 |
 | Songs of field and flood |  |
5
THE DYING SPEECH OF AN OLD BUTTON-WOOD.
[_]
The scene of the following piece is that most beautiful part of the Narragansett shore, in the State of Rhode Island, which was called by its first settlers, Boston Neck. It is a narrow strip of land stretching down toward the sea, with Narragansett Bay on the east, and separated from the main shore by Narrow (or, as the Indians called it, Pettaquamscutt) River.
As I sauntered alone one afternoon,
In the bright and bloomy month of June,
Over that beautiful farming land,
Sloping away on either hand,
Above the valley that opens to meet
Blue Ocean's glance from its inland retreat,
Where Pettaquamscutt placidly leads
His noiseless wavelets along the meads;
Now crossing with sinuous current the plain,
To visit the corn-fields and waving grain;
Lingering now in a sheltered nook
To meet some little tinkling brook,
And bear it on to the waiting sea;
Then stealing along melodiously
To kiss the foot of a lofty hill,
That wears its olden majesty still,
With craggy throne-couch upheaved on high,
Where, under heaven's blue canopy,
With something in his look, perchance,
Of the stately Indian's noble glance,
The Genius of the place might seem,
In wakeful Fancy's noonday dream,
To sit and gaze, with love and pride,
On a landscape of beauty, far and wide:
Not Tempe's vale more fair might be
Than seemed at that hour that vale to me.
Each bird was singing his joyous tune,
And the waters gushed as they gush in June;
And the lawns were sparkling in emerald green,
And a sapphire-sky hung over the scene,
And all to the eye was summer there;
But a chill yet lingered in the air,
And the cricket's monotone seemed to say,
“The glory of Summer must vanish away,—
Vanish away!” and the hollow moan
Of the fitful breeze had a plaintive tone;
And it seemed, though in the heart of June,
Like the year's autumnal afternoon.
In musing mood, as I paced along,
Drinking each cadence of Nature's song,
A sudden gust of the rising wind
Disturbed the dream that entranced my mind;
And there came on my ear a startling cry,
That rose to a shriek as the wind grew high;
Such a cry I never had heard before,
And might almost wish to hear no more.
Might such be the sound that the legend tells,
Across the deep, at evening swells,—
The dying wail of a proud and brave
Old Indian tribe, that found a grave
Beneath its waters, o'erwhelmed by foes?
Methinks the sound on my ear that rose
Was a cry like that which the ghosts of the slain
Might utter at night on some battle-plain,
Where Liberty's mangled and bleeding form,
Crushed down by the tyrant, lay throbbing and warm.
Oh! what and whence was that startling groan?
It was not old Ocean's ghostly moan,—
That moan of a giant in hopeless pain,
Still dragging shore-ward his endless chain.
'Twas the groan of the aged Sycamore-trees
That lifted, shuddering in the breeze,
Their skinless arms, all suppliantly,
Like beggars, to the gazing sky.
As, in India, the traveller sees,
Ranged in the streets, the devotees;
There, as if rooted to the ground,
Their tattered garments hanging round,
With stiff, stark features, wasted and grim,
And bony hand and palsied limb,
Stereotypes of agony,
Petrifactions of misery,
For mercy, mercy, they seem to cry;
So, these old gnarled and twisted forms,
Long writhing and wrestling with wintry storms,
Had yielded at last; and, half in despair,
Half in defiance, stood rigid there,—
Their hundred arms flung up on high,
In scorn to the winds, and in prayer to the sky.
In the bright and bloomy month of June,
Over that beautiful farming land,
Sloping away on either hand,
Above the valley that opens to meet
Blue Ocean's glance from its inland retreat,
Where Pettaquamscutt placidly leads
His noiseless wavelets along the meads;
6
To visit the corn-fields and waving grain;
Lingering now in a sheltered nook
To meet some little tinkling brook,
And bear it on to the waiting sea;
Then stealing along melodiously
To kiss the foot of a lofty hill,
That wears its olden majesty still,
With craggy throne-couch upheaved on high,
Where, under heaven's blue canopy,
With something in his look, perchance,
Of the stately Indian's noble glance,
The Genius of the place might seem,
In wakeful Fancy's noonday dream,
To sit and gaze, with love and pride,
On a landscape of beauty, far and wide:
Not Tempe's vale more fair might be
Than seemed at that hour that vale to me.
Each bird was singing his joyous tune,
And the waters gushed as they gush in June;
7
And a sapphire-sky hung over the scene,
And all to the eye was summer there;
But a chill yet lingered in the air,
And the cricket's monotone seemed to say,
“The glory of Summer must vanish away,—
Vanish away!” and the hollow moan
Of the fitful breeze had a plaintive tone;
And it seemed, though in the heart of June,
Like the year's autumnal afternoon.
