadow ground
Are dropping now their dark, green balls,
And on the ridge, with rattling sound,
The deep brown chestnut falls.
When comes a day of sunshine mild,
From childhood, nutting in the wild,
Outbursts a shout of glee;
And high the pointed shells are piled
Under the hickory tree.
Are dropping now their dark, green balls,
And on the ridge, with rattling sound,
The deep brown chestnut falls.
When comes a day of sunshine mild,
From childhood, nutting in the wild,
Outbursts a shout of glee;
And high the pointed shells are piled
Under the hickory tree.
Bright flowers yet linger:—from the morn
Yon Cardinal hath caught its blush,
And yellow, star-shaped gems adorn
The wild witch-hazel bush;
Rocked by the frosty breath of Night,
That brings to frailer blossoms blight,
The germs of fruit they bear,
That, living on through Winter white,
Ripens in Summer air.
Yon Cardinal hath caught its blush,
And yellow, star-shaped gems adorn
The wild witch-hazel bush;
Rocked by the frosty breath of Night,
That brings to frailer blossoms blight,
The germs of fruit they bear,
That, living on through Winter white,
Ripens in Summer air.
The varied aster tribes unclose
Bright eyes in Autumn's smoky bower,
And azure cup the gentian shows,
A modest little flower:
Their garden sisters pale have turned,
Though late the dahlia I discerned
Right royally arrayed:
And phlox, whose leaf with crimson burned
Like cheek of bashful maid.
Bright eyes in Autumn's smoky bower,
And azure cup the gentian shows,
A modest little flower:
Their garden sisters pale have turned,
Though late the dahlia I discerned
Right royally arrayed:
And phlox, whose leaf with crimson burned
Like cheek of bashful maid.
337
In piles around the cider-mill
The parti-colored apples shine,
And busy hands the hopper fill
While foams the pumice fine—
The cheese, with yellow straw between
Full, juicy layers, may be seen,
And rills of amber hue
Feed a vast tub, made tight and clean,
While turns the groaning screw.
The parti-colored apples shine,
And busy hands the hopper fill
While foams the pumice fine—
The cheese, with yellow straw between
Full, juicy layers, may be seen,
And rills of amber hue
Feed a vast tub, made tight and clean,
While turns the groaning screw.
From wheat-fields, washed by recent rains,
In flocks the whistling plover rise
When night draws near, and leaden stains
Obscure the western skies:
The geese, so orderly of late,
Fly over fence and farm-yard gate,
As if the welkin black
The habits of a wilder state
To memory brought back.
In flocks the whistling plover rise
When night draws near, and leaden stains
Obscure the western skies:
The geese, so orderly of late,
Fly over fence and farm-yard gate,
As if the welkin black
The habits of a wilder state
To memory brought back.
Yon streamlet to the woods around,
Sings, flowing on, a mournful tune,
Oh! how unlike the joyous sound
Wherewith it welcomed June!
Wasting away with grief, it seems,
For flowers that flaunted in the beams
Of many a sun-bright day—
Fair flowers!—more beautiful than dreams
When life hath reached its May.
Sings, flowing on, a mournful tune,
Oh! how unlike the joyous sound
Wherewith it welcomed June!
Wasting away with grief, it seems,
For flowers that flaunted in the beams
Of many a sun-bright day—
Fair flowers!—more beautiful than dreams
When life hath reached its May.
Though wild, mischievous sprites of air,
In cruel mockery of a crown,
Drop on October's brow of care
Dead wreaths and foliage brown,
Abroad the sun will look again,
Rejoicing in his blue domain,
And prodigal of gold,
Ere dark November's sullen reign
Gild stream and forest old.
In cruel mockery of a crown,
Drop on October's brow of care
Dead wreaths and foliage brown,
Abroad the sun will look again,
Rejoicing in his blue domain,
And prodigal of gold,
Ere dark November's sullen reign
Gild stream and forest old.
338
Called by the west wind from her grave,
Once more will summer re-appear,
And gladden with a merry stave
The wan, departing year;
Her swiftest messenger will stay
The wild bird winging south its way
And night, no longer sad,
Will emulate the blaze of day,
In cloudless moonshine clad.
Once more will summer re-appear,
And gladden with a merry stave
The wan, departing year;
Her swiftest messenger will stay
The wild bird winging south its way
And night, no longer sad,
Will emulate the blaze of day,
In cloudless moonshine clad.
