 | Poems |  |
SOLITUDE.
Have poets sung thee, Solitude? Then one,
Tho' far less gifted, erreth not alone.
What though he mingles in the haunts of men,
And seems to share their joyousness—ah! then
What mortal knows his loneliness of heart!
Not thou, ye fawning hypocrite, whose part
To play in life's great drama is deceit;
Whose heart contemns him whom with smiles ye greet.
Not thou, ye better born, ye frank of soul—
By truth advised, unawed by proud control.
Not these, indeed—none of the human kind
Know of the poet's solitude of mind.
Tho' far less gifted, erreth not alone.
What though he mingles in the haunts of men,
And seems to share their joyousness—ah! then
What mortal knows his loneliness of heart!
Not thou, ye fawning hypocrite, whose part
To play in life's great drama is deceit;
Whose heart contemns him whom with smiles ye greet.
Not thou, ye better born, ye frank of soul—
By truth advised, unawed by proud control.
Not these, indeed—none of the human kind
Know of the poet's solitude of mind.
What treasures has Nature, in happy mood,
Reposed to thy keeping, O Solitude!
The flowering prairie, so wildly fair,
Perfuming the breeze with its balmy air.
Unbounded the prospect—how brightly green,
When first in freshness of morn it is seen!
When the passing wind gives to it motion,
How like the wide-rolling wave of ocean!
Will man to these beautiful plains ever come
To plant his dominion and build his home?
Can the hum of his commerce awake the ear
Where trips in the stillness the light-footed deer?
Yes, yonder the smoke of his cottage I see—
The whiteman is robbing thy prairie from thee.
Reposed to thy keeping, O Solitude!
The flowering prairie, so wildly fair,
Perfuming the breeze with its balmy air.
Unbounded the prospect—how brightly green,
When first in freshness of morn it is seen!
When the passing wind gives to it motion,
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Will man to these beautiful plains ever come
To plant his dominion and build his home?
Can the hum of his commerce awake the ear
Where trips in the stillness the light-footed deer?
Yes, yonder the smoke of his cottage I see—
The whiteman is robbing thy prairie from thee.
Now to the deep forest you'll go with me,
Where the old moss covers the youngest tree,
Where the sun-light scarce enters, so deep is the shade,
And the veteran wood-nymphs for ages have play'd.
Here, too, for ages, their tops to the breeze
Majestic'ly swaying, these old oak trees
Have reared their high heads, while the leafy vine
Has wrap'd their old trunks in its close entwine.
The deep voice of Tempe here speaks from the past;
'T is low in the zephyr and loud in the blast;
It opens the soul to a vastness of thought
Ungathered from lore and by science untaught.
Will Time ever see thee, proud forest, laid low,
A prey to the axe with its death-giving blow?
Will the whiteman, intrusive, here open his way
Where the night-wolf now waits for the close of the day?
Will these solitudes hear his shrill whistle at morn,
Or his loud “harvest home” when he garners his corn?
Oh! ask of himself, for behold he is near,
And the signs of his coming already are here.
Where the old moss covers the youngest tree,
Where the sun-light scarce enters, so deep is the shade,
And the veteran wood-nymphs for ages have play'd.
Here, too, for ages, their tops to the breeze
Majestic'ly swaying, these old oak trees
Have reared their high heads, while the leafy vine
Has wrap'd their old trunks in its close entwine.
The deep voice of Tempe here speaks from the past;
'T is low in the zephyr and loud in the blast;
It opens the soul to a vastness of thought
Ungathered from lore and by science untaught.
Will Time ever see thee, proud forest, laid low,
A prey to the axe with its death-giving blow?
Will the whiteman, intrusive, here open his way
Where the night-wolf now waits for the close of the day?
Will these solitudes hear his shrill whistle at morn,
Or his loud “harvest home” when he garners his corn?
Oh! ask of himself, for behold he is near,
And the signs of his coming already are here.
The Indian in his light canoe
Floats on thy lake of polished blue;
And as his bark and form appear
Mirrored below, so deep, so clear,
To the Great One he breathes a prayer
To thank him for his being there.
Nature's own child! thy treasures are
These solitudes, so wildly fair;
Thy oaks still stand as when at first
This gay world on thy vision burst,
Whose branches 'neath a vernal sky
With greenness filled thy joyous eye.
Thy father taught thee by this lake,
When young, thy birchen skiff to make;
And often to thy dashing oar
The sounding caverns of its shore
Murmured response; and oft thy song
Has woke their echoes, loud and long!
Fleet is the foot of dappled doe,
But fleeter arrow from thy bow;
Oft hast thou chased the hours away
From earliest morn till setting day,
And when the prairie hid thy game,
'Mid the tall grass you lit the flame.
But, Indian, thy glad dream is o'er—
The whiteman waits for thee ashore!
Floats on thy lake of polished blue;
And as his bark and form appear
Mirrored below, so deep, so clear,
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To thank him for his being there.
Nature's own child! thy treasures are
These solitudes, so wildly fair;
Thy oaks still stand as when at first
This gay world on thy vision burst,
Whose branches 'neath a vernal sky
With greenness filled thy joyous eye.
Thy father taught thee by this lake,
When young, thy birchen skiff to make;
And often to thy dashing oar
The sounding caverns of its shore
Murmured response; and oft thy song
Has woke their echoes, loud and long!
Fleet is the foot of dappled doe,
But fleeter arrow from thy bow;
Oft hast thou chased the hours away
From earliest morn till setting day,
And when the prairie hid thy game,
'Mid the tall grass you lit the flame.
But, Indian, thy glad dream is o'er—
The whiteman waits for thee ashore!
Wisconsin Territory, Oct. 1836.
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