 | Poems, original and translated |  |
PASCAGOULA.
Sweet, sweet Pascagoula! so lovely and lone!
Fain would I, at parting, breathe back one faint tone
Of the witching, wild music that floats round thy shore,
And will float through my memory till memory's no more.
Fair hours! with what peace o'er my musings ye steal,
Too deep to confess, yet too dear to conceal!
O Nature! thy Sabbath—I spent it with thee,
In the still, solemn woods, by the silent, glad sea.
As sweet to my ear was the hymn of that morn
As if angels were singing creation just born.
And angels were singing,—thine angels, O Thou
To whom winds and waves chant, and the trembling leaves bow!
Though no human priest's accents arose on the air,
Yet the presence, O God! of thy spirit was there.
The pine with its ocean-like, spirit-like tone,
How plainly it told that I was not alone!
And was not that green, old, moss-garlanded tree
Arrayed in its robes as a priest unto Thee?
And did not a sweet choral melody rise
From woodland and waters, from shore and from skies?
And on the far marge of each sandy, green isle,
Did not the calm spirit of Gratitude smile?
And with her own lips did not Peace kiss the strand,
As the wave glided silently up o'er the sand?
Fain would I, at parting, breathe back one faint tone
Of the witching, wild music that floats round thy shore,
And will float through my memory till memory's no more.
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Too deep to confess, yet too dear to conceal!
O Nature! thy Sabbath—I spent it with thee,
In the still, solemn woods, by the silent, glad sea.
As sweet to my ear was the hymn of that morn
As if angels were singing creation just born.
And angels were singing,—thine angels, O Thou
To whom winds and waves chant, and the trembling leaves bow!
Though no human priest's accents arose on the air,
Yet the presence, O God! of thy spirit was there.
The pine with its ocean-like, spirit-like tone,
How plainly it told that I was not alone!
And was not that green, old, moss-garlanded tree
Arrayed in its robes as a priest unto Thee?
And did not a sweet choral melody rise
From woodland and waters, from shore and from skies?
And on the far marge of each sandy, green isle,
Did not the calm spirit of Gratitude smile?
And with her own lips did not Peace kiss the strand,
As the wave glided silently up o'er the sand?
Sweet scenes! happy hours! I must bid you farewell!
Yet aye in my memory your spirits shall dwell.
And often at eve, when the moon of young May
Beams down on my own Northern waves far away;
And often at morn, when the breeze and the light
Draw the curtain away from the dreams of the night;
And often at noon, when the birds and the bees
Hum a drowsy, sweet tune in the grass and the trees;
In the dim, solemn woods, by the silent, glad sea,
Sweet, sweet Pascagoula, I'll still think of thee!
Yet aye in my memory your spirits shall dwell.
And often at eve, when the moon of young May
Beams down on my own Northern waves far away;
And often at morn, when the breeze and the light
Draw the curtain away from the dreams of the night;
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Hum a drowsy, sweet tune in the grass and the trees;
In the dim, solemn woods, by the silent, glad sea,
Sweet, sweet Pascagoula, I'll still think of thee!
| Poems, original and translated | |