In musing mood, as I paced along,
Drinking each cadence of Nature's song,
A sudden gust of the rising wind
Disturbed the dream that entranced my mind;
And there came on my ear a startling cry,
That rose to a shriek as the wind grew high;
Such a cry I never had heard before,
And might almost wish to hear no more.
Might such be the sound that the legend tells,
Across the deep, at evening swells,—
8
Old Indian tribe, that found a grave
Beneath its waters, o'erwhelmed by foes?
Methinks the sound on my ear that rose
Was a cry like that which the ghosts of the slain
Might utter at night on some battle-plain,
Where Liberty's mangled and bleeding form,
Crushed down by the tyrant, lay throbbing and warm.
Oh! what and whence was that startling groan?
It was not old Ocean's ghostly moan,—
That moan of a giant in hopeless pain,
Still dragging shore-ward his endless chain.
'Twas the groan of the aged Sycamore-trees
That lifted, shuddering in the breeze,
Their skinless arms, all suppliantly,
Like beggars, to the gazing sky.
As, in India, the traveller sees,
Ranged in the streets, the devotees;
There, as if rooted to the ground,
Their tattered garments hanging round,
9
And bony hand and palsied limb,
Stereotypes of agony,
Petrifactions of misery,
For mercy, mercy, they seem to cry;
So, these old gnarled and twisted forms,
Long writhing and wrestling with wintry storms,
Had yielded at last; and, half in despair,
Half in defiance, stood rigid there,—
Their hundred arms flung up on high,
In scorn to the winds, and in prayer to the sky.
For a century now, the Button-wood
Around the orchard, a guard, had stood,
To shield the young and tender trees
From the rough, raw breath of the ocean-breeze;
And a faithful guard it still stood there;
But it lifted on high, in the upper air,
To brave the onset of Winter grim,
In empty defiance, each withered limb.
Faithful and firm, the champion
Still stood at his post; but his life was gone.
So when, 'mid terrible Russian snows,
And still more terrible Cossack foes,
The proud but wasted army of France
Formed into square to repel the advance,
With the noble guard of Napoleon
For the outer line,—as the foe came on,
They suddenly checked their steeds, and gazed
In the Frenchmen's faces, as men amazed;
For they saw no stir there of muscle or breath,
All was as rigid and still as death.
And death was there: the mighty foe,
That lays both conquered and conqueror low,
Had sent in an instant his icy dart
To the fountain of life in each soldier's heart.
Each gun was levelled with deadly aim,
But there burst from its muzzle no sulphurous flame;
The soldier flinched not,—but life had fled;
The finger swerved not,—'twas frozen dead!
Around the orchard, a guard, had stood,
To shield the young and tender trees
From the rough, raw breath of the ocean-breeze;
And a faithful guard it still stood there;
But it lifted on high, in the upper air,
To brave the onset of Winter grim,
In empty defiance, each withered limb.
10
Still stood at his post; but his life was gone.
So when, 'mid terrible Russian snows,
And still more terrible Cossack foes,
The proud but wasted army of France
Formed into square to repel the advance,
With the noble guard of Napoleon
For the outer line,—as the foe came on,
They suddenly checked their steeds, and gazed
In the Frenchmen's faces, as men amazed;
For they saw no stir there of muscle or breath,
All was as rigid and still as death.
And death was there: the mighty foe,
That lays both conquered and conqueror low,
Had sent in an instant his icy dart
To the fountain of life in each soldier's heart.
Each gun was levelled with deadly aim,
But there burst from its muzzle no sulphurous flame;
The soldier flinched not,—but life had fled;
The finger swerved not,—'twas frozen dead!
11
And so the faithful old Button-wood,
Even in death, still faithful stood;
Stretching abroad its mighty arm,
As if to shelter its charge from harm.
(Alas! not one of them could repay
The support it had lent to their youthful day!)
For miles that skeleton form was seen,
Towering up by the orchard green.
And now, as I entered that lonely lane,
There came on my ear a dirge-like strain;
As the rising wind grew loud and high,
It swept through the branches a mournful sigh.
'Twas a wild, a deep, and a soul-like thrill,
As if the old tree were haunted still
By the spirit that dwelt in its youthful frame,
And the memories green of its early fame.
And thus (in that pensive afternoon,
So autumn-like in the heart of June),
Blending with ocean's solemn roar,
That rose and fell on the neighboring shore,
I heard the death-groan of the Sycamore:
“They are gone,—all gone,” it seemed to say;
“They are all in their graves, and why should I stay?
