 | The select poems of Dr. Thomas Dunn English (exclusive of the "Battle lyrics") |  |
DORA LEE.
The brown log-cabin in the sandy valley,
Built at the base of Flat Top mountain tall,—
Mountain, from whence the winds at morning sally,
To hold harsh converse with the waterfall,—
The waterfall, that o'er the rock is pouring
Its sheeted glory to the pool below,
While overhead, arrested by its roaring,
The eagle floats, self-balanced, sailing slow,—
The yellow-beaked and mighty-taloned eagle,
With sunk, keen eye, and forest-scaring scream,
Self-borne aloft, with manner more than regal,
And heart undaunted o'er the brawling stream,—
The stream, that moves along in rapid motion,
Of kisses rudely ravishing the shore,
Then hurrying on to seek the distant ocean,
In which it shall be lost for evermore:—
Cabin and mountain, waterfall and eagle,
Stream, shore, and mighty trees that line the shore,
What demons of my fate combine and league ill,
That I may see you never—nevermore?
Built at the base of Flat Top mountain tall,—
Mountain, from whence the winds at morning sally,
To hold harsh converse with the waterfall,—
The waterfall, that o'er the rock is pouring
Its sheeted glory to the pool below,
While overhead, arrested by its roaring,
The eagle floats, self-balanced, sailing slow,—
The yellow-beaked and mighty-taloned eagle,
With sunk, keen eye, and forest-scaring scream,
Self-borne aloft, with manner more than regal,
And heart undaunted o'er the brawling stream,—
The stream, that moves along in rapid motion,
Of kisses rudely ravishing the shore,
Then hurrying on to seek the distant ocean,
In which it shall be lost for evermore:—
Cabin and mountain, waterfall and eagle,
Stream, shore, and mighty trees that line the shore,
What demons of my fate combine and league ill,
That I may see you never—nevermore?
266
That I have loved you with an earnest feeling,
Even as a mother loved the babes she nurst;
That in your presence joy was o'er me stealing
To my last glance from when I saw you first;
That ye were dear to me, as to a lover
The form whereon his vision loves to dwell,—
It needed not to any to discover;
It needed not these words the truth to tell.
My early thoughts, my earliest—yea! my only,
Were on your beauties and your simple truth;
And here in this filled city I am lonely,
Apart from you—from you, dear scenes of youth.
Around you cling those deep-hued recollections,
Whose tendrils grasp the grey cliffs of the past,
And climb to where the hovering reflections—
Dark, lowering clouds—the sky have overcast.
Ye are so dear from thoughts of past time gladness—
Gladness I fear no more on earth for me:
Dearer from many memories tinged with sadness;
And dearest from the thoughts of Dora Lee.
Even as a mother loved the babes she nurst;
That in your presence joy was o'er me stealing
To my last glance from when I saw you first;
That ye were dear to me, as to a lover
The form whereon his vision loves to dwell,—
It needed not to any to discover;
It needed not these words the truth to tell.
My early thoughts, my earliest—yea! my only,
Were on your beauties and your simple truth;
And here in this filled city I am lonely,
Apart from you—from you, dear scenes of youth.
Around you cling those deep-hued recollections,
Whose tendrils grasp the grey cliffs of the past,
And climb to where the hovering reflections—
Dark, lowering clouds—the sky have overcast.
Ye are so dear from thoughts of past time gladness—
Gladness I fear no more on earth for me:
Dearer from many memories tinged with sadness;
And dearest from the thoughts of Dora Lee.
Sweet Dora Lee! Thy name is not for singing;
No music in the words save to mine ears;
Yet my life's poetry around it clinging
Made rhythm to my soul for many years.
Thine was a spirit sweet and pure and holy;
Thy delicate form a wood-nymph's, as it should
By right have been, for though of lineage lowly,
Thine heir-loom was the beauty of the wood.
The glory of the mountain on thee streaming,
Became thy garment, and thine eyes were born
Of the sun's rays, through boughs above thee gleaming,
Warm, bright and genial, in the early morn.
The quiet of the deep old woods around thee
Had crept within and nestled in thy heart;
And guilelessness with his tiara drowned thee—
To win my fondness being thine only art.
Thy soul sank into mine, and tender yearning
Went from our mingled spirits, each to each,
To show what shows not in a scholar's learning,
That feelings speak more audibly, than speech.
No music in the words save to mine ears;
Yet my life's poetry around it clinging
Made rhythm to my soul for many years.
Thine was a spirit sweet and pure and holy;
Thy delicate form a wood-nymph's, as it should
By right have been, for though of lineage lowly,
Thine heir-loom was the beauty of the wood.
The glory of the mountain on thee streaming,
Became thy garment, and thine eyes were born
Of the sun's rays, through boughs above thee gleaming,
Warm, bright and genial, in the early morn.
The quiet of the deep old woods around thee
Had crept within and nestled in thy heart;
267
To win my fondness being thine only art.
Thy soul sank into mine, and tender yearning
Went from our mingled spirits, each to each,
To show what shows not in a scholar's learning,
That feelings speak more audibly, than speech.
Oh, cabin brown! low-roofed and fast decaying!
No kin of mine now dwell within your walls;
Around your ruins now the grey fox straying
His step arrests, and to his fellow calls.
The mountain, round whose tops the winds are blowing,
Still rears its form as lofty to the gaze;
The waterfall yet roars; the stream is flowing
As wildly as it did in other days;
The eagle soars as he was wont; his screaming
Is heard o'erhead as loudly as when I,
Shading my vision from the sun's hot beaming,
Looked up to note his dark form on the sky.
Yet I shall see him not; nor hill, nor valley,
Nor waterfall, nor river rushing on;
And though they rise around continually,
'Tis that they are in constant memory drawn.
There are they figured deeply as an etching
Worked on soft metal by strong hands could be;
And in the foreground of that life-like sketching,
She stands most life-like—long lost Dora Lee.
No kin of mine now dwell within your walls;
Around your ruins now the grey fox straying
His step arrests, and to his fellow calls.
The mountain, round whose tops the winds are blowing,
Still rears its form as lofty to the gaze;
The waterfall yet roars; the stream is flowing
As wildly as it did in other days;
The eagle soars as he was wont; his screaming
Is heard o'erhead as loudly as when I,
Shading my vision from the sun's hot beaming,
Looked up to note his dark form on the sky.
Yet I shall see him not; nor hill, nor valley,
Nor waterfall, nor river rushing on;
And though they rise around continually,
'Tis that they are in constant memory drawn.
There are they figured deeply as an etching
Worked on soft metal by strong hands could be;
And in the foreground of that life-like sketching,
She stands most life-like—long lost Dora Lee.
| The select poems of Dr. Thomas Dunn English (exclusive of the "Battle lyrics") | |