 | Plays and poems |  |
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THE SONG OF THE EARTH.
PRELUDE.
CHORUS OF PLANETS.
Hark to our voices, O mother of nations!Why art thou dim when thy sisters are radiant?
Why veil'st thy face in a mantle of vapor,
Gliding obscure through the depths of the night?
Wake from thy lethargy! Hear'st thou our music,
Harmonious, that reaches the confines of space?
Join in our chorus, join in our jubilee,
Make the day pine with thy far-piercing melody—
Pine that his kingdom of blue sky and sunshine
Never reëchoes such marvellous tones.
No, thou art silent, O mystical sister,
Silent and proud that thou bear'st on thy bosom
The wonderful freight of the God-lighted soul.—
We hear thee, we hear thee, beneath thy thick mantle,
The war of the winds through thy leaf-laden forests,
And round aisles of thy pillared and hill-piercing
Caverns sonorous; hear the dread avalanche
Torn from its quivering mountainous summit,
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Thundering enormous upon thy fair valleys;
Hear the dull roar of thy mist-spouting cataracts;
Hear the faint plash of thy salt seething billows,
Lifting their heads multitudinous, or shoreward
Climbing the cliffs that o'erhang them with trembling,
And tossing their spray in exultant defiance
Over the weed-bearded guardians of ocean.
Sister, we listen; thy strains are enlinking,
Melodiously blending to ravishing harmony;
Clouds are departing, we see thee, we yearn to thee,
Noblest of planets, creation's full glory!
Bending we hearken, thou mother of nations,
Hark to the sky-rending voice of humanity!
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SONG OF THE EARTH.
O vex me not, ye ever-burning planets;
Nor sister call me, ye who me afflict.
I am unlike ye; ye may revelling sing,
Careless and joyful, roaming sunlit ether,
Urged with but one emotion, chaunting still
Through lapsing time the purpose of your birth,
Each with a several passion; but to me
Are mixed emotions, vast extremes of feeling—
Now verdant in the fruitful smile of heaven,
Now waste and blackened in the scowl of hell.
Ye know me not, nor can ye sympathize
With one like me, for wisdom is not yours.
Ye sing for joy; but wisdom slowly comes
From the close whispers of o'erburdened pain.
I am alone in all the universe!
To me is pain; I can distinguish sin;
But ye with constant though unweeting glance
Rain good or ill, and smile alike at both,
Nor understand the mystery of your natures.
To me is wisdom—wisdom bought with woe,
Ages on ages passed, when first I strayed,
With haughty scorn and self-reliant pride,
From purity and God. For once like you
God spoke me face to face, me soulless led
From joy to joy; yet He was mystical—
Too obvious for thought—I knew Him not.
But now, through sin, I understand like Him
The heart of things, the steep descents of guilt,
And the high pinnacles of heaven-lit virtue.
Bend down, ye stars, bend from your silver thrones,
Ye joyful wanderers of ether bright;
For I, soul-bearer of the universe,
Would teach your ignorance with the lips of song!
Nor sister call me, ye who me afflict.
I am unlike ye; ye may revelling sing,
Careless and joyful, roaming sunlit ether,
Urged with but one emotion, chaunting still
Through lapsing time the purpose of your birth,
Each with a several passion; but to me
Are mixed emotions, vast extremes of feeling—
Now verdant in the fruitful smile of heaven,
Now waste and blackened in the scowl of hell.
Ye know me not, nor can ye sympathize
With one like me, for wisdom is not yours.
Ye sing for joy; but wisdom slowly comes
From the close whispers of o'erburdened pain.
I am alone in all the universe!
To me is pain; I can distinguish sin;
But ye with constant though unweeting glance
Rain good or ill, and smile alike at both,
Nor understand the mystery of your natures.
To me is wisdom—wisdom bought with woe,
Ages on ages passed, when first I strayed,
With haughty scorn and self-reliant pride,
From purity and God. For once like you
God spoke me face to face, me soulless led
From joy to joy; yet He was mystical—
Too obvious for thought—I knew Him not.
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The heart of things, the steep descents of guilt,
And the high pinnacles of heaven-lit virtue.
Bend down, ye stars, bend from your silver thrones,
Ye joyful wanderers of ether bright;
For I, soul-bearer of the universe,
Would teach your ignorance with the lips of song!
