Williamm Cullen Bryant.

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When the common rest that ends our days,
Calls the good man in the prime of his life,
Or after a long life, full of wisdom, lays
His silver hair to rest at last;
When the death-wind blows over the buds of youth,
And withers the best among us; when our painful tears
Flow, as the eyes of those who love us close,
We think of who they were, with many worries,
Afraid that goodness will die with them, leaving future generations behind:

And so, in our hearts, the days that have passed by,—
When the respected wise person we mourned lived,
And gentle virtues shone in many eyes,
And pulsed in many hearts that had long been still,—
Like spots of earth where angels have walked—
Are sacred; and lofty poets have spoken
Of times when worth was honored, and faith was true,
Before friendship became a trap, or love grew cold—
Those simple and joyful times—the golden days of the past.

Peace to the memory of the good man—may it grow[Page 2]
More vibrant with the years, and bloom through the passage
Of time; may the painted canvas display
His serene and kind features; may the light
Shine on his acts of love, which avoided the gaze
Of all but heaven, and in the record of fame,
Write the glorious account of his virtues,
And hold it up for people, and urge them to strive
For a victory like his, and draw from him the sacred inspiration.

But oh, don’t despair for those who will stay
To live on the earth when we are gone!
Look! The same arrow that kills the righteous,
Hits the miserable one who mocked mercy’s rule,
And pushed his brothers down, feeling no fear
Of the one who will bring justice for them. Pure virtue,
Like what the toughest age of goodness knew,
Grows stronger until the time calls it forth
From the low, humble shade to illuminate and bless the earth.

Has Nature, in her calm, majestic pace Finally faltered with age? Does the bright sun Grow dim in the sky? Or, in their distant blue expanse, Do the stars shine less brightly when day is done? When the dew-kissed Spring arrives, Does she breathe with less gentle breezes, or fill the sky With flowers less beautiful than when her reign began? Does generous Autumn, for our time, deny The wealth that once flourished under his careful attention?

Look at this beautiful world and read the truth
In her lovely pages; see how every season brings
New changes to her, maintaining everlasting youth;
Still, the green soil is filled with joyful living things,
The wide sky is full of cheerful wings,[Page 3]
And countless creatures are happy in the sleep
Of the ocean's blue depths, and where it throws
The restless waves. Eternal Love holds tight
In his gentle arms, the earth, the sky, and the sea.

Will the merciful One, who created our race
in his own image, and who gave them control
over the earth and the happy people on its surface,
now that our many nations are spread out
wherever the wet earth welcomes the day,
forget the ancient care that taught and nurtured
his latest creation? Will he extinguish the light
that his own smile first infused,
and leave such a beautiful creation all damaged and cursed?

Oh no! A thousand cheerful signs give Hope for even happier days, which are close at hand. The one who has mastered the elements won’t live As a slave to their own desires; the one whose gaze Unravels the eternal movements of the sky, And dares to embrace the sun’s wide path, rising higher, In God’s magnificent works shall understand His will— And love and peace will build their paradise with humanity.

Sit down and learn from history—through the night
Of countless years she will show the path of virtue,
And reveal earlier times, where her insight
Can cut through the eternal shadows on their faces;—
When, from the nurturing beginnings of our species,
The groups of people set out, choosing their own fate
Where palm trees shaded their homes,
Or refreshing rivers flowed; and there they forgot
The truth of heaven and knelt before gods that didn't pay attention.

Then the murderer didn’t wait for night,
But struck his brother down in broad daylight,
And he who felt the wrong and had the power,
Prepared to take revenge and kill in turn;
Next to the path, the unburied body lay;
The shepherd, by the streams of the valley,
Ran away while the thief took his flock,
And killed his children. The sick, left alone,
Suffered in the damp shade and died far away from others.

But misery led to love—in the heat of passion
Man gave his heart to compassion, pleading for a long time,
And sought out kind actions to brighten life;
The weak, standing up against those who spoiled and did wrong,
Came together, watched over their villages, and grew stronger.
Nations rose, and, in the shadow of their power,
The scared found safety. To the respectful crowd,
Serious, aged men, with all-white hair,
Created laws, settled disputes, and demonstrated the way of righteousness;

Until bolder souls took control and fastened
On people the burden that no one should bear,
And pushed them into battle. Look! Uncovered
Is the scene of those harsh times! What do we see?
An endless sea of blood, and the wild air
Whispers with the red waves that bury
Cities and armies with banners; figures that wear
The royal crown rise, amidst the darkness,
Over the dark tide, and quickly engulfed in its depths.

Those ages have no memory—but they left
A record in the desert—scattered columns
On the barren sands, and statues broken and fallen,
Piled like an army defeated in battle;
Huge ruins, where the mountain's stone ribs[Page 5]
Were carved into a city; streets that stretch
In the dark earth, where no breath has blown
Of heaven's sweet air, nor has a foot of man dared to tread
The long and dangerous roads—the Cities of the Dead:

And the tombs of kings piled up to the sky—
They died—but the eternal tombs stay—
And the steep cliff, rugged and wild,
Carved by endless labor and hollowed into a shrine;—
Massive pillars and grim faces of gods hold up
The lasting arches, dark and vast,
Like the night sky when clouds are heavy with rain.
But pointless skill was used, and strength was wasted,
Everything was done by slaves to enhance a tyrant's pride.

And virtue can't live with slaves, nor rule
Over those who shrink from bearing a tyrant's burden;
She left the oppressed nations in disgust,
And flew to Greece when liberty rose,
Newly born, amid those beautiful valleys, and broke
Sceptre and chain with her fair youthful hands:
Like rocks shattered in a thunderclap.
And look! in full-grown strength, an empire stands
Of united and competing states, the wonder of the lands.

Oh, Greece! your thriving cities were a treasure
For one another; your harsh hand oppressed
And crushed the helpless; you made your soil
Soaked with the blood of those who cared for you the most;
And you drove, from your unnatural heart,
Your just and brave to die in far-off lands;
The earth shuddered at your actions, and sighed for peace
From your horrors; future generations,
Whoever reads your story will shudder at your sins.

Yet there’s something within you that has saved
Your glory and redeemed your tarnished name;
The story of your better deeds, carved
On fame's unchanging pillar, shames
Our colder virtue; the great skill to control
The whirlwind of passions was your own;
And the pure light that came from your heart,
Has shone far over many lands and ages,
And merges with the light that shines from God's own throne;

And Rome—your tougher, younger sister, she Who intimidated the world with her powerful gaze— Rome got the spirit of her people from you,— The rival of your shame and your glory. Yet her corrupt offspring sold the crown Of the world's vast kingdoms to a line of slaves; Guilt ruled, and we wallowed in it, and plagues followed, Until the north burst its floodgates, and the waves Overwhelmed the defeated race and rolled over their graves.

Vainly that ray of brightness from above,
That shone around the Galilean lake,
The light of hope, the leading star of love,
Struggled to break the darkness of that day;
Even its own unfaithful guardians tried to extinguish,
In earthly fogs, the pure immortal flame;
And priestly hands, for Jesus' blessed sake,
Were stained with blood, and kindness turned into,
In that brutal battle of appearances, a joke and a label.

They won, and less violent ceremonies took place
Inside the calm of the convent cell:
The well-fed residents murmured prayers and slept,
And sinned, and enjoyed their easy penance just fine.
It was a lovely place for people to live,[Page 7]
Set among its beautiful fields, the abbey was located,
Hiding dark rituals that were shameful to discuss,
And hooded, barefoot beggars crowded the path,
All dressed in their convent attire of black, white, and gray.

Oh, how sweetly the returning muses' song
Rose over that famous stream, whose gentle flow
Holds the Etrurian valleys in their bright embrace,
Sweet, like when winter storms have finally stopped,
And all the newly-leaved woods, echoing wide,
Send out wild songs into the fragrant air.
Look! To the cheerful banks of the Arno,
The competing nations of the west gather,
And light their tired urns, and soak in new energy there.

Still, Heaven postponed the moment meant to take away
From holy decay the sacred robe;
And the hood and revered altar could still protect
The miserable one stained with crime;
And sins were offered for sale, and harsh was the lot
Of anyone who couldn’t pay for a ticket to paradise;
And wrongdoing, under the bishop’s kind oversight,
Sinfully thrived and grew to enormous proportions,
Protected by the power of priests and observed by their watchful gaze.

At last, the earthquake hit—the shock that shattered
To dust, in many pieces scattered and strewn,
The throne, which had roots in another world,
And whose far-reaching shadow intimidated our own.
From many a proud monastery, overturned,
Frightened, the hooded residents rushed and fled;
The web that had grown for a thousand years
Over fallen Europe, on that day of terror
Crumpled and fell, like fire melting a strand of flax.

The spirit of that day is still alive,
And spreads itself, and won’t sleep again;
But will break through the tangled web of power,
Like waves over the Asian king’s chains;
Until people are filled with him, and realize how pointless,
Instead of having a pure heart and innocent hands,
Are all the proud and showy ways to earn
The smile of heaven;—until a new age unfolds
Its bright and sacred wings over the tranquil lands.

For a look back at the past years;—see,
How like the nightmares, those dreams have vanished
Terrible forms of worship that, in the past,
Held, over the trembling realms, unquestioned power:
Witness crimes that once had no fear of daylight,
Erased from mankind, without a name or place:
See nations wiped off the earth, to pay
The price of deep guilt;—with joyful embrace
The once-struggling lands now embrace a better people.

So the monstrous forms of error are driven from the earth;
They disappear, they flee—but truth endures their escape;
The earth has no shadows to extinguish that light from heaven;
Each ray that shone, in the past, to guide
The unsure steps along the right path,
Each glimmer of clearer light meant to help
In a person's more mature years their clearer vision,
All combined, like the vibrant strands of a rainbow,
Still shines, and will always shine, the light that never fades.

Later, from this western shore, that morning chased The deep and ancient night, which had cast its shroud Over the lush land of groves, the beautiful wasteland, Cradle of full streams, and lifter of proud Sky-piercing mountains that overlook the clouds.[Page 9]
Not long ago, where those bright spires rise, Trees swayed, and the brown hunter's shouts echoed loud Among the forest; and the bounding deer Ran away at the sight of the flashing plume, while the hungry wolf howled close by;

And where his gentle waves send up to kiss the decorated edge of that bright blue bay, And cradle in his soft embrace the lively young group of grassy islands that came from him, And nearby or in the distant haze, lifts the white crowd of sails that carry or bring The world's trade;—with his tan limbs, And belt and beads shining in the sunlight, The warrior drove his boat like a wild bird soaring through the sky.

Then all this youthful paradise around,
And all the vast and endless land, lay
Cooled by the endless woods, that loomed
Over mountain and valley, where no summer light
Shone, until the fierce tornado carved its path
Through the gray giants of the wild woods;
Yet many a sheltered clearing, with colorful blossoms,
Beneath the rainy sky and gentle sunshine,
Within the tangled branches of that dark forest smiled.

There was the Native American village, and there was the lake
Spreading its blue surface that sparkled with many oars,
Where the brown otter dove from the brush,
And the deer came to drink: as the light breeze blew by,
The shimmering cornfield swayed along the shore;
And while that place, so wild, and solitary, and beautiful,
Had an appearance of joyful and innocent beauty,
And peace filled the earth and the air,
The warrior lit the pyre and bound his captive to it:

Not unavenged—the enemy, from the woods,
Watched the act, and when the midnight darkness
Was calmest, soaked his battle-axe in blood;
Everyone died—the crying baby—the screaming girl—
And in the wave of fire that burned through the glade,
The roofs collapsed; but deep the silence grew,
When the sunlight shone on the dewy woods;
No longer did the cabin's smoke rise, wreathed and blue,
And always, by their lake, was the light canoe tied up.

Look around—another group of people has filled These crowded lands—the forests are receding, Towns are popping up, and fertile fields are cultivated: The land is abundant with harvests and green meadows; Countless streams, fed by many springs, Shine, exposed, and offer their pure waters to the sun and breeze; The entire area is giving rise To new settlements that spread toward the western seas Like a quickly spreading fire among the fall trees.

Here, the free spirit of humanity finally
Breaks its last chains; who can set
A limit to the giant's unleashed power,
Or slow him down in the race ahead?
Far, like a trumpet's sound through endless space,
Expands the long-unexplored path of light,
Through the depths of time: we can see,
From afar, the radiant glory of its journey,
Until the last rays of light vanish from sight.

Europe is facing harsher fates,
And struggles under heavy chains; strong are the arms binding
To the ground her fighting nations;
She is powerful too and shouldn’t suffer in silence
Against them, but could throw to the ground the train[Page 11]
That tramples her and break their iron grip.
Yes, she will see brighter days and earn
The rewards of worthier actions; the moment
The time to save and support is coming—but it's not here yet.

But you, my country, will never fall,
Except with your children—your caring embrace,
Your endless love, your blessings poured on everyone—
These are your chains—seas and stormy skies
Are the vast walls of your borders, where,
Among your brave sons who protect you well,
You laugh at enemies: who can then say
The date of your solid strength, or explain
How blissfully the sons of men will live in your embrace.

