 | The vigil of faith, and other poems |  |
59
OCCASIONAL POEMS.
69
TOWN REPININGS.
River, oh river, thou rovest free
From the mountain height to the fresh blue sea,
Free thyself, while in silver chain
Linking each charm of land and main.
Calling at first thy banded waves
From hill-side thickets and fern-hid caves,
From the splintered crag thou leap'st below,
Through leafy glades at will to flow—
Idling now 'mid the dallying sedge,
Slumbering now by the steep's mossed edge,
With statelier march once more to break
From wooded valley to breezy lake;
Yet all of these scenes though fair they be
River, oh river, are banned to me!
From the mountain height to the fresh blue sea,
Free thyself, while in silver chain
Linking each charm of land and main.
Calling at first thy banded waves
From hill-side thickets and fern-hid caves,
From the splintered crag thou leap'st below,
Through leafy glades at will to flow—
Idling now 'mid the dallying sedge,
Slumbering now by the steep's mossed edge,
With statelier march once more to break
From wooded valley to breezy lake;
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River, oh river, are banned to me!
River, oh river! upon thy tide
Gaily the freighted vessels glide,
Would that thou thus could'st bear away
The thoughts that burthen my weary day,
Or that I, from all, save them, set free,
Though laden still, might rove with thee.
True that thy waves brief life-time find,
And live at the will of the wanton wind—
True that thou seekest the ocean's flow
To be lost therein for evermoe!
Yet the slave who worships at Honor's shrine,
But toils for a bubble as frail as thine,
But loses his freedom here, to be
Forgotten as soon as in death set free.
Gaily the freighted vessels glide,
Would that thou thus could'st bear away
The thoughts that burthen my weary day,
Or that I, from all, save them, set free,
Though laden still, might rove with thee.
True that thy waves brief life-time find,
And live at the will of the wanton wind—
True that thou seekest the ocean's flow
To be lost therein for evermoe!
Yet the slave who worships at Honor's shrine,
But toils for a bubble as frail as thine,
But loses his freedom here, to be
Forgotten as soon as in death set free.
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THE BOB-O-LINKUM.
Thou vocal sprite—thou feathered troubadour!
In pilgrim weeds through many a clime a ranger,
Com'st thou to doff thy russet suit once more,
And play in foppish trim the masquing stranger?
Philosophers may teach thy whereabouts and nature;
But wise, as all of us, perforce, must think 'em,
The school-boy best hath fixed thy nomenclature,
And poets, too, must call thee Bob-O-Linkum.
In pilgrim weeds through many a clime a ranger,
Com'st thou to doff thy russet suit once more,
And play in foppish trim the masquing stranger?
Philosophers may teach thy whereabouts and nature;
But wise, as all of us, perforce, must think 'em,
The school-boy best hath fixed thy nomenclature,
And poets, too, must call thee Bob-O-Linkum.
Say! art thou, long 'mid forest glooms benighted,
So glad to skim our laughing meadows over—
With our gay orchards here so much delighted,
It makes thee musical thou airy rover?
Or are those buoyant notes the pilfered treasure
Of fairy isles, which thou hast learned to ravish
Of all their sweetest minstrelsy at pleasure,
And, Ariel-like, again on men to lavish?
So glad to skim our laughing meadows over—
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It makes thee musical thou airy rover?
Or are those buoyant notes the pilfered treasure
Of fairy isles, which thou hast learned to ravish
Of all their sweetest minstrelsy at pleasure,
And, Ariel-like, again on men to lavish?
They tell sad stories of thy mad-cap freaks,
Wherever o'er the land thy pathway ranges;
And even in a brace of wandering weeks,
They say, alike thy song and plumage changes:
Here both are gay; and when the buds put forth,
And leafy June is shading rock and river,
Thou art unmatched, blithe warbler of the North,
While through the balmy air thy clear notes quiver.
Wherever o'er the land thy pathway ranges;
And even in a brace of wandering weeks,
They say, alike thy song and plumage changes:
Here both are gay; and when the buds put forth,
And leafy June is shading rock and river,
Thou art unmatched, blithe warbler of the North,
While through the balmy air thy clear notes quiver.
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Joyous, yet tender—was that gush of song
Caught from the brooks, where 'mid its wild flowers smiling,
The silent prairie listens all day long,
The only captive to such sweet beguiling;
Or did'st thou, flitting through the verdurous halls
And columned isles of western groves symphonious,
Learn from the tuneful woods, rare madrigals,
To make our flowering pastures here harmonious.
Caught from the brooks, where 'mid its wild flowers smiling,
The silent prairie listens all day long,
The only captive to such sweet beguiling;
Or did'st thou, flitting through the verdurous halls
And columned isles of western groves symphonious,
Learn from the tuneful woods, rare madrigals,
To make our flowering pastures here harmonious.
Caught'st thou thy carol from Otawa maid,
Where, through the liquid fields of wild rice plashing
Brushing the ears from off the burdened blade,
Her birch canoe o'er some lone lake is flashing?
