 | Uncollected Poems of James Russell Lowell |  |
SARATOGA LAKE
[_]
“There is an Indian superstition attached to this lake, which probably had its source in its remarkable loneliness and tranquillity. The Mohawks believed that its stillness was sacred to the Great Spirit, and that, if a human voice uttered a sound upon its waters, the canoe of the offender would instantly sink.” Willis—American Scenery, v. 1, p. 19
It was an Autumn evening and the lake,
(Save when some light breeze ruffled it,
In dalliance with a blushing water lily,)
Lay tranquil as a spotless maiden in her rest,
Whose sleep is peace itself—except some gleam
Of newborn love flit o'er her dream—and then
Her pulse beats quicker, and her traitor lips
Tremble, as they reveal the only secret
Her breast e'er knew.
(Save when some light breeze ruffled it,
In dalliance with a blushing water lily,)
Lay tranquil as a spotless maiden in her rest,
Whose sleep is peace itself—except some gleam
Of newborn love flit o'er her dream—and then
Her pulse beats quicker, and her traitor lips
Tremble, as they reveal the only secret
Her breast e'er knew.
Skimming the quiet waters,
Like the scared wild-fowl whom the hunter's foot
Has startled from her solitary nook,
Out shot a light canoe upon the lake.
Two only forms it held, and they were lovers—
A pale-face and his bride.—His practised arm,
Which, until now, had urged the little bark
With speed well nigh as swift, as would the shaft,
Winged with destruction, leave the Indian's bow,
Relaxed its efforts; and they floated on
O'er the still bosom of the lake, now rosy
With that mild tint which blushes o'er the sky,
When the last autumn sunshine fades to twilight.
Like the scared wild-fowl whom the hunter's foot
Has startled from her solitary nook,
Out shot a light canoe upon the lake.
Two only forms it held, and they were lovers—
A pale-face and his bride.—His practised arm,
Which, until now, had urged the little bark
With speed well nigh as swift, as would the shaft,
Winged with destruction, leave the Indian's bow,
Relaxed its efforts; and they floated on
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With that mild tint which blushes o'er the sky,
When the last autumn sunshine fades to twilight.
It was a lovely scene, and they, (his arm
Was thrown unwittingly around her waist,)
In silence listened to the voice of nature
As, clothed in beauty, she discoursed, in tones
Which language knows not, to their spirit's ear,
Of HIM who made this glorious world, from which,
As from one vast Cathedral, all things raise
An everlasting anthem of Thanksgiving.
Was thrown unwittingly around her waist,)
In silence listened to the voice of nature
As, clothed in beauty, she discoursed, in tones
Which language knows not, to their spirit's ear,
Of HIM who made this glorious world, from which,
As from one vast Cathedral, all things raise
An everlasting anthem of Thanksgiving.
The scene was lovely—but to those two lovers
'T was more, far more; it almost seemed as if,
(So to the holy Prophets once 't was given,)
The scales had left their eyes, and they beheld
The present glories of a better world.
Oh love! thou art the sunshine of the soul,
Gilding with thine own hues whate'er thou touchest,
And warming into life the spirit's currents,
(Before dull icebound streams,) until they gush
In the wild music of untutored Poetry!
'T was more, far more; it almost seemed as if,
(So to the holy Prophets once 't was given,)
The scales had left their eyes, and they beheld
The present glories of a better world.
Oh love! thou art the sunshine of the soul,
Gilding with thine own hues whate'er thou touchest,
And warming into life the spirit's currents,
(Before dull icebound streams,) until they gush
In the wild music of untutored Poetry!
Their hearts were full; they gazed upon the scene,
And then upon each other. Oh that gaze!
If but to speak be death, why sank they not?
For worlds of speech were crowded in that gaze.
A tear shone trembling in that eye which oft
Had met the fearful glance of Death and quailed not.
He clasped her to his breast, and, as his lips,
(Scarce consciously,) met hers, murmured “my love!”
The spirit of the lake was wroth—calmly,
(How awful was that calm!) yet suddenly,
The charmed waves yawned wide and overwhelmed them
In life and love, as in their death, united.
No sound is heard except the mournful noteAnd then upon each other. Oh that gaze!
If but to speak be death, why sank they not?
For worlds of speech were crowded in that gaze.
A tear shone trembling in that eye which oft
Had met the fearful glance of Death and quailed not.
He clasped her to his breast, and, as his lips,
(Scarce consciously,) met hers, murmured “my love!”
The spirit of the lake was wroth—calmly,
(How awful was that calm!) yet suddenly,
The charmed waves yawned wide and overwhelmed them
In life and love, as in their death, united.
Of the lone whippoorwill, who tells his love
To the deceitful echo, which, from far,
Like a fond mate, makes answer, cry for cry—
But the glad ears, which one short moment since,
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The evening star still throws his trembling glance
In silver lustre on the lake below,
But they, who gazed so oft upon his beams
And wondered, in their love, if he contained
Beings one half as happy—where are they?
Dead—and what's Death that we should fear him so?
It is not Nature's prompting; for the babe
Who knows not Death, sinks, at his beck, to rest
Calmly as on a fond mother's bosom—
Like children, we have drest a phantom up,
And fear to look on what ourselves have made.
In pity of the lovers' mournful fate,
The merciful Great Spirit broke the spell
That bound those quiet waters; but e'en now,
So says the Mohawk hunter, at that hour,
That loveliest hour of Autumn twilight,
The light canoe still skims the lake, and still
Those two float for a moment round the spot
They loved so well on earth, and then are gone.
| Uncollected Poems of James Russell Lowell | |