To the person who finds connection with Nature's visible forms, she communicates in varied ways; during joyful moments, she speaks with happiness, bearing a smile and the beauty of her eloquence. She slips into his darker thoughts with gentle sympathy that softens their intensity, often before he even notices. When thoughts of the final, bitter moment come like a shadow over your spirit, and you are haunted by grim images of suffering, shrouds, and the stillness of the grave, making you shudder and feel sick at heart—step outside, under the vast sky, and listen to Nature's lessons. From all around—Earth and her waters, and the depths of the air—a quiet voice comes: Soon you shall be seen by the all-seeing sun no more throughout its journey; nor will you exist in the cold earth, where your pale body was laid with many tears, nor in the ocean’s embrace. Earth, which nurtured you, will claim your growth to return to the ground again, and losing all human traces, surrendering your individual existence, you shall merge forever with the elements, becoming a brother to the lifeless rock and the sluggish soil that the farmer turns and walks upon. The oak will spread its roots and penetrate your soil. Yet you will not rest alone in your eternal resting place—nor could you desire a more grand resting spot. You will lie down with the ancient patriarchs, with kings and the mighty of the earth, the wise, the good, beautiful figures, and the wise seers of ages past—all in one grand tomb. The hills, as ancient as the sun, the valleys stretching in thoughtful stillness in between; the venerable forests—majestic rivers and the murmuring brooks that make the meadows lush; and surrounding it all, the gray and melancholy expanse of the old ocean—these are merely the solemn decorations of man's great tomb. The golden sun, the planets, and all the countless stars in heaven shine upon the sad resting places of the dead, through the quiet passage of time. All that tread the earth are but a handful to the countless tribes that rest in its embrace. Take the wings of morning and cross the barren desert, or lose yourself in the endless woods where the Oregon River flows silently, hearing nothing but its own rushing—yet, the dead are there: and millions in those desolate areas, since time began, have laid down in their final sleep—the dead reign there alone. So shall you rest—and what if you depart unnoticed by the living, with no friend acknowledging your leaving? All who breathe will share your fate. The cheerful will laugh when you’re gone, while the serious will continue their burdens, each pursuing their favorite dreams; yet all these will eventually leave their joys and tasks to come and rest beside you. As the long procession of years flows by, the sons of men—youth in the spring of life, and those in the prime of their years, mothers and daughters, sweet babies, and the elderly—shall one by one be gathered to you, by those who will, in turn, follow. So live, that when your summons arrives to join the countless caravan moving to that mysterious place, where each will take their place in the silent halls of death, you do not go like a prisoner at night, dragged to their dungeon, but embraced and comforted by an unwavering trust, approach your grave like someone who wraps the sheet of their bed around them, settling in for serene dreams.

When beechnuts start to bud,
    And the woods know the bluebird's song,
The yellow violet's shy little bell
    Peeks out from last year's leaves below.

Before the brown fields turn green again,
    Sweet flower, I love, in the bare forest,
To see you when your faint perfume
    Is the only scent in the pure air.

Of all the flowers, Spring's first hands
    Plant you in the wet soil,
And I’ve seen you blooming
    Next to the cold edges of the snowbank.

Your parent sun, who made you see
    Pale skies and sip chilling moisture,
Has washed you in his own bright colors,
    And marked your glowing petals with black.

Yet your shape is slight, and your place is low,[Page 16]
    And your gentle gaze is directed downward,
Not likely to catch the passerby's attention,
    When taller flowers are flaunting nearby.

Often, on a sunless April day,
    Your early smile has stopped me in my tracks;
But among the exquisite blooms of May,
    I passed you by on your humble stalk.

So those who climb the ladder to wealth forget
    The friends they've had through harder times.
I’ve imitated them—but I regret
    That I would follow the ways of pride.

And when the warm season returns
    To awaken the colorful tribes of light,
I won't overlook the modest flower
    That made the woods of April bright.

Stranger, if you've learned a truth that doesn't require long experience, that the world is filled with guilt and misery, and you've seen enough of its sorrows, crimes, and worries to wear you out, step into this wild wood and explore the homes of Nature. The calm shade will bring you a similar calm, and the sweet breeze that makes the green leaves dance will soothe your troubled heart. Here, you won't find any of the things that pained you among people and made you despise your life. The original curse did, it's true, fall upon the innocent earth, but not out of vengeance. God has paired guilt with its pale companion, misery. That's why these woods are still places of joy; the thick canopy of green and active branches is alive and filled with the music of birds that sing and play in carefree spirits, while below, the squirrel, with its raised paws and upright form, chirps happily. Swarms of insects in the shade flutter their delicate wings and dance in the warm sunlight that has brought them to life. Even the green trees share in the deep contentment; as they sway in the gentle winds, the sun from the blue sky shines down, blessing the scene. The wildflower born from the cracks seems to enjoy life just as much as the winged creature that sips its nectar. The massive rocks and the old, heavy trunks of fallen trees that connect the hills or bridge the sunken stream, along with their dark roots, twisting high with all the earth on them, radiate a sense of calm. The stream sends out joyful sounds, and as it flows over its bed of pebbly sand or tumbles down the rocks, it seems to laugh continuously in delight at its own existence. Walk softly along the edge, so you don't scare the wren perched midway, dipping its beak in the water. The cool breeze that playfully stirs the stream will come to you like a friend who cares for you and won't let you pass without acknowledgment, and it will wrap you in its gentle embrace.

As soon as the shiny, fresh snow
Reflects the bright morning chill,
The western hunter must head out
Into the woods to find the deer.

With his rifle slung over his shoulder,
His gear carefully packed,
His moccasins and snowshoes on,
Why does he hesitate by the hill?

Far off, in the soft, uncertain light,
Where the wooded slopes meet a valley,
He sees what only a lover could see,
The home of his Genevieve.

And often he looks back with longing,
Pausing frequently, lingering near;
But as he notices the reddening sky,
He rushes off to hunt the deer.

Where are you going, amidst the falling dew,
As the heavens glow with the last light of day?
Far, through their rosy depths, are you pursuing
    Your solitary path?

    The hunter’s eye
Might track your distant flight to do you harm,
As, silhouetted against the crimson sky,
    Your figure drifts along.

    Are you seeking the muddy edge
Of a weedy lake, or the banks of a wide river,
Or where the rolling waves rise and fall
    On the turbulent ocean shore?

    There is a Power whose care
Guides you along that pathless coast,—
The desert and vast air,—
    Wandering alone, but not lost.

    All day your wings have fanned,[Page 21]
In that high altitude, the cold, thin air,
Yet you do not, tired, descend to the welcoming land,
    Though the dark night is near.

    And soon that toil will end;
Soon you will find a summer home, and rest,
And call out among your companions; reeds will sway,
    Soon, over your sheltered nest.

    You’re gone, the depths of heaven
Have swallowed up your form; yet, in my heart
Deeply has sunk the lesson you have taught,
    And it won’t soon fade away.

    He who, from zone to zone,
Guides your certain flight through the boundless sky,
In the long path that I must walk alone,
    Will lead my steps correctly.

When the breezes are gentle and the skies are clear,
I grab an hour away from studying and worries,
And head to the wooded scene,
Where the stream flows with green waters,
As if the bright edges of herbs on its banks
Had colored the water they touch;
And those whose fields it flows through,
Have named the stream after its beautiful hue.

Yet its waters are pure—its shallow parts are bright
With colorful pebbles and glimmers of light,
And clear are the depths where the currents swirl,
And dimples deepen and whirl away,
And the speckled branches of the plane tree stretch
Over the faster current that digs at its roots,
Through whose shifting leaves, as you walk the hill,
The shimmering flash of sunlight and stream
Suddenly catches your eye,
Like the ray that shines from a diamond.
Oh, spring days are most beautiful there,
With blossoms, and birds, and the buzz of wild bees;
The summer flowers are the fairest there,
And the summer air is the freshest;
And the sweetest golden autumn day
Glides by in silence and sunshine.

Yet, as lovely as you are, you avoid gliding,
Beautiful stream! by the village side;
But wind away from human dwellings,
To quiet valleys and shaded glens;
And the forest, and meadow, and sloping hill,
Around you, are lonely, lovely, and still.
Lonely—except when, by your rippling waters,[Page 23]
The fisherman glides from thicket to thicket;
Or the simpler soul comes with basket and book,
To search for herbs of power on your banks;
Or perhaps, some idle dreamer like me,
To wander, and ponder, and gaze at you.
Still—except for the chirping of birds that feed
On the river cherries and seedy reeds,
And your own wild music bubbling out
With a rich murmur and fairy shout,
From dawn until the blush of another day,
Like a traveler singing along the way.

That fairy music I never hear,
Nor gaze upon those waters so green and clear,
And watch them winding out of sight,
Shaded or sparkling with light,
While over them the vine clings to its thicket,
And the gentle breeze bends down to refresh its wings,
But I wish fate had left me free
To explore these peaceful spots with you,
Until the burdens of the world fade away,
And the serenity of the scene fills my heart;
And I envy your stream, as it flows along,
Through its beautiful banks in a state of song.

Though forced to toil for the dregs of society,
And scribble strange words with a harsh pen,
And mix with the jostling crowd,
Where the sons of conflict are clever and loud—
I often come to this quiet spot,
To breathe the air that ruffles your surface,
And gaze at you in silent reverie,
For in your lonely and lovely stream
An image of that calm life appears
That captured my heart in my younger years.

The time has been that these wild, beautiful places,
Were explored by me more often than now; and when the troubles of life
Had troubled my spirit—when my unsteady heart
Beat with odd fluttering—I would head out
And seek the woods. The sunlight on my path
Felt like a friend. The rolling hills,
The quiet valleys far in between,
With gentle invitations to explore
Their twists, were a calm company
That talked to me and comforted me. Then the song
Of birds, the sound of streams, and the soft touch
Of the fresh forest air made me forget
The thoughts that disturbed my peace, and I began
To gather herbs by the fountain's edge,
And lose myself in daydreams. While I stood
In nature's solitude, I was with one
I had become familiar with early on, one
Who never had a frown for me, whose voice
Never scolded me for the hours I took
From cares I didn’t love, but which the world
Considers the highest, to talk with her. When the harsh
November winds howled and struck the woods,[Page 25]
And the brown fields were bare, and the shadows,
That met above the lively stream,
Were spoiled, I sought, I loved them still—they seemed
Like old friends in hard times.
There was still beauty in my walks; the brook,
Fringed with sparkling frost, was just as cheerful
As with its summer flower border. In the distance,
The village with its spires, the path of streams,
And faint valleys sliding back,
Hidden before by interposing trees, were visible
Through the bare woods, and my familiar spots
Seemed new to me. I didn’t hesitate to go
Among them, when the clouds, from their quiet edges,
Had dropped the feathery snow on earth,
And everything was white. The pure, crisp air outside,
Though it breathed no scent of herbs, nor heard
The call of birds, nor the happy buzz of bees,
Was not the air of death. Bright mosses crept
Over the spotted trunks, and the tight buds,
That lay along the branches, full of life,
Patiently waiting for the soft breath of Spring,
Didn’t fear the biting spirit of the North.
The snowbird chirped on the beech branch,
And beneath the hemlock, whose thick branches bowed
Under its bright, cold burden, and kept dry
A circle on the ground of withered leaves,
The partridge found shelter. Through the snow,
The rabbit sprang away. The lighter tracks
Of foxes and the broad path of raccoons were there,
Crossing each other. From his hollow tree,
The squirrel was out, gathering the nuts
That had just fallen, needing the winter cold and sway
Of winter's wind to shake them from their hold.

But Winter has even brighter scenes—he boasts
Splendor beyond what glorious Summer knows;
Or Autumn with its many fruits, and woods[Page 26]
All flushed with many colors. Come when the rains
Have glazed the snow and clothed the trees with ice;
While February's slant sun pours
A flood of light into the boughs. Come!
The frozen surface shall support your steps,
And the broad arching entrances of the grove
Will welcome your arrival. Look! the massive trunks
Are covered in pure crystal; each light branch,
Nodding and tinkling in the breath of heaven,
Is studded with trembling water-drops,
That shine with rainbow colors as they move.
But around the main stem the long low boughs
Bend, in a shining ring, and arbors hide
The glassy floor. Oh! you might think the spot
The spacious cavern of some untouched mine,
Deep in the earth—where gems grow,
And diamonds shoot forth radiant rods and bud
With amethyst and topaz—and the place
Lit up, most royally, with the pure light
That dwells within them. Or perhaps the vast hall
Of a fairy palace, that lasts through the night,
And doesn’t fade in the glory of the sun;—
Where crystal columns send forth slender shafts
And crossing arches; and fantastic aisles
Wind out of sight in brightness, and are lost
Among the crowded pillars. Raise your gaze,—
You see no cavern roof, no palace vault;
There the blue sky and the white drifting cloud
Look in. Again the dazed imagination dreams
Of spouting fountains, frozen as they rose,
And fixed, with all their branching jets, in the air,
And all their channels sealed. All, all is light;
Light without shade. But all will pass away
With the next sun. From countless vast trunks,
The crashing ice shall make a sound
Like the distant roar of rivers, and the evening
Shall close over the brown woods as it always has.