The stout old hands that planted me here
Have been mouldering now for many a year.
Their children and children's children I've seen
Laid down in the shade of my branches green;
That stalwart race is gone from the land,
And why should I any longer stand?
My royal equals, too, of the wood,
Who in other days around me stood,—
The motherly elm and the fatherly oak,—
Have bowed to decay, or the woodman's stroke;
The poplar, the beech, and the dark-green ash,
Have startled the fields with their farewell crash;
They have left me here in my solitude,
O'er the memories of the past to brood,
And over my present misery,
A poor, old, naked, and useless tree!
I cumber the ground on which I stand,—
I cast a gloom o'er the lovely land;
The birds, as they sing the charms of June,
But mock me with their merry tune;
The meadow-rills, as they gaily pass,
Singing and dancing through the grass,—
The river, the valley, the sky and the hill,
That wear their ancient freshness still,—
The very look of the ocean-rock,
Worn as it is by the billow's shock,
Still sound in its true old granite heart,—
All these a bitter pang impart.
They speak of many a by-gone day,
When I was as fresh and as fair as they;
When the breeze in my branches made pleasant tunes
With the quivering leaves in golden Junes,
And wearied Toil took his noonday rest,
O'er-canopied here, on earth's green breast;
While the twinkling leaves and the sunny blue
Of the laughing sky, that came peeping through,
With their lights and shadows in mazy play,
Dancing around him as he lay,
Wove pleasant dreams for his weary brain,
And sent him refreshed to his work again.
Here, too, at evening, in happy chat,
Parents and brothers and sisters sat,
And thoughts of peace and contentment stole
O'er the grateful heart and the reverent soul,
As they saw the last gleamings of golden day,
Through my leaves, o'er the hill-tops fade away
And the moon, across the sparkling expanse
Of ocean, through my foliage glance;
And the fire-fly's fitful and trailing light
Hinted the treasures the Summer night
Stored away in each mystic recess,
Of bliss and glory and loveliness.
Even in death, still faithful stood;
Stretching abroad its mighty arm,
As if to shelter its charge from harm.
(Alas! not one of them could repay
The support it had lent to their youthful day!)
For miles that skeleton form was seen,
Towering up by the orchard green.
And now, as I entered that lonely lane,
There came on my ear a dirge-like strain;
As the rising wind grew loud and high,
It swept through the branches a mournful sigh.
'Twas a wild, a deep, and a soul-like thrill,
As if the old tree were haunted still
By the spirit that dwelt in its youthful frame,
And the memories green of its early fame.
And thus (in that pensive afternoon,
So autumn-like in the heart of June),
Blending with ocean's solemn roar,
That rose and fell on the neighboring shore,
12
“They are gone,—all gone,” it seemed to say;
“They are all in their graves, and why should I stay?
The stout old hands that planted me here
Have been mouldering now for many a year.
Their children and children's children I've seen
Laid down in the shade of my branches green;
That stalwart race is gone from the land,
And why should I any longer stand?
My royal equals, too, of the wood,
Who in other days around me stood,—
The motherly elm and the fatherly oak,—
Have bowed to decay, or the woodman's stroke;
The poplar, the beech, and the dark-green ash,
Have startled the fields with their farewell crash;
They have left me here in my solitude,
O'er the memories of the past to brood,
And over my present misery,
A poor, old, naked, and useless tree!
13
I cast a gloom o'er the lovely land;
The birds, as they sing the charms of June,
But mock me with their merry tune;
The meadow-rills, as they gaily pass,
Singing and dancing through the grass,—
The river, the valley, the sky and the hill,
That wear their ancient freshness still,—
The very look of the ocean-rock,
Worn as it is by the billow's shock,
Still sound in its true old granite heart,—
All these a bitter pang impart.
They speak of many a by-gone day,
When I was as fresh and as fair as they;
When the breeze in my branches made pleasant tunes
With the quivering leaves in golden Junes,
And wearied Toil took his noonday rest,
O'er-canopied here, on earth's green breast;
While the twinkling leaves and the sunny blue
Of the laughing sky, that came peeping through,
14
Dancing around him as he lay,
Wove pleasant dreams for his weary brain,
And sent him refreshed to his work again.
Here, too, at evening, in happy chat,
Parents and brothers and sisters sat,
And thoughts of peace and contentment stole
O'er the grateful heart and the reverent soul,
As they saw the last gleamings of golden day,
Through my leaves, o'er the hill-tops fade away
And the moon, across the sparkling expanse
Of ocean, through my foliage glance;
And the fire-fly's fitful and trailing light
Hinted the treasures the Summer night
Stored away in each mystic recess,
Of bliss and glory and loveliness.
