 | Poems by John Howard Bryant |  |
7
POEMS.
MY NATIVE VILLAGE.
There lies a village in a peaceful vale,
With sloping hills and waving woods around,
Fenced from the blast. There never ruder gale
Bows the tall grass that covers all the ground;
And planted shrubs are there, and cherished flowers,
And brightest verdure born of gentle showers.
With sloping hills and waving woods around,
Fenced from the blast. There never ruder gale
Bows the tall grass that covers all the ground;
And planted shrubs are there, and cherished flowers,
And brightest verdure born of gentle showers.
'Twas there my young existence was begun;
My earliest sports were on its flowery green;
And often, when my school-boy task was done,
I climbed its hills to view the pleasant scene,
And stood and gazed till the sun's setting ray
Shone on the height—the sweetest of the day.
My earliest sports were on its flowery green;
And often, when my school-boy task was done,
I climbed its hills to view the pleasant scene,
And stood and gazed till the sun's setting ray
Shone on the height—the sweetest of the day.
8
There, when that hour of mellow light was come,
And mountain shadows cooled the ripened grain,
I watched the weary yeoman plodding home
In the lone path that winds across the plain,
To rest his limbs, and watch his child at play,
And tell him o'er the labors of the day.
And mountain shadows cooled the ripened grain,
I watched the weary yeoman plodding home
In the lone path that winds across the plain,
To rest his limbs, and watch his child at play,
And tell him o'er the labors of the day.
And when the woods put on their autumn glow,
And the bright sun came in among the trees,
And leaves were gathered in the glen below,
Swept softly from the mountain by the breeze,
I wandered, till the starlight, on the stream,
At length awoke me from my fairy dream.
And the bright sun came in among the trees,
And leaves were gathered in the glen below,
Swept softly from the mountain by the breeze,
I wandered, till the starlight, on the stream,
At length awoke me from my fairy dream.
Ah! happy days, too happy to return,
Fled on the wings of youth's departed years:
A bitter lesson has been mine to learn,
The truth of life, its labors, pains, and fears.
Yet does the memory of my boyhood stay;
A twilight of the brightness passed away.
Fled on the wings of youth's departed years:
A bitter lesson has been mine to learn,
The truth of life, its labors, pains, and fears.
Yet does the memory of my boyhood stay;
A twilight of the brightness passed away.
My thoughts steal back to that sweet village still;
Its flowers and peaceful shades before me rise;
The play-place and the prospect from the hill,
Its summer verdure and autumnal dyes;
The present brings its storms; but, while they last,
I shelter me in the delightful past.
Its flowers and peaceful shades before me rise;
The play-place and the prospect from the hill,
Its summer verdure and autumnal dyes;
The present brings its storms; but, while they last,
I shelter me in the delightful past.
9
THE TRAVELLER'S RETURN.
I stood upon an airy height, in summer verdure drest;Tall trees, the elders of the wood, rose o'er me to the west.
A lovely vale before me lay, and on the golden air
Crept the blue smoke, in quiet trains, from roofs that clustered there.
I saw where, in my early days, I passed the pleasant hours
Beside the winding brook that still went prattling to its flowers;
And, still around my parent's home, the slender poplars grew,
Whose glossy leaves were swayed and turned by every wind that blew.
The clover with its heavy bloom was tossing in the gale,
And the tall crowfoot's yellow stars still sprinkled all the vale;
The forests stood as freshly green and stretched as far away,
And still upon the orchard ground, the same round shadows lay.
10
The brook still purled from woody glen, o'er which the wild vine swung.
I lingered till the crimson clouds, upon the evening sky,
O'erhung the hills as gloriously as in the days gone by.
All these are what they were when first these pleasant hills I ranged,
But faces that I knew before, by time and toil are changed;
Where youth and bloom were on the cheek, and gladness on the brow,
I only meet the marks of care and pain and sorrow now.
11
THE BLIND RESTORED TO SIGHT.
“And I went and washed, and I received sight”—
John ix, 2.
John ix, 2.
When the Great Master spoke,
He touched his withered eyes,
And at one gleam upon him broke
The glad earth and the skies.
He touched his withered eyes,
And at one gleam upon him broke
The glad earth and the skies.
And he saw the city's walls,
And king's and prophet's tomb,
And mighty arches and vaulted halls
And the temple's lofty dome.
And king's and prophet's tomb,
And mighty arches and vaulted halls
And the temple's lofty dome.
He looked on the river's flood
And the flash of mountain rills,
And the gentle wave of the palms that stood
Upon Judea's hills.
And the flash of mountain rills,
And the gentle wave of the palms that stood
Upon Judea's hills.
He saw, on heights and plains,
Creatures of every race;
But a mighty thrill ran through his veins
When he met the human face.
Creatures of every race;
But a mighty thrill ran through his veins
When he met the human face.
And his virgin sight beheld
The ruddy glow of even,
And the thousand shining orbs that filled
The azure depths of heaven.
The ruddy glow of even,
And the thousand shining orbs that filled
The azure depths of heaven.
12
Though woman's voice before
Had cheered his gloomy night,
To see the angel form she wore
Made deeper the delight.
Had cheered his gloomy night,
To see the angel form she wore
Made deeper the delight.
And his heart, at daylight's close,
For the bright world where he trod,
And when the yellow morning rose,
Gave speechless thanks to God.
For the bright world where he trod,
And when the yellow morning rose,
Gave speechless thanks to God.
13
THE MOUNTAIN GRAVE-YARD.
I know a hill with a breast of flowers
Where the swallows play in the summer hours,
Where the grasshopper chirps and the wild bee hums,
And the low of the kine on the cool air comes,
And the soft winds breath with a whispering sigh
From the skirt of the lofty woodland nigh.
There the cheerful sound of the streamlet rings
As it leaps away from the place of springs;
The strawberry blossoms in May dew there,
And ripens its fruit in the summer air;
And the grey squirrel barks in the beechen wood
As he gathers the nuts for his winter food.
'Tis a spot where the daylight latest stays
And earliest comes with its crimson rays,
And life is above where the light winds go,
But the dead are asleep in the earth below.
There are shrubs and wild briars springing round,
And I know by the stones and the swell of the ground
Where the friends that have gone before me lie;
Each one with his feet to the eastern sky;
Yes, the fair young child with its flaxen hair,
And age, with the marks of toil and care,
And youth, with its joys and its hopes so bright,
With a blooming cheek and an eye of light,
And they in the strength and midst of life,
Are gathered here from earth's toil and strife;
And the mean of earth and the good and brave
Lie side by side in the quiet grave.
Where the swallows play in the summer hours,
Where the grasshopper chirps and the wild bee hums,
And the low of the kine on the cool air comes,
And the soft winds breath with a whispering sigh
From the skirt of the lofty woodland nigh.
There the cheerful sound of the streamlet rings
As it leaps away from the place of springs;
The strawberry blossoms in May dew there,
And ripens its fruit in the summer air;
And the grey squirrel barks in the beechen wood
As he gathers the nuts for his winter food.
'Tis a spot where the daylight latest stays
And earliest comes with its crimson rays,
And life is above where the light winds go,
But the dead are asleep in the earth below.
There are shrubs and wild briars springing round,
And I know by the stones and the swell of the ground
Where the friends that have gone before me lie;
Each one with his feet to the eastern sky;
Yes, the fair young child with its flaxen hair,
And age, with the marks of toil and care,
And youth, with its joys and its hopes so bright,
14
And they in the strength and midst of life,
Are gathered here from earth's toil and strife;
And the mean of earth and the good and brave
Lie side by side in the quiet grave.
I go to that spot when the early flowers
Awake on these bright sunny hills of ours;
When the airs of the south breath over the plain,
And the blue bird sings in the woods again;
When, waked by rains from their winter rest,
Brook calls to brook on the mountain's breast,
And the young leaves dance in each passing breath,
I often visit these haunts of death.
Awake on these bright sunny hills of ours;
When the airs of the south breath over the plain,
And the blue bird sings in the woods again;
When, waked by rains from their winter rest,
Brook calls to brook on the mountain's breast,
And the young leaves dance in each passing breath,
I often visit these haunts of death.
When the summer comes, with its sultry heat,
And fierce on the earth the sunbeams beat;
When the leaf on the poplar's bough is still,
And hushed is the voice of the mountain rill;
When the tall grass droops in the torrid glare,
And no sound is abroad in the motionless air,
I wander there for a breath of the gale
That's a stranger then in my native vale.
And fierce on the earth the sunbeams beat;
When the leaf on the poplar's bough is still,
And hushed is the voice of the mountain rill;
When the tall grass droops in the torrid glare,
And no sound is abroad in the motionless air,
I wander there for a breath of the gale
That's a stranger then in my native vale.
When the maize on the autumn hills is white,
And the yellow forests are bathed in light;
When the sun looks down with a milder ray,
And the dry leaves whirl in the gust away;
When the evening comes with glorious hues,
And the crimson clouds distill their dews;
When the winds of the icy north are still,
I sometimes visit this lonely hill.
And the yellow forests are bathed in light;
When the sun looks down with a milder ray,
15
When the evening comes with glorious hues,
And the crimson clouds distill their dews;
When the winds of the icy north are still,
I sometimes visit this lonely hill.
And I've followed the corpse of a parent there
Through the winter's wild and sleety air,
When the deep snows over the mountains lay,
And the voiceless streams flowed slowly away.
We buried him there when the north winds blew,
And our tears fell fast like the summer dew,
And like ice to our hearts the cold earth slid,
With a hollow sound, on his coffin lid.
Through the winter's wild and sleety air,
When the deep snows over the mountains lay,
And the voiceless streams flowed slowly away.
We buried him there when the north winds blew,
And our tears fell fast like the summer dew,
And like ice to our hearts the cold earth slid,
With a hollow sound, on his coffin lid.
And still as the years of my life depart
Shall that lonely spot be dear to my heart;
For many a friend of my earlier days,
Who journeyed with me life's toilsome ways,
There lies in his long, long dreamless rest,
With the damp earth clinging around his breast;
And a voice comes up from each grassy tomb
As I tread those paths in the twilight's gloom,
That tells me the hours of my own brief day
Are swiftly and silently passing away.
Shall that lonely spot be dear to my heart;
For many a friend of my earlier days,
Who journeyed with me life's toilsome ways,
There lies in his long, long dreamless rest,
With the damp earth clinging around his breast;
And a voice comes up from each grassy tomb
As I tread those paths in the twilight's gloom,
That tells me the hours of my own brief day
Are swiftly and silently passing away.
16
SONNET.
Beautiful streamlet by my dwelling side,I love thy shining sands, thy banks of grass;
I love to see thy silver waters pass,
Hurrying beneath the willow boughs to hide.
Thy nursing springs are in the forest shade;
Moss-bank and rock, brown trunk and ancient tree,
Woodbirds and wild flowers are thy company,
Until thou glitterest in the open glade.
Thou wert my playmate in my early days;
I built cascades and tiny bridges then;
Now thoughtfully on thy green banks I gaze,
And thy bright current, gushing through its glen,
Pure as the air above it, and as free,
And wish my heart were void of stain like thee.
17
THE WANDERER'S LAMENT.
O, for the days of youth again,
The days of peace and plenty,
Before I left my father's house,
When I was one and twenty.
The days of peace and plenty,
Before I left my father's house,
When I was one and twenty.
When, on the grass-plot by the door,
I sported with the spaniel,
And life went merry as a brook
Along its stony channel.
I sported with the spaniel,
And life went merry as a brook
Along its stony channel.
But now to me the times are changed,
And I am sad and weary;
I've proved the world, the smiling world,
And found it cold and dreary.
And I am sad and weary;
I've proved the world, the smiling world,
And found it cold and dreary.
I've wandered far upon the land,
And far upon the ocean,
When the dark waves were tempest-tossed
In fierce and wild commotion.
And far upon the ocean,
When the dark waves were tempest-tossed
In fierce and wild commotion.
I've climbed the Andes' rocky heights
And viewed the realms below me,
And mused upon the loveliest scenes
Those lofty heights could show me.
And viewed the realms below me,
And mused upon the loveliest scenes
Those lofty heights could show me.
18
I've passed to earth's remotest isles
Across the mighty waters;
I've greeted Asia's wildest sons,
And seen her fairest daughters.
Across the mighty waters;
I've greeted Asia's wildest sons,
And seen her fairest daughters.