And it is pleasant when the noisy streams[Page 27]
Are just set free, and milder suns melt away
The puddled snow, except for the solid drift
In the deep gully or the thick shade of pines,—
It’s nice to see the curls of smoke
Rising among the maples on the hill,
Where the sharp sound of youthful voices wakes
The sharper echo, as the clear, pure water,
That drips from the wounded trees, in sparkling drops,
Falls, amid the golden brightness of the morning,
Is gathered in by full buckets, and often,
Handled by strong arms, the stroke of an axe
Makes the woods ring. Along the peaceful air,
Come and float away the soft light clouds,
Just like you see in summer, and the winds
Barely stir the branches. Nestled in sunny crevices,
Where the cold breezes can’t reach, blooms alone
The little windflower, whose newly opened eye
Is as blue as the spring sky it gazes at—
Startling the loiterer in the bare woods
With unexpected beauty, because the time
Of blossoms and green leaves is still far away.
And before it comes, the gusting winds will often
Gather their anger again, and rapid clouds
Will shade the sky, and bounding on the frozen earth
Will drop their volleyed stores rounded like hail,
And white like snow, and the loud North again
Will batter the troubled forest with his rage.

Beneath the forest's edge, I rest,
    Where the tall, dark pines reach high,
And hear the breezes from the West
    Sighing through the tangled leaves.

Sweet Zephyr! why do you sound so sad?
    Isn’t your home among the flowers?
Don’t the bright June roses bloom,
    Eager for your kiss in the morning hours?

Look at your beautiful kingdom spread wide—
    Those sprawling valleys, green and bright,
And those free hilltops, where the loose
    White clouds are carried away.

And there the wide, full river flows,
    And many springs bubble fresh and sweet,
To refresh you when the midday sun
    Leaves you feeling weak beneath its heat.

You wind of joy, youth, and love;
    Spirit of the new awakening year!
The sun in his blue sky above
    Creates a bright path when you are near.

In the meadows, the buzzing bee is heard,
    The courting dove calls from the shade;
On your gentle breath, the newly fledged bird
    Takes off, half happy, half afraid.

Ah! you are like our unpredictable race;—
    When not a trace of pain or trouble
Clouds the bright smile of Nature's face,
    You love to sigh and murmur still.

Once, on England's beautiful shores, our ancestors
Did not leave their churchyards bare of shade
Or flowers; and aware of the deep,
Natural fear of man's final resting place—the grave,
With its chill and quiet—they arranged around,
To comfort the sorrowful spirit that lingered
Too heavily on the end of life, the forms and colors
Of natural beauty. There the yew,
Staying green even through winter's snow, spoke
Of immortality, and gracefully
The willow, a constant mourner, drooped;
And there the wandering woodbine wrapped around,
And there the ancient ivy. From the spot
Where the sweet young girl, in her blossoming years,
Was laid to rest with tears flowing, and hands
That shook as they placed her there, the rose
Grew modestly on a bowed stalk, more eloquent
Of her beauty than the grandest monument.
There children surrounded their playmate's grave
With pansies. On the infant's little bed,
Wet with maternal tears at its planting,
Emblematic of early sweetness and early death,
Nestled the humble primrose. Childless women,
And maidens who would not lift their reddened eyes—
Orphans, from whose young eyes the joy
Fled too soon,—silent lovers, who had given[Page 30]
All they lived for to the earth's embrace,
Often came to scatter
Their offerings—rue, rosemary, and flowers.

The groups of pilgrims who crossed the sea to keep
Their Sabbaths under the watch of God alone,
In his vast temple of wilderness,
Did not bring these simple, heartfelt customs
With them. Perhaps, as they buried their dead
By the grand, solemn edges of the old groves,
And the fresh virgin soil sprouted strange flowers
Around their graves; and the familiar shades
Of their own homeland, along with its usual blooms,
And herbs were missing, which a pious hand
Might have planted or scattered there, these gentle rites
Faded away. Now they’re barely known,
And rarely can you find
The tall larch sighing in the graveyard,
Or willow, trailing its branches low to conceal
The shining marble. Bare rows of graves
And sorrowful lines of monuments
Appear instead, where coarse grass, growing in between,
Sprouts dull green spikes, and in the wind
Whispers, while the neglected bramble nearby
Offers its berries to the schoolboy's hand,
In vain—they grow too close to the dead. Yet here,
Nature, scolding man's neglect,
Often plants, by the ancient mossy stone,
The wild rose, and upon the freshly turned earth
That covers the newer grave, the strawberry vine
Scatters its blossoms and displays
Her plump, red fruit. * * * * *

Oh, don’t think that only those
    Whose lives are calm and peaceful are blessed;
The Power who cares for humanity has shown
    A blessing for the eyes that cry.

The light of smiles will fill again
    The eyes that overflow with tears;
And the long hours of sorrow and pain
    Are promises of happier years.

There is a day of sunny rest
    For every dark and troubled night;
And sadness may stay as a guest,
    But joy will arrive with the morning light.

And you, who, over your friend's low grave,
    Let the bitter tears fall like rain,
Hope that a brighter, happier place
    Will bring him back to your arms again.

And don’t let the good person lose hope,
    Even when life denies its common gifts,—
Though with a pierced and broken heart,
    And rejected by people, he goes to die.

For God has marked each sorrowful day
    And counted every hidden tear,
And heaven’s long time of happiness will repay
    For all that His children suffer here.

When he, who rose up against wrongdoing,
Aroused the Hebrew tribes to escape,
Saw the beautiful land that had long been promised,
And knelt on the hills to die;

God made his grave, unknown to people,
Where Moab's rocks embrace a valley,
And laid the old seer to rest
To sleep while the world ages.

So still, whenever the good and just
Close their eyes on life and suffering,
Heaven watches over their resting remains
Until the pure spirit returns.

Though unnamed, trampled, and forgotten,
His servant's humble ashes rest,
Yet God has marked and sealed the place,
To bring its resident to the sky.

When insect wings sparkle in the sunlight
        Of the low sun, and mountain peaks shimmer,
    Oh, let me stroll by the clear valley stream,
        Wandering in the soft and warm light;
And while the wood-thrush sings his evening song,
Give me one quiet hour to celebrate the setting day.

    Oh, sun! that now
        Sets behind the western mountains in glory! Always beautiful
    And blessed is your light, whether you
        Color the eastern sky and cool night mist,
Until the bright day-star disappears, or high
You climb and cast your white radiance from mid-sky.

    Yet, your setting smiles are the loveliest, and fair,
        The most beautiful of all that earth sees, the colors
    That dance among the clouds, and fill the air,
        Lingering and deepening at the hour of dew.
Then the softest breezes breathe, and softly heard
Is the plaintive voice of streams, and the thoughtful note of birds.

    Those who roamed here, in the past, the vast forest,
        Felt, by such charm, their simple hearts won;
    They believed their fallen warrior, when he died,
        Went to bright islands beneath the setting sun;
Where the winds are always at peace, and skies are clear,
And purple-tinted clouds curtain the crimson air.

    So, with the glories of the fading day,
        Its thousand shimmering lights and changing colors,
    The memory of the brave who are gone
        Gently blends;—a perfect time for reflection
On such a serious topic, and sweet is the dream that casts
Brightness and beauty around the fate of the dead.

    For ages, in the silent forests here,[Page 34]
        Your beams shone down before the Native Americans came
    To live beneath them; in their shade, the deer
        Fed, unafraid of the arrow's deadly aim.
No tree was felled, in all that forest,
Except by the beaver's teeth, or the winds, or the rush of floods.

    Then came the hunting tribes, and you watched,
        For ages, their actions in the tough hunt,
    And hard-fought wars; green grass and silver brook
        Bore the first stains of blood; before your eyes
The warrior generations came and went,
And glory was stored up to last for many ages.

    Now they are gone, gone like your setting blaze
        Fading in the west, while night draws near,
    And with them the old stories of better days,
        And trophies of remembered power, are gone.
That field that yields the harvest, where the plow
Strikes the white bone, is all that remains of their story now.

    I stand on their ashes in your light,
        The descendant of another race, I stand,
    Beside a stream they cherished, this valley stream;
        And where the night fires of the armed band
Showed the gray oak occasionally, and war songs rang,
I teach the quiet woods the melodies of this new tongue.

    Farewell! but you shall return—your light
        Must shine on other changes, and witness
    The place of the crowded city still as night—
        States fallen—new empires built atop the old—
But you will never see these lands again
Shrouded by endless forests, and roamed by wild men.

Oh! If I could hope that the wise and pure of heart
Might hear my song without a frown, or think
My voice unworthy of the theme it attempts,—
I would take up the hymn to Death, and say
To the grim power: The world has slandered you
And mocked you. On your dim and shadowy brow,
They place an iron crown and call you king
Of terrors, and the destroyer of the world,
Deadly assassin, that strikes down the beautiful,
The loved, the good—that breathes on the lights
Of virtue set along the path of life,
And they go out in darkness. I have come,
Not with reproaches, not with cries and prayers,
Such as have pounded on your stern, unfeeling ear
from the beginning. I have come to speak
Your praises. It's true that I have wept
For your victories, and may weep them again:
And you will take from some I love a life
Dear to me as my own. Yet while the spell
Is on my spirit, and I talk with you
In the presence of all your trophies, face to face,
It is fitting that my voice should proclaim
Your nobler triumphs; I will teach the world
To thank you.—Who are your accusers?—Who?
The living!—they who have never felt your power,
And don’t know you. The curses of the wretch
Whose crimes are ripe, his suffering when your hand
Is upon him, and the hour he dreads has come,
Are written among your praises. But the good—[Page 36]
Does he whom your kind hand dismissed to peace,
Reproach the gentle force that took off
His chains, and opened his prison cell?

    Raise then the hymn to Death. Deliverer!
God has anointed you to free the oppressed
And crush the oppressor. When the armed chief,
The conqueror of nations, walks the world,
And it is transformed beneath his feet, and all
Its kingdoms merge into one mighty realm—
You, while his head is held high and his heart
Blasphemes, thinking his own right hand
Almighty, suddenly grasp him,
And the links of that strong chain
That bound mankind crumble; you break
Sceptre and crown, and turn his throne to dust.
Then the earth shouts with joy, and her tribes
Gather within their ancient bounds again.
Otherwise, the great ones of ancient times,
Nimrod, Sesostris, or the youth who pretended
His birth from Libyan Ammon, would still
Strike the nations with a rod of iron, and drive
Their chariot over our necks. You take revenge,
In your own time, for the wrongs of those who know
No other friend. Nor do you intervene
Only to put the sufferer to sleep,
Where he who made him miserable leaves him untroubled—
you strike down his tyrant too.
Oh, there is joy when hands that held the whip
Drop lifeless, and the cruel heart is cold.
You also cleanse the earth of its horrible
And ancient idolatries;—from the proud temples,
Each to his grave their priests depart, until none
Is left to teach their worship; then the fires
Of sacrifice grow cold, and the green moss
Creeps over their altars; the fallen images
Clutter the weedy courts, and in place of loud hymns,[Page 37]
Sung by kneeling multitudes, the wind
Shrieks through the empty aisles. When he
Who gives his life to guilt, and laughs at all
The laws that God or man has made, and around
Surrounds his seat with power and flaunts his wealth,—
Raises his atheistic front to mock Heaven,
And celebrates his shame in broad daylight,
You, in the pride of all his crimes, cut off
The horrible example. Touched by you,
The extortioner's hard hand lets go of the gold
Wrung from the worn-out poor. The perjurer,
Whose tongue was flexible, even now, and voluble
Against his neighbor's life, and he who laughed
And jumped for joy to see a spotless reputation
Destroyed by his own foul lies,
Are struck mute. He, who sold
His conscience to keep a worthless life,
Even while he revels in his escape,
Trembles, as, more direfully, at last,
Your steps catch up with him, and there is no time
For negotiations—nor will bribes loosen your grip.
Often, too, do you reform your victim long
Before his last hour. And when the reveler,
Mad in the pursuit of pleasure, stretches on,
And strains every nerve, and clears the path of life
Like the wind, you point him to the dreadful goal,
And shake your hourglass in his bleary eyes,
And halt him in mid-course. Your skeletal hand
Shows to the faint-hearted the right path,
And he is warned and fears to stray.
You place yourself between the ruffian and his crime
Your ghastly face, and his slack hand
Drops the raised knife. But, oh, most fearfully
Do you show Heaven's justice when your arrows
Drink up the fading spirit—then the hard
Of heart and violent of hand returns
The treasure to the friendless wretch he wronged.
Then from the writhing chest, you pluck[Page 38]
The guilty secret; lips, for ages sealed,
Are unfaithful to the dreadful trust at last,
And reveal it; the felon's last breath
Absolves the innocent man who bears his crime;
The slanderer, filled with horror and in tears,
Recalls the deadly slander he forged
To bring about his brother's ruin. You make
Your penitent victim speak to the air
The dark conspiracy that strikes at life,
And aims to overwhelm the laws; before the hour
Comes, and the dreadful sign of murder is given.