O Mercury, hot planet, burying deep
Thy forehead in the sunlight, list to me!
I groan beneath thy influence. Thou dost urge
The myriad hands of labor, and with toil
Dost mar my features; day by day dost work
Thy steady changes on my ancient face,
Till all the host of heaven blank wonder look,
Nor know the fresh, primeval moulded form
That rose from chaos, like the Aphrodite,
Smiling through dews upon the first morn's sun.
The leaf-crowned mountain's brows thou hurlest down
Into the dusty valley, and dost still
The free wild singing of the cleaving streams
To murmurs dying lazily within
The knotted roots of pool-engendered lilies,
That sluggish nod above the slimy dams.
All day the axe I hear rending through trunks,
Moss-grown and reverend, of clustered oaks;
All day the circling scythe sweeps off
The ruddy bloom of vain-aspiring fields,
Clipping to stubbles grim the vernal flowers.
Thou portionest my meadows, and dost make
Each fruitful slope a spot for sweaty toil.
Thou tearest up my bosom; far within
My golden veins the griméd miner's pick
Startles the babbling echoes. Ancient rocks,
My hardy bones, are rent with nitrous fire,
To rear the marts, to bridge the leaping streams,
Or to usurp the ocean's olden right,
That selfish trade may dry-shod walk to power.
The very ocean, grim, implacable,
Thou loadest with the white-winged fleets of commerce,
Crossing, like wheeling birds, each other's tracks;
Until the burdened giant, restless grown,
Bounds from his sleep, and in the stooping clouds
Nods his white head, while splintered navies melt
To scattered fragments in his sullen froth.
Malignant star, I feel thy wicked power;
My children's busy thoughts are full of thee:
Thou 'st chilled the loving spirit in their hearts,
And on their lips hast placed the selfish finger—
They dare not know each other. All that is,
All that God blessed my teeming bosom with,
Is priced, and bartered; ay, the very worth
Of man himself is weighed with senseless gold—
Therefore I hate thee, bright-browed wanderer!
Thy forehead in the sunlight, list to me!
I groan beneath thy influence. Thou dost urge
The myriad hands of labor, and with toil
Dost mar my features; day by day dost work
Thy steady changes on my ancient face,
Till all the host of heaven blank wonder look,
Nor know the fresh, primeval moulded form
That rose from chaos, like the Aphrodite,
Smiling through dews upon the first morn's sun.
The leaf-crowned mountain's brows thou hurlest down
Into the dusty valley, and dost still
The free wild singing of the cleaving streams
To murmurs dying lazily within
The knotted roots of pool-engendered lilies,
That sluggish nod above the slimy dams.
All day the axe I hear rending through trunks,
Moss-grown and reverend, of clustered oaks;
All day the circling scythe sweeps off
The ruddy bloom of vain-aspiring fields,
Clipping to stubbles grim the vernal flowers.
Thou portionest my meadows, and dost make
Each fruitful slope a spot for sweaty toil.
Thou tearest up my bosom; far within
My golden veins the griméd miner's pick
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My hardy bones, are rent with nitrous fire,
To rear the marts, to bridge the leaping streams,
Or to usurp the ocean's olden right,
That selfish trade may dry-shod walk to power.
The very ocean, grim, implacable,
Thou loadest with the white-winged fleets of commerce,
Crossing, like wheeling birds, each other's tracks;
Until the burdened giant, restless grown,
Bounds from his sleep, and in the stooping clouds
Nods his white head, while splintered navies melt
To scattered fragments in his sullen froth.
Malignant star, I feel thy wicked power;
My children's busy thoughts are full of thee:
Thou 'st chilled the loving spirit in their hearts,
And on their lips hast placed the selfish finger—
They dare not know each other. All that is,
All that God blessed my teeming bosom with,
Is priced, and bartered; ay, the very worth
Of man himself is weighed with senseless gold—
Therefore I hate thee, bright-browed wanderer!
Daughter of the sober twilight,
Lustrous planet, ever hanging
In the mottled mists that welcome
Coming morning, or at evening
Peeping through the ruddy banners
Of the clouds that wave a parting,
From their high aërial summits,
To the blazing god of day—
'T is for thee I raise my pæan,
Steady-beaming Venus, kindler,
In the stubborn hearts of mortals,
Of the sole surviving passion
That enlinks a lost existence
With the dull and ruthless present.
