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NORTHAMPTON.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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39

NORTHAMPTON.

Ere from thy calm seclusion parted,
O fairest village of the plain!
The thoughts that here to life have started
Draw me to Nature's heart again.
The tasseled maize, full grain or clover,
Far o'er the level meadow grows,
And through it, like a wayward rover,
The noble river gently flows.
Majestic elms, with trunks unshaken
By all the storms an age can bring,
Trail sprays whose rest the zephyrs waken,
Yet lithesome with the juice of spring.
By sportive airs the foliage lifted,
Each green leaf shows its white below,
As foam on emerald waves is drifted,
Their tints alternate come and go.

40

And then the skies! when vapors cluster
From zenith to horizon's verge,
As wild gusts ominously bluster,
And in deep shade the landscape merge;—
Under the massive cloud's low border,
Where hill-tops with the sky unite,
Like an old minster's blazoned warder,
There scintillates an amber light:
Sometimes a humid fleece reposes
Midway upon the swelling ridge,
Like an aerial couch of roses,
Or fairy's amethystine bridge:
And pale green inlets lucid shimmer,
With huge cliffs jutting out beside,
Like those in mountain lakes that glimmer,
Tinged like the ocean's crystal tide:
Or saffron-tinted islands planted
In firmaments of azure dye,
With pearly mounds that loom undaunted,
And float like icebergs of the sky:

41

Like autumn leaves that eddying falter,
Yet settle to their crimson rest,
As pilgrims round their burning altar,
They slowly gather in the west.
And when the distant mountain ranges
In moonlight or blue mist or clad,
Oft memory all the landscape changes,
And pensive thoughts are blent with glad.
For then, as in a dream Elysian,
Val d'Arno's fair and loved domain
Seems, to my rapt yet waking vision,
To yield familiar charms again.
Save that for dome and turret hoary,
Amid the central valley lies
A white church-spire unknown to story,
And smoke-wreaths from a cottage rise.
On Holyoke's summit woods are frowning,
No line of cypresses we see,
Nor convent old with beauty crowning
The heights of sweet Fiesole.

42

Yet here may willing eyes discover
The art and life of every shore,
For Nature bids her patient lover
All true similitudes explore.
These firs, when cease their boughs to quiver,
Stand like pagodas brahmins seek,
Yon isle, that parts the winding river,
Seems moulded from a light caique.
And ferns that in these groves are hidden,
Are sculptured like a dainty frieze,
While choral music steals unbidden,
As undulates the forest breeze.
A gothic arch and springing column,
A floral-dyed, mosaic ground,
A twilight shade and vista solemn,
In all these sylvan haunts are found.
And now this fragile garland weaving
While ebbs the musing tide away,
As one a sacred temple leaving,
Some tribute on its shrine would lay.

43

I bless the scenes whose tranquil beauty
Have cheered me like the sense of youth,
And freshened lonely tasks of duty,
The dream of love and zest of truth.