“But why do I dwell on this painful theme,
And taunt my grief with memory's dream?
Like a Titan chained to his desolate rock,
For vultures to gnaw and winds to mock,
Disgraced and dismantled I linger here,
The ghost of myself from year to year;
And the only music that comforts me,
In the day of this dismal calamity,
Is the wail of the wind, and the sighing surge
That breaks on the coast in an endless dirge,
Like the sea of destiny rolling on,
When hearts are broke and hopes are gone,—
Like the mournful surge of memory
Still bringing the wrecks of that sullen sea
Up from the depths of the watery tomb,
That the wretched may never forget his doom!
Again that cruel wind! I shiver
Like the shades of the dead on that gloomy river,
Howling, unquiet, in endless pain,
That their bodies unburied on earth remain,
That none the funeral rites will pay—
Oh, men that have hearts of flesh (I pray),
That the woes of a poor old tree can feel,
Come to my help with the merciful steel!
Come with your axes, and lay me low!
They are gone, and 'tis time I too should go.
Build in the chimney my funeral pyre,
And let me mount on wings of fire,
To crown with deathless green the shore
Where the fathers are gathered for evermore.”
And taunt my grief with memory's dream?
Like a Titan chained to his desolate rock,
For vultures to gnaw and winds to mock,
15
The ghost of myself from year to year;
And the only music that comforts me,
In the day of this dismal calamity,
Is the wail of the wind, and the sighing surge
That breaks on the coast in an endless dirge,
Like the sea of destiny rolling on,
When hearts are broke and hopes are gone,—
Like the mournful surge of memory
Still bringing the wrecks of that sullen sea
Up from the depths of the watery tomb,
That the wretched may never forget his doom!
Again that cruel wind! I shiver
Like the shades of the dead on that gloomy river,
Howling, unquiet, in endless pain,
That their bodies unburied on earth remain,
That none the funeral rites will pay—
Oh, men that have hearts of flesh (I pray),
That the woes of a poor old tree can feel,
Come to my help with the merciful steel!
16
They are gone, and 'tis time I too should go.
Build in the chimney my funeral pyre,
And let me mount on wings of fire,
To crown with deathless green the shore
Where the fathers are gathered for evermore.”
Boston Neck, R.I., June, 1851.
17
LINES
SUGGESTED ON COMING OUT OF MOUNT HOPE BAY.
Mount Hope! another name belongs to thee:Thou shouldst be called, methinks, Mount Memory.
For, sailing by, this Indian Summer day,
Where thou reclinest on thine own blue bay,
Before my eyes King Philip's famed retreat,
The crag-roof shelving o'er his royal seat,
And, crowning all, the canopy of blue,
Spanning the same wide-spread, enchanting view
Of shore and slope, that, winding far away,
Before the Sachem's eyes in beauty lay,—
Gazing upon thee thus with tranquil eye,
Calm hill! untouched, as years and change sweep by!
18
And pierce the dusky veil of long-gone time.
The white men's homes, still few and far between,
Melt in blue haze, and vanish from the scene.
Slow curls the wigwam-smoke above the trees,
And floats, a mimic cloud, upon the breeze.
How beautiful is all around,—how still!
Save when the echoes, slumbering on the hill,
Stir to the paddle's plash, where cuts the blue,
Pushing from shore, the red man's swift canoe,
Or start to hear the sudden shout and screech
Of red men's children playing on the beach,
Or fling back the light laugh of dusky girls
Laving in some green nook their jet-black curls,
Or multiply some friendly tribe's “What cheer?”
Or foeman's war-whoop frightful to the ear.
Fair Mount! how slight a change, and all again
The self-same aspect wears to-day as then,
When in these scenes, sole lord of hill and plain,
The son of Nature held his fair domain!
19
The light of this fair scene in other days;
The wigwam fire is out on shore and hill;
The council-talk—the whoop of war—are still.
The paddle's frequent plash is heard no more;
All now is hushed, save when the booming oar
Flings the bright spray, or sounds afar the scream
Of wheeling sea-gull or imprisoned steam.
Yet when, in such mild days as these, I stand,
And look far out o'er all the lovely land,
Through the soft haze, like Memory's veil, that lies,
By Autumn's sunlight flung on earth and skies,
Fair Indian maidens, gentle and serene,
Look forth with spirit-eyes upon the scene;
And from the far horizon of the West,
Where lie the sunny islands of the blest,
Hunter and fighter, sage and sachem, come
To look once more upon their earthly home.
The grave old men, the brave old warriors, stand,
In stately talk, apart, a deep-eyed band;
20
Low voices murmur music sweeter still.