The scene will smoky vestments wear,
As if glad Earth—one altar made—
By clouding the delicious air
With fragrant fumes, displayed
A sense of gratitude for warm,
Enchanting weather after storm,
And raindrops falling fast,
On dead September's mouldering form,
From skies with gloom o'ercast.
As if glad Earth—one altar made—
By clouding the delicious air
With fragrant fumes, displayed
A sense of gratitude for warm,
Enchanting weather after storm,
And raindrops falling fast,
On dead September's mouldering form,
From skies with gloom o'ercast.
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NOVEMBER.
“When chill November's surly blast
Made fields and forests bare.”
Burns.
Made fields and forests bare.”
Burns.
Hoarse trumpeters are in the sky,
From which a dripping rain is shed—
Onward in wedge-like form they fly,
By leader piloted:
A flourish of the feathered band
Announces that they seek a land
Of sunniness and flowers—
Blue waters, edged by golden sand,
Flashing through tropic bowers.
From which a dripping rain is shed—
Onward in wedge-like form they fly,
By leader piloted:
A flourish of the feathered band
Announces that they seek a land
Of sunniness and flowers—
Blue waters, edged by golden sand,
Flashing through tropic bowers.
Erewhile the Frost-King's brush arrayed
In magic hues the rustling bough,
But colors of a darker shade
Are on his palette now;
Well may the artist, in despair,
His leaf-inwoven canvas tear,
And deem his work accursed—
His latest pictures ill compare
With those he painted first.
In magic hues the rustling bough,
But colors of a darker shade
Are on his palette now;
Well may the artist, in despair,
His leaf-inwoven canvas tear,
And deem his work accursed—
His latest pictures ill compare
With those he painted first.
From the cold stubble-field ascends
The lonely whistle of the quail;
And mournfully the forest bends
Its brown top, in the gale,
From which no leafy banner streams—
Its unroofed fane by passing gleams
Of sunshine is uncheered;
Each trunk memorial-pillar seems
On Beauty's grave upreared.
The lonely whistle of the quail;
And mournfully the forest bends
Its brown top, in the gale,
From which no leafy banner streams—
Its unroofed fane by passing gleams
Of sunshine is uncheered;
Each trunk memorial-pillar seems
On Beauty's grave upreared.
340
The forest-trees that shook of late,
Their many-tinted flags in air,
Disrobed, and in a crownless state,
Distinctive features wear:
Like a crazed maiden in her woe,
Swinging her thin arms to and fro,
The wind-swept willow mark!
While mist creeps o'er the meadows low,
And clouds, above, grow dark.
Their many-tinted flags in air,
Disrobed, and in a crownless state,
Distinctive features wear:
Like a crazed maiden in her woe,
Swinging her thin arms to and fro,
The wind-swept willow mark!
While mist creeps o'er the meadows low,
And clouds, above, grow dark.
How pleadingly yon Poplar stands,
Wan trembler in the dismal wood:
Like some poor wretch, with up-flung hands,
Spurned by oppressor rude;
The Elm, aside his helmet cast,
Looks like a warrior, quelled at last,
Who courts the deadly stroke—
Bold wrestler with the surly blast,
Towers, athlete-like, the Oak!
Wan trembler in the dismal wood:
Like some poor wretch, with up-flung hands,
Spurned by oppressor rude;
The Elm, aside his helmet cast,
Looks like a warrior, quelled at last,
Who courts the deadly stroke—
Bold wrestler with the surly blast,
Towers, athlete-like, the Oak!
November of forbidding mien
Is busy by the wood and rill,
Changing to russet aught of green,
Or bright, found lingering still:
He treads in wrath the forest-floor
And dead leaves fly his breath before,
And creaking sounds are heard,
Mingled with sobbing, and the roar
Of waves to madness stirred.
Is busy by the wood and rill,
Changing to russet aught of green,
Or bright, found lingering still:
He treads in wrath the forest-floor
And dead leaves fly his breath before,
And creaking sounds are heard,
Mingled with sobbing, and the roar
Of waves to madness stirred.