Far adown the brightening future,
Prophetess, I see thee glancing—
See thee still amid the twilight
Of the ages rolling onward,
Promising to heart-sick mortals
Triumph of thy gracious kingdom;
When the hand of power shall weaken,
And the wronger right the wrongéd,
And the pure, primeval Eden
Shall again o'erspread with blossoms
Sunny hill and shady valley.
'T is to thee my piny mountains
Wave aloft their rustling branches;
'T is to thee my opening flowrets
Send on high their luscious odors;
'T is to thee my leaping fountains
Prattle through their misty breathings,
And the bass of solemn ocean
Chimes accordant in the chorus.
Every fireside is thy altar
Streaming up its holy incense;
Every mated pair of mortals,
Happily linked, are priest and priestess,
Pouring to thee full libations
From their over-brimming spirits.
Clash the loud-resounding cymbals,
Light the rosy torch of Hymen,
Bands of white-robed youths and maidens
Whirl aloft the votive myrtle!
Raise the choral hymn to Venus—
Young-eyed Venus, ever youthful,
Ever on true hearts bestowing
Pleasures new that never pall!
Brightest link 'tween man and heaven,
Soul of virtue, life of goodness,
Cheering light in pain and sorrow,
Pole-star to the struggling voyager
Wrecked on life's relentless billows,
Fair reward of trampled sainthood,
Beaming from the throne Eternal
Lonely hope to sinful mankind—
Still among the mists of morning,
Still among the clouds of evening,
While the years drive ever onward,
Hang thy crescent lamp of promise,
Venus, blazing star of Love!
Lustrous planet, ever hanging
In the mottled mists that welcome
Coming morning, or at evening
Peeping through the ruddy banners
Of the clouds that wave a parting,
From their high aërial summits,
To the blazing god of day—
'T is for thee I raise my pæan,
Steady-beaming Venus, kindler,
In the stubborn hearts of mortals,
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That enlinks a lost existence
With the dull and ruthless present.
Far adown the brightening future,
Prophetess, I see thee glancing—
See thee still amid the twilight
Of the ages rolling onward,
Promising to heart-sick mortals
Triumph of thy gracious kingdom;
When the hand of power shall weaken,
And the wronger right the wrongéd,
And the pure, primeval Eden
Shall again o'erspread with blossoms
Sunny hill and shady valley.
'T is to thee my piny mountains
Wave aloft their rustling branches;
'T is to thee my opening flowrets
Send on high their luscious odors;
'T is to thee my leaping fountains
Prattle through their misty breathings,
And the bass of solemn ocean
Chimes accordant in the chorus.
Every fireside is thy altar
Streaming up its holy incense;
Every mated pair of mortals,
Happily linked, are priest and priestess,
Pouring to thee full libations
From their over-brimming spirits.
Clash the loud-resounding cymbals,
Light the rosy torch of Hymen,
Bands of white-robed youths and maidens
Whirl aloft the votive myrtle!
Raise the choral hymn to Venus—
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Ever on true hearts bestowing
Pleasures new that never pall!
Brightest link 'tween man and heaven,
Soul of virtue, life of goodness,
Cheering light in pain and sorrow,
Pole-star to the struggling voyager
Wrecked on life's relentless billows,
Fair reward of trampled sainthood,
Beaming from the throne Eternal
Lonely hope to sinful mankind—
Still among the mists of morning,
Still among the clouds of evening,
While the years drive ever onward,
Hang thy crescent lamp of promise,
Venus, blazing star of Love!
O Mars, wide heaven is shuddering at the stride
Of thy mailed foot, most terrible of planets!
I see thee struggling with thy brazen front
To look a glory from amid the crust
Of guilty blood that dims thy haughty face;
The curse of crime is on thee. Look, behold!
Of thy mailed foot, most terrible of planets!
I see thee struggling with thy brazen front
To look a glory from amid the crust
Of guilty blood that dims thy haughty face;
The curse of crime is on thee. Look, behold!
See where thy frenzied votaries march!
Hark to the brazen blare of the bugle,
Hark to the rattling clatter of the drums,
The measured tread of the steel-clad footmen!
Hark to the laboring horses' breath,
Painfully tugging the harnessed cannon;
The shrill, sharp clink of the warrior's swords,
As their chargers bound when the trumpets sound
Their alarums through the echoing mountains!