[OMITTED]
But soft! the scene is fading from my view,
And with it fades my fancy's vision too.
In the dim distance, now, thy lovely slope,
Transfigured, seems a skyey land, Mount Hope!
Rudely disturbed, my short day-dream is o'er;
And the fair shapes I saw just now, once more
Have all withdrawn to upper air with thee,
To dwell for ever, Mount of Memory.
21
A SABBATH MORNING AT PETTAQUAMSCUTT.
The Sabbath breaks—how heavenly clear!Is it not always Sabbath here?
Such deep contentment seems to brood
O'er hill and meadow, field and flood.
No floating sound of Sabbath-bell
Comes mingling here with Ocean's swell;
No rattling wheels, no trampling feet,
Wend through the paved and narrow street
To the strange scene where sits vain Pride
With meek Devotion, side by side.
And surely here no temple-bell
Man needs, his quiet thoughts to tell
22
And own his God in praise and prayer.
For doth not Nature's hymn arise,
Morn, noon, and evening, to the skies?
Is not broad Ocean's face—the calm
Of inland woods—a silent psalm?
Ay, come there not from earth and sea
Voices of choral harmony,
That tell the peopled solitude
How great is God,—how wise,—how good?
In Ocean's murmuring music swells
A chime as of celestial bells;
The birds, at rest or on the wing,
With notes of angel-sweetness sing,
And insect-hum and breeze prolong
The bass of Nature's grateful song.
Is not each day a Sabbath then,
A day of rest for thoughtful men?
No idle Sabbath Nature keeps,
The God of Nature never sleeps;
23
This pensive pause, I seem to hear
God say: “O man! would'st thou be blest,
Contented work is Sabbath rest.”
Boston Neck, Sunday, Aug. 20, 1848.
24
SUNRISE ON THE SEA-COAST.
It was the holy hour of dawn:
By hands invisible withdrawn,
The curtain of the summer night
Had vanished; and the morning light,
Fresh from its hidden day-springs, threw
Increasing glory up the blue.
Oh sacred balm of summer dawn,
When odors from the new-mown lawn
Blend with the breath of sky and sea;
And, like the prayers of sanctity,
Go up to Him who reigns above,
An incense-offering of love!
By hands invisible withdrawn,
The curtain of the summer night
Had vanished; and the morning light,
Fresh from its hidden day-springs, threw
Increasing glory up the blue.
Oh sacred balm of summer dawn,
When odors from the new-mown lawn
Blend with the breath of sky and sea;
And, like the prayers of sanctity,
Go up to Him who reigns above,
An incense-offering of love!
25
Alone upon a rock I stood,
Far out above the ocean-flood,
Whose vast expanse before me lay,
Now silver-white, now leaden-grey,
As o'er its face, alternate, threw
The rays and clouds their varying hue.
Far out above the ocean-flood,
Whose vast expanse before me lay,
Now silver-white, now leaden-grey,
As o'er its face, alternate, threw
The rays and clouds their varying hue.
I felt a deep, expectant hush
Through nature, as the growing flush
Of the red Orient seemed to tell
The approach of some great spectacle,
O'er which the birds, in heaven's far height,
Hung, as entranced, in mute delight.
But when the Sun, in royal state,
Through his triumphal golden gate,
Came riding forth in majesty
Out from the fleckéd eastern sky,
As comes a Conqueror to his tent;
And, up and down the firmament,
The captive clouds of routed night,
Their garments fringed with golden light,
Bending around the azure arch,
Lent glory to the victor's march;
And when he flung his blazing glance
Across the watery expanse,—
Methought, along that rocky coast,
The foaming waves, a crested host,
As on their snowy plumes the beams
Of sunshine fell in dazzling gleams,
Thrilled through their ranks with wild delight,
And clapped their hands to hail the sight,
And sent a mighty shout on high
Of exultation to the sky.
Through nature, as the growing flush
Of the red Orient seemed to tell
The approach of some great spectacle,
O'er which the birds, in heaven's far height,
Hung, as entranced, in mute delight.
But when the Sun, in royal state,
Through his triumphal golden gate,
Came riding forth in majesty
Out from the fleckéd eastern sky,
As comes a Conqueror to his tent;
And, up and down the firmament,
The captive clouds of routed night,
Their garments fringed with golden light,
26
Lent glory to the victor's march;
And when he flung his blazing glance
Across the watery expanse,—
Methought, along that rocky coast,
The foaming waves, a crested host,
As on their snowy plumes the beams
Of sunshine fell in dazzling gleams,
Thrilled through their ranks with wild delight,
And clapped their hands to hail the sight,
And sent a mighty shout on high
Of exultation to the sky.