    Thus, from the beginning of time, you have been found
On virtue's side; the wicked, without you,
Would have been too strong for the good; the powerful of the earth
Would have crushed the weak forever. Trained in cunning
For ages, as each passing year brought
Its harmful lesson, they had filled the world
With their abominations; while its tribes,
Trodden down, brutalized, and despoiled,
Had worshipped them; sacrifice
Had smoked on many altars, temple roofs
Had echoed with the blasphemous prayer and hymn:
But you, the great reformer of the world,
Take off the sons of violence and fraud
In their early years, their knowledge half gained—
Before guilt had completely invaded the simple heart
God gave them at their birth, and blotted out
His image. You mark them, flushed with hope,
As on the brink of their vast plans
Doubtful and loose they stand, and strike them down.

          °           °           °           °           °

    Alas! I never thought that the stern power
Whose fearful praise I sang would test me like this
Before the strain was over. It must cease—
For he is in his grave who taught my youth
The art of verse, and in the bud of life[Page 39]
Introduced me to the muses. Oh, cut off
Too soon! when your reason was in its prime,
Ripened by years of hard work and studious search,
And observation of Nature's silent lessons, taught
Your hand to practice best the gentle art
To which you gave your laborious days,
And finally, your life. And so, when the earth
Received you, tears were in unyielding eyes
And on harsh cheeks, and those who thought your skill
Prolonged their death-hour shuddered and turned pale
When you were gone. This faltering verse, which you
Will not, as usual, overlook, is all I have
To offer at your grave—this—and the hope
To imitate your example, and to leave
A name of which the wretched will not think
As of an enemy's, whom they forgive
As all forgive the dead. Rest, therefore, you
Whose early guidance shaped my first steps—
Rest, in the embrace of God, until the brief sleep
Of death is over, and a happier life
Shall dawn to awaken your insensible dust.

    Now you are not—and yet the men whose guilt
Has wearied Heaven for vengeance—he who bears
False witness—he who takes the orphan's bread,
And robs the widow—he who spreads around
Polluted hands of mockery in prayer,
Are left to clutter the earth. Shuddering I look
At what is written, yet I do not erase
The scattered lines—let them stand,
The record of an idle daydream.

Weep not for the children of Scio who were killed;
Their blood, spilled by Turkish swords,
Doesn't cry out to Heaven in vain
For revenge on the murderer's head.

Though the warm red tide ran high
Between the flames lighting up the sky,
For every drop spilled, an armed man
Will rise to free the land or die.

And for every body thrown into the sea
To be food for the fish,
A hundred of the enemy will become
A feast for the mountain birds.

Greece will organize stern and sad rites
To commemorate that day along her coast,
Until the last link of slavery's chain
Is broken, never to be worn again.

An Indian girl was sitting where
Her lover, killed in battle, rested;
Her maiden veil, her own black hair,
Fell over eyes that cried;
And wildly, in her native tongue,
This sad and simple song she sang:

"I've cleared away the shrubs that grew
Too close above your sleeping head,
And broke the forest branches that threw
Their shadows over your bed,
So that, shining from the sweet southwest,
The sunbeams might brighten your rest.

"It was a long, grueling road
That brought you to the lovely shore,
Where you, in his peaceful home,
Have met your father's spirit:
Where eternal autumn rests
On golden woods and sunny skies.

"I was the one who made the embroidered moccasins,
That fitted you for that distant land;
I was the one who placed your bow and arrows
Beside your still cold hand;
Your bow was bent in many a battle,
Your arrows never wasted.

"With wampum belts, I crossed your chest,[Page 42]
And wrapped you in the bison's hide,
And laid the food you loved best,
In abundance by your side,
And dressed you boldly, as befits
A warrior of famous name.

"You’re happy now, for you’ve crossed
The long dark journey of the grave,
And in the land of light, at last,
Have joined the good and brave;
Among the flushed and soothing air,
The bravest and the loveliest there.

"Yet, often to your Indian maid
Even there your thoughts will drift down to earth,—
To her who sits where you were laid,
And weeps the hours away,
Yet can almost forget her sorrow,
To think that you still love her.

"And you, by one of those still lakes
That lie in a shining cluster,
Where the south wind scarcely ripples
The reflection of the sky,
A shelter for you and me you’ve made
Beneath the colorful shade.

"And you wait and watch to greet
My spirit sent to join the blessed,
And, wondering what holds my feet
From the bright land of rest,
Seem, in every sound, to hear
The rustling of my footsteps nearby."

Long ago,
    The plow was crowned with garlands;
The hands of kings and wise men
    Wove the wreath around;
Until those who sought riches scorned the effort
    That nourished the world,
And the bloodshed enriched the earth
    Where their green laurels thrived:
—Now the world is correcting its mistakes—
    The guilt that stains its history;
And mourns its wrongs amidst the burdens
    That shaped its earliest greatness.

The proud throne will fall,
    The crown will fade,
The peoples of the earth will humble
    The arrogance of those in power;
And War will set aside his grandeur;—
    The glory that heroes cherish,
The honor won in bloody battles
    Will vanish, decay, and cease.
Honor waits, over all the Earth,
    Through countless generations,
The craft that brings forth her harvests,
    And nurtures the hopeful nations.

And he handed them over to the Gibeonites, and they were hanged on the hill before the Lord; all seven of them died together, during the harvest season, in the early days of barley harvest.

And Rizpah, the daughter of Aiah, took sackcloth and spread it out for herself on the rock, from the beginning of the harvest until the rain fell on them from heaven. She didn’t let the birds of the air rest on them during the day or the wild animals of the field at night.

2 Samuel 21:10

Hear what the heartbroken Rizpah said,
As she watched the dead on the rocks of Gibeah.
The sons of Michal lay before her,
And her own beautiful children, even dearer:
They all died a shameful death,
And were stretched out on the bare rock, side by side.
And Rizpah, once the loveliest of all
Who bloomed and smiled in Saul's court,
All worn out from watching and hunger now,
And scorched by the sun on her haggard brow,
Sat sadly guarding their bodies there,
And murmured a strange and solemn tune;
The low, heartbroken, wailing sound
Of a mother mourning her slain children:

    "I have made the crags my home, and laid
My sackcloth bed on their barren backs;
I have eaten the bitter herb of the rocks,
And drank the midnight dew in my hair;
I have cried until I couldn’t cry anymore, and the pain[Page 45]
Of my burning eyes went to my head.
Seven blackened corpses lie before me,
In the blazing sun and the winds of the sky.
I have watched them through the scorching day,
And chased away the vulture and raven;
And the cormorant circled around,
Yet didn’t dare to land on the guarded ground.
And when twilight shadows fell,
I saw the hyena's fiery eyes,
And heard his stealthy footsteps beside me,
But at my shout, the savage fled:
And I threw the burning brand to scare
The jackal and wolf that howled in the night.

    "You were brutally murdered, my unfortunate sons,
By the hands of wicked and cruel people;
You fell, in your fresh and blooming prime,
All innocent, for your father's crime.
He sinned—but he paid for his guilt
When his blood was spilt by an unknown hand;
When he struggled against the heathen host in vain,
And fell with the flower of his people slain,
And the sceptre that should have been in his children’s hands
Passed away from his wronged lineage.

    "But I hoped that the cottage roof would be
A safe place for my sons and me;
And that while they quickly grew to manhood,
They would lift my thoughts from the sorrows of the past.
And my heart swelled with a mother’s pride,
As they stood in their beauty and strength by my side,
Tall like their father, with the princely grace
Of his strong form and the glow of his face.

    "Oh, what an hour for a mother's heart,
When the heartless ruffians tore us apart!
When I clung to their knees and cried and prayed,[Page 46]
And struggled and screamed to Heaven for help,
And held onto my sons with desperate strength,
Until the murderers finally loosened my grip,
And carried me away, breathless and weak,
In their iron arms, while my children died.
They died—and the mother who gave them life
Is forbidden to cover their bones with earth.

    "The barley harvest was nodding white,
When my children died on the rocky height,
And the reapers were singing on hill and plain,
When I came to my task of sorrow and pain.
But now the rainy season is near,
The sun is dim in the thickening sky,
And the clouds rest in sullen darkness
Where he hides his light at the western door.
I hear the howl of the wind that brings
The long dreary storm on its heavy wings;
But the howling wind and driving rain
Will beat on my houseless head in vain:
I will stay, to scare away
The beasts of the desert and birds of the air."

I saw an old man on his deathbed,
    His hair was thin and white, and on his forehead
A sign of the worries from many years;—
    Worries that were over and forgotten now.
And there was sadness all around, heads bowed,
And women wept openly, and children cried out loud.

Then an older man stood up and spoke,
    In shaky tones, to that grieving group,
"Why do you mourn for our elderly friend’s passing?
    You don’t grieve when the harvest is gathered,
Or when the orchards drop their ripe fruit,
Or when the golden trees shed their plentiful acorns.

"You don’t sigh when the sun, having completed his journey,
    His glorious journey, rejoicing earth and sky,
In the calm evening, when the winds are quiet,
    Sets where his rest areas are,
And leaves behind the beauty of his goodbye,
Across the warm-colored sky and the glowing mountaintops.

"Why then do you cry for him, who, having reached
    The limit of a man’s expected years, at last,
Having enjoyed life’s blessings and completed life’s work,
    Peacefully moved on to his final rest;
While the gentle memory of his good deeds,
Lingers like twilight shades after the bright sun has set?

"His youth was pure; his later years[Page 48]
    Filled with acts of kindness every day;
And watched by loving eyes, calm and wise,
    His late declining years faded away.
He happily let go of life, and went
To share the peaceful rest that awaits a life well lived.

"That life was joyful; every day he expressed
    Gratitude for the good life he had;
For a sick imagination didn’t control him,
    To torment him with false miseries.
No chronic pains tormented his old body,
For luxury and laziness had found no place with him.

"And I am glad he lived this long,
    And glad he has gone to his reward;
I cannot think that nature was unfair to him,
    Gently loosening the bond of life.
For when his hand became weak, and his eyes
Clouded with age, it was his time to go."

This little stream, that flows from the springs
Of that grove over there,
Plays on the slope for a while, and then
Goes bubbling back into the woods again,
Often drawing
My little feet to its water when I was young,
When the woods were dressed in early green,
And warm breezes came from the west,
Carrying the fresh scent of flowers,
My wandering steps would stray from home,
Playing by its grassy side,
Listening to the brown thrasher's spring song,
And picking violets at its edge,
With a blooming cheek and open brow,
As young and carefree, sweet stream, as you.

    And when I got older,
And fell in love with fame,
I sought out your banks, and tried
My first rough verses by your side.
Words can't express how bright and cheerful
The scenes of life looked to me.
Then glorious hopes, which now to mention
Would flush my cheeks,
Passed over me; and I wrote, up high,
A name I thought would never die.

id="page"     Years don’t change you. On that hill[Page 50]
The tall old maples, still green,
Show, in their grand decay,
How quickly the years have passed,
Since I first wandered there as a child, half afraid,
In the forest shade.
You ever joyful little stream,
You still ripple, leap, and babble;
And playing with the sands that line
The twists of your silver wave,
And dancing to your own wild tune,
You laugh at the passing time.
The same sweet sounds are in my ears
That my early childhood loved to hear;
As pure as your clear waters run,
As bright as they sparkle in the sun;
As fresh and thick the bending rows
Of plants that line your muddy banks;
The violet there, in soft May dew,
Rises up, as modest and as blue,
As green among your current's flow,
Floats the barely rooted watercress:
And the brown ground-bird, in your valley,
Still chirps as happily as back then.

    You don’t change—but I have changed,
Since first I roamed your pleasant banks;
And the serious stranger, back to see
The playground of his childhood,
Has hardly a trace left of him
Who once played on your edge.
The visions of my youth are gone—
Too bright, too beautiful to last.
I’ve tried the world—it no longer has
The romantic colors it once had.
Yet Nature has well kept the truth
She promised to my earliest youth.
The radiant beauty spread abroad[Page 51]
On all the glorious creations of God,
Looks fresh, to my sober eye,
Just as charming as it did back then.

    A few short years will pass,
And I, all trembling, weak, and gray,
Bowed to the earth, which waits to embrace
My ashes in its loving ground,
(If perhaps fate allows
My life to last this long)
May come for the last time to see
My childhood's favorite brook.
Then dimly in my eye shall gleam
The sparkle of your dancing stream;
And faintly in my ear shall fall
Your bubbling current's cheerful call;
Yet you will flow as happily and brightly
As when you first caught my infant eye.

    And I shall sleep—and on your side,
As ages after ages pass,
Children will try their early games,
And grow old and die.
But you, unchanged year after year,
Will play and shine here cheerfully;
Amid young flowers and tender grass,
Your endless youth will flow;
And, singing down your narrow valley,
You will mock the fading race of men.

The stormy March has finally arrived,
    With wind, and clouds, and shifting skies,
I hear the rush of the wind,
    As it sweeps through the snowy valley.

Ah, there are so few who praise,
    Wild stormy month! you;
Yet, even though your winds are loud and cold,
    You are a welcome month to me.

For you bring back to northern lands
    The joyful and glorious sun,
And you've joined the gentle crew
    And carry the gentle name of Spring.

And, during your reign of wind and storm,
    Many long, bright, sunny days appear,
When the changing winds are soft and warm,
    And the sky dresses in May's blue.

So sing out loud the bubbling streams
    And the full springs, freed from frost,
That, brightly leaping down the hills,
    Are just starting out to meet the sea.

