 | Three hours ; or, the vigil of love : and other poems |  |
1.
Many, many years ago,When the months moved very slow,
Keeping time with minds of men,—
Human thought was slumbering then;
Long ago a Cottage stood
Where God's Temple rises now,
And there frowned a sullen wood
On a bleak Hill's shaggy brow,
Just above the humble dwelling:—
'T is no fairy Tale I'm telling,
14
When nature triumphed over art.
The scenery then was wild and strange,
But time and man have wrought a change.
As Thought can use the lightning's wings,
A single season often brings
Such plans of power and deeds of fame
As centuries past could never claim.
The shaggy Hill is smiling now,
Like warrior who has won the day,
And on its green, uplifted brow
The palace of a State holds sway;
And yet, like hopes that never die,
Beneath the Pile, our gaze that wins,
Roots of the sere, old forest lie
That flourished ere my Tale begins.
| Three hours ; or, the vigil of love : and other poems | |