Now all creation seemed to wake;
Each little leaf with joy did shake;
The trumpet-signal of the breeze
Stirred all the ripples of the seas;
Each in its gambols and its glee
A living creature seemed to be;
Like wild young steeds with snowy mane,
The white waves skimmed the liquid plain;
Glad Ocean, with ten thousand eyes,
Proclaimed its joy to earth and skies;
From earth and skies a countless throng
Of happy creatures swelled the song:
Praise to the Conqueror of night!
Praise to the King of Life and Light!
Each little leaf with joy did shake;
The trumpet-signal of the breeze
Stirred all the ripples of the seas;
Each in its gambols and its glee
A living creature seemed to be;
Like wild young steeds with snowy mane,
The white waves skimmed the liquid plain;
27
Proclaimed its joy to earth and skies;
From earth and skies a countless throng
Of happy creatures swelled the song:
Praise to the Conqueror of night!
Praise to the King of Life and Light!
Newport, July, 1851.
28
AN INDIAN SUMMER NOON ON RHODE ISLAND.
Yes, Isle of Peace! I know thee now,—Such grace and glory on thy brow;
Such lustre in thy glowing eye,
Born of the broad blue sea and sky;
Such health and beauty on thy cheek,
And grace of form no tongue can speak!
In richest robes of russet hue,
Veiled in thin mists of softest blue,
With lingering summer-green, and gold
Of sunshine flung on every fold,—
Amidst the Indian-summer haze
Of these benign autumnal days,
29
A noble, maiden Indian Queen!
The very soul of beauty seems
To fill thy face with waking dreams.
The smile of Heaven,—how soft and still
It rests on field and wood and hill!
Such noontide stillness far and near,
The silence whispers to my ear.
I seem to see the gentle ghosts
Of forms that long since roamed these coasts;
The plash of paddles sounds once more,
That died, years gone, along yon shore.
'Tis now the season when the wild
Yet tender heart of Nature's child
In yon far Western halo saw,
With yearning love and holy awe,
The light of that unfading shore,
Where dwell the dead who die no more.
Ah! Heaven is nearer now, meseems,
Than 'twas to them in autumn dreams!
30
Look down on me from yon blue sky?
In yon rich hues I trace his hand,—
His step is on this lovely land:
Where'er I rest, where'er I roam,
'Tis heaven on earth,—my Father's home!
31
IMAGINED FEELINGS OF A CHOCTAW INDIAN.
[_]
Supposed to be spoken by a Choctaw Indian, who sat, wrapped in his blanket, on a burnt trunk of a tree, in a pine wilderness, watching the cars go by on the newly commenced Mobile and Ohio Railroad, Feb. 12, 1852.
Dash on, thou bellowing buffalo!
The monster with the glaring eyes,
That, lightning-snorting, hurriest so,
While back the affrighted forest flies.
Speed, Pale-face, speed thy fiery car!
Its roar and rumbling seem to me,
As on it clatters fast and far,
The thunder-tramp of destiny.
The monster with the glaring eyes,
That, lightning-snorting, hurriest so,
While back the affrighted forest flies.
Speed, Pale-face, speed thy fiery car!
Its roar and rumbling seem to me,
As on it clatters fast and far,
The thunder-tramp of destiny.
32
Ay, well I hear in that harsh roar,
That crashes through the forest-space,
The bolt of doom for evermore
Fall, crushing, on the red man's race.
Farewell, ye noble hunting grounds,
Farewell, ye haunts and homes of ours!
The white man, with his iron hounds,
A howling pack, our purlieu scours.
That crashes through the forest-space,
The bolt of doom for evermore
Fall, crushing, on the red man's race.
Farewell, ye noble hunting grounds,
Farewell, ye haunts and homes of ours!
The white man, with his iron hounds,
A howling pack, our purlieu scours.
Like this burnt trunk I sit upon,
Our race, in still and sure decay,
Is crumbling fast—'twill soon be gone,
And leave no trace behind, for aye!
Then, monster, dash along thy track
Through Indian grounds, o'er Indian graves!
Fate's iron chariot rolls not back,—
We seek, O sun! the western waves!
Our race, in still and sure decay,
Is crumbling fast—'twill soon be gone,
And leave no trace behind, for aye!
Then, monster, dash along thy track
Through Indian grounds, o'er Indian graves!
Fate's iron chariot rolls not back,—
We seek, O sun! the western waves!
33
TOLL! TOLL! TOLL!