The departing beauty of the year hides
    The gloomy threat of winter storms;
But even in your harshest glare
    There’s a hint of kind promise still.

You bring the hope of peaceful skies,
    And that soft time of sunny showers,
When the wide bloom lying on the earth,
    Seems brighter than our own world.

Oh, you’re meant for the grave; your looks shine
    Too brightly to last long; another Spring
Will dress up for people's eyes—but not for you—
    Sealed in a sleep that knows no awakening.
The fields hold no healing leaves for you,
    And the troubled ore has no mineral of power;
And those who love you wait in anxious sorrow
    Until the slow plague brings the final hour.
Glide softly to your rest then; Death should come
    Gently, to someone as gentle as you,
Like light winds wandering through blooming groves
    That detach the delicate blossom from the tree.
Close your sweet eyes, calmly, and without pain;
And we will trust in God to see you again.

"I know where the shy fawn stays
    In the depths of the shaded glen,
Where the leaves are wide and the thicket hides,
With its many branches and tangled sides,
    From the hunter's eye, well concealed.

"I know where the young May violet blooms,
    In its lonely and humble spot,
On the mossy bank, where the larch-tree spreads
Its broad dark branches in peaceful rest,
    Far over the quiet brook.

"And that shy fawn doesn’t flinch with fear
    When I sneak to her hidden home;
And that young May violet means a lot to me,
So I visit the silent stream nearby,
    To see the lovely flower."

Thus Maquon sings as he strolls
    To the hunting ground on the hills;
It's a song about his woodland girl,
With her bright black eyes and long black hair,
    And a voice like the music of streams.

He heads to the hunt—but wicked eyes
    Are watching from the denser woods;
For she was lovely, the one who smiled at his sighs,
And he has taken, from a hundred lovers, his prize,
    The flower of the forest maids.

The branches stir in the morning breeze,
    And the woods continue their song,
With the early chirping of many birds,
And the lively tune of the streamlet heard
    Where the hazels drip with dew.

And Maquon has promised his dark-haired girl,
    Before evening reddens the sky,
A fine red deer from the forest shade,
That bounds with the herd through grove and glade,
    Will lie at her cabin door.

The hollow woods, in the setting sun,
    Ring sharply with the bird's song;
And Maquon's woodland work is done,
And his arrows are spent, but the prize they've won
    He carries on his way home.

He stops by his bower—his eye spots
    Strange signs along the ground—
He lifts his burden and rushes
Through the veil of branches and leaves,
    And reaches its door with a leap.

But the vines are torn on its walls,
    And all from the young shrubs there
The leaves have been ripped by struggling hands,
And there hangs on the sassafras, broken and bent,
    One strand of the familiar hair.

But where is she who, at this calm hour,
    Always watched for his return?
She is not at the door, nor in the bower;
He calls—but all he hears on the flower
    Is the hum of the busy bee.

It's not a time for idle sorrow,
    Nor a time for tears to flow;
The horror that freezes his limbs is short—
He grabs his war axe and bow, and a bundle
    Of darts sharpened for the enemy.

And he looks for the prints of the ruffian’s feet,
    Where he took the maiden away;
And he goes down the fateful path faster
Than the wind that rushes the mist and sleet
    On the wild November day.

It was early summer when Maquon's bride
    Was taken from his door;
But finally, the maples are dyed in crimson,
And the grapes are dark on the cabin side—
    And she smiles by his hearth once more.

But far in the pine grove, dark and cold,
    Where the yellow leaves do not fall,
Nor does autumn shine in scarlet and gold,
There lies a mound of fresh dark soil,
    In the deepest shade of the area.

And the Indian girls who pass that way,
    Point out the grave of the ravisher;
"And how soon to the bower she loved," they say,
"Returned the maiden who was taken away
    From Maquon, the loving and brave."

It’s a hot day; the sun has soaked up
The dew on the morning grass;
There’s no rustling in the tall elm
That shades my home, and its cover
Barely cools me. Everything is quiet, except for the faint
And sporadic hum of the bee,
Landing on the wilting flowers, then instantly
Taking off again. The plants around
Can’t handle the intense heat: the tall corn
Rolls up its long green leaves; the clover droops
Its delicate leaves and lowers its blooms.
But far in the blazing sunshine rise the hills,
With all their woods, silent and strong,
As if the blazing heat and blinding light
Were just an element they cherished. Bright clouds,
Still pillars of the bright sky,—
Their bases on the mountains—their white tops
Shining in the far sky—light up
The air with reflected glow, making
The onlooker look away. For me, I lie
Wearily in the shade, where the thick grass,
Still untouched by the sun,
Holds some freshness, and I yearn for the wind
That still delays its arrival. Why so slow,
Gentle and chatty spirit of the air?[Page 58]
Oh, come and breathe some coolness and life
Onto the weary earth. Is it that in his caves
He hears me? Look, on that wooded ridge,
The pine is bending its proud top, and now
Among the nearby groves, chestnut and oak
Are swaying their green branches about. He’s coming!
Look, where the grassy meadow ripples!
The deep, oppressive silence of the scene
Breaks with a mix of countless sounds
And universal motion. He has arrived,
Shaking a shower of blossoms from the shrubs,
Carrying their fragrance; and he brings
Music of birds, the rustling of young branches,
The sound of swaying limbs, and the voice
Of distant waterfalls. All the green herbs
Are stirring in his breath; a thousand flowers,
By the roadside and the edges of the brook,
Nod cheerfully to each other; shiny leaves
Twinkle in the sun, as if the dew
Were still on them, and silver waters break
Into small waves and sparkle as he approaches.

It’s the place I came to find,—
    My ancestors' ancient burial ground
Before our weakened race,
    Ashamed, withdrew from these valleys.
It’s the place—I know it well—
Of which our old stories tell.

Here the upland bank extends
    A ridge toward the riverbank;
I know the rugged hills around,
    The meadows smooth and wide,—
The plains that stretch toward the southern sky,
Fenced east and west by mountains.

A white man, looking at the scene,
    Would call it a beautiful spot,
And praise the lawns, so fresh and green,
    Between the steep hills.
I don’t like it—I wish the plain
Lay back in its tall old trees again.

The sheep are grazing on the slopes,
    The cattle feed in the meadows,
And workers turn the crumbling soil,
    Or sow the yellow seed,
And prancing horses, in bright gear,
Race the shiny chariot along the path.

I think it would be a nobler sight[Page 60]
    To see these valleys covered in woods,
Their peaks bathed in golden light,
    Their trunks in grateful shade,
And herds of deer, bounding over
Hills and fallen trees below.

And then to see the lord of all,
    The forest hero, trained for battle,
Quivering and plumed, tall and agile,
    And marked with glorious scars,
Walk forth, in his realm, to confront
The wolf, and wrestle with the bear.

This bank, where the dead were laid,
    Was sacred when it was our land;
Here, the innocent Indian maid
    Brought wreaths of beads and flowers,
And the gray chief and wise seer
Worshipped the god of thunder here.

But now the wheat is green and tall
    On clods that once hid the warrior's body,
And scattered in the furrows lie
    The weapons of his rest;
And there, in the loose sand, lies
Of his strong arm the decaying bone.

Ah, the strong and brave
    Who carried their lifeless chief away—
Or the young wife, who, crying, gave
    Her firstborn to the earth,
Never thought that the pale race,
    Who now drain us, would guide the plow among their bones.

They drain us—yes—like April snow[Page 61]
    In the warm noon, we fade away;
And quickly they follow, as we go
    Towards the setting sun,—
Until they fill the land, and we
Are pushed into the western sea.

But I see a fearful sign,
    To which the white men are blind;
Their race might vanish like mine,
    And leave no trace behind,
Save ruins spread across the land,
And the white stones above the dead.

Before these fields were harvested and farmed,
    Our rivers flowed full to the brim;
The melody of waters filled
    The fresh and boundless woods;
And torrents rushed and streams played,
And fountains spouted in the shade.

Those pleasant sounds are gone now,
    The springs are silent in the sun;
The rivers, by the charred shore,
    Run with lessening flow;
The land our tribes are crushed to obtain
May yet become a barren desert.

Do you idly ask to hear
    At what gentle seasons
Nymphs give in, when lovers are near
    Making the tenderest pleas?
Ah, they often give their trust
    To the careless suitor;
Maidens' hearts are always soft:
    I wish men's were truer!

Pursue the fair one, when around
    Early birds are singing;
When, across all the fragrant ground,
    Early herbs are springing:
When the brookside, bank, and grove,
    All heavy with blossoms,
Shine with beauty, breathe of love—
    Pursue the shy maiden.

Pursue her when, with rosy blush,
    Summer evening is fading;
When, on streams that softly flow,
    Stars are gently winking;
When, through boughs that frame the bower,[Page 63]
    Moonlight gleams are stealing;
Pursue her, till the gentle hour
    Awakens a gentler feeling.

Pursue her, when autumn colors
    Tinge the wooded mountains;
When the falling leaves lie
    In the weedy fountain;
Let the scene, that shows how fast
    Youth is slipping away,
Remind her, before her bloom is gone,
    To secure her lover.

Pursue her, when the north winds blow
    At the window nightly;
When, inside the cheerful hall,
    The logs blaze brightly;
While the winter storm around
    Sweeps the landscape gray,
Sweeter in her ear will sound
    Love's delightful story.

Listen, Father, listen to your faint, suffering flock
Crying out to you from the desert and the rocks;
While those who want to harm your children worship
In blasphemous ceremonies under roofs of gold;
And the wide, beautiful lands, with gentle breezes
That nurture the grapes and wave the grain, belong to them.

Yet this mountain wilderness is better,
And this wild life filled with danger and distress—
Staying awake at night and fleeing in danger by day,
And gathering in the depths of the earth to pray,
Is far better than kneeling with them,
And participating in the impious rituals your laws condemn.

You, Lord, control the thunder; the solid ground
Heaves in waves when it feels your hand;
You throw nations against each other, then
Calm the furious world back to peace again.
Oh, soften the hard hearts of those who persecute your sons—
The killers of our wives and children.

Yet, mighty God, your anger will still be revealed
Openly, and will shake the earth violently.
Then the vile power of sinful priests and all
Their long-cherished idolatries will collapse.
You will lift up the trampled and oppressed,
And your freed saints will live in peace.

You who want to see the beautiful and the wild
blended in harmony on Nature's face,
climb our rocky mountains. Don’t let your feet
grow weary, because at their peaks
the beauty and majesty of the earth,
spreading wide below, will make you forget
the steep and laborious path. There, as you stand,
with the homes of people far below you, and around
the mountain summits, your expanding heart
will feel a connection to that higher world
to which you have been lifted, and you’ll share
in the broadening of your vision. You will look
upon the green and rolling tops of the forest,
and down into the secrets of the valleys,
and streams, which, with their bordering thickets, try
to conceal their winding paths. You’ll gaze, at once,
upon white villages, fields, and herds,
and busy roads, and then onto peaceful areas
that only hear the rushing water, and the wind,
and the eagle’s cry. There is a cliff
that looks like a part of some massive wall,
created by the hand that shaped the ancient world,
to divide its nations, and thrown down
when the flood drowned them. To the north, a path
leads you up the narrow rampart.
Steep is the western side, rough and untamed
with mossy trees and points of flint,
and many hanging rocks. But to the east,
sheer to the valley go down the bare old cliffs—
huge pillars that in the middle of the sky hold
their weather-worn tops, some dark[Page 66]
with the thick moss of centuries, and others
blindingly white where lightning
has shattered them. It is a daunting thing
to stand on the jutting edge and see
where storms and lightning, from that massive gray wall,
have sent down large rocks, and at the base
broken them into pieces, and to place your ear
over the dizzy drop, and hear the sound
of winds struggling with the woods below,
coming up like ocean murmurs. But the scene
is lovely around; a beautiful river there
wanders through the fresh and fertile meadows,
the paradise it made for itself,
working the soil for ages. On each side
the fields rise up to the hills; beyond,
above the hills, in the blue distance, rise
the mighty columns that hold up heaven.

There is a story about these revered rocks,
a sad tradition of lost love,
and sorrows that were felt and ended long ago,
when over these beautiful valleys the savage hunted
his prey in the dense woods. There was a girl,
the fairest of the Indian women, bright-eyed,
with a wealth of raven hair, a light form,
and a joyful heart. Around her cabin door
the vast old woods echoed with her song
and playful laughter all summer long.
She loved her cousin; such a love was seen,
by the morality of those stern tribes,
as incestuous, and she fought hard and long
against her feelings, reasoning with her heart,
as a simple Indian girl might. In vain.
Then her eyes lost their sparkle, and her step
lost its lightness, and the gray-haired men who passed
her dwelling wondered why they heard no more
the usual song and laughter from her, whose face[Page 67]
was like the cheerful smile of Spring, they said,
amidst the Winter of their age. She went
to weep where no one could see, and was not found
when all the joyful girls gathered to dance,
and all the hunters of the tribe were out;
nor when they harvested the golden ears from the husk
or when, by the riverbank,
they picked grapes and startled the wild shadows
with their laughter. The sharp-eyed Indian women
would whisper to each other, as they saw
her fading form, and say the girl will die.