Or did the reeds of some savannah South,
Detain thee while thy northern flight pursuing,
To place those melodies in thy sweet mouth,
The spice-fed winds had taught them in their wooing?
Where, through the liquid fields of wild rice plashing
Brushing the ears from off the burdened blade,
Her birch canoe o'er some lone lake is flashing?
Or did the reeds of some savannah South,
Detain thee while thy northern flight pursuing,
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The spice-fed winds had taught them in their wooing?
Unthrifty prodigal!—is no thought of ill
Thy ceaseless roundelay disturbing ever?
Or doth each pulse in choiring cadence still
Throb on in music till at rest forever?
Yet now in wildered maze of concord floating,
'T would seem that glorious hymning to prolong,
Old Time in hearing thee might fall a-doating,
And pause to listen to thy rapturous song!
Thy ceaseless roundelay disturbing ever?
Or doth each pulse in choiring cadence still
Throb on in music till at rest forever?
Yet now in wildered maze of concord floating,
'T would seem that glorious hymning to prolong,
Old Time in hearing thee might fall a-doating,
And pause to listen to thy rapturous song!
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WHAT IS SOLITUDE.
Not in the shadowy wood
Not in the crag-hung glen,
Not where the echoes brood
In caves untrod by men;
Not by the bleak sea shore,
Where barren surges break,
Not on the mountain hoar,
Not by the breeze less lake;
Not on the desert plain
Where man hath never stood,
Whether on isle or main—
Not there is solitude!
Not in the crag-hung glen,
Not where the echoes brood
In caves untrod by men;
Not by the bleak sea shore,
Where barren surges break,
Not on the mountain hoar,
Not by the breeze less lake;
Not on the desert plain
Where man hath never stood,
Whether on isle or main—
Not there is solitude!
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Birds are in woodland bowers;
Voices in lonely dells;
Streams to the listening hours
Talk in earth's secret cells;
Over the gray-ribbed sand
Breathe Ocean's frothy lips;
Over the still lake's strand
The wild flower tow'rd it dips;
Pluming the mountain's crest
Life tosses in its pines;
Coursing the desert's breast
Life in the steed's mane shines.
Voices in lonely dells;
Streams to the listening hours
Talk in earth's secret cells;
Over the gray-ribbed sand
Breathe Ocean's frothy lips;
Over the still lake's strand
The wild flower tow'rd it dips;
Pluming the mountain's crest
Life tosses in its pines;
Coursing the desert's breast
Life in the steed's mane shines.
Leave—if thou would'st be lonely—
Leave Nature for the crowd;
Seek there for one—one only
With kindred mind endowed!
There—as with Nature erst
Closely thou would'st commune—
The deep soul-music nursed
In either heart, attune!
Heart-wearied thou wilt own,
Vainly that phantom wooed,
That thou at last hast known
What is true Solitude!
Leave Nature for the crowd;
Seek there for one—one only
With kindred mind endowed!
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Closely thou would'st commune—
The deep soul-music nursed
In either heart, attune!
Heart-wearied thou wilt own,
Vainly that phantom wooed,
That thou at last hast known
What is true Solitude!
THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS.
Teach thee their language? sweet, I know no tongue,
No mystic art those gentle things declare,
I ne'er could trace the schoolman's trick among
Created things, so delicate and rare:
Their language? Prythee! why they are themselves
But bright thoughts syllabled to shape and hue,
The tongue that erst was spoken by the elves,
When tenderness as yet within the world was new.
No mystic art those gentle things declare,
I ne'er could trace the schoolman's trick among
Created things, so delicate and rare:
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But bright thoughts syllabled to shape and hue,
The tongue that erst was spoken by the elves,
When tenderness as yet within the world was new.
And oh, do not their soft and starry eyes—
Now bent to earth, to heaven now meekly pleading,
Their incense fainting as it seeks the skies,
Yet still from earth with freshening hope receding—
Say, do not these to every heart declare,
With all the silent eloquence of truth,
The language that they speak is Nature's prayer,
To give her back those spotless days of youth?
Now bent to earth, to heaven now meekly pleading,
Their incense fainting as it seeks the skies,
Yet still from earth with freshening hope receding—
Say, do not these to every heart declare,
With all the silent eloquence of truth,
The language that they speak is Nature's prayer,
To give her back those spotless days of youth?
79
INDIAN SUMMER, 1828.
Light as love's smiles the silvery mist at morn
Floats in loose flakes along the limpid river;
The Blue-bird's notes upon the soft breeze borne,
As high in air he carols, faintly quiver;
The weeping birch, like banners idly waving,
Bends to the stream, its spicy branches laving;
Beaded with dew the witch-elm's tassels shiver;
The timid rabbit from the furze is peeping,
And from the springy spray the squirrel's gaily leaping.