[_]
As I was passing down the Potomac one rainy forenoon on my journey southward, absorbed in Kossuth's Birmingham speech, suddenly the boat began to slacken her speed, and toll her bell faintly and slowly, and I found we were passing along by Mount Vernon. The impression produced I have feebly recorded in the following lines.
Toll! toll! toll!
O'er Potomac's placid wave
To Mount Vernon's hallowed grave,
Let the solemn pealings roll!
O'er Potomac's placid wave
To Mount Vernon's hallowed grave,
Let the solemn pealings roll!
Toll! toll! toll!
For to-day fair Nature weeps
Where the sainted hero sleeps;
Toll! toll!
For to-day fair Nature weeps
Where the sainted hero sleeps;
Toll! toll!
34
Toll! toll! toll!
Not for him who lies at rest
On Mount Vernon's sheltering breast,
With Freedom's God his soul!
Not for him who lies at rest
On Mount Vernon's sheltering breast,
With Freedom's God his soul!
Toll! toll! toll
Not for bleeding Hungary,
Who, though prostrate, still is free
In her soul!
Not for bleeding Hungary,
Who, though prostrate, still is free
In her soul!
Toll! toll! toll
Not for holy Justice fled,—
Not for sacred Honor dead,—
Oh not yet—not yet—my soul!
Not for holy Justice fled,—
Not for sacred Honor dead,—
Oh not yet—not yet—my soul!
Toll! toll! toll!
For our land's and freedom's sake,
That solemn thoughts may wake,
All vain ones to control!
For our land's and freedom's sake,
That solemn thoughts may wake,
All vain ones to control!
35
Thoughts of him—the noble soul—
Who from yonder silent shore
Speaks peace for evermore,
Bidding angry strifes give o'er—
Slowly toll!
Who from yonder silent shore
Speaks peace for evermore,
Bidding angry strifes give o'er—
Slowly toll!
Mobile, Dec. 16, 1851.
36
“ALABAMA!”
[_]
There is a tradition, that a tribe of Indians, defeated and hard pressed by a more powerful foe, reached in their flight a river, where their chief set up a staff and exclaimed, “Alabama!” a word meaning, “Here we rest,” which from that time became the river's name.
Bruised and bleeding, pale and weary,
Onward toward the South and West,
Through dark woods and deserts dreary,
By relentless foemen pressed,
Came a tribe where evening, darkling,
Flushed a mighty river's breast;
And they cried, their faint eyes sparkling,
“Alabama! Here we rest!”
Onward toward the South and West,
Through dark woods and deserts dreary,
By relentless foemen pressed,
Came a tribe where evening, darkling,
Flushed a mighty river's breast;
And they cried, their faint eyes sparkling,
“Alabama! Here we rest!”
37
By the stern steam-demon hurried,
Far from home and scenes so blest;
By the gloomy care-dogs worried,
Sleepless, houseless, and distressed,
Days and nights beheld me hieing
Like a bird without a nest,
Till I hailed thy waters, crying,
“Alabama! Here I rest!”
Far from home and scenes so blest;
By the gloomy care-dogs worried,
Sleepless, houseless, and distressed,
Days and nights beheld me hieing
Like a bird without a nest,
Till I hailed thy waters, crying,
“Alabama! Here I rest!”
Oh! when life's last sun is blinking
In the pale and darksome West,
And my weary frame is sinking,
With its cares and woes oppressed,
May I, as I drop the burden
From my sick and fainting breast,
Cry, beside the swelling Jordan,
“Alabama! Here I rest!”
In the pale and darksome West,
And my weary frame is sinking,
With its cares and woes oppressed,
May I, as I drop the burden
From my sick and fainting breast,
Cry, beside the swelling Jordan,
“Alabama! Here I rest!”
Alabama River, Dec. 1851.
38
THE GREAT GOVERNMENT STREET PINES.
“The trees of the Lord are full of sap.”
Great Pines of God! and are not ye
As full of sap as any tree,
By Psalmist praised of old, that stood
On Lebanon for holy wood,—
Fir, box, or cedar, lifting there
Their stately heads in upper air,
And waiting each to bow his crown
At God's command, and hasten down
His holy temple-courts to grace,
And make his feet a beauteous place?
Where shall a holier place be found
Than this, O God! thy wide earth round?
39
All Nature breathes thy spirit's rest,—
The rest of action, calm and free,
The rest of blissful harmony.
The thoughtful, grateful, pious mind
Thy temple here, O Lord! may find,
And list thy praises in the breeze,
Hymned by the priesthood of the trees.
Mobile, Feb. 10, 1852.
40
FROST.
Lo! on the roofs yon frost of silver-white,By fairy fingers spread, that moonlit night!