One day to the bosom of a friend,
a playmate from her innocent youth,
she poured out her sorrows. "You know, and you alone,"
she said, "for I have confided to you all my love,
and guilt, and sorrow. I am tired of life.
All night I weep in darkness, and the morning
stares at me, as if I were a cursed thing,
that has no place on this earth. I hate
the games and the happy tasks that once
I cherished; the cheerful voices of my friends
seem unnaturally horrifying to me.
In dreams my mother, from the land of spirits,
calls me and scolds me. All who look at me
seem to know my shame; I cannot stand
their gazes; I cannot root out from my heart
the love that torments it so, and I must die."

It was a summer morning, and they went
to this old cliff. Around the rocks
lay garlands, ears of corn, and shaggy skins
of wolves and bears, the offerings of the tribe
made here to the Great Spirit, for they believed,
like worshippers of ancient times, that God
walks on the high places and cares[Page 68]
for the earth-overlooking mountains. She wore
the ornaments her father loved
to adorn the beauty of his bright-eyed girl,
which he asked her to wear when strange warriors came
to be his guests. Here the friends sat down,
and sang, all day, old songs of love and death,
and adorned the pale victim’s hair with flowers,
and prayed that her journey
to the peaceful world of sunshine might be safe and swift,
where no sorrow
burdens the heart and wearies the eyelids.
Beautiful lay the land of her tribe
beneath her—waters resting in the embrace
of the wide forest, and fields of corn
opening amid the leafy wilderness.
She gazed at it for a long time, and at the sight
of her own village peeking through the trees,
and her own home, and the cabin roof
of the man she loved with an unlawful love,
and for whom she came to die, a warm flood of tears
streamed from her eyes. But when the sun grew low
and the shadows of the hills stretched long, she threw herself
from the steep rock and perished. A grave was dug
on the southern slope of the mountain;
and there they laid her, in the very clothes
with which the girl dressed herself for death,
with the same wilting wildflowers in her hair.
And over the soil that covered her, the tribe
built a simple monument, a cone
of small loose stones. From then on, all who passed,
hunter, woman, and maiden, laid a stone
in silence on the pile. It stands there still.
And Indians from the distant West, who come
to visit where their ancestors are buried,
still tell the sorrowful story, and to this day
the mountain where the unfortunate maiden died
is called the Mountain of the Monument.

The day had been one of wind and storm;—
The wind settled down, and the storm had passed,—
And bending down from the bright and warm sky,
The great sun finally shone on the wide earth.
I stood on the hillside and looked
At a broad and beautiful scene,
Where the vast plain was surrounded by huge mountains,
And hills upon hills lifted their green heads,
With beautiful valleys carved out and villages nestled in between.

The raindrops sparkled on the trees around,
Whose shadows on the tall grass remained still,
Except when a shower of diamonds fell to the ground,
Shaken by the flight of a startled bird;
For birds were singing all around, and bees could be heard
Buzzing among the flowers; the cheerful stream sang
And chatted as it hurried towards the ocean;
To the gray oak, the squirrel clung, scolding,
And chirping from the ground, the grasshopper jumped up.

And from beneath the leaves that kept them dry,
Flew many sparkling insects here and there,
And darted up and down the butterfly,
Which seemed like a living blossom of the air.
The flocks came scattering from the thicket, where
The heavy rain had confined them; along the path
Strolled groups of playful and lovely young women;
The farmer swung his scythe or turned the hay,
And amidst the thick patches, his kids played.

It was a scene of peace—and like a spell,[Page 70]
That calm and golden sunlight fell
On the still woods that covered the hillside,
And the steep cliff rising like a wall,
And the glassy river and white waterfall,
And happy living things that roamed the bright
And beautiful scene; while far beyond them all,
In many lovely valleys, out of sight,
The same soft golden light streamed down from the blue sky.

I looked and thought the tranquility of the scene
Symbolized the peace that will someday be,
When over the continents and islands between,
The noise of war will cease from sea to sea,
And united nations will live in harmony;
When millions, once bowed in the dust,
Will no longer beg for their lives on bended knee,
Nor will the black stake be prepared, nor in the sun
Will the overworked captive suffer, hoping for his life to end?

For too long, amidst the clash of arms and pools of blood,
The earth has stood stunned,
The beautiful earth, which should only blush with flowers
And ripe fruits; but the storm cannot last forever,
And sweet is the sunshine once it’s past.
Look, the clouds roll away—they break—they fly,
And like the glorious summer light, cast
Over the wide landscape from the embracing sky,
The smile of heaven will be upon the peaceful world.

Before, in the northern wind,
The summer hair of the trees is gone,
The woods of Autumn, all around our valley,
            Have dressed themselves in glory.

            The mountains that surround,
In their wide sweep, the colorful landscape around,
Look like groups of giant kings, in purple and gold,
            That protect the enchanted ground.

            I wander the woods that crown
The upland, where the mixed beauty shines,
Where the cheerful company of trees looks down
            On the green fields below.

            My steps aren’t alone
In these bright paths; the sweet south-west, at play,
Moves, rustling, where the colorful leaves are scattered
            Along the winding way.

            And far in the sky, meanwhile,
The sun, that sends that breeze to wander here,
Shines down on the beautiful earth with his calm smile,—
            The sweetest of the year.

            Where now the solemn shade,
Greenery and gloom where many branches meet;
So refreshing, when the noon of summer made
            The valleys sick with heat?

            Let in through all the trees[Page 72]
Come the strange rays; the depths of the forest are bright?
Their sunny-colored leaves, in the breeze,
            Sparkle, like beams of light.

            The stream, recently hidden,
Where it bubbles through the shrubs, its waters running,
Shines with the reflection of its golden screen,
            And glimmers of the sun.

            But beneath that crimson tree,
A lover could whisper his passion to a listening maid,
And not notice, within its rosy canopy,
            Her blush of innocent embarrassment.

            Oh, Autumn! why so soon
Do the colors that make your forests joyful depart;
Your gentle wind and your bright sunny noon,
            And leave you wild and sad?

            Ah! it would be too blessed a fate
To wander forever in your colorful shades;
Amid the kisses of the soft south-west
            To roam and dream always;

            And leave behind the empty, petty strife
That drives men crazy—the struggle for wealth and power,
The passions and worries that wither life,
            And waste its precious hour.

They talk about fleeting pleasure—fine by me—
    Pain fades just as quickly: harsh, tough pain
Leaves, freeing its tired prisoner.
    The most intense agonies have the shortest rule;
    And after nightmares filled with terror, morning returns
With its rays of peace;
    Oblivion gently erases the mark,
Bringing an end to the strong secret pangs of shame:
Regret is the root of virtue; its beautiful growth
    Is the fruit of innocence and blessing:
So joy, though overwhelmed and bound, still frees
    His young limbs from the chains that restrain him.
Don't cry that the world changes—if it stayed
In a stable, unchanging state, that would truly be a reason to weep.

Yet one more smile, departing, distant sun!
    One warm smile through the soft, hazy air,
Before the loud winds run over the frozen ground,
    Or snow covers the bare meadows.
One smile on the brown hills and bare trees,
    And the dark rocks now stripped of their summer blooms,
And the blue gentian flower, that sways in the breeze,
    Alone, the last of her beautiful kind.
Just a few sunny days, when the bee
    Will buzz by the hedge that lines the path,
The cricket chirps on the russet field,
    And people will enjoy lingering in your light.
One last rich smile, and we will try to endure
The biting winter frost, and winds, and darkened sky.

I strap to my slim side
    The pistol and the curved sword,
And in my youthful bloom and pride
    I’ve come to take on the tasks of war.
And over there stands my fiery horse,
    That paws the ground and neighs to go,
My steed of Arab lineage,—
    I took him from the defeated enemy.

My mirror is the mountain spring,
    Where I fix my disheveled hair;
I bring my tarnished, dusty weapons,
    And wash away the bloodstains there.
Why should I protect from wind and sun
    This cheek, whose youthful glow is gone?
It was for one—oh, only one—
    I kept its radiance, and now he's dead.

But those who killed him—unaware
    Of cowardly murderers lurking nearby—
And left him for the birds to feast,
    Are still alive—and they must die.
They killed him—and my youthful years[Page 76]
    Are now pledged to Greece and revenge,
And many an Ottoman woman, in tears,
    Shall regret the Greek maiden's vow.

I played the lute in happier times,
    I led the joyful dance;
Ah! they may sway to cheerful tunes
    Whose hands can touch a lover's hand.
The march of armies rushing to battle
    Feels brighter than the dance to me;
The lute's sweet sound isn't as sweet
    As the fierce shout of victory.

Beautiful cloud! with folds so soft and lovely,
    Floating in the clear, calm air!
Your fluffy layers bathed in sunlight, while below
    Your shadow slowly glides over the valley;
Where, in the midst of their labor, the reapers pause
    As it cools over the grain.
Beautiful cloud! I wish I were with you
    In your calm way over land and sea:
To rest on your unrolling edges, and look
    At Earth as if it were an open book;
At streams that connect her lands with silver threads,
    And the long roads that seem to stretch across her territories;
And hear her buzzing cities, and the sound
    Of the great ocean crashing around.
Yes—I would sail on your air-bound vehicle
    To blooming places far away,
To where the sun of Andalusia shines
    On its own olive groves and vines,
Or where the gentle light of Italy's bright sky
    Smiles down upon her ruins.
But I would ask the winds to let us rest
    Over Greece long shackled and oppressed,
Whose sons have finally heard the call that comes
    From the old battlefields and graves,
And risen, drawn their swords, and with swift strikes
    Have dealt a fierce and desperate blow,
And the Ottoman power is cleaved, and the blow
    Has touched its chains, and they are broken.
Yes, we would linger there until sunset
    Comes to bathe the air in purple,
And you reflect upon the sacred ground
    The warm radiance streaming all around.

Bright meteor! made for the summer noontime!
    Your unmatched beauty will eventually fade.
The sun, which fills each glistening fold with light,
    Shall set, leaving you dark and cold:
The wind will tear at your edges, or you may scowl
    In the dark heavens when storms roll in;
And weep in rain, until man's searching eye
    Misses you, forever, from the sky.

When spring returned to the woods and fields,
    Bringing bloom and joy once more,
The bones of the murdered traveler were found,
    Deep down in a narrow glen.

The fragrant birch hung above him,
    Her tassels swaying in the sky;
And many spring blossoms emerged,
    Nodding carelessly by.

The redbird sang as he built
    His hanging nest overhead,
And fearless, near the tragic spot,
    The partridge led her young.

But there was weeping far away,
    And gentle eyes for him,
With many anxious days of watching,
    Were sorrowful and dim.

They knew little, those who loved him so,[Page 80]
    About the fearful death he faced,
When shouting across the snowy desert,
    Unarmed, and hard-pressed;—

Nor how, when around the frosty pole
    The northern dawn turned red,
The mountain wolf and wildcat crept
    To feast on the dead;—

Nor how, when strangers found his bones,
    They quickly made a bier,
And marked his grave with nameless stones,
    Without a single tear.

But they looked long, and feared, and wept,
    In his distant home;
And dreamed, waking with a start as they slept,
    For joy that he had come.

They searched for so long—but never saw
    His welcome step again,
Nor knew the fearful death he suffered
    Deep down in that narrow glen.

The sad and serious night
has her share of cheerful fires;
The glorious host of lights
walks the dark sky until she fades away;
All through her quiet hours, moving slowly,
her constellations rise, climb the heavens, and go.

Day also has many stars
to decorate his magnificent reign, just as bright as they:
Through the blue fields far away,
unseen, they follow in his fiery path:
Many a bright lingering star, as evening grows dim,
tells of the radiant group that rose and set with him.

And you see them rise,
Star of the Pole! and you see them set.
Alone, in your cold skies,
you hold your old unmoving position yet,
not joining the dance of that glittering train,
nor dipping your pristine orb in the blue western sea.

There, at the rosy birth of morning,[Page 82]
you look gently through the warming air,
and evening, that chases the day
around the earth, sees you watching there;
There, noon finds you, and the hour that calls
the shapes of polar flame to climb heaven's azure walls.

Similarly, beneath your gaze,
the actions of darkness and light occur;
High towards the starry sky
towns blaze—the smoke of battle blots out the sun—
The night storm rumbles over a thousand hills—
and the strong wind of day mixes sea and cloud.

On your unchanging light
the half-wrecked sailor, his compass lost,
fixes his steady gaze,
and sails confidently towards the welcoming shore;
And those who wander in treacherous places, by night,
are glad when you shine to guide their steps right.

And so, ancient poets,
sages, and hermits of the solemn woods,
saw in your beams
a beautiful symbol of that unchanging good,
that bright eternal beacon, by whose light
the traveler of time should chart his careful course.

Lament who will, in useless tears,
    The pace at which our moments fly;
I don’t mourn over the years that are gone,
    But watch the years that hurry by.

Look, how they come,—a mixed crowd
    Of bright and dark, but fleeting days;
Beneath them, like a summer cloud,
    The world changes as I gaze.

What! grieve that time has brought so soon
    The serious phase of manhood on!
As idly might I weep, at noon,
    To see the blush of morning gone.