Floats in loose flakes along the limpid river;
The Blue-bird's notes upon the soft breeze borne,
As high in air he carols, faintly quiver;
The weeping birch, like banners idly waving,
Bends to the stream, its spicy branches laving;
Beaded with dew the witch-elm's tassels shiver;
The timid rabbit from the furze is peeping,
And from the springy spray the squirrel's gaily leaping.
I love thee, Autumn, for thy scenery, ere
The blasts of winter chase the varied dyes
That richly deck the slow-declining year;
I love the splendor of thy sun-set skies,
The gorgeous hues that tinge each failing leaf,
Lovely as beauty's cheek, as woman's love too, brief;
I love the note of each wild bird that flies,
As on the wind he pours his parting lay,
And wings her loitering flight to summer climes away.
The blasts of winter chase the varied dyes
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I love the splendor of thy sun-set skies,
The gorgeous hues that tinge each failing leaf,
Lovely as beauty's cheek, as woman's love too, brief;
I love the note of each wild bird that flies,
As on the wind he pours his parting lay,
And wings her loitering flight to summer climes away.
Oh Nature! fondly I still turn to thee
With feelings fresh as e'er my childhood's were;—
Though wild and passion-tost my youth may be,
Toward thee I still the same devotion bear;
To thee—to thee—though health and hope no more
Life's wasted verdure may to me restore—
Still—still, child-like I come, as when in prayer
I bowed my head upon a mother's knee,
And deemed the world, like her, all truth and purity.
With feelings fresh as e'er my childhood's were;—
Though wild and passion-tost my youth may be,
Toward thee I still the same devotion bear;
To thee—to thee—though health and hope no more
Life's wasted verdure may to me restore—
Still—still, child-like I come, as when in prayer
I bowed my head upon a mother's knee,
And deemed the world, like her, all truth and purity.
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TO AN AUTUMN ROSE.
Tell her I love her—love her for those eyesNow soft with feeling, radiant now with mirth
Which, like a lake reflecting autumn skies,
Reveal two heavens here to us on Earth—
The one in which their soulful beauty lies,
And that wherein such soulfulness has birth:
Go to my lady ere the season flies,
And the rude winter comes thy bloom to blast—
Go! and with all of Eloquence thou hast,
The burning story of my love discover,
And if the theme should fail, alas! to move her,
Tell her when youth's gay summer-flowers are past,
Like thee, my love, will blossom to the last!
82
ST. VALENTINE'S DAY.
The snow yet in the hollow lies;
But, where by shelvy hill 't is seen,
A thousand rills—its waste supplies—
Are trickling over beds of green
Down in the meadow glancing wings
Flit in the sun-shine round a tree,
Where still a frosted apple clings,
Regale for early Chickadee:
But, where by shelvy hill 't is seen,
A thousand rills—its waste supplies—
Are trickling over beds of green
Down in the meadow glancing wings
Flit in the sun-shine round a tree,
Where still a frosted apple clings,
Regale for early Chickadee:
And chesnut buds begin to swell,
Where Flying-squirrels peep to know
If from the tree-top, yet, 't were well
To sail on leathery wing below—
As gently shy and timorsome,
Still holds she back who should be mine;
Come, Spring, to her coy bosom, come,
And warm it tow'rd her Valentine!
Where Flying-squirrels peep to know
If from the tree-top, yet, 't were well
To sail on leathery wing below—
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Still holds she back who should be mine;
Come, Spring, to her coy bosom, come,
And warm it tow'rd her Valentine!
Come, Spring, and with the breeze that calls
The wind-flower by the hill-side rill,
The soft breeze that by orchard walls
First dallies with the daffodill—
Come lift the tresses from her cheek,
And let me see the blush divine,
That mantling there, those curls would seek
To hide from her true Valentine.
The wind-flower by the hill-side rill,
The soft breeze that by orchard walls
First dallies with the daffodill—
Come lift the tresses from her cheek,
And let me see the blush divine,
That mantling there, those curls would seek
To hide from her true Valentine.
Come, Spring, and with the Red-breast's note.
That tells of bridal tenderness,
Where on the breeze he'll warbling float
Afar his nesting mate to bless—
Come, whisper 't is not alway Spring!
When birds may mate on every spray—
That April boughs cease blossoming!
With love it is not always May!
That tells of bridal tenderness,
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Afar his nesting mate to bless—
Come, whisper 't is not alway Spring!
When birds may mate on every spray—
That April boughs cease blossoming!
With love it is not always May!
Come, touch her heart with thy soft tale,
Of tears within the floweret's cup,
Of fairest things that soonest fail,
Of hopes we vainly garner up—
And while, that gentle heart to melt,
Like mingled wreath, such tale you twine,
Whisper what lasting bliss were felt
In lot shared with her Valentine.
Of tears within the floweret's cup,
Of fairest things that soonest fail,
Of hopes we vainly garner up—
And while, that gentle heart to melt,
Like mingled wreath, such tale you twine,
Whisper what lasting bliss were felt
In lot shared with her Valentine.
THE END.
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