When we had spread our swelling sail,
And homeward were returning,
The light of hope within my breast,
Was warm and brightly burning.
And homeward were returning,
The light of hope within my breast,
Was warm and brightly burning.
I clomb the mast, I strained my eye,
To catch the distant landing,
The misty mountain and the wood,
Upon its summit standing.
To catch the distant landing,
The misty mountain and the wood,
Upon its summit standing.
And when they met my sight at dawn,
What pleasure thrilled my bosom;
Gay-colored woods before me lay,
Like one unbounded blossom.
What pleasure thrilled my bosom;
Gay-colored woods before me lay,
Like one unbounded blossom.
And I have reached my childhood's home
And found it all deserted;
Have wept beside its roofless walls
Like one that's broken hearted.
And found it all deserted;
Have wept beside its roofless walls
Like one that's broken hearted.
'Tis fourteen summers since I left
The birth-place of my fathers,
Where now his wreath of wilding flowers
The truant school-boy gathers.
The birth-place of my fathers,
Where now his wreath of wilding flowers
The truant school-boy gathers.
19
The wild brier and the cherry tree
Are growing in the cellar,
And in the wall the cricket chirps,
A solitary dweller.
Are growing in the cellar,
And in the wall the cricket chirps,
A solitary dweller.
'Tis noon, calm noon—the yellow woods
In Autumn light are sleeping;
As if for playmates passed away,
Yon little brook is weeping.
In Autumn light are sleeping;
As if for playmates passed away,
Yon little brook is weeping.
All, all is changed, save the brown hills,—
They hold their wonted station;
But in my aching bosom reigns
A deeper desolation.
They hold their wonted station;
But in my aching bosom reigns
A deeper desolation.
O God! I live without a friend,
A dreary world before me.
My parents' eyes are closed in death,
That bent so kindly o'er me.
A dreary world before me.
My parents' eyes are closed in death,
That bent so kindly o'er me.
My hair is grey, 'tis early grey,—
'Tis grey with toil and sorrow;
My cheek is hollow, and my brow
Is ploughed with many a furrow.
'Tis grey with toil and sorrow;
My cheek is hollow, and my brow
Is ploughed with many a furrow.
Twilight is deepening, and the hills
Look distant, dim, and sober;
I'm sitting by my ruined home
In bleak and brown October.
Look distant, dim, and sober;
I'm sitting by my ruined home
In bleak and brown October.
20
All sounds of day have left the air,
The grass with frost is hoary,
And I have staid alone to write
This brief but sorry story.
The grass with frost is hoary,
And I have staid alone to write
This brief but sorry story.
Staid, till the winds have chilled my blood,
On these dim hills benighted;
Staid, but no friend my coming waits,
No hearth for me is lighted.
On these dim hills benighted;
Staid, but no friend my coming waits,
No hearth for me is lighted.
21
A NIGHT SCENE.
It is deep midnight; on the verdant hills
In beauty spread, the broad white moonlight lies.
No sound is heard save that the grey owl hoots,
At intervals, in the old mossy wood,
Or save the rustle of the aspen leaves,
That ceaseless turn upon their slender stems,
When not a breath is felt in all the heaven.
Standing upon an eminence, I see
The haunts of men around. The world is still.
The busy and the bustling are at rest;
Their mingled voices do not fill the air,
As when I tread these haunts at noon of day.
The birds are silent now, and the tired beasts
Are slunk to rest. Almost beneath my feet
Stand cottages, the dwellings of the poor;
And prouder mansions of the rich and great.
The cottager and all his little ones
Are slumbering now; theirs is a sweeter sleep
Than luxury and wealth can ever give.
Not distant far, upon a gentle swell,
With its background of orcharding and wood,
And more immediate circle of green trees,
My much loved home, my native dwelling stands.
Its roof is glimmering in the white moonshine,
And all its inmates, save myself, at rest.
I see the little brook meandering there,
But do not hear its voice; the trembling light
Of the full moon falls on its shifting waves,
And is thrown back in flashes on my eye.
How sweet the stillness of this midnight hour!
It banishes the cares of busy life.
The Spirit of the Mightiest is abroad;—
It fills the boundless air, the spreading wood,
The wilds, the lonely deserts of the earth,
And all her populous realms.
In beauty spread, the broad white moonlight lies.
No sound is heard save that the grey owl hoots,
At intervals, in the old mossy wood,
Or save the rustle of the aspen leaves,
That ceaseless turn upon their slender stems,
When not a breath is felt in all the heaven.
Standing upon an eminence, I see
The haunts of men around. The world is still.
The busy and the bustling are at rest;
Their mingled voices do not fill the air,
As when I tread these haunts at noon of day.
The birds are silent now, and the tired beasts
Are slunk to rest. Almost beneath my feet
Stand cottages, the dwellings of the poor;
And prouder mansions of the rich and great.
The cottager and all his little ones
Are slumbering now; theirs is a sweeter sleep
Than luxury and wealth can ever give.
Not distant far, upon a gentle swell,
With its background of orcharding and wood,
And more immediate circle of green trees,
My much loved home, my native dwelling stands.
22
And all its inmates, save myself, at rest.
I see the little brook meandering there,
But do not hear its voice; the trembling light
Of the full moon falls on its shifting waves,
And is thrown back in flashes on my eye.
How sweet the stillness of this midnight hour!
It banishes the cares of busy life.
The Spirit of the Mightiest is abroad;—
It fills the boundless air, the spreading wood,
The wilds, the lonely deserts of the earth,
And all her populous realms.
In a few hours,
The rosy morn will break upon the hills,
And all these sleepers start to life again.
The gay to spend another day of mirth;
The housewife to her toil; the laboring man
To his accustomed task. The little birds
That perch in silence on these lofty trees,
Shall then break forth in songs, wild woodland songs,
Such as were chanted on the sixth day's morn
In Eden's bowers, to hail the birth of man.
And Summer's morning wind shall breathe again,
And toss the dew-drops from the forest leaves,
And all this solemn stillness be exchanged
For murmur and for motion.
The rosy morn will break upon the hills,
And all these sleepers start to life again.
The gay to spend another day of mirth;
The housewife to her toil; the laboring man
To his accustomed task. The little birds
That perch in silence on these lofty trees,
Shall then break forth in songs, wild woodland songs,
Such as were chanted on the sixth day's morn
In Eden's bowers, to hail the birth of man.
And Summer's morning wind shall breathe again,
And toss the dew-drops from the forest leaves,
And all this solemn stillness be exchanged
For murmur and for motion.
23
Standing here,
And looking on this varied scenery, spread
So beautiful around, I feel a power,
As of the Great Omnipotent upon me,
That calls my heart to worship; I will kneel,
Here by the side of this o'erhanging wood,
And like the patriarchs of ancient time,
Who worshipped on the mountains, offer up
Beneath heaven's mighty arch, my humble hymn
To the great Keeper of the sleeping world.
And looking on this varied scenery, spread
So beautiful around, I feel a power,
As of the Great Omnipotent upon me,
That calls my heart to worship; I will kneel,
Here by the side of this o'erhanging wood,
And like the patriarchs of ancient time,
Who worshipped on the mountains, offer up
Beneath heaven's mighty arch, my humble hymn
To the great Keeper of the sleeping world.
24
HYMN.
Almighty! Thou didst stretch abroad the heavens;
Thy hand planted their depths with stars, and set
The glorious sun eternal in the midst,
And gave them all their courses through the air.
Thy breath rolled the deep darkness from the face
Of the beginning; light and life of Thee
Were born, and still do emanate from Thee.
To all that is, Thou givest life, and shed'st
Thy glorious light on all. And Thou didst lay
Earth's deep and firm foundations; and didst spread
O'er all her breast health, beauty and deep joy.
Thy hand planted their depths with stars, and set
The glorious sun eternal in the midst,
And gave them all their courses through the air.
Thy breath rolled the deep darkness from the face
Of the beginning; light and life of Thee
Were born, and still do emanate from Thee.
To all that is, Thou givest life, and shed'st
Thy glorious light on all. And Thou didst lay
Earth's deep and firm foundations; and didst spread
O'er all her breast health, beauty and deep joy.
Thou didst uplift the morning; and the night
Calm, silent, is an ordinance of Thine.
Nothing is so minute, but speaks Thy power;
Each opening flower proclaims infinity,
And every stirring leaf, a God. This earth,
This mighty globe upon its centre turns,
And gives a glimpse of Thine eternal works,—
A narrow glimpse that shows superior worlds
As specks, and distant suns as points. How vast,
How beautiful, are all thy works, O God!
This silent hour of midnight speaks of Thee,
And nature's loveliness proclaims Thee near.
Stretched far around, the woody mountains lie,
Upheaved and motionless—banks of white mist
Rest sweetly in the moonlight o'er the vales,
And the calm river tells a peaceful tale
As it moves oceanward. The winds are not.
Heaven's wide blue arch is noiseless as the grave,
And peace, deep peace, is written on the scene.
Calm, silent, is an ordinance of Thine.
Nothing is so minute, but speaks Thy power;
Each opening flower proclaims infinity,
And every stirring leaf, a God. This earth,
This mighty globe upon its centre turns,
And gives a glimpse of Thine eternal works,—
A narrow glimpse that shows superior worlds
As specks, and distant suns as points. How vast,
How beautiful, are all thy works, O God!
This silent hour of midnight speaks of Thee,
And nature's loveliness proclaims Thee near.
25
Upheaved and motionless—banks of white mist
Rest sweetly in the moonlight o'er the vales,
And the calm river tells a peaceful tale
As it moves oceanward. The winds are not.
Heaven's wide blue arch is noiseless as the grave,
And peace, deep peace, is written on the scene.
The dead in yonder bank sleep quietly,
For thou, O God, dost keep them, and thine eye
Is ever on their dark and still abodes.
The oppressor and the oppressed are gathered there,
The rich and poor on the same level rest,
And friends and foes lie nerveless side by side:
The same green turf is on the breasts of all,
And the same dreamless sleep their common lot.
Ah! who can look upon the silent tombs
Where rest the generations past away,
And read not there the frailty of mankind;
Read that his life's a vapor, fading fast,
That honor and distinction are a name,
And pomp and riches but a fleeting shade.
Lo! man comes forth in glory! walks the earth,
Pride kindles in his eye, and joy and hope
And love sit mantling on his youthful cheek;
An hour glides by, and he is with the dead.
Thou in his mid career dost smite him down,
And lay his expectations in the dust.
Thy works, O Father, teach me that thou art!
Mute nature has a voice that tells of thee;
And may I learn a lesson from these graves,
And be this spot to me a Monitor
To warn me of my end, to guard my path,
And teach me so to keep my wayward heart,
That when the hour of my departure comes,
I bow my head and go to Thee in peace.
For thou, O God, dost keep them, and thine eye
Is ever on their dark and still abodes.
The oppressor and the oppressed are gathered there,
The rich and poor on the same level rest,
And friends and foes lie nerveless side by side:
The same green turf is on the breasts of all,
And the same dreamless sleep their common lot.
Ah! who can look upon the silent tombs
Where rest the generations past away,
And read not there the frailty of mankind;
Read that his life's a vapor, fading fast,
That honor and distinction are a name,
And pomp and riches but a fleeting shade.
Lo! man comes forth in glory! walks the earth,
Pride kindles in his eye, and joy and hope
And love sit mantling on his youthful cheek;
An hour glides by, and he is with the dead.
Thou in his mid career dost smite him down,
26
Thy works, O Father, teach me that thou art!
Mute nature has a voice that tells of thee;
And may I learn a lesson from these graves,
And be this spot to me a Monitor
To warn me of my end, to guard my path,
And teach me so to keep my wayward heart,
That when the hour of my departure comes,
I bow my head and go to Thee in peace.
27
THE BLUEBIRD.
There is a lovely little bird, that comes
When the first wild flowers open in the glen,
And sings all summer in the leafy wood.
First, in the opening spring, his mellow voice
Swells from the shrubbery by our dwelling side;
But when the robin and the swallow come,
He hies him from their presence to the depth
Of some old mossy forest, where he sings
Sweet songs, to cheer us all the summer long.
When the first wild flowers open in the glen,
And sings all summer in the leafy wood.
First, in the opening spring, his mellow voice
Swells from the shrubbery by our dwelling side;
But when the robin and the swallow come,
He hies him from their presence to the depth
Of some old mossy forest, where he sings
Sweet songs, to cheer us all the summer long.