Silver-lipped frost! bring'st thou not prophecy
Of golden, glowing, joyous days to be?
Come once more to my bosom, halcyon days
That clothe the earth in such enchanting haze;
More than prophetic of approaching Spring,
That make my heart leap up and dance and sing;
O come, and make it heaven on earth awhile,
And let me live, a child, in Nature's smile!
Mobile, Jan. 27, 1852.
41
TO THE PINE.
O tall old Pine! old gloomy Pine!
Old grim, gigantic, gloomy Pine!
What is there in that voice of thine
That thrills so deep this heart of mine?
Old grim, gigantic, gloomy Pine!
What is there in that voice of thine
That thrills so deep this heart of mine?
Is it that, in thy mournful sigh,
Old years and voices long gone by,
And feelings that can never die,
Come crowding back on memory?
Old years and voices long gone by,
And feelings that can never die,
Come crowding back on memory?
Is it that, in thy solemn roar,
My listening spirit hears once more
The trumpet-music of the host
Of billows round my native coast?
My listening spirit hears once more
The trumpet-music of the host
Of billows round my native coast?
42
Or is it that I catch a sound
Of that more vast and dread profound,
The soul's unfathomable sea,—
The ocean of Eternity?
Of that more vast and dread profound,
The soul's unfathomable sea,—
The ocean of Eternity?
43
LINES
ON HEARING MENDELSSOHN'S MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM PERFORMED BY THE GERMANIANS AT NEWPORT.
It haunts me still—I hear, I see, once moreThat moonlight dance of fairies on the shore.
I hear the skipping of those airy feet;
I see the mazy twinkling, light and fleet.
The sly sharp banter of the violin
Wakes in the elfin folk a merry din;
And now it dies away, and all is still;
The silver moon-beam sleeps upon the hill;
The flute's sweet wail, a heavenly music, floats,
And like bright dew-drops fall the oboe's notes.
And hark! again that light and graceful beat
Steals on the ear, of trooping, tiny feet,—
44
The muffled surf-drum booms from some far shore;
And now the fairy world is lost once more
In the grand swell of ocean's organ-roar,—
And all is still again;—again the dance
Of sparkling feet reflects the moon-beam's glance;
Puck plays his antics in the o'erhanging trees,—
Music like Ariel's floats on every breeze;—
Thus is the Midsummer Night's Dream to me,
Pictured by music and by memory,
A long midsummer day's reality.
45
SAILOR'S SONG.
[_]
The following is the translation of a German Song, sung by the Germanians at Newport, in the summer of 1849.
Hark! a merry Sailor's song!
Ho-ee-ho!
Sound it loud the sea along!
Ho-heave-o!
Now to Northern shores I sing,
Now the South shall hear it ring;
Overboard all care we fling!
Ho-ee-ho!
Sound it loud the sea along!
Ho-heave-o!
Now to Northern shores I sing,
Now the South shall hear it ring;
Overboard all care we fling!
When the sea is bellying rough,
Ho-ee-ho!
I my pipe-smoke at him puff,
Ho-heave-o!
Fish in sunshine leap and gleam,
Sharks behind us swim the stream,
And the sea-gulls wildly scream.
Ho-ee-ho!
I my pipe-smoke at him puff,
Ho-heave-o!
46
Sharks behind us swim the stream,
And the sea-gulls wildly scream.
When the tempests make her creak,
Ho-ee-ho!
Up I climb the top-mast peak,
Ho-heave-o!
“Cheer up, Captain!” then I cry,
“Winds are fair, I see blue sky;
Let the gallant streamers fly!”
Ho-ee-ho!
Up I climb the top-mast peak,
Ho-heave-o!
“Cheer up, Captain!” then I cry,
“Winds are fair, I see blue sky;
Let the gallant streamers fly!”
One thing clouds a Sailor's bliss,
Ho-ee-ho!
Ah, I pine for Peggy's kiss!
Ho-heave-o!
Thinking when the tempests blow
On that bosom's lily-snow,
True love racks my heart with woe!
Ho-ee-ho!
Ah, I pine for Peggy's kiss!
Ho-heave-o!
Thinking when the tempests blow
On that bosom's lily-snow,
True love racks my heart with woe!
47
Ah, but when the port is nigh,
Ho-ee-ho!
And I see her bright black eye,
Ho-heave-o!
Oh, so wild that glance of bliss,
After such a long, long miss,—
Ten thousand times my Peg I kiss!
Ho-ee-ho!
And I see her bright black eye,
Ho-heave-o!
Oh, so wild that glance of bliss,
After such a long, long miss,—
Ten thousand times my Peg I kiss!
THE END.
| Songs of field and flood | |