See the flashing of pennons and scarfs,
Shaming the gorgeous blazon of evening,
Rising and falling 'mid snowy plumes
That dance like foam on the crested billows!
Bright is the glitter of burnished steel,
Stirring the clamor of martial music,
The clank of arms has a witchery
That wakes the blood in a youthful bosom.
And who could tell from this pleasant show,
That flaunts in the sun like a May-day festal,
For what horrid rites are the silken flags,
For what horrid use are the gleaming sabres,
What change shall mar, when the battles join
This marshalled pageant of shallow glory?
For then the gilded flags shall be rent,
The sabres rust with the blood of foemen,
And the courteous knight shall howl like a wolf,
When he scents the gory steam of battle.
Hark to the brazen blare of the bugle,
Hark to the rattling clatter of the drums,
The measured tread of the steel-clad footmen!
Hark to the laboring horses' breath,
Painfully tugging the harnessed cannon;
The shrill, sharp clink of the warrior's swords,
As their chargers bound when the trumpets sound
Their alarums through the echoing mountains!
285
Shaming the gorgeous blazon of evening,
Rising and falling 'mid snowy plumes
That dance like foam on the crested billows!
Bright is the glitter of burnished steel,
Stirring the clamor of martial music,
The clank of arms has a witchery
That wakes the blood in a youthful bosom.
And who could tell from this pleasant show,
That flaunts in the sun like a May-day festal,
For what horrid rites are the silken flags,
For what horrid use are the gleaming sabres,
What change shall mar, when the battles join
This marshalled pageant of shallow glory?
For then the gilded flags shall be rent,
The sabres rust with the blood of foemen,
And the courteous knight shall howl like a wolf,
When he scents the gory steam of battle.
The orphan's curse is on thee, and the tears
Of widowed matrons plead a fearful cause;
Each thing my bosom bears, which thou hast touched,
Is loud against thee. Flowers and trampled grass,
And the long line of waste and barren fields,
Erewhile o'erflowing with a sea of sweets,
Look up all helpless to the pitying heavens,
Showing thy bloody footprints in their wounds,
And shrieking through their gaunt and leafless trees,
That stand with imprecating arms outspread,
They fiercely curse thee with their desolation.
Each cheerless hearth-stone in the home of man,
Where ruin grins, and rubs his bony palms,
Demands its lost possessor. Thou hast hurled
Man's placid reason from its rightful throne,
And in its place reared savage force, to clip
Debate and doubt with murder. Therefore, Mars,
I sicken in thy angry glance, and loathe
The dull red glitter of thy bloody spear.
Of widowed matrons plead a fearful cause;
Each thing my bosom bears, which thou hast touched,
Is loud against thee. Flowers and trampled grass,
And the long line of waste and barren fields,
Erewhile o'erflowing with a sea of sweets,
Look up all helpless to the pitying heavens,
Showing thy bloody footprints in their wounds,
And shrieking through their gaunt and leafless trees,
That stand with imprecating arms outspread,
They fiercely curse thee with their desolation.
Each cheerless hearth-stone in the home of man,
Where ruin grins, and rubs his bony palms,
Demands its lost possessor. Thou hast hurled
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And in its place reared savage force, to clip
Debate and doubt with murder. Therefore, Mars,
I sicken in thy angry glance, and loathe
The dull red glitter of thy bloody spear.
I know thy look, majestic Jupiter;
I see thee moving through the stars of heaven
Girt with thy train of ministering satellites.
Proud planet, I confess thy influence:
My heart grows big with gazing in thy face;
Unwonted power pervades my eager frame;
My bulk aspiring towers above itself,
And restless pants to rush on acts sublime,
At which the wondering stars might stand agaze,
And the whole universe from end to end,
Conscious of me, should tremble to its core.
Spirit heroical, imperious passion,
That sharply sets the pliant face of youth,
That blinds the shrinking eyes of pallid fear,
And plants the lion's heart in modest breasts—
I know that thou hast led, with regal port,
The potent spirits of humanity
Before the van of niggard time, and borne,
With strides gigantic, man's advancing race
From power to power; till, like a host of gods,
They mock my elements, and drag the secrets
Of my mysterious forces up to light,
Giving them bounds determinate and strait,
And of their natures, multiform and huge,
Talking to children in familiar way.