This is the bluebird, loveliest of our clime:
No song that haunts the woodland charms like his—
Sweetest, far sweetest, is his voice to me,
At the soft hour of twilight, when the world
Has hushed her din of voices, and her sons
Are gathering to their slumbers from their toil,
As all are gathered to the grave at last.
I sit whole hours upon a moss-grown stone,
In some sequestered spot, and hear his lay,
Unmindful of the things that near me pass,
Till all at once, as the dim shades of night
Fall thicker on the lessening landscape round,
He ceases, and my reverie is broke.
No song that haunts the woodland charms like his—
Sweetest, far sweetest, is his voice to me,
At the soft hour of twilight, when the world
Has hushed her din of voices, and her sons
Are gathering to their slumbers from their toil,
As all are gathered to the grave at last.
I sit whole hours upon a moss-grown stone,
In some sequestered spot, and hear his lay,
Unmindful of the things that near me pass,
Till all at once, as the dim shades of night
Fall thicker on the lessening landscape round,
He ceases, and my reverie is broke.
One summer eve, at twilight's quiet hour,
After a sultry day spent at my books,
I slipped forth from my study, to enjoy
The cool of evening. Leaning on my arm
Was one I loved, a girl of gentle mould:
She had sweet eyes, and lips the haunt of smiles,
And long dark locks, that hung in native curls
Around her snowy bosom. The light wind
Tossed them aside, to kiss her lily neck,
Gently, as he were conscious what he touched.
Her step was light, light as the breeze that fanned
Her blushing cheek; gay was her heart, for youth
And innocence are ever gay; her form
Was stately as an angel's, and her brow
White as the mountain snow; her voice was sweet,
Sweet as the chiding of the brook that plays
Along its pebbly channel. Ruddy clouds
Were gathered east and south, high piled and seemed
Like ruby temples in a sapphire sky.
The west was bright with daylight still: no moon,
No stars were seen, save the bright star of love,
That sailed alone in heaven. 'Twas in this walk
We heard the bluebird in a leafy wood
Near to the wayside, and we sat us down
Upon a mossy bank, to list awhile
To that sweet song. Peaceful before us lay
Woodlands, and orchards white with vernal bloom,
And flowering shrubs encircling happy homes,
And broad green meads with wild flowers sprinkled o'er:
The scent of these came on the gentle wind,
Sweet as the spicy breath of Araby.
The smoke above the clustering roofs curled blue
On the still air; the shout of running streams
Came from a leafy thicket by our side;
And that lone bluebird in the wood above,
Singing his evening hymn, perfected all.
The hour, the season, sounds, and scenery,
Mingling like these, and sweetly pleasing all,
Made the full heart o'erflow. That maiden wept—
Even at the sweetness of that song she wept.
How sweet the tears shed by such eyes for joy!
28
I slipped forth from my study, to enjoy
The cool of evening. Leaning on my arm
Was one I loved, a girl of gentle mould:
She had sweet eyes, and lips the haunt of smiles,
And long dark locks, that hung in native curls
Around her snowy bosom. The light wind
Tossed them aside, to kiss her lily neck,
Gently, as he were conscious what he touched.
Her step was light, light as the breeze that fanned
Her blushing cheek; gay was her heart, for youth
And innocence are ever gay; her form
Was stately as an angel's, and her brow
White as the mountain snow; her voice was sweet,
Sweet as the chiding of the brook that plays
Along its pebbly channel. Ruddy clouds
Were gathered east and south, high piled and seemed
Like ruby temples in a sapphire sky.
The west was bright with daylight still: no moon,
No stars were seen, save the bright star of love,
That sailed alone in heaven. 'Twas in this walk
We heard the bluebird in a leafy wood
Near to the wayside, and we sat us down
Upon a mossy bank, to list awhile
To that sweet song. Peaceful before us lay
Woodlands, and orchards white with vernal bloom,
29
And broad green meads with wild flowers sprinkled o'er:
The scent of these came on the gentle wind,
Sweet as the spicy breath of Araby.
The smoke above the clustering roofs curled blue
On the still air; the shout of running streams
Came from a leafy thicket by our side;
And that lone bluebird in the wood above,
Singing his evening hymn, perfected all.
The hour, the season, sounds, and scenery,
Mingling like these, and sweetly pleasing all,
Made the full heart o'erflow. That maiden wept—
Even at the sweetness of that song she wept.
How sweet the tears shed by such eyes for joy!
30
THE EMIGRANT.
My native hills! far, far away,
Your tops in living green are bright;
And meadow, glade, and forest gray,
Bask in the long, long summer light;
And blossoms still are gaily set
By shaded fount and rivulet.
Your tops in living green are bright;
And meadow, glade, and forest gray,
Bask in the long, long summer light;
And blossoms still are gaily set
By shaded fount and rivulet.
Oh, that these feet again might tread
The slopes around my native home,
With grass and mingled blossoms spread;
Where cool the western breezes come;
To fan the fainting traveller's brow—
Alas! I almost feel them now.
The slopes around my native home,
With grass and mingled blossoms spread;
Where cool the western breezes come;
To fan the fainting traveller's brow—
Alas! I almost feel them now.
Would that my eyes again might see
Those planted fields and forests deep—
The tall grass waving like a sea—
The white flocks scattered o'er the steep—
The dashing brooks—and o'er them high
The clear vault of my native sky.
Those planted fields and forests deep—
The tall grass waving like a sea—
The white flocks scattered o'er the steep—
The dashing brooks—and o'er them high
The clear vault of my native sky.
31
Fair are the scenes that round me lie;
Bright shines the great earth-gladdening sun,
And sweetly crimsoned is the sky
At twilight, when the day is done;
And the same stars look down at even
That glittered in my native heaven.
Bright shines the great earth-gladdening sun,
And sweetly crimsoned is the sky
At twilight, when the day is done;
And the same stars look down at even
That glittered in my native heaven.
On wide savannahs, round me spread,
A thousand blossoms meet mine eye;
The red rose meekly bows its head,
As balmy winds go sweeping by;
And wild deer on the green bluffs play,
That rise in dimness far away.
A thousand blossoms meet mine eye;
The red rose meekly bows its head,
As balmy winds go sweeping by;
And wild deer on the green bluffs play,
That rise in dimness far away.
Majestic are these streams, that glide
O'ershadowed by continuous wood,
Save where the long glade opens wide,
Where erst the Indian hamlet stood;
But sweeter streams, with sweeter song,
In home's green valley dance along.
O'ershadowed by continuous wood,
Save where the long glade opens wide,
Where erst the Indian hamlet stood;
But sweeter streams, with sweeter song,
In home's green valley dance along.
And there, when summer's heaven is clear,
Sweet voices echo through the air;
For children's feet press softly near,
And joyous hearts are beating there;
While I, afar from home and rest,
Thread the vast rivers of the west.
Sweet voices echo through the air;
For children's feet press softly near,
And joyous hearts are beating there;
While I, afar from home and rest,
Thread the vast rivers of the west.
32
Oft, in my dreams, before me rise
Fair visions of those scenes so dear—
The cottage home, the vale, the skies,
And rippling murmurs greet mine ear,
Like sound of unseen brook, that falls
Through the long mine's unlighted halls.
Fair visions of those scenes so dear—
The cottage home, the vale, the skies,
And rippling murmurs greet mine ear,
Like sound of unseen brook, that falls
Through the long mine's unlighted halls.
As down the deep Ohio's stream
We glide before the whispering wind,
Though all is lovely as a dream,
My wandering thoughts still turn behind—
Turn to the loved, the blessed shore,
Where dwell the friends I meet no more.
We glide before the whispering wind,
Though all is lovely as a dream,
My wandering thoughts still turn behind—
Turn to the loved, the blessed shore,
Where dwell the friends I meet no more.
But were there here one heart to bless,
That beat in unison with mine—
One voice to cheer my loneliness,
(And that, my Laura, sure were thine)—
My thoughts should hardly turn again
To home's green hills and shady glen.
That beat in unison with mine—
One voice to cheer my loneliness,
(And that, my Laura, sure were thine)—
My thoughts should hardly turn again
To home's green hills and shady glen.
33
INDIAN SUMMER.
That soft autumnal time
Is gone, that sheds upon the naked scene
Charms only known in this our northern clime,
Bright seasons far between.
Is gone, that sheds upon the naked scene
Charms only known in this our northern clime,
Bright seasons far between.
The woodland foliage now
Is gathered by the wild November blast;
Even the thick leaves upon the oaken bough,
Are fallen, to the last.
Is gathered by the wild November blast;
Even the thick leaves upon the oaken bough,
Are fallen, to the last.
The mighty vines that round
The forest trunks their slender branches bind,
Their crimson foliage shaken to the ground,
Swing naked to the wind.
The forest trunks their slender branches bind,
Their crimson foliage shaken to the ground,
Swing naked to the wind.
Some living green remains,
By the clear brook that shines along the lawn,
But the sear grass stands white o'er all the plains,
And the bright flowers are gone.
By the clear brook that shines along the lawn,
But the sear grass stands white o'er all the plains,
And the bright flowers are gone.
But these, these are thy charms—
Mild airs, and tempered light upon the lea,
And the year holds no time within his arms,
That doth resemble thee.
Mild airs, and tempered light upon the lea,
And the year holds no time within his arms,
That doth resemble thee.
34
The sunny noon is thine,
Soft, golden, noiseless as the dead of night,
And hues that in the flushed horizon shine,
At eve and early light.
Soft, golden, noiseless as the dead of night,
And hues that in the flushed horizon shine,
At eve and early light.
The year's last, loveliest smile,
Thou com'st to fill with hope the human heart,
And strengthen it to bear the storms awhile,
Till winter's frowns depart.
Thou com'st to fill with hope the human heart,
And strengthen it to bear the storms awhile,
Till winter's frowns depart.
O'er the wide plains that lie
A desolate scene, the fires of autumn spread,
And on the blue walls of the starry sky,
A strange wild glimmer shed.
A desolate scene, the fires of autumn spread,
And on the blue walls of the starry sky,
A strange wild glimmer shed.
Far in a sheltered nook,
I've met, in these calm days, a smiling flower,
A lonely aster, trembling by a brook,
At noon's warm quiet hour.
I've met, in these calm days, a smiling flower,
A lonely aster, trembling by a brook,
At noon's warm quiet hour.
And something told my mind
That should old age to childhood call me back,
Some sunny days and flowers I still might find
Along life's weary track.
That should old age to childhood call me back,
Some sunny days and flowers I still might find
Along life's weary track.
35
THE NEW ENGLAND PILGRIM'S FUNERAL.
It was a wintry scene;
The hills were whitened o'er,
And the chill north wind was blowing keen
Along the rocky shore.
The hills were whitened o'er,
And the chill north wind was blowing keen
Along the rocky shore.
Gone was the wild bird's lay,
That the summer forest fills;
And the voice of the stream had passed away
From its course among the hills.
That the summer forest fills;
And the voice of the stream had passed away
From its course among the hills.
And the low sun coldly smiled
Through the boughs of the ancient wood,
When a hundred souls, sire, wife and child,
Around a coffin stood.
Through the boughs of the ancient wood,
When a hundred souls, sire, wife and child,
Around a coffin stood.
And they raised it gently up,
And through the untrodden snow
They bore it away, with a solemn step,
To a woody vale below.
And through the untrodden snow
They bore it away, with a solemn step,
To a woody vale below.
And grief was in each eye,
As they moved toward the spot;
And brief low speech, and tear, and sigh,
Told that a friend was not.
As they moved toward the spot;
And brief low speech, and tear, and sigh,
Told that a friend was not.
36
As they laid his cold corpse low,
In the dark and narrow cell;
Heavy the mingled earth and snow
Upon his coffin fell.
In the dark and narrow cell;
Heavy the mingled earth and snow
Upon his coffin fell.
Weeping they passed away
And left him there alone,
With no mark to tell where the dead friend lay,
But the mossy forest stone.
And left him there alone,
With no mark to tell where the dead friend lay,
But the mossy forest stone.
When the winter storms were gone,
And the strange birds sang around,
Green grass and violets sprung upon
That spot of holy ground.
And the strange birds sang around,
Green grass and violets sprung upon
That spot of holy ground.
And o'er him ancient trees
Their branches waved on high,
And rustled music in the breeze
That wandered through the sky.
Their branches waved on high,
And rustled music in the breeze
That wandered through the sky.