Could I give up the hopes that shine
    In prospect like Elysian islands;
And let the joyful future go,
    With all her promises and smiles?

The future!—cruel would be the force
    Whose fate would tear you from my heart.
Thou sweetener of the present hour!
    We cannot—no—we will not part.

Oh, leave me, still, the rapid flight
    That makes the changing seasons bright,
The grateful speed that brings the night,
    The swift and joyful return of day;

The months that touch, with added grace,[Page 84]
    This little one at my knee,
In whose playful eye and speaking face
    New meaning every hour I see;

The years that over each sister land
    Shall lift the country of my birth,
And nurture her strength, until she stands
    The pride and example of the earth:

Until younger nations, for help,
    Shall cling about her ample robe,
And from her frown shall shrink in fear
    The crowned oppressors of the globe.

True—time will mark and whiten my brow—
    Well—I shall sit with older men,
And my good mirror will tell me how
    A grizzly beard suits me then.

And then, should no dishonor lie
    Upon my head, when I am gray,
Love will still watch my fading eye,
    And smooth the path of my decay.

Then hurry, Time—it's all kindness
    That speeds your winged feet so fast:
Your pleasures don’t last until they fade,
    And all your pains quickly pass.

You fly away and take our woes,
    And as your shadowy train departs,
The memory of sorrow grows
    A lighter burden on our hearts.

When the bright morning of creation began,
And the world woke up in God's smile,
And the empty realms of darkness and death
Were stirred deep down by His powerful breath,
And beautiful orbs and fiery spheres
Came from the empty abyss in droves,—
In the joy of youth as they shot away,
Through the vast stretches of space to play,
Their silver voices sang in harmony,
And this was the song the shining ones sang:

"Away, away, through the wide, wide sky,
The lovely blue fields that lie before us,—
Each sun with the worlds that circle around it,
Each planet, balanced on its turning pole;
With her green islands and white clouds,
And her waters that glisten like fluid light.

"For the source of glory reveals His face,
And the brightness fills limitless space;
And we drink in the luminous tides
In our vibrant air and our blooming sides:
Look, there the living beauties play;
Away, on our joyful path, away!

"Look, look, through our sparkling ranks up ahead,[Page 86]
In the endless blue, star after star,
How they shine and bloom as they rush by!
How the greenery spreads over each rolling mass!
And the gentle winds reveal their track,
Where small waves dance, and the young trees lean.

"And see where the brighter daylight pours,
How the rainbows hang in the sunny shower;
And the morning and evening, with their splendid colors,
Shift over the bright planets and spread their dew;
And 'twixt them both, over the crowded ground,
With her shadowy form, the night moves around!

"Away, away! in our blossoming havens,
In the gentle air surrounding our spheres,
In the seas and fountains that glow with morning,
See, Love is watching, and Life is born,
And countless beings are emerging from night,
To rejoice, like us, in motion and light.

"Glide on in your beauty, you youthful spheres,
To weave the dance that counts the years;
Glide on, in the glory and joy sent,
To the farthest edge of the cosmos,—
The endless visible smile of Him,
To whose brow your lamps are dim."

The groves were God's first temples. Before people figured out how to craft columns, and lay beams, and cover them with roofs—before they constructed grand ceilings to echo back the sound of hymns—in the dim woods, surrounded by coolness and silence, he knelt down and gave solemn thanks and requests to the Almighty. For his simple heart couldn't resist the sacred influences that came from the quiet twilight of that place, from the ancient gray trunks that reached high into the sky and intertwined their mossy branches, and from the sound of the unseen breeze that gently swayed all their green tops, which filled him with thoughts of limitless power and majesty. Ah, why should we, as the world matures, neglect God's ancient sanctuaries, and worship only in crowds, under roofs built by our fragile hands? Let me, at least, here in the shade of this old forest, offer one hymn—how wonderful it would be if it found favor in His ears. Father, your hand has raised these ancient columns; you created this green roof. You looked down upon the bare earth, and immediately, these beautiful rows of trees sprang up. They blossomed in your sunlight, swayed their green leaves in your breeze, and shot up toward heaven. The century-old crow, born in their treetops, grew old and died among their branches until, at last, they stand, as they do now: massive, tall, and dark, a fitting sanctuary for a humble worshipper to connect with his Creator. These dim arches, these winding aisles, hold no signs of human pride or grandeur. No fancy carvings showcase the arrogance of our vain race trying to alter your beautiful creations. But you are here—you fill the solitude. You are in the soft winds that glide along the treetops in music; you are in the cool breath that wafts from the depths of the forest, barely felt; the rough trunks, the ground, the fresh, moist earth—all are filled with you. Here, worship is constant; nature, in the tranquility you love, enjoys your presence. Silently, around, a solitary bird moves from perch to perch: and that clear spring, which softly wells up among its herbs, gently reaches the strong roots of half the mighty forest, says nothing of all the good it does. You haven't left yourself without a witness in these woods, showing your perfection. Grandeur, strength, and grace are here to speak of you. This mighty oak—by whose steadfast trunk I stand, feeling almost diminished—not a prince in all that proud old world beyond the sea has ever worn his crown as nobly as he wears the leafy crown your hand has given him. Nestled at his base is beauty that doesn't bloom in the harsh light of the sun. That delicate forest flower, with its fragrant breath and smile-like appearance, seems, as it emerges from the formless earth, to be a spark of the indwelling Life, a visible sign of the sustaining Love that is the essence of this vast universe. My heart is filled with awe when I think of the great miracle that continues around me in silence—the ongoing work of your creation, complete yet forever renewed. Written on your creations, I read the lesson of your own eternity. Look! Everything ages and dies—but observe how on the unsteady path of decay, youth moves forward—ever vibrant and beautiful youth in all its lovely forms. These tall trees sway just as proudly even though their ancestors decay beneath them. Oh, none of Earth's beauty is lost: upon her surface, even after countless centuries, the freshness of her distant beginnings remains and will continue to remain. Life mocks the idle hatred of his arch-enemy Death—indeed, he takes a seat upon the tyrant’s throne—the grave—and from the triumphs of his ghastly foe takes his own sustenance. For he emerged from your very essence and will have no end. There have been holy men who secluded themselves deep in the wilderness and devoted their lives to contemplation and prayer until they outlived their generation, appearing as aged as the ancient trees and rocks around them; and there have been holy men who believed it was not right to spend their lives this way. But let me often retreat to these solitary places and, in your presence, restore my fragile virtue. Here, its enemies, the passions, shrink back at your straightforward approach, tremble, and fall silent. Oh, God! When you shake the world with storms, set fire to the sky with falling lightning, or fill the swift dark whirlwind that uproots the woods and floods the villages with all the waters of the heavens; when, at your command, the great ocean rises and crashes upon the land, overwhelming its cities—who does not forget his pride, at the sight of these enormous displays of your power, and put aside his struggles and foolishness? Oh, spare me and mine from these harsh aspects of your presence, and let us not need the fury of the unleashed elements to remind us who governs them. May we meditate in these quiet shades on your gentler majesty and learn to align the order of our lives with the beautiful order of your works.

Oh, fairest of the country girls!
You were born in the shade of the forest;
Green branches and glimpses of the sky
Were all that your infant eyes saw.

Your games and wanderings as a child
Were always in the wild;
And all the beauty of the place
Lives in your heart and on your face.

The twilight among the trees and rocks
Is in the soft shade of your hair;
Your steps are like the wind, weaving
Its playful way through the leaves.

Your eyes are springs, where in their calm
And silent waters heaven is reflected;
Their lashes are the plants that gaze
At their young shapes in the stream.

The untouched depths of the forest
Are not purer than your heart;
The sacred peace that fills the air
Of those quiet places is found in you.

I broke the spell that held me for so long,
The beloved enchantment of song.
I decided that the poet's useless tales
Would no longer waste my youthful years,
For Poetry, though divinely inspired,
Is tied to poverty and shame.

I broke the spell—never thinking its power
Could trap me for another hour.
Oh, how foolish! How could I forget
That its influences were still around me?
For wherever I looked, all the while,
Was nature’s endless smile.

Still, the beauty and light of flowers and streams
Kept appearing before my eyes,
Along with the glory of the stars and sun;—
These things and poetry are one.
Before the world had held me for too long,
They pulled me back to the love of song.

I looked up at the beautiful sky
And the green mountains all around,
And thought that when I lie down
In the quiet ground,
It would be nice, in flowery June,
When streams are singing a happy tune,
And the groves are full of joyful sound,
For the sexton to break the rich, green turf
To make my grave.

A cell in the frozen earth,
A coffin carried through sleet,
And icy dirt piled on top,
While wild storms rage—
No!—I won’t think of these—
Let the sky be blue and the breeze soft,
Earth green beneath my feet,
And may the damp soil be gently pressed
Into my narrow resting place.

There, through the long summer days,
The golden light should shine,
And thick green plants and clusters of flowers
Stand in all their beauty.
The oriole should build and sing
His love song right beside my spot;
The lazy butterfly
Should rest there, and I’d hear
The buzzing bee and hummingbird.

And what if cheerful shouts at noon[Page 94]
Come from the village?
Or songs from girls beneath the moon
Mixed with fairy laughter?
And what if, in the evening light,
Engaged couples walk in sight
Of my low grave?
I’d wish that the lovely scene around
Might know no sadder sight or sound.

I know, I know I won’t see
The season’s beautiful show,
Nor will its brightness shine for me,
Nor its wild music play;
But if my friends come to weep
Around my resting place,
They might not rush to leave.
Soft breezes, songs, light, and blooms
Should keep them lingering by my grave.

These should bring to their gentle hearts
The thought of what has been,
And speak of one who cannot share
The joy of the scene;
Whose part, in all the beauty that fills
The summer hills,
Is—that his grave is green;
And their hearts would rejoice
To hear again his living voice.

Come take our boy, and we will go
    Right outside our cabin door;
The winds will carry to us, as they blow,
    The sounds from the shore;
And we will kiss his young blue eyes,
And I will sing to him as he lies,
    Songs that were made long ago:
I'll sing, in his delighted ear,
The island tunes you love to hear.

And while I stumble through the words,
    You’ll teach me your country’s language;
It’s not as soft, but much sweeter
    Than my own native speech:
For you didn’t know another tongue,
When, hardly twenty moons ago,
    On Tahiti’s beach,
You came to woo me to be yours,
With many a meaningful look and gesture.

I understood your meaning—you praised
    My eyes, my black hair;
Ah! I’m glad they caught your gaze,—
    But yours were even fairer!
I’m happy to see my child has
Your soft blue eyes and sunny hair,
    And when I see
His white brow and blooming cheek,
I feel a joy I can’t express.

Come talk about the maids of Europe with me,[Page 96]
    Whose necks and cheeks, they say,
Are more beautiful than the sea,
    White foam and crimson shell.
I’ll style my simple dress like theirs,
And tie my jet-black hair like them,
    A look to please you well:
And for my dark brow, I’ll braid
A bonnet like an English maid.

Come, for the low sunlight is calling,
    We’re losing the pleasant hours;
It’s lovelier than these cottage walls,—
    That spot among the flowers.
And I will learn from you a prayer,
To Him who gave us such a lovely home,
    A life as blessed as ours—
The God who made, for you and me,
This sweet lonely isle in the sea.

Oh! how gloriously you stand there,
    Beautiful, boundless sky!
That, stretching wide over earth and air,
    And curved around the horizon,
With your bright dome and sapphire walls,
You overshadow and encompass all.

Far, far below you, tall old trees
    Rise up, and ancient structures stand,
And hills, whose old peaks freeze
    In the harsh light and cold.
The eagle soars to his highest point,
Yet you extend far beyond his flight.

You have your moments of anger—
    The storm has made its lofty throne with you,
Beyond that soft blue curtain lie
    His stores of hail and sleet.
From there, the destructive lightning strikes,
And that's where the fierce hurricanes awaken.

Yet you are generous with smiles—
    Smiles, sweeter than your stern frowns:
The Earth sends, from all her thousand islands,
    A cheer at your return.
The glory that flows down from you,
Covers, in deep joy, the land and sea.

The sun, the brilliant sun is yours,[Page 98]
    The show that brings and ends the day,
The clouds that change and shine around him,
    The breezes that fan his path.
From there, the thoughtful stars gaze, and there
The gentle moon walks the quiet air.

Sunny Italy might boast
    The beautiful colors that blush her skies,
And lovely, along the Grecian coast,
    May your blue pillars rise.
I only know how fair they stand
Around my own beloved homeland.

And they are beautiful—there's a charm about them,
    That the proud green earth does not have—
With all the shapes, hues, and airs,
    That linger in her sweetest places.
We gaze upon your calm, pure sphere,
And read of Heaven's eternal year.

Oh, when, among the crowd of people,
    The heart grows weary of superficial joy,
How willingly we turn away then
    From this cold earth,
And look into your azure depths,
For places of innocence and rest!

