 | Landmarks and other poems |  |
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MOORE'S CHIMNEY.
I.
THE SHADOW-LAND.
Round us lies a Land of Shadow, not a footstep echoes o'er;
Song of peace and cry of battle falter, dying, evermore.
Song of peace and cry of battle falter, dying, evermore.
War-fires in the vales are leaping, with the glaring dance of war,
But the fiercely-gleaming faces are a painted dream afar.
But the fiercely-gleaming faces are a painted dream afar.
O'er the valley, clothed in shadow, sunlit stands the startled deer,
From the cliff against the morning flashing away, breath-like, with fear.
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Lo, the golden light of morning o'er the Land of Shadow cast,
Where the tomahawk is buried in the grave-mound of the Past!
Where the tomahawk is buried in the grave-mound of the Past!
Nothing of that Land remains, now, save these gray historic trees,
Shaking through their glittering branches dews of olden memories!
Shaking through their glittering branches dews of olden memories!
II.
THE RUIN.
Here among the greenery hidden, warder of that Shadow-Land,
Near the noisy-trampled highway, see the old dead chimney stand!—
Near the noisy-trampled highway, see the old dead chimney stand!—
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Hidden from the busy highway 'mong the cherries large and low,
Whose new blossoms fill the breezes with a gentle drift of snow!
Whose new blossoms fill the breezes with a gentle drift of snow!
Dead!—no more a flame is leaping through it toward the wintry cold;
Dead!—no more its smoke is wreathing woodlands deep and dim and old.
Dead!—no more its smoke is wreathing woodlands deep and dim and old.
Dead!—no more its azure welcome gladdens eyes that houseless roam;
Dead!—no more it seems uplifting incense from the heart of Home!
Dead!—no more it seems uplifting incense from the heart of Home!
Gone the hands that shook the forest, burying in the furrow'd soil
Careful seeds of trust returning harvest-guerdon for their toil.
Careful seeds of trust returning harvest-guerdon for their toil.
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Gone the hearts that made pale faces, when the wolves came starved with cold,
And the fireside still was waiting through the twilight snows of old.
And the fireside still was waiting through the twilight snows of old.
Gone the homely cabin-threshold, with the feet that cross'd it o'er;
Gone the closely-gather'd household, with their dwelling low and poor.
Gone the closely-gather'd household, with their dwelling low and poor.
Yet I see a light of sparkles redden up old evenings wild,
Like the fancies sent to wander up the chimney by a child.
Like the fancies sent to wander up the chimney by a child.
Hearts, I think, there may be, somewhere, echoing through the vanish'd door,
Dreaming dreams returning, hearing footsteps from the crumbled floor.
Dreaming dreams returning, hearing footsteps from the crumbled floor.
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Children, whose new lives were darken'd here with shades of sudden fears,
May be children, wandering hither, while old gray men lose their years;
May be children, wandering hither, while old gray men lose their years;
They may hear the red-man's voices through the night the silence start,
And, awaking, the old terror shiver newly through the heart.
And, awaking, the old terror shiver newly through the heart.
You may find them growing weary, faltering through the busy lands,
Wrinkled by the years their faces, shaken by the years their hands.
Wrinkled by the years their faces, shaken by the years their hands.
Of them here no token lingers, save the chimney gray and low,
With a gleam of lighted faces from a fireside long ago!
With a gleam of lighted faces from a fireside long ago!
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