When these were overspread
With the hues that autumn gave,
They bowed them to the wind, and shed
Their leaves upon his grave.
With the hues that autumn gave,
They bowed them to the wind, and shed
Their leaves upon his grave.
And centuries are flown,
Since they laid his relics low;
And his bones were mouldered to dust, and strown
To the breezes long ago.
Since they laid his relics low;
And his bones were mouldered to dust, and strown
To the breezes long ago.
37
Those woods are perished now,
And that humble grave forgot;
And the yeoman sings as he drives his plough
O'er that once sacred spot.
And that humble grave forgot;
And the yeoman sings as he drives his plough
O'er that once sacred spot.
And they who laid him there—
That sad and suffering train,
Now sleep in death—to tell us where
No lettered stones remain.
That sad and suffering train,
Now sleep in death—to tell us where
No lettered stones remain.
Their memory remains,
And ever shall remain,
While years consume the aged fanes
Of Egypt's storied plain.
And ever shall remain,
While years consume the aged fanes
Of Egypt's storied plain.
38
SONNET.
'Tis Autumn, and my steps have led me farTo a wild hill, that overlooks a land
Wide-spread and beautiful. A single star
Sparkles new-set in heaven. O'er its bright sand
The streamlet slides with mellow tones away;
The West is crimson with retiring day,
And the North gleams with its own native light.
Below, in autumn green, the meadows lie,
And through green banks the river wanders by,
And the wide woods with autumn hues are bright:
Bright—but of fading brightness!—soon is past
That dream-like glory of the painted wood;
And pitiless decay o'ertakes, as fast,
The pride of men, the beauteous, great, and good.
39
SONNET.
There is a magic in the moon's mild ray,—What time she softly climbs the evening sky,
And sitteth with the silent stars on high,—
That charms the pang of earth-born grief away.
I raise my eye to the blue depths above,
And worship Him whose power, pervading space,
Holds those bright orbs at peace in his embrace,
Yet comprehends earth's lowliest things in love.
Oft, when that silent moon was sailing high,
I 've left my youthful sports to gaze; and now,
When time with graver lines has mark'd my brow,
Sweetly she shines upon my sober'd eye.
O, may the light of truth, my steps to guide,
Shine on my eve of life—shine soft, and long abide.
40
LAMENT OF THE CORSAIR'S WIFE.
'Twas morning over Cuba's hills, and from her woods was heard,
And from the leafy copses nigh, the song of many a bird;
The mountain tops with crimson light were blushing all around,
And the early dew was glistening o'er all the blooming ground.
Wild colts were sporting on the plains in freedom, unconfined,
And melody from mountain brooks came on the scented wind;
The winds that kissed the lovely scene and spread its fragrance wide,
Showed the white lining of the leaves along the forest side.
There, as I cheered my plodding mule along the rugged way,
Sung at a shaded cottage door, I heard this tender lay:
“Come back, thou partner of my youth; come back again to me,—
Why hast thou left thy cottage side to roam the trackless sea?
The ruddy light that shines at morn, and fills my leafy bower,
And comes with crimson hues again at twilight's quiet hour,
Is sweeter to my fading eye than all the shining store
That thou canst bring from ocean ships to glisten on the shore.
Thou didst not talk of cruel war when first I met thy look,
Where woven boughs hang darkly o'er my childhood's merry brook;
And when our nuptial vow was made, I did not dream of this,
For thou didst tell of many years of innocence and bliss
Spent lovingly within our bower of olive and of palm,
Where the green slope looks down upon the ocean's glassy calm.
Thy laughing boy, who played and smiled, and prattled on thy knee,
Leaves the young spaniel by the door, and comes and talks of thee.
O, come from roaming on the main, thy glad return I'll greet,
And our young boy shall bound away thy coming steps to meet.
The smile that lights his clear dark eye and dimples in his face,
Shall tell thee with how glad a heart he gives his still embrace;
And he shall climb thy knee again to listen to thy voice,
And its remembered tones shall make his little heart rejoice.
O, didst thou know the grief I feel, and my heart's loneliness,
How soon would thy returning steps my humble cottage bless.
Hours pass, and days, and weary months, and years glide slowly by:
I gaze, but still thy coming form meets not my longing eye.
But still I know that thou wilt come, and joy shall bless the hour
In which thy well-known footsteps press the green turf of my bower;
If cheerful smiles have left thy cheek amid the throng of men,
To see thy home, and lovely boy, shall call them back again.”
And from the leafy copses nigh, the song of many a bird;
The mountain tops with crimson light were blushing all around,
And the early dew was glistening o'er all the blooming ground.
Wild colts were sporting on the plains in freedom, unconfined,
And melody from mountain brooks came on the scented wind;
The winds that kissed the lovely scene and spread its fragrance wide,
Showed the white lining of the leaves along the forest side.
There, as I cheered my plodding mule along the rugged way,
Sung at a shaded cottage door, I heard this tender lay:
“Come back, thou partner of my youth; come back again to me,—
Why hast thou left thy cottage side to roam the trackless sea?
41
And comes with crimson hues again at twilight's quiet hour,
Is sweeter to my fading eye than all the shining store
That thou canst bring from ocean ships to glisten on the shore.
Thou didst not talk of cruel war when first I met thy look,
Where woven boughs hang darkly o'er my childhood's merry brook;
And when our nuptial vow was made, I did not dream of this,
For thou didst tell of many years of innocence and bliss
Spent lovingly within our bower of olive and of palm,
Where the green slope looks down upon the ocean's glassy calm.
Thy laughing boy, who played and smiled, and prattled on thy knee,
Leaves the young spaniel by the door, and comes and talks of thee.
O, come from roaming on the main, thy glad return I'll greet,
42
The smile that lights his clear dark eye and dimples in his face,
Shall tell thee with how glad a heart he gives his still embrace;
And he shall climb thy knee again to listen to thy voice,
And its remembered tones shall make his little heart rejoice.
O, didst thou know the grief I feel, and my heart's loneliness,
How soon would thy returning steps my humble cottage bless.
Hours pass, and days, and weary months, and years glide slowly by:
I gaze, but still thy coming form meets not my longing eye.
But still I know that thou wilt come, and joy shall bless the hour
In which thy well-known footsteps press the green turf of my bower;
If cheerful smiles have left thy cheek amid the throng of men,
To see thy home, and lovely boy, shall call them back again.”
43
SONNET TO ---
Bold champion of the poor, a thorny roadBefore thee lies: for thou hast bared thy breast
And nerved thine arm to lift the heavy load,
And break the chains from limbs too long oppressed.
Tyrants and custom's dupes shall strive in vain;
Truth wields a weapon mightier far than they:
Huge bolts and gates of brass are rent in twain,
Touched by the magic of her gentle sway.
Hold then thy course, “nor bate one jot” of hope,
Lo! the day dawns along our eastern shore;
Soon shall the night of prejudice be o'er,
And a bright morning give thee freer scope
To rouse thy countrymen to deeds of good,
And just and equal laws shall save the land from blood.
44
SONG OF THE CHAMOIS HUNTERS.
I.
Our home is on the mountains,Where the pure winds ever flow,
Where torrents, bursting from the rocks,
Haste to the vales below.
We climb the high and rugged cliff
Before the blush of dawn,
And thread the path along the dells,
Where hides the chamois fawn.
All day we toil, till daylight fades
Along the ruddy west,
And then we light our watchfires,
Above the eagle's nest.
II.
O! 'tis a fearful pleasureOn dizzy heights to stand;
To tread the long and narrow pass,
Scarce broader than your hand;
To hang upon the bare rock's side,
Wide rolling woods below,
Where in their beds the rushing streams
Are hardly heard to flow.
45
And, with a wild delight,
We leap the frightful chasm,
Whose depths are black as night.
III.
And terrible the tempestThat comes at midnight there,
When lightnings fire the tossing clouds
And all the upper air;
And awful is the thunder's voice,
When falls the knotted oak,
And rocks upon the icy peaks
Are shivered by the stroke.
The blood runs chill as onward sweep
The tempest and the flood,
And the whirlwind strong and mighty,
Uproots the ancient wood.
IV.
How glorious is the morningThat gilds the mountain's breast,
When stillness wraps the crimson sky,
And earth is all at rest;
46
The mists in white waves sleep,
Far stretching to the gazer's eye
An ocean wide and deep:
And passing lovely is the hour
That brings the close of day,
When hues of living splendor
Grow soft and fade away.
V.
Sweet, sweet is our returningWhen the hunting days are done,
When down we haste from cliff to cliff,
With the spoil our hands have won;
We spy our cottage in the vale,
Where peace and gladness are,
Our children cheer us on the rocks,
And beckon from afar;
Their bosoms thrill with wild delight
As down the steep we come,
And joyful is the meeting
When we are safe at home.
VI.
O! idle were a beingWithin the city's walls,
47
Who pray in gilded halls;
The earth's wild liberty is ours,
Where'er the winds may blow,
These vales so quiet and so green,
These mountains clad with snow;
Our temple is the wide blue sky,
Our anthems are the deep
And solemn voice of night winds
That through the forests sweep.
48
WINTER.
The day had been a calm and sunny day,
And tinged with amber was the sky at even;
The fleecy clouds at length had rolled away,
And lay in furrows on the eastern heaven;—
The moon arose, and shed a glimmering ray,
And round her orb a misty circle lay.
And tinged with amber was the sky at even;
The fleecy clouds at length had rolled away,
And lay in furrows on the eastern heaven;—
The moon arose, and shed a glimmering ray,
And round her orb a misty circle lay.
The hoar-frost glittered on the naked heath,
The roar of distant winds was loud and deep,
The dry leaves rustled in each passing breath
And the gay world was lost in quiet sleep.
Such was the time when, on the landscape brown,
Through a December air the snows came down.
The roar of distant winds was loud and deep,
The dry leaves rustled in each passing breath
And the gay world was lost in quiet sleep.
Such was the time when, on the landscape brown,
Through a December air the snows came down.
The morning came, the dreary morn at last,
And showed the whitened waste. The shivering herd
Lowed on the hoary meadow-ground, and fast
Fell the light flakes upon the earth unstirred;
The forest firs with glittering snows o'erlaid,
Stood like hoar priests in robes of white arrayed.
And showed the whitened waste. The shivering herd
Lowed on the hoary meadow-ground, and fast
Fell the light flakes upon the earth unstirred;
The forest firs with glittering snows o'erlaid,
Stood like hoar priests in robes of white arrayed.
49
I look forth from my lattice. The wide air
Is filled with falling flakes;—around, the scene
Lies in unvaired whiteness—all, save where
The autumn grain peeps out with living green,
Or save the dry leaves from the forest cast,
And withered flower-stalks trembling in the blast.
Is filled with falling flakes;—around, the scene
Lies in unvaired whiteness—all, save where
The autumn grain peeps out with living green,
Or save the dry leaves from the forest cast,
And withered flower-stalks trembling in the blast.
O, Winter! thou art welcome; thou to me
Art a bestower of joy and guiltless mirth;—
Thou bringest many an eve of social glee
When dear friends gather round the blazing hearth,
And childhood's merry laugh, and youth's glad smile,
The lingering hours of many a day beguile.
Art a bestower of joy and guiltless mirth;—
Thou bringest many an eve of social glee
When dear friends gather round the blazing hearth,
And childhood's merry laugh, and youth's glad smile,
The lingering hours of many a day beguile.
The blast that sweeps the upland, the deep sigh
Sent through the rocking forest, and the frown
Of struggling tempests that o'erveil the sky
In gloomy darkness when the snows come down,
Have all a voice for me, which reaches deep
Where the strong passions of my bosom sleep.
Sent through the rocking forest, and the frown
Of struggling tempests that o'erveil the sky
In gloomy darkness when the snows come down,
Have all a voice for me, which reaches deep
Where the strong passions of my bosom sleep.
Oh, many an eve on wild New England's hills,
When the full moon shone on the glittering snow,
When the keen frosts had chained the mountain rills,
And the deep streams no more were heard to flow,
Have I been forth with school-mates at my play,
And frolicked many a joyous hour away.
When the full moon shone on the glittering snow,
When the keen frosts had chained the mountain rills,
And the deep streams no more were heard to flow,
Have I been forth with school-mates at my play,
And frolicked many a joyous hour away.
50
Ah! those were glorious seasons. Then the hours
On silent, silken pinions sped away;
My feet trod lightly on life's morning flowers;
My voice was with my young heart ever gay.