I can't forget how passionately I worshipped the idea of poetry and fame. Every time I looked at the beauty of the earth, sky, and ocean, it stirred my emotions like wind feeding a fire. I had deep thoughts during my youthful days, wandering through twilight mountain groves for a long time. How alive I felt, and how my heart raced when the spirit of song descended upon me. Among the rugged hills that had listened for ages to the rushing pebble-strewn river below, where the kingfisher called out and the gray cliffs sparkled, I stood in awe, breathless at the scene. Until I sensed a dark force creeping into my daydreams from its throne in the depths of that harsh solitude. It flowed through my lips, in that whirlwind of emotion, producing lofty or tender melodies, even though they were simple and rough. Bright visions! I mingled with the world, and you faded away; I’m no longer your pure rural worshipper. In the places where you once felt so present, you now shrink away from the burden of care on my brow. In the old mossy groves on the mountainside, in quiet glens where the waters lament, by the shade of the rock and the rush of the fountain, I look for your beloved presence, but I search in vain. Oh, don’t leave me, abandoned and forever forsaken, your student and victim to life and its sorrows! But sometimes come back, and with mercy awaken the glories you revealed to my younger years.

Fair insect! you, with your delicate legs spread out,
    And blood-sucking bill and gossamer wing,
Murmur softly as you glide around,
    In heartless ears, you share many a sad tale,
And explain how little our big veins should bleed,
If we would only give in to your bitter need.

I admit unwillingly, and, worse still,
    Men listen to your complaints with anger;
You receive many a swat and a curse,
    For claiming you’re gaunt, starving, and faint:
Even the old beggar, as he begs for food,
Would kill you, unfortunate stranger, if he could.

I call you stranger, because I think,
    The town doesn't have the honor of such a proud origin—
You come from Jersey meadows, fresh and green,
    The child of the gods, though born on earth;
For Titan was your father, and fair she,
The ocean nymph that nurtured your infancy.

Beneath the rushes was your cradle swung,[Page 101]
    And when, at last, your delicate wings grew strong,
They unfurled to gentle breezes,
    Rising in the sky and carrying you softly along;
The south wind breathed to guide you on your way,
And danced and glimmered beneath the billowing bay.

Calmly rose the city spires in the distance,
    Bringing the deep murmur of its crowd of men,
And as its pleasant aromas reached your senses,
    They felt like the perfumes of your native marsh.
Fair lay its busy streets, and at the sight,
Your tiny song grew sharper with delight.

Finally, your wings fluttered over Broadway—
    Ah, there were fairy steps, and white necks kissed
By playful breezes, and eyes with a captivating gaze
    That shone through snowy veils like stars through mist;
And fresh as morning, on many a cheek and chin,
Bloomed bright blood through the translucent skin.

Surely these were sights to stir an anchorite!
    What! do I hear your delicate voice complain?
You wail when I talk about beauty's light,
    As if it brought back memories of pain:
You’re a contrary creature—well—come closer,
And share your tale of sorrow in my ear.

What do you say—slanderer!—does makeup make you sick?
    And China bloom is at best sorry fare?
And Rowland's Kalydor, if slathered on thick,
    Poisons the thirsty fool that seeks your blood?
Go! It was a fair punishment for your crime—
But avoid such sacrilege next time.

That bloom was meant to be admired, not touched;[Page 102]
    To be worshipped, not approached, that radiant white;
And well might sudden justice fall on those
    Who dared, like you, so impiously to bite.
You should have gazed from a distance and admired,
Murmured your praise and then retired.

You’re welcome in the town—but why come here
    To drain a fellow poet, gaunt like you?
Alas! the little blood I have is precious,
    And thin will be the meal drawn from me.
Look around—the pale-eyed sisters in my cell,
Your old friends, Song and Famine, dwell.

Try some plump alderman, and drink their blood
    Enriched by fine wine and expensive food;
On well-fed skin, sleek as your native mud,
    Fix your light pump and press your freckled feet:
Go to the men for whom, in the ocean's hall,
The oyster breeds, and the green turtle sprawls.

There corks are popped, and the red wine flows
    To fill the swollen veins for you, and now
The healthy cheek and now the ruddier nose
    Shall tempt you, as you flit around the brow;
And when the hour of sleep brings its calm,
No angry hand shall rise to swat your wings.

I’m back on my hometown hills again,
    Wide, rounded, and green, basking in the summer sky
With waving grass and grains,
    Orchards, and beech forests soaking up the sun,
While deep in the sunless valleys,
Where streams rush over shallow beds, unseen.

A little voice and sparkling eyes are nearby,
    And the restless feet of one who, now,
Is picking flowers on her fourth bright birthday;
    Joy lights up her young face,
As the vibrant scene unfolds before her eyes,
Emerged and spread in greenery and light.

I’ve taught her, with delighted eyes,
    To gaze at the mountains,—to appreciate,
With deep affection, the vast, clear sky,
    And clouds rolling across its blue depths,—
To love the sound of water, and to listen
To the melody of the wind with a captivated ear.

Here, I have escaped the city’s suffocating heat,[Page 104]
    Its awful noises, and its polluted air;
And, where the season’s milder warmth kicks in,
    And breezes sweep the forest edges,
Carrying the song of birds and the sound of running streams,
I’ve come for a while to wander and dream.

Oh, burn your fiercest, sun! you can’t stir,
    In this pure air, the unseen plague that wanders.
The corn leaf and the maple branch only gain,
    From your strong rays, a deeper, shinier green.
The mountain wind, which doesn’t weaken in your light,
Sweeps away the blue mists of illness.

The mountain wind! the most spiritual thing of all
    The vast earth knows; when, in the sticky weather,
He descends from his expansive blue hall,
    He feels like the breath of a heavenly place!
As if health and rejuvenation flow
From heaven’s wide-open gates to the world below.

The sad days have arrived, the hardest time of the year,
With howling winds, bare trees, and fields brown and dry.
Piled in the dips of the grove, the autumn leaves are dead;
They rustle with the swirling gusts and the footsteps of rabbits.
The robin and the wren have flown away, the jay’s gone from the bushes,
And the crow calls from the treetops throughout the gloomy day.

Where are the flowers, the lovely young flowers, that recently bloomed and thrived
In brighter light and gentler air, a beautiful sisterhood?
Alas! they all rest in their graves, the gentle flowers
Lying in their humble beds, alongside the fair and good among us.
The rain is falling where they rest, but the cold November rain
Does not bring back the lovely ones from the dark earth.

The windflower and the violet, they vanished long ago,
And the brier-rose and the orchid died in the summer light;
But on the hill, the goldenrod and the aster in the woods,
And the yellow sunflower by the brook stood in autumn's beauty,
Until frost fell from the clear, cold sky, just like a plague on people,
And their brightness disappeared from the upland, glade, and glen.

And now, when the calm, mild days come, as such days will,[Page 106]
To call the squirrel and the bee from their winter homes;
When the sound of falling nuts is heard, though all the trees are still,
And the waters of the stream sparkle in the smoky light,
The south wind searches for the flowers it carried with its fragrance,
And sighs to find them no longer in the woods and by the stream.

And then I think of someone who died in her youthful beauty,
The lovely, gentle flower that grew up and faded by my side:
In the cold, damp earth, we laid her when the forest shed its leaves,
And we cried that someone so beautiful should have such a short life:
Yet it seemed fitting that one, like our young friend,
So gentle and so lovely, should perish with the flowers.

When freedom was driven from the land of Spain,
By Spain's corrupt sons,
Who willingly returned
To bear the chains that had just been broken;
Romero broke the sword he carried—
"Go, loyal blade," the warrior said,
"Go, undishonored, never again
Shall the blood of man stain you red:
I mourn for that already spilled;
And it pains me to know,
That faithful friend and noble enemy
Have only bled to strengthen
The yoke that Spain has worn for so long.
Let anyone wear it in fear—
I will not wear it, having been free;
The perjured Ferdinand will hear
No oath of loyalty from me."
Then, pursued by the hounds of power,
Romero sought a safe retreat,
Where the stark peaks of Nevada rise
Above the beauty at their feet.
There once, when the crimson light of sunset
Lay on his cabin,
When even on the mountain's slope
The free winds were finally at rest,
And he could hear the river flow
From the peaceful paradise below;
Rekindled by his former fires,
He crafted this rough but solemn verse:

"Here I will make my home—because at least I see,
On this wild side of the Sierra, the steps of Freedom;
Where the locust chirps unbothered under the untended lime,
And the cheerful bee hides the bounty of the mountain thyme from humans;
Where the clean winds come and go, and the wild vine roams freely,
A wanderer from the places of people, she still lives with Nature."

"I see the valleys, Spain! where your mighty rivers flow,
And the hills that raise your crops and vineyards up to the sun,
And the flocks that drink from your streams and scatter across the greenery,
Where your plains stretch out, marked by sheep paths and olive groves in between:
I see your fig trees basking, with the beautiful pomegranate nearby,
And the scent of your lemon groves almost reaches me here."

"Beautiful—beautiful—but fallen Spain! It fills my heart with sorrow,
As I reflect on all you could have been, and see what you have become;
But the struggle is over now, and all the good and brave,
Who would have lifted you up, are gone, to exile or the grave.
Your wool is for the monks, your grapes for the convent feast,
And the riches from all your harvest fields go to the pampered lord and priest."

"But I will see the day—it will arrive before I die—
I will see it with my gray hair and with my aged eyes;—
When the spirit of the land will leap to freedom,
Like that fountain rises from the darkness of the earth:
And to my mountain home, the voices of the free
Will soar, like the thunder of the sea from the shore."

Decolor, obscuris, cheap, does not adorn the hair of kings, nor the white neck of a virgin, nor does it shine through the remarkable clasp. But if you see the wonders of that dark stone, then it surpasses beautiful adornments and whatever the Indian searches for in the red seaweed along its shores.

CLAUDIAN.

I sat next to the glowing fireplace, freshly piled
    With Newport coal, and as the flames brightened
—the colorful flames—danced and jumped,
    I thought of rainbows and the northern lights,
Moore's Lalla Rookh, the Treasury Report,
And other brilliant things like that.

And finally, I thought of that beautiful island which sent
    The mineral fuel; on a summer day
I saw it once, exhausted from heat and travel,
    Scratched by dwarf oaks along the narrow way;
Now dragged through sand, now jolted over stone—
A rough road through rugged Tiverton.

And the air got hotter, and the deep-worn path grew[Page 110]
    Hollower, and horrified, I wondered,
Where will this dreary passage lead me?
    This long dull road, so narrow, deep, and hot?
I looked to see it dive right into the earth;
I looked—but saw a much more welcome sight.

Like a soft mist on the evening shore,
    Suddenly a lovely island appeared before me,
Smooth and covered with tender greenery,
    As if just risen from its calm inland bay;
Sloping gently on either side to the grassy edge,
And the small waves that played with the sedge.

The barley had just been harvested—its heavy sheaves
    Laying on the stubble field—the tall corn stood
Dark in its summer growth, shaking its leaves—
    And bright sunlight played on the young woods—
For fifty years ago, the old men say,
The Briton cut down their ancient groves.

I saw where fountains refreshed the green land,
    And where the pleasant road, from house to house,
With rows of cherry trees on either side,
    Wandered through that fertile region—
Rogue's Island once—but when the rogues were gone,
Rhode Island became its new name.

Beautiful island! then it seemed
    Like a lovely stranger—it has become a friend.
I gazed at its smooth slopes, but never imagined
    How soon that bright, magnificent island would send
The treasures of its depths across the sea,
To warm a poet's room and brew his tea.

Dark anthracite! that reddens on my hearth,[Page 111]
    You slumbered long in those island mines;
But now you have come forth to move the earth,
    And put to shame those who mean you harm.
You will be coals of fire to those who hate you,
And warm the shins of all who underestimate you.

Yes, they wronged you badly—those who mocked
    Your honest face and claimed you wouldn’t burn;
Of carving you into fireplace mantels they talked,
    And grew profane—and swore, in bitter scorn,
That men might retreat to your inner caves,
And there, unsinged, survive the day of fire.

Yet your greatness is near. I pause to say,
    That I too have seen greatness—even I—
Shook hands with Adams—stared at La Fayette,
    When, bareheaded, in the hot noon of July,
He would not allow anyone to hold an umbrella for him,
For which three cheers erupted from the crowd before him.

And I have seen—not many months ago—
    An eastern Governor in a fancy hat
And military coat, such a glorious sight!
    Ride out to check the military reviews, and ah!
How often he smiled and bowed to Jonathan!
How many hands were shaken and votes were secured!

He was a great Governor—you too shall be
    Great in your time—and your fame will spread wide,
And swiftly; the farthest Maine shall hear of you,
    And cold New Brunswick will rejoice at your name,
And, faintly through its sleets, the weeping island
That sends the Boston folks their cod shall smile.

For you will forge vast railways and heat[Page 112]
    The hissing rivers into steam, and drive
Huge masses from your mines on iron feet,
    Walking their steady way as if alive,
Northward, until everlasting ice surrounds you,
And south as far as the grim Spaniard allows you.

You will create mighty engines that sail the sea,
    Like its own monsters—boats that for a guinea
Will take a person to Havre—and you shall be
    The moving soul of many a spinning jenny,
And work your shuttles until a bard can wear
As fine a suit of broadcloth as the mayor.

Then we will laugh at winter when we hear
    The grim old miser rant about our homes:
You, from that "ruler of the inverted year,"
    Shall take the knotted scepter Cowper gave,
And pull him from his sled, and drag him in,
And melt the icicles from off his chin.