As if he wished to travel far
From our cold clime, the King of Day
Guides southward his beclouded car,
And welcomes Evening gray:
Like friends that quit, in adverse hour,
The builder of their pomp and power,
His rose-cheeked clouds have fled;
A gloomy troop, with brows that lower,
Are flocking round instead.
From our cold clime, the King of Day
Guides southward his beclouded car,
And welcomes Evening gray:
Like friends that quit, in adverse hour,
The builder of their pomp and power,
His rose-cheeked clouds have fled;
A gloomy troop, with brows that lower,
Are flocking round instead.
341
Strange beauty fell on hill and dale
When gentle Indian Summer came
Disclosing, through a filmy veil,
A crown of ruddy flame:
She reddened with her touch the rill;
Festooning purple on the hill
Her magic fingers hung—
Through Nature sent a joyous thrill,
And tuned her harp unstrung.
When gentle Indian Summer came
Disclosing, through a filmy veil,
A crown of ruddy flame:
She reddened with her touch the rill;
Festooning purple on the hill
Her magic fingers hung—
Through Nature sent a joyous thrill,
And tuned her harp unstrung.
Oh! brief and dream-like was her stay!
A harsh, discordant voice went forth,
Driving the lovely nymph away,
From the chill, darkened North:
Robbed of its lining, soft and blue,
The welkin wore a leaden hue,
The fields a shading brown—
Wild bird and bee from sight withdrew,
And blinding sleet came down.
A harsh, discordant voice went forth,
Driving the lovely nymph away,
From the chill, darkened North:
Robbed of its lining, soft and blue,
The welkin wore a leaden hue,
The fields a shading brown—
Wild bird and bee from sight withdrew,
And blinding sleet came down.
A tyrant comes, November drear!
In twain thy mace of power to rend,
And on a pale, wind-shaken bier
Thy frozen form extend;
He will insult thy stiff remains
By loading them with icy chains,
Oh! spectacle forlorn!
Then, while the wide old wood complains,
Sound his dismaying horn!
In twain thy mace of power to rend,
And on a pale, wind-shaken bier
Thy frozen form extend;
He will insult thy stiff remains
By loading them with icy chains,
Oh! spectacle forlorn!
Then, while the wide old wood complains,
Sound his dismaying horn!
Sunshine glimmers on the hill,
Lighting up its rugged brow,
Though the warbling birds are still,
And the leaves have left the bough.
Brightness on the brook is shed,
Like soft gleam of golden ore,
Though the water-flags are dead,
And the marge is green no more.
Lighting up its rugged brow,
Though the warbling birds are still,
And the leaves have left the bough.
Brightness on the brook is shed,
Like soft gleam of golden ore,
Though the water-flags are dead,
And the marge is green no more.
342
Thus the good of earth, when age
Warps the form and thins the hair,
And the brow becomes a page
Wrinkled with the lines of care,
Smile, amid decay and blight,
Gently, like the dying year,
Though a long and gloomy night,
And a wintry grave, are near.
Warps the form and thins the hair,
And the brow becomes a page
Wrinkled with the lines of care,
Smile, amid decay and blight,
Gently, like the dying year,
Though a long and gloomy night,
And a wintry grave, are near.
On the perish'd grass and flowers
Patters now the blinding hail,
And, through cold and naked bowers,
Howls the loud November gale.
Fleet as swallows on the wing
Fly abroad the shrivel'd leaves;
And the oak, a crownless thing,
Rocks and moans like one who grieves.
Patters now the blinding hail,
And, through cold and naked bowers,
Howls the loud November gale.
Fleet as swallows on the wing
Fly abroad the shrivel'd leaves;
And the oak, a crownless thing,
Rocks and moans like one who grieves.
Thus, when pomp and power have fled
From the proud—the wrong'd—the great,
On his bare, unshielded head
Beats the wrathful storm of Fate.
Friends of yesterday pass by,
Like the Pharisee of old;
And above him bends a sky
Frowning, dark, unsunn'd and cold.
From the proud—the wrong'd—the great,
On his bare, unshielded head
Beats the wrathful storm of Fate.
Friends of yesterday pass by,
Like the Pharisee of old;
And above him bends a sky
Frowning, dark, unsunn'd and cold.
343
DECEMBER.
“December came;—his aspect stern
Glared deadly o'er the mountain cairn;
A polar sheet was round him flung,
And ice-spears at his girdle hung.”
Ettrick Shepherd.