No sorrow then had stained my cheek with tears,
But joy and sunshine filled the gliding years.
On silent, silken pinions sped away;
My feet trod lightly on life's morning flowers;
My voice was with my young heart ever gay.
No sorrow then had stained my cheek with tears,
But joy and sunshine filled the gliding years.
Sweet are those recollections of the past;
And with deep pleasure back to mind I bring
The golden dreams of boyhood's scenes, that cast
Hues of romance o'er life's resplendent spring;
For as I summon up the vanished train,
Half do I live those seasons o'er again.
And with deep pleasure back to mind I bring
The golden dreams of boyhood's scenes, that cast
Hues of romance o'er life's resplendent spring;
For as I summon up the vanished train,
Half do I live those seasons o'er again.
And still the hours of winter evening come
With a glad welcoming, though fast they fly;
Not the gay Spring, with all its light and bloom,
Nor Summer's fruits, nor Autumn's golden sky,
Nor woods of many hues, a princely show,
Can thrill my bosom with a warmer glow.
With a glad welcoming, though fast they fly;
Not the gay Spring, with all its light and bloom,
Nor Summer's fruits, nor Autumn's golden sky,
Nor woods of many hues, a princely show,
Can thrill my bosom with a warmer glow.
Then come, ye biting frosts, and let the roar
Of the wild winds resound through wood and glen,
And mountain waves o'erleap the rocky shore,
And storms come down and darkness brood again;
O'er the wide waste bring all your train along,
And thrill my bosom with your mighty song.
Of the wild winds resound through wood and glen,
And mountain waves o'erleap the rocky shore,
And storms come down and darkness brood again;
O'er the wide waste bring all your train along,
And thrill my bosom with your mighty song.
51
THE BROOK WALK.
My son! now thou has reached thy thirteenth year;
Thy childhood's yellow hair upon thy brow
Is darkening with thy growth, and thy young mind
Has gained maturity for sober thought,
Thy foot a firmness for so long a toil.
Come walk with me among the winding hills,
And trace this mountain river far away.
Bright is the day, the crystal heaven looks glad,
And autumn rests upon the colored woods
In deep and silent glory. As thou goest,
Let thy young mind be open to receive
Instruction from the fair and ample book
Of nature. Let thine eye be quick to scan
Her rich and varied beauty, that thy heart
May get a goodly lesson of deep truth
That shall be with thee till thy life shall end;
And that thy hoary hairs, if thou should'st tread
The cold, dull ways of age, may be a crown
Of glory on thy head. Through this sere mead
The unshaded stream runs glimmering in the sun
Without a flower to grace its winding brink,
Save the blue aster. Short the season since
These banks were thick with violets, the tall grass
Waved in the summer wind; the robin sung
His love-song in the shrubby dells around,
And brooding ground-bird from her nest uprose.
Now all is changed! but 'tis a pleasant thing,
When nature round is fading into age,
That some bright tokens of her youth remain;
It seems a strife betwixt the delicate flowers,
And frosts and tempests of the wintry year.
Thy childhood's yellow hair upon thy brow
Is darkening with thy growth, and thy young mind
Has gained maturity for sober thought,
Thy foot a firmness for so long a toil.
Come walk with me among the winding hills,
And trace this mountain river far away.
Bright is the day, the crystal heaven looks glad,
And autumn rests upon the colored woods
In deep and silent glory. As thou goest,
Let thy young mind be open to receive
Instruction from the fair and ample book
Of nature. Let thine eye be quick to scan
Her rich and varied beauty, that thy heart
May get a goodly lesson of deep truth
That shall be with thee till thy life shall end;
And that thy hoary hairs, if thou should'st tread
The cold, dull ways of age, may be a crown
Of glory on thy head. Through this sere mead
The unshaded stream runs glimmering in the sun
Without a flower to grace its winding brink,
Save the blue aster. Short the season since
52
Waved in the summer wind; the robin sung
His love-song in the shrubby dells around,
And brooding ground-bird from her nest uprose.
Now all is changed! but 'tis a pleasant thing,
When nature round is fading into age,
That some bright tokens of her youth remain;
It seems a strife betwixt the delicate flowers,
And frosts and tempests of the wintry year.
The stooping forest now invites our steps;
We enter where between two jutting rocks
The river breaks into the open glade.
How changed from summer's deep and massy shade
So grateful in its time! Not less so now
The tempered light that sleeps on all the ground.
The shadows of the trees are motionless;
The fallen leaves stir not; and those which fall
With a faint rustle, whirling meet the ground.
How innocent is Nature! Her wide realms
Are passionless and pure. No battle steed
Tramps o'er these wood-paths; here no warrior armed
With glistening steel and glancing plume is seen;
No petty strife 'twixt man and man are heard;
But all is peace and innocence and love.
The quiet flocks and herds around us graze,
And the wild dwellers of the forest keep
Each in the sphere that God designed for him;
Therefore, when thou art weary of thy toil,
Or if the wrongs of men in after years
Upon thy head weigh heavily, and bow
Thy spirit, come to these pure, quiet shades,
And peace shall come to thee, and bless thy heart.
And in the bosom of the lonely vale,
Where busy life intrudes not, thou mayest learn
A deep philosophy, and gather there
The spirit of a calm divinity,
Purer and holier than e'er was taught
In cloistered cell.
We enter where between two jutting rocks
The river breaks into the open glade.
How changed from summer's deep and massy shade
So grateful in its time! Not less so now
The tempered light that sleeps on all the ground.
The shadows of the trees are motionless;
The fallen leaves stir not; and those which fall
With a faint rustle, whirling meet the ground.
How innocent is Nature! Her wide realms
Are passionless and pure. No battle steed
Tramps o'er these wood-paths; here no warrior armed
With glistening steel and glancing plume is seen;
No petty strife 'twixt man and man are heard;
But all is peace and innocence and love.
The quiet flocks and herds around us graze,
53
Each in the sphere that God designed for him;
Therefore, when thou art weary of thy toil,
Or if the wrongs of men in after years
Upon thy head weigh heavily, and bow
Thy spirit, come to these pure, quiet shades,
And peace shall come to thee, and bless thy heart.
And in the bosom of the lonely vale,
Where busy life intrudes not, thou mayest learn
A deep philosophy, and gather there
The spirit of a calm divinity,
Purer and holier than e'er was taught
In cloistered cell.
Trace back the thread of time
In thine imagination; trace it back
Even to the far beginning, when the earth
Rose out of chaos, and the hills grew green,
And forests budded in the blue sky first,
And Adam's sons went forth by hill and stream
And peopled the fair bosom of the earth.
Up the dim aisles of the departed years,
A solemn voice shall come bearing the tales
Of the past generations—tales of war,
And death, and love, and pleasure's giddy dance.
Perhaps this sloping mount, with broken rocks
All scattered o'er, where, in his mossy robe,
Sits old Decay, hoary with lapse of years,
Was once the site of a forgotten town;—
Where, in high halls, the merry dance went round,
And lovers sighed; and gathered there the band
Led forth by chiefs to battle. Perished now
Is all. The walls are fallen; the busy streets
Send forth glad sounds no more;—the palaces
Are crumbled, and the forms that dwelt among
The massy piles are gone; and 'mid the waste
Upshoot the mighty giants of the wood,
And all rests in the silence and the peace
Of sinless nature. Eloquent is all
The region round. The voices of the dead
Break with a deeper cadence on the ear
Amid the desolation of the scene.
Tread softly o'er the mould, for kindred dust
Here sleeps the sleep of ages. Stir it not;
Nor with irreverent footsteps dare profane
The earth where vanished generations rest.
In thine imagination; trace it back
Even to the far beginning, when the earth
Rose out of chaos, and the hills grew green,
And forests budded in the blue sky first,
And Adam's sons went forth by hill and stream
And peopled the fair bosom of the earth.
Up the dim aisles of the departed years,
A solemn voice shall come bearing the tales
Of the past generations—tales of war,
And death, and love, and pleasure's giddy dance.
Perhaps this sloping mount, with broken rocks
54
Sits old Decay, hoary with lapse of years,
Was once the site of a forgotten town;—
Where, in high halls, the merry dance went round,
And lovers sighed; and gathered there the band
Led forth by chiefs to battle. Perished now
Is all. The walls are fallen; the busy streets
Send forth glad sounds no more;—the palaces
Are crumbled, and the forms that dwelt among
The massy piles are gone; and 'mid the waste
Upshoot the mighty giants of the wood,
And all rests in the silence and the peace
Of sinless nature. Eloquent is all
The region round. The voices of the dead
Break with a deeper cadence on the ear
Amid the desolation of the scene.
Tread softly o'er the mould, for kindred dust
Here sleeps the sleep of ages. Stir it not;
Nor with irreverent footsteps dare profane
The earth where vanished generations rest.
Here tread aside where this descending brook
Pays a scant tribute to the mightier stream,
And all the summer long on silver feet
Glides lightly o'er the pebbles, sending out
A mellow murmur on the quiet air.
Just up the narrow glen in yonder glade,
Set like a nest amid embowering trees,
Lived, in my early days, an humble pair,
A mother and her daughter. She, the dame,
Had well nigh seen her threescore years and ten;
Her step was tremulous; slight was her frame,
And bowed with time and toil; the lines of care
Worn deep upon her brow. At shut of day
I've met her by the skirt of this old wood
Alone, and faintly murmuring to herself
Haply the history of her better days.
I knew that history once from youth to age;
It was a sad one. He who wedded her
Had wronged her love, and thick the darts of death
Had fallen among her children and her friends.
One solace for her age remained—a fair
And gentle daughter, with blue, pensive eyes,
And cheeks like summer roses. Her sweet songs
Rang like the thrush's warble in these woods,
And up the rocky dells. At noon and eve,
Her walk was o'er the hills, and by the founts
Of the deep forest. Oft she gathered flowers
In lone and desolate places, where the foot
Of other wanderers but seldom trod.
Once in my boyhood, when my truant steps
Had led me forth among the pleasant hills,
I met her in a shaded path that winds
Far through the spreading groves. The sun was low;
The shadow of the hills stretched o'er the vale,
And the still waters of the river lay
Black in the shade of twilight. As we met,
She stoop'd and pressed her friendly lips to mine;
And though I then was but a simple child,
Who ne'er had dreamed of love, or known its power,
I wondered at her beauty. Soon a sound
Of thunder, muttering low along the west,
Foretold a coming storm. My homeward path
Lay through the woods tangled with overgrowth.
A timid urchin then, I feared to go,
Which she observing, kindly led the way,
And left me when my dwelling was in sight.
I hastened on; but ere I reached the gate,
The rain fell fast, and the drenched fields around
Were glittering in the lightning's frequent flash.
But where was now Eliza? When the morn
Blushed on the summer hills, they found her dead
Beneath an oak rent by the thunderbolt.
Thick lay the splinters round, and one sharp shaft
Had pierced her snow white brow. And here she lies,
Where the green hill slopes towards the southern sky.
'Tis thirty summers since they laid her here;
The cottage where she dwelt is razed and gone;
Her kindred all are perished from the earth;
And this rude stone, which simply bears her name,
Is mouldering fast: and soon this quiet spot,
Held sacred now, will be like common ground.
Fit place is this for so much loveliness
To find its rest. It is a hallowed shrine
Where nature pays her tribute. Dewy spring
Sets the gay wild flowers thick around her grave;
The green boughs o'er her in the summer time
Sigh to the winds: the robin takes his perch
Hard by, and warbles to his sitting mate;
The brier-rose blossoms to the skies of June,
And hangs above her in the winter time
Its scarlet fruit. No rude foot ventures near;
The noisy school-boy keeps aloof; and he
Who hunts the fox when all the hills are white,
Here treads aside. Not seldom have I found
Around this headstone carefully entwined,
Garlands of flowers, I never knew by whom.
For two years past, I've missed them; doubtless one
Who held this dust most precious placed them there,
And sorrowing in secret many a year,
At last hath left the earth to be with her.
Pays a scant tribute to the mightier stream,
And all the summer long on silver feet
Glides lightly o'er the pebbles, sending out
A mellow murmur on the quiet air.
Just up the narrow glen in yonder glade,
55
Lived, in my early days, an humble pair,
A mother and her daughter. She, the dame,
Had well nigh seen her threescore years and ten;
Her step was tremulous; slight was her frame,
And bowed with time and toil; the lines of care
Worn deep upon her brow. At shut of day
I've met her by the skirt of this old wood
Alone, and faintly murmuring to herself
Haply the history of her better days.