The hero's sword, the poet's golden string,
The tome-illumining taper of the sage,
Flash by thy influence; from thee alone,
Ambitious planet, comes the marvellous power
That in a cherub's glowing form can veil
A heart as cold as Iceland, and exalt
To deity the demon selfishness.
O planet, mingle with thy chilling rays,
That stream inspiring to the hero's soul,
One beam of love for vast humanity,
And thou art godlike. Must it ever be,
That brightest flowers of action and idea
Spring from the same dark soil of selfish lust?
Must man receive the calculated gifts
Of shrewd ambition's self-exalting hand,
And blindly glorify an act at which
The host of heaven grow red with thoughtful shame?
Shall knowledge hasten with her sunny face,
And weeping virtue lag upon the path?
Shall man exultant boast advance of power,
Nor see arise, at every onward stride,
New forms of sin to shadow every truth?
Roll on, roll on, in self-supported pride,
Prodigious influence of the hero's soul;
I feel thy strength, and tremble in thy glare!
I see thee moving through the stars of heaven
Girt with thy train of ministering satellites.
Proud planet, I confess thy influence:
My heart grows big with gazing in thy face;
Unwonted power pervades my eager frame;
My bulk aspiring towers above itself,
And restless pants to rush on acts sublime,
At which the wondering stars might stand agaze,
And the whole universe from end to end,
Conscious of me, should tremble to its core.
Spirit heroical, imperious passion,
That sharply sets the pliant face of youth,
That blinds the shrinking eyes of pallid fear,
And plants the lion's heart in modest breasts—
I know that thou hast led, with regal port,
The potent spirits of humanity
Before the van of niggard time, and borne,
With strides gigantic, man's advancing race
From power to power; till, like a host of gods,
They mock my elements, and drag the secrets
Of my mysterious forces up to light,
Giving them bounds determinate and strait,
And of their natures, multiform and huge,
Talking to children in familiar way.
The hero's sword, the poet's golden string,
The tome-illumining taper of the sage,
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Ambitious planet, comes the marvellous power
That in a cherub's glowing form can veil
A heart as cold as Iceland, and exalt
To deity the demon selfishness.
O planet, mingle with thy chilling rays,
That stream inspiring to the hero's soul,
One beam of love for vast humanity,
And thou art godlike. Must it ever be,
That brightest flowers of action and idea
Spring from the same dark soil of selfish lust?
Must man receive the calculated gifts
Of shrewd ambition's self-exalting hand,
And blindly glorify an act at which
The host of heaven grow red with thoughtful shame?
Shall knowledge hasten with her sunny face,
And weeping virtue lag upon the path?
Shall man exultant boast advance of power,
Nor see arise, at every onward stride,
New forms of sin to shadow every truth?
Roll on, roll on, in self-supported pride,
Prodigious influence of the hero's soul;
I feel thy strength, and tremble in thy glare!
O, many-ringéd Saturn, turn away
The chilling terrors of thy baleful glance!
Thy gloomy look is piercing to my heart—
I wither in thy power! My springs dry up,
And shrink in horror to their rocky beds;
The brooks, that whispered to the lily-bells
All day the glory of their mountain homes,
And kissed the dimples of the wanton rose,
At the deed blushing to their pebbly strands,
Cease their sweet merriment, and glide afraid
Beneath the shelter of the twisted sedge.
The opening bud shrinks back upon its shell,
As if the north had puffed his frozen breath
Full in its face. The billowing grain, and grass
Rippling with windy furrows, stand becalmed;
Nor through their roots, nor in their tiny veins,
Bestirs the fruitful sap. The very trees,
Broad, hardy sons of crags and sterile plains,
That roared defiance to the winter's shout,
And battled sternly through his cutting sleet,
Droop in their myriad leaves; while nightly birds,
That piped their shrilling treble to the moon,
Hang silent from the boughs, and peer around,
Awed by mysterious sympathy. From thee,
From thee, dull planet, comes this lethargy
That numbs in 'mid career meek nature's power,
And stills the prattle of her pluméd train.
O icy Saturn, proud in ignorance,
Father of sloth, dark deadening influence,
That dims the eye to all that's beautiful,
And twists the haughty lip with killing scorn
For love and holiness—from thee alone
Springs the cold, crushing power that presses down
The infinite in man.—From thee, dull star,
The cautious fear that checks the glowing heart,
With sympathetic love, world-wide, o'erfreighted,
And sends it panting back upon itself,
To murmur in its narrow hermitage.