Glared deadly o'er the mountain cairn;
A polar sheet was round him flung,
And ice-spears at his girdle hung.”
Ettrick Shepherd.
Those snowy plumes become thee well,
Thou of the frost-embroidered mail!
Thy clarion hath a martial swell—
Last of the Twelve, all hail!
Thy savage couriers hither post,
And sounds I hear, as if a host
Were marching to the fight,
Or Ocean, on an iron coast,
Broke in his bellowing might.
Thou of the frost-embroidered mail!
Thy clarion hath a martial swell—
Last of the Twelve, all hail!
Thy savage couriers hither post,
And sounds I hear, as if a host
Were marching to the fight,
Or Ocean, on an iron coast,
Broke in his bellowing might.
The battle hath been fought and won,
And clouds, unlit by streaks of light,
The vanquished forces of the sun
Have covered in their flight;
Thy squadrons, of their triumph proud,
Make music, riotous and loud,
Among the windy hills,
Whose piny summits wear a shroud
Hiding the frozen rills.
And clouds, unlit by streaks of light,
The vanquished forces of the sun
Have covered in their flight;
Thy squadrons, of their triumph proud,
Make music, riotous and loud,
Among the windy hills,
Whose piny summits wear a shroud
Hiding the frozen rills.
When camest thou in other years,
And wooded was the scene around,
In rude log huts the Pioneers
A crazy shelter found:
While rafters rang with Winter's knock,
Wild bleatings of the folded flock
Their waking guardians told
That wolves, from swamp and caverned rock,
Rushed forth, by Night made bold.
And wooded was the scene around,
In rude log huts the Pioneers
A crazy shelter found:
While rafters rang with Winter's knock,
Wild bleatings of the folded flock
Their waking guardians told
That wolves, from swamp and caverned rock,
Rushed forth, by Night made bold.
344
“Our boy comes not!”—once rose the cry
Of a scared wife;—“Awake—arouse!”
Thus summoned, with a flashing eye,
Up-leaped her hardy spouse;
Snatching his musket from the wall,
Charged with buck-shot and deadly ball,
Though louder howled the pack,
He sallied out, while rang the fall
Of feet upon his track.
Of a scared wife;—“Awake—arouse!”
Thus summoned, with a flashing eye,
Up-leaped her hardy spouse;
Snatching his musket from the wall,
Charged with buck-shot and deadly ball,
Though louder howled the pack,
He sallied out, while rang the fall
Of feet upon his track.
Oh, watching mother! never more
Returned in life thy luckless child;
Fierce monsters held a revel o'er
His carcase in the wild:
Though hungry still, a frantic sire
Dispersed them in his dreadful ire,
And carried through the storm,
In arms that toil had strung with wire,
Homeward a bleeding form.
Returned in life thy luckless child;
Fierce monsters held a revel o'er
His carcase in the wild:
Though hungry still, a frantic sire
Dispersed them in his dreadful ire,
And carried through the storm,
In arms that toil had strung with wire,
Homeward a bleeding form.
Forget not perils sternly braved,
And hardships borne by men of old—
Their sweat bedewed, their blood-drops laved,
The dark, rich forest mould;
They won for us the gifts we prize—
These fields so beauteous to our eyes!
And bitter waters quaffed,
That we—oh! matchless enterprise!
Might taste a sweeter draught.
And hardships borne by men of old—
Their sweat bedewed, their blood-drops laved,
The dark, rich forest mould;
They won for us the gifts we prize—
These fields so beauteous to our eyes!
And bitter waters quaffed,
That we—oh! matchless enterprise!
Might taste a sweeter draught.
Bay on a victor's forehead placed—
What is it to their true renown?
The former but a phantom chased,
Treading Earth's brightness down;
The latter, into landscapes bright
Changing the vast domain of Night,
Have scattered golden grain;
And formed, with rugged hands, a site
For Learning's hallowed fane.
What is it to their true renown?
The former but a phantom chased,
Treading Earth's brightness down;
The latter, into landscapes bright
Changing the vast domain of Night,
Have scattered golden grain;
And formed, with rugged hands, a site
For Learning's hallowed fane.
345
Turn we, December, from the scene
Thy glance beheld in other days,
While milder grows thy warlike mien,
And high the fagots blaze:
Home hath a bright—a magic ring,
That, crossed, disarms thy wrath, oh, King!