I knew that history once from youth to age;
It was a sad one. He who wedded her
Had wronged her love, and thick the darts of death
Had fallen among her children and her friends.
One solace for her age remained—a fair
And gentle daughter, with blue, pensive eyes,
And cheeks like summer roses. Her sweet songs
Rang like the thrush's warble in these woods,
And up the rocky dells. At noon and eve,
Her walk was o'er the hills, and by the founts
Of the deep forest. Oft she gathered flowers
In lone and desolate places, where the foot
Of other wanderers but seldom trod.
Once in my boyhood, when my truant steps
Had led me forth among the pleasant hills,
I met her in a shaded path that winds
56
The shadow of the hills stretched o'er the vale,
And the still waters of the river lay
Black in the shade of twilight. As we met,
She stoop'd and pressed her friendly lips to mine;
And though I then was but a simple child,
Who ne'er had dreamed of love, or known its power,
I wondered at her beauty. Soon a sound
Of thunder, muttering low along the west,
Foretold a coming storm. My homeward path
Lay through the woods tangled with overgrowth.
A timid urchin then, I feared to go,
Which she observing, kindly led the way,
And left me when my dwelling was in sight.
I hastened on; but ere I reached the gate,
The rain fell fast, and the drenched fields around
Were glittering in the lightning's frequent flash.
But where was now Eliza? When the morn
Blushed on the summer hills, they found her dead
Beneath an oak rent by the thunderbolt.
Thick lay the splinters round, and one sharp shaft
Had pierced her snow white brow. And here she lies,
Where the green hill slopes towards the southern sky.
'Tis thirty summers since they laid her here;
57
Her kindred all are perished from the earth;
And this rude stone, which simply bears her name,
Is mouldering fast: and soon this quiet spot,
Held sacred now, will be like common ground.
Fit place is this for so much loveliness
To find its rest. It is a hallowed shrine
Where nature pays her tribute. Dewy spring
Sets the gay wild flowers thick around her grave;
The green boughs o'er her in the summer time
Sigh to the winds: the robin takes his perch
Hard by, and warbles to his sitting mate;
The brier-rose blossoms to the skies of June,
And hangs above her in the winter time
Its scarlet fruit. No rude foot ventures near;
The noisy school-boy keeps aloof; and he
Who hunts the fox when all the hills are white,
Here treads aside. Not seldom have I found
Around this headstone carefully entwined,
Garlands of flowers, I never knew by whom.
For two years past, I've missed them; doubtless one
Who held this dust most precious placed them there,
And sorrowing in secret many a year,
At last hath left the earth to be with her.
58
SONNET.
Like music o'er the wide unruffled sea,Or echo from the forest-covered hill,
At midnight, when the wandering winds are still,
Thoughts of my happier days return to me,—
Thoughts of the time when first I met thy smile,
The glance of thy dark eye so clear and bright.
Ah! it did seem a beam of heaven's pure light,
Sent down to banish Earth's dull cares awhile.
Those days are past. No more thou meetest me
At the calm hour when daylight hues depart,
For thou art far away: yet memory
Hath stamped thy image deeply on my heart:
Hope holds the promise that we meet again;
I cannot deem so sweet a promise vain.
59
SONNET—October.
I love the time of Autumn's fading groves;For with the sere and yellow leaf appears
A dreamy sadness, that my spirit loves,
And loves the more with my departing years.
How soft the light that lies on all the scene,
How sweet the stillness of the hazy noon,
When first succeed to Summer's living green
The Autumn splendors. Then the glorious moon
Sails in a purer heaven, and bright stars shed
A blessed radiance on the paths of men;
And they who walked with timid steps in dread
Of fell disease, at length breathe free again.
Through all the land the hand of death is stayed,
And pallid cheeks with healthful bloom are spread.
60
ON LEAVING THE PLACE OF MY NATIVITY.
I stand where often I have stood,Beside this dark old mossy wood;
And tread, where oft my feet have trod,
Upon this bright and blooming sod.
The open fields, that round me lie,
Slope gently toward the southern sky;
Upon their bosom, far away,
The light winds with the harvest play.
Come up the green acclivity,
On silken wings, to visit me;
Sigh to my ear, I know not why,
And leave my presence with a sigh.
On yonder mountain's rugged breast
The pines in sullen silence rest;
The copses, drest in softer green,
Adorn the valley stretched between;
And through the openings of their shade
The winding river is betrayed:
The boatman dips his glistening oar
And pushes from the alder shore;
The sunbeams on the small waves play,
61
The echo of the mountain rill
Breaks softly from the beechen hill;
And river's flood, and wood and glen,
The homes and haunts of busy men,
The meeting line of earth and sky
Where the long circling forests lie;
Earth's fruits, in rich profusion given,
The glorious azure arch of heaven,
The golden sun's resplendent light,
All break at once upon my sight.
And what should cloud my heart with care
When all around is gay and fair?
It is that, on its coming wings,
The morrow my departure brings;
And that the scenes which round me lie
No more may meet my living eye:
The mossy knoll beneath the tree,
Where first I played in infancy,
The orchard, and the shady nook
Beside the rapid of the brook;
The wider range my boyhood knew—
The higher hill, the broader view,
The grassy steep upon whose brow
I muse in silent sadness now.
All these dear haunts of peace and rest
62
But there's a deeper sorrow still
Than leaving forest stream or hill;
For at this parting I forego
All that is dear to me below,
And break the sacred ties which bind
Heart to heart, and mind to mind.
She who in my early days
Trained my feet in virtue's ways,
And gave me, in my riper years,
Blessings mixed with smiles and tears,
No more may make this heart rejoice
With the sweet accents of her voice.
Yon upland, where the forest waves
Above the lonely place of graves,
O'er the dear friends whose ashes lie
Beneath this bright blue mountain sky;
My father! in whose voice I heard
Tones that all my bosom stirred;
And her, the meek and lovely flower,
Who faded in life's morning hour:—
That sacred spot no more shall be
A place of frequent haunt to me.
The locust-tree I planted there
May flourish long in summer air;
The soft gales bend it, and the sound
63
There birds shall sing, and white flocks feed,
The weary stranger stop his steed,
To muse awhile among the stones
That mark the rest of human bones.
But I, alas! no more may tread
The turf where sleep those loved ones—dead!
And she, who in her father's hall
Stands graceful, fair, erect, and tall,
Whose smiles and glances answered mine,
With look and mien almost divine,
Will smile upon another now,
And pledge her love in solemn vow;
Will leave her childhood's dwelling side,
And round her, in their strength and pride,
Shall sons arise, and daughters bloom,
To light the chambers of her home;
But years shall waste, and day by day
That bloom and beauty fade away,
Till she, so fair, so lovely now,
Beneath the weight of years shall bow;
And men shall lay her sleeping head
At last among the silent dead.
Though beauty's bloom so soon be past,
And death shall level all at last,
And though the cup of life's best years
64
Still I am sad that I shall see
No more that form so dear to me;
It chills the current of my strain
To think we n'er shall meet again!
65
ROGER CRANE.
I had been wandering in the wood,A child of eight years old, or so,
With careless step and dreamy mood,
Where fancy prompted me to go.
'Twas then I met old Roger Crane,
One whom I ne'er had seen before,
But oft had heard aunt Betty tell
His dark, mysterious story o'er.
I found him in an open glade,
Sitting upon a smooth gray stone;
Beside him rose a blasted tree;
His broad hand rested on his knee:
Musing he seemed, and all alone.
Wild was the scene and lonely round,
And moss-clad rocks were scattered nigh,
Deep shadowy woods enclosed the spot,
And running waters murmured by.
The sun was set, the twilight came;
One star was twinkling overhead,
And from the western sky the fringe
Of crimson light was almost fled.
His shaggy brow was sternly knit:
It seemed to me, as I drew nigh,
66
The chamber of that awful eye.
I met his glance; and oh! my heart;
Its very blood grew thick and chill;
I had no power to stir a pace,
For I was rooted to the place,
A statue, motionless and still.
I broke the spell with one long bound;
Methought I heard his footstep follow;
But when I reached the opposing hill
I looked, and saw old Roger still
Lone sitting in the dusky hollow.
Years passed away, but still my feet
Dared not approach that spot again;
And oft, in dreams, I started at
The image of old Roger Crane.
But bolder lads, who ventured near,
Told that they saw him sitting there;
And that, at distance, you might hear
His voice upon the midnight air.
In winter Roger was not seen;
But when the light of spring was come,
Ere yet the warmest vales were green,
He issued from his secret home,
And threw the fallen boughs aside,
And scraped away the darkened snow
67
And cast it in the brook below,
So that the earliest warmth might lie
Upon the sere declivity.
At length a sweeping tempest came;
The rushing rain in torrents poured,
And through the hollows of the wood,
The fearful whirlwind swept and roared.
Dark was the night, and doleful sounds
Were heard upon the murky sky,
And fitful was the lightning's flash,
And trees fell down with dreaful crash,
As that tremendous storm went by.
The uproar ceased, and men passed o'er
The spot where Roger sat so long.
The blasted tree uprooted lay;
The stream had washed the knoll away;
And still poured furiously and strong.
But nought of Roger Crane was there,
Save that his tattered hat was found
Far down the channel of the brook,
Half buried in the pebbly ground,
And still he never has been seen,
Though since that storm twelve years have flown;
But some who wandered near the spot,
At evening, when the winds are not,
68
And some aver that they descried
His dim ghost gliding by the wood,
Far in the twilight's doubtful gleam,
Or in the mist, above the stream
Where once the withered tree had stood.
They said they knew his long white hair,
His scowling eye and savage air;
But why he sat upon that stone,
And what, beneath that blasted tree,
He muttered to himself alone,
Is all a mystery to me.
Some said he'd done a wicked deed,
For which his conscience ever smarted;
And some, that he was mad with grief;
And some, that he was broken-hearted;
And that beneath the stone so gray,
On which he sat so many a day,
His loved one's dust was laid away;
That when the fearful storm was gone,
And men for Roger came to look,
Some scattered human bones were found
Along the channel of the brook.
Some guessed that in the winter time,
When all our hearth-fires brightly burned,
He dwelt in some deep mountain cave,
And came again when spring returned.
69
I know not, and I never knew;
But this I know, that for the term
Of thirty summers, on that stone,
Through all the changes of the sky,
Through cold and heat, and wet and dry,
Old Roger sat and mused alone;
And when the mighty tempest came,
And floods poured down the narrow glen,
He left his long-frequented haunt,
And vanished from the sight of men.
70
THE BETTER PART.
Why should we toil for hoarded gain,
Or waste in strife our nobler powers,
Or follow Pleasure's glittering train?
O, let a happier choice be ours.
Or waste in strife our nobler powers,
Or follow Pleasure's glittering train?
O, let a happier choice be ours.
Death shall unnerve the arm of power,
Unclasp the firmest grasp on gold,
And scatter wide in one brief hour
The treasured heaps of wealth untold.
Unclasp the firmest grasp on gold,
And scatter wide in one brief hour
The treasured heaps of wealth untold.
The hero's glory, and his fame,
Built up mid crime, and blood, and tears,
Are but a transient flush of fame
Amid the eternal night of years.
Built up mid crime, and blood, and tears,
Are but a transient flush of fame
Amid the eternal night of years.
He whom but yesterday we saw
Earth's mightiest prince, is gone to day;
All systems, creeds, save Truth's great law,
Are borne along and swept away.
Earth's mightiest prince, is gone to day;
All systems, creeds, save Truth's great law,
Are borne along and swept away.
And Fashion's forms and gilded show,
Shall vanish with the fleeting breath;
And Pleasure's votaries shall know
Their folly at the gates of death.
Shall vanish with the fleeting breath;
And Pleasure's votaries shall know
Their folly at the gates of death.
71
But he who delves for buried thought,
And seeks with care for hidden truth,
Shall find in age, unasked, unbought,
A rich reward for toil in youth.
And seeks with care for hidden truth,
Shall find in age, unasked, unbought,
A rich reward for toil in youth.
Aye more,—away beyond life's goal,
Of earnest toil each weary day
Shall light the pathway of the soul
Far on its onward, upward way.
Of earnest toil each weary day
Shall light the pathway of the soul
Far on its onward, upward way.
Then who can tell how wide a sphere
Of thought and deed shall be his lot,
Who treasured truth and knowledge here,
And doing good, himself forgot?
Of thought and deed shall be his lot,
Who treasured truth and knowledge here,
And doing good, himself forgot?
72
SENATCHWINE'S GRAVE.
Twelve or fifteen years since, Senatchwine was an eminent
chief of the tribe of Pottawatomies, in Illinois, enjoying
more influence and a greater reputation for talents than
any other. The Indian traders, who knew him well, say
he was a truly great man and orator and warrior. He died
at an advanced age, in the year 1830, and was buried by a
small stream which bears his name, and which runs through
the south-eastern part of Bureau County. His hunting
grounds are in that vicinity. The circumstance alluded to
in the line,
And here the silken blue-grass springs,
is familiar to the western people, who have a proverbial saying
that the blue-grass springs up wherever an Indian foot
has stepped. Though this may not be literally true, yet it
is certain that the blue-grass is always found growing where
the Indians have encamped, though it might have been only
for a few days. This kind of grass makes a soft rich turf,
thick with blades, in which respect it is very different from
the common coarse grass of the prairies.
[This note was written in 1845.]
Twelve or fifteen years since, Senatchwine was an eminent chief of the tribe of Pottawatomies, in Illinois, enjoying more influence and a greater reputation for talents than any other. The Indian traders, who knew him well, say he was a truly great man and orator and warrior. He died at an advanced age, in the year 1830, and was buried by a small stream which bears his name, and which runs through the south-eastern part of Bureau County. His hunting grounds are in that vicinity. The circumstance alluded to in the line,
And here the silken blue-grass springs,
is familiar to the western people, who have a proverbial saying
that the blue-grass springs up wherever an Indian foot
has stepped. Though this may not be literally true, yet it
is certain that the blue-grass is always found growing where
the Indians have encamped, though it might have been only
for a few days. This kind of grass makes a soft rich turf,
thick with blades, in which respect it is very different from
the common coarse grass of the prairies.
[This note was written in 1845.]
He sleeps beneath the spreading shade,
Where woods and wide savannahs meet,
Where sloping hills around have made
A quiet valley, green and sweet.
Where woods and wide savannahs meet,
Where sloping hills around have made
A quiet valley, green and sweet.
A stream that bears his name and flows
In glimmering gushes from the west,
Makes a light murmur as it goes
Beside his lonely place of rest.
In glimmering gushes from the west,
Makes a light murmur as it goes
Beside his lonely place of rest.
And here the silken blue-grass springs,
Low bending with the morning dew;
The red-bird in the thicket sings,
And blossoms nod of various hue.
Low bending with the morning dew;
The red-bird in the thicket sings,
And blossoms nod of various hue.
Oh, spare his rest! oh, level not
The trees whose boughs above it play,
Nor break the turf that clothes the spot,
Nor clog the rivulet's winding way.
The trees whose boughs above it play,
Nor break the turf that clothes the spot,
Nor clog the rivulet's winding way.
For he was of unblenching eye,
Honored in youth, revered in age,
Of princely port and bearing high,
And brave, and eloquent, and sage.
Honored in youth, revered in age,
Of princely port and bearing high,
And brave, and eloquent, and sage.
73
Ah! scorn not that a tawny skin
Wrapped his strong limbs and ample breast:
A noble soul was throned within,
As the pale Saxon e'er possessed.
Wrapped his strong limbs and ample breast:
A noble soul was throned within,
As the pale Saxon e'er possessed.
Beyond the broad Atlantic deep,
In mausoleums rich and vast,
Earth's early kings and heroes sleep,
Waiting the angel's trumpet blast.
In mausoleums rich and vast,
Earth's early kings and heroes sleep,
Waiting the angel's trumpet blast.
As proud in form and mien was he
Who sleeps beneath this verdant sod,
And shadowed forth as gloriously
The image of the eternal God.
Who sleeps beneath this verdant sod,
And shadowed forth as gloriously
The image of the eternal God.
Theirs is the monumental pile,
With lofty titles graved on stone,
The vaulted roof, the fretted aisle—
He sleeps unhonored and alone.
With lofty titles graved on stone,
The vaulted roof, the fretted aisle—
He sleeps unhonored and alone.
A scene he loved around him lies,
These blooming plains outspreading far,
River, and vale, and boundless skies,
With sun, and cloud, and shining star.
These blooming plains outspreading far,
River, and vale, and boundless skies,
With sun, and cloud, and shining star.
He knew each pathway through the wood,
Each dell unwarmed by sunshine's gleam,
Where the brown pheasant led her brood,
Or wild deer came to drink the stream.
Each dell unwarmed by sunshine's gleam,
Where the brown pheasant led her brood,
Or wild deer came to drink the stream.
74
Oft hath he gazed from yonder height,
When pausing 'mid the chase alone,
On the fair realms beneath his sight,
And proudly called them all his own.
When pausing 'mid the chase alone,
On the fair realms beneath his sight,
And proudly called them all his own.
Then leave him still this little nook,
Ye who have grasped his wide domain,
The trees, the flowers, the grass, the brook,
Nor stir his slumbering dust again.
Ye who have grasped his wide domain,
The trees, the flowers, the grass, the brook,
Nor stir his slumbering dust again.
75
THE ANCIENT OAK.
'Twas many a year ago,
When life with me was new,
A lordly oak, with spreading arms,
By my mountain-dwelling grew.
When life with me was new,
A lordly oak, with spreading arms,
By my mountain-dwelling grew.
O'er the roof and chimney-top,
Uprose that glorious tree;
No giant of all the forests round
Had mightier boughs than he.
Uprose that glorious tree;
No giant of all the forests round
Had mightier boughs than he.
On the silken turf below
He cast a cool, deep shade,
Where oft, till the summer sun went down
Myself and my sister played.
He cast a cool, deep shade,
Where oft, till the summer sun went down
Myself and my sister played.
We planted the violet there,
And there the pansy leant;
And the columbine, with slender stems,
To the soft June breezes bent.
And there the pansy leant;
And the columbine, with slender stems,
To the soft June breezes bent.
The robin warbled above,
As he builded his house of clay;
And he seemed to sing with a livelier note
At the sight of our mirthful play.
As he builded his house of clay;
And he seemed to sing with a livelier note
At the sight of our mirthful play.
76
And there in the sultry noon,
With brawny limbs and breast,
On the silken turf, in that cool shade,
The reaper came to rest.
With brawny limbs and breast,
On the silken turf, in that cool shade,
The reaper came to rest.
When, through the autumn haze,
The golden sunshine came,
His crimson summit glowed in the light,
Like a spire of ruddy flame.
The golden sunshine came,
His crimson summit glowed in the light,
Like a spire of ruddy flame.
And oft, in the autumn blast,
The acorns, rattling loud,
Were showered on our roof, like the big round hail
That falls from the summer cloud.
The acorns, rattling loud,
Were showered on our roof, like the big round hail
That falls from the summer cloud.
And higher and broader still,
With the rolling years he grew;
And his roots were deeper and firmer set,
The more the rough winds blew.
With the rolling years he grew;
And his roots were deeper and firmer set,
The more the rough winds blew.
At length, in an evil hour,
The axe at its root was laid,
And he fell, with all his boughs, on the spot
He had darkened with his shade.
The axe at its root was laid,
And he fell, with all his boughs, on the spot
He had darkened with his shade.
And into the prostrate boughs
We climbed, my sister and I,
And swung, 'mid the shade of the glossy leaves,
Till the stars came out in the sky.
We climbed, my sister and I,
And swung, 'mid the shade of the glossy leaves,
Till the stars came out in the sky.
77
All day we swung and played,
For the west wind gently blew;
'Twas the day that the post-boy brought the news
Of the battle of Waterloo.
For the west wind gently blew;
'Twas the day that the post-boy brought the news
Of the battle of Waterloo.
But his leaves were withered soon,
And they bore his trunk away,
And the blazing sun shone in, at noon,
On the place of our early play.
And they bore his trunk away,
And the blazing sun shone in, at noon,
On the place of our early play.
And the weary reaper missed
The shade, when he came to rest;
And the robin found no more in spring
The sprays where he built his nest.
The shade, when he came to rest;
And the robin found no more in spring
The sprays where he built his nest.
Now thirty summers are gone,
And thirty winters of snow;
And a stranger I seek the paths and shades
Where I rambled long ago.
And thirty winters of snow;
And a stranger I seek the paths and shades
Where I rambled long ago.
I pause where the glorious oak
His boughs to the blue sky spread,
And I think of the strong and beautiful
Who lie among the dead.
His boughs to the blue sky spread,
And I think of the strong and beautiful
Who lie among the dead.
I think, with a bitter pang,
Of the days in which I played,
Watched by kind eyes that now are closed,
Beneath his ample shade.
Of the days in which I played,
Watched by kind eyes that now are closed,
Beneath his ample shade.
78
A DAY IN AUTUMN.
One ramble through the woods with me,
Thou dear companion of my days!
These mighty woods, how quietly
They sleep in autumn's golden haze!
Thou dear companion of my days!
These mighty woods, how quietly
They sleep in autumn's golden haze!
The gay leaves, twinkling in the breeze,
Still to the forest branches cling,
They lie like blossoms on the trees—
The brightest blossoms of the spring.
Still to the forest branches cling,
They lie like blossoms on the trees—
The brightest blossoms of the spring.
Flowers linger in each sheltered nook,
And still the cheerful song of bird,
And murmur of the bee and brook,
Through all the quiet groves are heard;
And still the cheerful song of bird,
And murmur of the bee and brook,
Through all the quiet groves are heard;
And bell of kine that sauntering browse,
And squirrel, chirping as he hides
Where gorgeously, with crimson boughs,
The creeper clothes the oak's gray sides.
And squirrel, chirping as he hides
Where gorgeously, with crimson boughs,
The creeper clothes the oak's gray sides.
How mild the light in all the skies!
How balmily the south wind blows!
The smile of God around us lies,
His rest is in this deep repose.
How balmily the south wind blows!
The smile of God around us lies,
His rest is in this deep repose.
79
These whispers of the flowing air,
These waters that in music fall,
These sounds of peaceful life, declare
The love that keeps and hushes all.
These waters that in music fall,
These sounds of peaceful life, declare
The love that keeps and hushes all.
Then let us to the forest shade,
And roam its paths the livelong day;
These glorious hours were never made
In life's dull cares to waste away.
And roam its paths the livelong day;
These glorious hours were never made
In life's dull cares to waste away.
We'll wander by the running stream,
And pull the wild grape hanging o'er,
And list the fisher's startling scream,
That perches by the pebbly shore.
And pull the wild grape hanging o'er,
And list the fisher's startling scream,
That perches by the pebbly shore.
And when the sun, to his repose,
Sinks in the rosy west at even,
And over field and forest throws
A hue that makes them seem like heaven,—
Sinks in the rosy west at even,
And over field and forest throws
A hue that makes them seem like heaven,—
We'll overlook the glorious land,
From the green brink of yonder height,
And silently adore the hand
That made our world so fair and bright.
From the green brink of yonder height,
And silently adore the hand
That made our world so fair and bright.
80
LINES ON FINDING A FOUNTAIN IN A SECLUDED PART OF A FOREST.
Three hundred years are scarcely gone,
Since, to the New World's virgin shore,
Crowds of rude men were pressing on,
To range its boundless regions o'er.
Since, to the New World's virgin shore,
Crowds of rude men were pressing on,
To range its boundless regions o'er.
Some bore the sword in bloody hands,
And sacked its helpless towns for spoil;
Some searched for gold the river's sands,
Or trenched the mountains stubborn soil.
And sacked its helpless towns for spoil;
Some searched for gold the river's sands,
Or trenched the mountains stubborn soil.
And some with higher purpose sought,
Through forests wild, and wastes uncouth,
Sought with long toil, yet found it not—
The fountain of eternal youth.
Through forests wild, and wastes uncouth,
Sought with long toil, yet found it not—
The fountain of eternal youth.
They said in some green valley, where
The foot of man had never trod,
There gushed a fountain bright, and fair,
Up from the ever verdant sod.
The foot of man had never trod,
There gushed a fountain bright, and fair,
Up from the ever verdant sod.
There they who drank should never know
Age, with its weakness, pain and gloom,
And from its brink the old should go
With youth's light step and radiant bloom.
Age, with its weakness, pain and gloom,
And from its brink the old should go
With youth's light step and radiant bloom.
81
Is not this fount so pure and sweet,
Whose stainless current ripples o'er
The fringe of blossoms at my feet,
The same those pilgrims sought of yore?
Whose stainless current ripples o'er
The fringe of blossoms at my feet,
The same those pilgrims sought of yore?
How brightly leap, 'mid glittering sands,
The living waters from below;
O let me dip these lean, brown hands,
Drink deep, and bathe this wrinkled brow.
The living waters from below;
O let me dip these lean, brown hands,
Drink deep, and bathe this wrinkled brow.
And feel, through every shrunken vein,
The warm, red stream flow swift and free—
Feel waking in my heart again,
Youth's brightest hopes, youth's wildest glee.
The warm, red stream flow swift and free—
Feel waking in my heart again,
Youth's brightest hopes, youth's wildest glee.
'Tis vain; for still the life-blood plays
With sluggish course through all my frame:
The mirror of the pool betrays
My wrinkled visage still the same.
With sluggish course through all my frame:
The mirror of the pool betrays
My wrinkled visage still the same.
And the sad spirit questions still—
Must this warm frame—these limbs, that yield
To each light motion of the will—
Lie with the dull clods of the field?
Must this warm frame—these limbs, that yield
To each light motion of the will—
Lie with the dull clods of the field?
Has nature no renewing power
To drive the frost of age away?
Has earth no fount, or herb, or flower,
Which man may taste and live for aye?
To drive the frost of age away?
Has earth no fount, or herb, or flower,
Which man may taste and live for aye?
82
Alas! for that unchanging state
Of youth and strength, in vain we yearn;
And only after death's dark gate
Is reached and passed, can youth return.
Of youth and strength, in vain we yearn;
And only after death's dark gate
Is reached and passed, can youth return.
83
THE EMIGRANT'S SONG.
Away, away we haste
Vast plains and mountains o'er,
To the glorious land of the distant West,
By the broad Pacific's shore.
Vast plains and mountains o'er,
To the glorious land of the distant West,
By the broad Pacific's shore.
Onward, with toilsome pace,
O'er the desert vast and dim,
From morn till the sun goes down to his place
At the far horizon's brim.
O'er the desert vast and dim,
From morn till the sun goes down to his place
At the far horizon's brim.
By the wild Missouri's side—
By the lonely Platte we go,
That brings its cold and turbid tide
From far-off cliffs of snow.
By the lonely Platte we go,
That brings its cold and turbid tide
From far-off cliffs of snow.
The red deer in the shade
Shall fall before our aim,
And at eventide shall our feast be made
From the flesh of the bison's frame.
Shall fall before our aim,
And at eventide shall our feast be made
From the flesh of the bison's frame.
And when our feast is done,
And the twilight sinks away,
We will talk of the deeds of the days that are gone,
And the friends that are far away.
And the twilight sinks away,
We will talk of the deeds of the days that are gone,
And the friends that are far away.
84
We heed not the burning sun,
Nor the plain winds wild and bleak,
And the driving rain will beat in vain
On the emigrant's hardened cheek.
Nor the plain winds wild and bleak,
And the driving rain will beat in vain
On the emigrant's hardened cheek.
Still onward, day by day,
O'er the vast and desolate plain,
With resolute hearts we plod our way,
Till our distant home we gain.
O'er the vast and desolate plain,
With resolute hearts we plod our way,
Till our distant home we gain.
And when at last we stand
On the wild Nevada's side,
We'll look afar o'er the lovely land
And the heaving ocean's tide.
On the wild Nevada's side,
We'll look afar o'er the lovely land
And the heaving ocean's tide.
Of the past we'll think no more,
When our journey's end is won,
And we'll build our house by the rocky shore
Of the mighty Oregon.
When our journey's end is won,
And we'll build our house by the rocky shore
Of the mighty Oregon.
85
ODE.
WRITTEN FOR THE NEW ENGLAND FESTIVAL.
Scarce twelve-score years have passed away
Since, by New England's rocky shore,
The Mayflower moored in Plymouth bay,
Amid the wintry tempest's roar.
Since, by New England's rocky shore,
The Mayflower moored in Plymouth bay,
Amid the wintry tempest's roar.
Few, worn, and weak, that pilgrim band;
An unknown coast before them rose—
A vast unmeasured forest land,
Begirt with ice and clad with snows.
An unknown coast before them rose—
A vast unmeasured forest land,
Begirt with ice and clad with snows.
Yet dauntless, fearless, forth they trod
From that lone ship beside the sea,
Firm in the faith and truth of God,
To plant an empire for the free.
From that lone ship beside the sea,
Firm in the faith and truth of God,
To plant an empire for the free.
From one rude hamlet by the wood,
How wide, how far have spread our lines,
Till o'er the vast Pacific's flood
Our glorious star of empire shines.
How wide, how far have spread our lines,
Till o'er the vast Pacific's flood
Our glorious star of empire shines.
Ah! who can tell what toil and strife,
What griefs beset the Pilgrim's path,
How brave he bore the load of life,
And triumphed in the hour of death!
What griefs beset the Pilgrim's path,
How brave he bore the load of life,
And triumphed in the hour of death!
86
The blood poured out on Bunker's height—
At Brooklyn, Eutaw, Yorktown plains,
In deadly charge and stubborn fight,
Came from the stern old Pilgrim's veins.
At Brooklyn, Eutaw, Yorktown plains,
In deadly charge and stubborn fight,
Came from the stern old Pilgrim's veins.
Bless then the hand whose gentle might
Smoothed for our sires old ocean's breast,
Bless we this day whose morning light
Revealed the promised land of rest.
Smoothed for our sires old ocean's breast,
Bless we this day whose morning light
Revealed the promised land of rest.
87
AFTER DEATH.
Why should we cling to those that die?
Why fondly mark and haunt the place
Where a dear brother's ashes lie,
Amid the relics of his race?
Why fondly mark and haunt the place
Where a dear brother's ashes lie,
Amid the relics of his race?
Why weep above the inclosing sod
Where the loved form was laid away,
As if the spirit sent from God
Still dwelt within the mouldering clay?
Where the loved form was laid away,
As if the spirit sent from God
Still dwelt within the mouldering clay?
Years, as they pass, shall scatter wide
That dust by narrow walls confined,
Wherever ocean sends his tide,
Or earth is swept by winnowing wind.
That dust by narrow walls confined,
Wherever ocean sends his tide,
Or earth is swept by winnowing wind.
These trees, the harvests on these plains,
The air we breathe, the dust we tread,
The tide of life that fills these veins,
Are portions of the buried dead.
The air we breathe, the dust we tread,
The tide of life that fills these veins,
Are portions of the buried dead.
Hath God, then, doomed, when life is o'er,
The soul to slumber in the tomb,
While yet the form, the limbs it wore,
Are on the earth in life and bloom?
The soul to slumber in the tomb,
While yet the form, the limbs it wore,
Are on the earth in life and bloom?
88
The mind, far reaching into space,
Gauges the bulk of distant spheres—
Finds out each planet's course and place,
And measures all their days and years.
Gauges the bulk of distant spheres—
Finds out each planet's course and place,
And measures all their days and years.
But who beyond that bourne hath gazed,
At which our mortal senses fail,
Into the spirit world, or raised
'Twixt life and death the parting veil?
At which our mortal senses fail,
Into the spirit world, or raised
'Twixt life and death the parting veil?
The deepest search of human thought,
The furthest stretch of human eye,
No tidings from the soul have brought,
Beyond the moment when we die.
The furthest stretch of human eye,
No tidings from the soul have brought,
Beyond the moment when we die.
With trembling hope I wait the change,
When thought and sight, unclogged by sin,
Through God's vast universe shall range,
And take the world of spirits in.
When thought and sight, unclogged by sin,
Through God's vast universe shall range,
And take the world of spirits in.
Ours be meanwhile the cheerful creed,
That leaves the spirit free to roam,
By mount and river, wood and mead,
'Till Heaven's kind voice shall call it home.
That leaves the spirit free to roam,
By mount and river, wood and mead,
'Till Heaven's kind voice shall call it home.
89
THE LITTLE CLOUD.
As when, on Carmel's sterile steep,
The ancient prophet bowed the knee,
And seven times sent his servant forth
To look toward the distant sea;
The ancient prophet bowed the knee,
And seven times sent his servant forth
To look toward the distant sea;
There came at last a little cloud,
Scarce broader than the human hand,
Spreading and swelling till it broke
In showers on all the herbless land.
Scarce broader than the human hand,
Spreading and swelling till it broke
In showers on all the herbless land.
And hearts were glad, and shouts went up,
And praise to Israel's mighty God,
As the sere hills grew bright with flowers,
And verdure clothed the naked sod.
And praise to Israel's mighty God,
As the sere hills grew bright with flowers,
And verdure clothed the naked sod.
Even so our eyes have waited long;
But now a little cloud appears,
Spreading and swelling as it glides
Onward into the coming years.
But now a little cloud appears,
Spreading and swelling as it glides
Onward into the coming years.
Bright cloud of Liberty! full soon,
Far stretching from the ocean strand,
Thy glorious folds shall spread abroad,
Encircling our beloved land.
Far stretching from the ocean strand,
Thy glorious folds shall spread abroad,
Encircling our beloved land.
90
Like the sweet rain on Judah's hills,
The glorious boon of love shall fall,
And our bond millions shall arise,
As at an angel's trumpet call.
The glorious boon of love shall fall,
And our bond millions shall arise,
As at an angel's trumpet call.
Then shall a shout of joy go up,
The wild, glad cry of freedom come
From hearts long crushed by cruel hands,
And songs from lips long sealed and dumb;
The wild, glad cry of freedom come
From hearts long crushed by cruel hands,
And songs from lips long sealed and dumb;
And every bondman's chain be broke,
And every soul that moves abroad
In this wide realm shall know and feel
The blessed Liberty of God.
And every soul that moves abroad
In this wide realm shall know and feel
The blessed Liberty of God.
91
THE VALLEY BROOK.
Fresh from the fountains of the wood,
A rivulet of the valley came,
And glided on for many a rood,
Flushed with the morning's ruddy flame.
A rivulet of the valley came,
And glided on for many a rood,
Flushed with the morning's ruddy flame.
The air was fresh and soft and sweet;
The slopes in Spring's new verdure lay,
And wet with dew-drops, at my feet,
Bloomed the young violets of May.
The slopes in Spring's new verdure lay,
And wet with dew-drops, at my feet,
Bloomed the young violets of May.
No sound of busy life was heard,
Amid those pastures lone and still,
Save the faint chirp of early bird,
Or bleat of flocks along the hill.
Amid those pastures lone and still,
Save the faint chirp of early bird,
Or bleat of flocks along the hill.
I traced that rivulet's winding way;
New scenes of beauty opened round,
Where meads of brighter verdure lay
And lovelier blossoms tinged the ground.
New scenes of beauty opened round,
Where meads of brighter verdure lay
And lovelier blossoms tinged the ground.
“Ah! happy valley stream,” I said,
“Calm glides thy wave amid the flowers,
Whose fragrance round thy path is shed
Through all the joyous summer hours.
“Calm glides thy wave amid the flowers,
Whose fragrance round thy path is shed
Through all the joyous summer hours.
92
“Oh! could my years, like thine, be passed
In some remote and silent glen,
Where I could dwell and sleep at last,
Far from the bustling haunts of men.”
In some remote and silent glen,
Where I could dwell and sleep at last,
Far from the bustling haunts of men.”
But what new echoes greet my ear!
The village schoolboys' merry call;
And mid the village hum I hear
The murmur of the waterfall.
The village schoolboys' merry call;
And mid the village hum I hear
The murmur of the waterfall.
I looked; the widening vale betrayed
A pool that shone like burnished steel,
Where that bright valley stream was stayed,
To turn the miller's ponderous wheel.
A pool that shone like burnished steel,
Where that bright valley stream was stayed,
To turn the miller's ponderous wheel.
Ah! why should I, I thought with shame,
Sigh for a life of solitude,
When even this stream, without a name,
Is laboring for the common good?
Sigh for a life of solitude,
When even this stream, without a name,
Is laboring for the common good?
No longer let me shun my part,
Amid the busy scenes of life,
But, with a warm and generous heart,
Press onward in the glorious strife.
Amid the busy scenes of life,
But, with a warm and generous heart,
Press onward in the glorious strife.
| Poems by John Howard Bryant | |