The boldest hero staggers in thy frown,
And drops his half-formed projects all aghast;
The poet shrinks before thy phantom glare,
Ere the first echo greets his timid song;
The startled sage amid the embers hurls
The gathered wisdom of a fruitful life.
O, who may know from what bright pinnacles
The mounting soul might look on coming time,
Had all the marvellous thoughts of genius—
Blasted to nothingness by thy cold sneer—
Burst through the bud and blossomed into fruit?
Benumbing planet, on our system's skirt,
Whirl from thy sphere, and round some lonely sun,
Within whose light no souls their ordeal pass,
Circle and frown amid thy frozen belts;
For I am sick of thee, and stately man
Shrinks to a pigmy in thy fearful stare!
The chilling terrors of thy baleful glance!
Thy gloomy look is piercing to my heart—
I wither in thy power! My springs dry up,
And shrink in horror to their rocky beds;
The brooks, that whispered to the lily-bells
All day the glory of their mountain homes,
And kissed the dimples of the wanton rose,
At the deed blushing to their pebbly strands,
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Beneath the shelter of the twisted sedge.
The opening bud shrinks back upon its shell,
As if the north had puffed his frozen breath
Full in its face. The billowing grain, and grass
Rippling with windy furrows, stand becalmed;
Nor through their roots, nor in their tiny veins,
Bestirs the fruitful sap. The very trees,
Broad, hardy sons of crags and sterile plains,
That roared defiance to the winter's shout,
And battled sternly through his cutting sleet,
Droop in their myriad leaves; while nightly birds,
That piped their shrilling treble to the moon,
Hang silent from the boughs, and peer around,
Awed by mysterious sympathy. From thee,
From thee, dull planet, comes this lethargy
That numbs in 'mid career meek nature's power,
And stills the prattle of her pluméd train.
O icy Saturn, proud in ignorance,
Father of sloth, dark deadening influence,
That dims the eye to all that's beautiful,
And twists the haughty lip with killing scorn
For love and holiness—from thee alone
Springs the cold, crushing power that presses down
The infinite in man.—From thee, dull star,
The cautious fear that checks the glowing heart,
With sympathetic love, world-wide, o'erfreighted,
And sends it panting back upon itself,
To murmur in its narrow hermitage.
The boldest hero staggers in thy frown,
And drops his half-formed projects all aghast;
The poet shrinks before thy phantom glare,
Ere the first echo greets his timid song;
289
The gathered wisdom of a fruitful life.
O, who may know from what bright pinnacles
The mounting soul might look on coming time,
Had all the marvellous thoughts of genius—
Blasted to nothingness by thy cold sneer—
Burst through the bud and blossomed into fruit?
Benumbing planet, on our system's skirt,
Whirl from thy sphere, and round some lonely sun,
Within whose light no souls their ordeal pass,
Circle and frown amid thy frozen belts;
For I am sick of thee, and stately man
Shrinks to a pigmy in thy fearful stare!
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FINALE.
CHORUS OF STARS.
Heir of eternity, mother of souls,Let not thy knowledge betray thee to folly!
Knowledge is proud, self-sufficient, and lone,
Trusting, unguided, its steps in the darkness.
Thine is the learning that mankind may win,
Gleaned in the pathway between joy and sorrow;
Ours is the wisdom that hallows the child,
Fresh from the touch of his awful Creator,
Dropped, like a star, on thy shadowy realm,
Falling in splendor, but falling to darken.
Ours is the simple religion of faith,
The wisdom of trust in God who o'errules us;
Thine is the complex misgivings of thought,
Wrested to form by imperious reason.
We are forever pursuing the light;
Thou art forever astray in the darkness.
Knowledge is restless, imperfect, and sad;
Faith is serene, and completed, and joyful.
Chide not the planets that rule o'er thy ways;
They are God's creatures; nor, proud in thy reason,
Vaunt that thou knowest His counsels and Him.—
Boaster, though sitting in midst of the glory,
Thou couldst not fathom the least of His thoughts
Bow in humility, bow thy proud forehead,
Circle thy form in a mantle of clouds,
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Wheeling in purity, singing in chorus;
Howl in the depths of thy lone, barren mountains,
Restlessly moan on the deserts of ocean,
Wail o'er thy fall in the desolate forests,
Lost star of paradise, straying alone!
July, 1848.
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