Enwreathing with a smile,
Soft as the look of youthful Spring,
Thy bearded lip the while.
Thy glance beheld in other days,
While milder grows thy warlike mien,
And high the fagots blaze:
Home hath a bright—a magic ring,
That, crossed, disarms thy wrath, oh, King!
Enwreathing with a smile,
Soft as the look of youthful Spring,
Thy bearded lip the while.
List! Despot, in thy gentler mood,
While a few chiding words I speak;
Why vex with treatment harsh and rude,
The friendless and the weak?
Enough that man denies them bread—
Enough that no protecting shed
Bars out the freezing gale!
Why on the fallen basely tread,
A wight, in rags, assail?
While a few chiding words I speak;
Why vex with treatment harsh and rude,
The friendless and the weak?
Enough that man denies them bread—
Enough that no protecting shed
Bars out the freezing gale!
Why on the fallen basely tread,
A wight, in rags, assail?
The hunger-smitten orphan prayed
For mercy, at thy hands, in vain—
His head upon thy snow-wreath laid,
And never woke again;
It was a kindly act, I own!
To hush a famished infant's moan
That to its mother clung,
While winds, that chilled her heart to stone,
A white cloak o'er her flung.
For mercy, at thy hands, in vain—
His head upon thy snow-wreath laid,
And never woke again;
It was a kindly act, I own!
To hush a famished infant's moan
That to its mother clung,
While winds, that chilled her heart to stone,
A white cloak o'er her flung.
Why load with ills complaining Woe,
And add to Pain another pang?
Why let the beaten feel thy blow,
The bitten heart thy fang?
Why not a stinging lash apply
To wretches holding revel high,
Though Want a crumb implores,
And houseless, hopeless Misery
Lies sobbing at their doors?
And add to Pain another pang?
Why let the beaten feel thy blow,
The bitten heart thy fang?
Why not a stinging lash apply
To wretches holding revel high,
Though Want a crumb implores,
And houseless, hopeless Misery
Lies sobbing at their doors?
346
Thou lovest for the rich and strong,
Gay, glittering pathways to prepare,
While jingling bell and cracking thong
Their merriment declare;
And it is well that man should hear
Such notes the brumal desert cheer;
But in thine hour of ire
Spare a pale crowd, in places drear,
Begging for food and fire.
Gay, glittering pathways to prepare,
While jingling bell and cracking thong
Their merriment declare;
And it is well that man should hear
Such notes the brumal desert cheer;
But in thine hour of ire
Spare a pale crowd, in places drear,
Begging for food and fire.
The poor Old Year from thee receives
Rough usage in his dying hour;
Thus ever, when Misfortune grieves,
Is raised the scourge of Power;
Thy cruel minions—Hail and Sleet—
Enfold him in a winding sheet,
And laugh at his dismay,
Then shout—“Not far those tottering feet
Will bear thee on thy way!”
Rough usage in his dying hour;
Thus ever, when Misfortune grieves,
Is raised the scourge of Power;
Thy cruel minions—Hail and Sleet—
Enfold him in a winding sheet,
And laugh at his dismay,
Then shout—“Not far those tottering feet
Will bear thee on thy way!”
Old Father Christmas—King of Storms!—
Is chaplain to thy noisy train;
He loves a cordial glass that warms,
And chants a jolly strain;
His silver hair and rosy face
Give to his time-worn form a grace,
And children, with a bound,
Flock to enjoy his kind embrace,
While toys are scattered round.
Is chaplain to thy noisy train;
He loves a cordial glass that warms,
And chants a jolly strain;
His silver hair and rosy face
Give to his time-worn form a grace,
And children, with a bound,
Flock to enjoy his kind embrace,
While toys are scattered round.
He tells a tale of other times,
Each wild imp dancing on his knees,
Or loudly singing quaint old rhymes,
His auditory please;
Sad are full many little hearts
When, taking up his staff, departs
The venerable sage,
Whose glance a beam benignant darts,
Lending a charm to age.
Each wild imp dancing on his knees,
Or loudly singing quaint old rhymes,
His auditory please;
Sad are full many little hearts
When, taking up his staff, departs
The venerable sage,
Whose glance a beam benignant darts,
Lending a charm to age.
| The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer | |