Chapter 2

[Footnote A: The Laplanders are said to entertain the idea that the coruscations of the Aurora Borealis, are occasioned by the sports of the fishes in the polar seas.]

[Footnote B: The loss of the United States Sloop-of-War Hornet, in the Gulf of Mexico, 1829, suggested this passage. She was supposed to have gone down in a hurricane, but as nothing is positively known on the subject, it is not beyond lawful poetical license to imagine, at least in a dream, that the powder magazine was set on fire by the lightning, and the ship rent in pieces, by the explosion.]

The First Frost of Autumn.

At evening it rose in the hollow glade, Where wild-flowers blushed 'mid silence and shade; Where, hid from the gaze of the garish noon, They were slily wooed by the trembling moon. It rose--for the guardian zephyrs had flown, And left the valley that night alone. No sigh was borne from the leafy hill, No murmur came from the lapsing rill; The boughs of the willow in silence wept, And the aspen leaves in that sabbath slept. The valley dreamed, and the fairy lute Of the whispering reed by the brook was mute. The slender rush o'er the glassy rill, As a marble shaft, was erect and still, And no airy sylph on the mirror wave, A dimpling trace of its footstep gave. The moon shone down, but the shadows deep Of the pensile flowers, were hushed in sleep. The pulse was still in that vale of bloom, And the Spirit rose from its marshy tomb. It rose o'er the breast of a silver spring, Where the mist at morn shook its snowy wing, And robed like the dew, when it woos the flowers. It stole away to their secret bowers.

With a lover's sigh, and a zephyr's breath, It whispered bliss, but its work was death: It kissed the lip of a rose asleep, And left it there on its stem to weep: It froze the drop on a lily's leaf, And the shivering blossom was bowed in grief. O'er the gentian it breathed, and the withered flower Fell blackened and scathed in its lonely bower; It stooped to the asters all blooming around, And kissed the buds as they slept on the ground. They slept, but no morrow could waken their bloom, And shrouded by moonlight, they lay in their tomb.

The Frost Spirit went, like the lover light, In search of fresh beauty and bloom that night Its wing was plumed by the moon's cold ray, And noiseless it flew o'er the hills away. It flew, yet its dallying fingers played, With a thrilling touch, through the maple's shade; It toyed with the leaves of the sturdy oak, It sighed o'er the aspen, and whispering spoke To the bending sumach, that stooped to throw Its chequering shade o'er a brook below. It kissed the leaves of the beech, and breathed O'er the arching elm, with its ivy wreathed: It climbed to the ash on the mountain's height-- It flew to the meadow, and hovering light O'er leafy forest and fragrant dell, It bound them all in its silvery spell. Each spreading bough heard the whispered bliss, And gave its cheek to the gallant's kiss-- Though giving, the leaves disdainingly shook, As if refusing the boon they took.

Who dreamed that the morning's light would speak, And show that kiss on the blushing cheek? For in silence the fairy work went through-- And no croning owl of the scandal knew: No watch-dog broke from his slumbers light, To tell the tale to the listening night. But that which in secret is darkly done, Is oft displayed by the morrow's sun; And thus the leaves in the light revealed, With their glowing hues what the night concealed. The sweet, frail flowers that once welcomed the morn, Now drooped in their bowers, all shrivelled and lorn; While the hardier trees shook their leaves in the blast-- Though tell-tale colors were over them cast. The maple blushed deep as a maiden's cheek, And the oak confessed what it would not speak. The beech stood mute, but a purple hue O'er its glossy robe was a witness true. The elm and the ivy with varying dyes, Protesting their innocence, looked to the skies: And the sumach rouged deeper, as stooping to look, It glanced at the colors that flared in the brook. The delicate aspen grew nervous and pale, As the tittering forest seemed full of the tale; And the lofty ash, though it tossed up its bough, With a puritan air on the mountain's brow, Bore a purple tinge o'er its leafy fold, And the hidden revel was gayly told!

The Sea-Bird.

Far, far o'er the deep is my island throne, Where the sea-gull roams and reigns alone; Where nought is seen but the beetling rock, And nought is heard but the ocean-shock, And the scream of birds when the storm is nigh, And the crash of the wreck, and the fearful cry Of drowning men, in their agony. I love to sit, when the waters sleep, And ponder the depths of the glassy deep, Till I dream that I float on a corse at sea, And sing of the feast that is made for me. I love on the rush of the storm to sail, And mingle my scream with the hoarser gale. When the sky is dark, and the billow high, When the tempest sweeps in its terror by, I love to ride on the maddening blast-- To flap my wing o'er the fated mast, And sing to the crew a song of fear, Of the reef and the surge that await them here.

When the storm is done and the revel is o'er, I love to sit on the rocky shore, And tell to the ear of the dying breeze, The tales that are hushed in the sullen seas; Of the ship that sank in the reefy surge, And left her fate to the sea-gull's dirge: Of the lover that sailed to meet his bride, And his story gave to the secret tide: Of the father that went on the trustless main, And never was met by his child again: Of the hidden things which the waves conceal, And the sea-bird's song can alone reveal.

I tell of the ship that hath found a grave-- Her spars still float on the restless wave, But down in the halls of the voiceless deep, The forms of the brave and the beautiful sleep. I saw the storm as it gathered fast, I heard the roar of the coming blast, I marked the ship in her fearful strife, As she flew on the tide, like a thing of life. But the whirlwind came, and her masts were wrung, Away, and away on the waters flung. I sat on the gale o'er the sea-swept deck, And screamed in delight o'er the coming wreck: I flew to the reef with a heart of glee, And wiled the ship to her destiny. On the hidden rocks like a hawk she rushed, And the sea through her riven timbers gushed: O'er the whirling surge the wreck was flung, And loud on the gale wild voices rung. I gazed on the scene--I saw despair On the pallid brows of a youthful pair. The maiden drooped like a gentle flower, When lashed by the gale in its quivering bower: Her arms round her lover she wildly twined, And gazed on the sea with a wildered mind. He bent o'er the trembler, and sheltered her form, From the plash of the sea, and the sweep of the storm; But woe to the lover, and woe to the maid, Whose hopes on the treacherous deep are laid! For the Sea hath a King whose palaces shine, In lustre and light down the pearly brine, And he loves to gather in glory there, The choicest things of the earth and air. In his deep saloons with coral crowned, Where gems are sparkling above and around, He gathers his harem of love and grace, And beauty he takes to his cold embrace. The winds and the waves are his messengers true. And lost is the wanderer whom they pursue. They sweep the shore, they plunder the wreck, His stores to heap, and his halls to deck. Oh! lady and lover, ye are doomed their prey-- They come! they come! ye are swept away! Ye sink in the tide,--but it cannot sever The fond ones who sleep in its depths for ever!

Wild! wild was the storm, and loud was its roar, And strange were the sights that I hovered o'er: I saw the babe with its mother die; I listened to catch its parting sigh; And I laughed to see the black billows play With the sleeping child in their gambols gay. I saw a girl whose arms were white, As the foam that flashed on the billows' height; And the ripples played with her glossy curls, And her cheek was kissed by the dancing whirls; But her bosom was dead to hope and fear, For she shuddered not as the shark came near. I poised my foot on the forehead fair Of a lovely boy that floated there; I looked in the eyes of the drowning brave, As they upward gazed through the glassy wave; I screamed o'er the bubbles that told of death, And stooped as the last gave up his breath. I flapped my wing, for the work was done-- The storm was hushed, and the laughing sun Sent his gushing light o'er the sullen seas-- And I tell my tale to the fainting breeze, Of the hidden things which the waves conceal, And the sea-bird's song can alone reveal!

The King of Terrors.

I.

As a shadow He flew, but sorrow and wail Came up from his path, like the moan of the gale. His quiver was full, though his arrows fell fast As the sharp hail of winter when urged by the blast. He smiled on each shaft as it flew from the string, Though feathered by fate, and the lightning its wing. Unerring, unsparing, it sped to its mark, As the mandate of destiny, certain and dark. The mail of the warrior it severed in twain,-- The wall of the castle it shivered amain: No shield could shelter, no prayer could save, And Love's holy shrine no immunity gave. A babe in the cradle--its mother bent o'er,-- The arrow is sped,--and that babe is no more! At the faith-plighting altar, a lovely one bows,-- The gem on her finger,--in Heaven her vows; Unseen is the blow, but she sinks in the crowd, And her bright wedding-garment is turned to a shroud!

II.

On flew the Destroyer, o'er mountain and main,-- And where there was life, there, there are the slain! No valley so deep, no islet so lone, But his shadow is cast, and his victims are known. He paused not, though years rolled weary and slow, And Time's hoary pinion drooped languid and low: He paused not till Man from his birth-place was swept, And the sea and the land in solitude slept.

III.

On a mountain he stood, for the struggle was done,-- A smile on his lip for the victory won. The city of millions,--lone islet and cave, The home of the hermit,--all earth was a grave! The last of his race, where the first saw the light, The monarch had met, and triumphed in fight: Swift, swift was the steed, o'er Shinar's wide sand, But swifter the arrow that flew from Death's hand!

IV.

O'er the mountain he seems like a tempest to lower, Triumphant and dark in the fulness of power; And flashes of flame, that play round his crest, Bespeak the fierce lightning that glows in his breast. But a vision of wonder breaks now on his sight; The blue vault of heaven is gushing with light, And, facing the tyrant, a form from the sky Returns the fierce glance of his challenging eye. A moment they pause,--two princes of might,-- The Demon of Darkness,--an Angel of Light! Each gazes on each,--no barrier between-- And the quivering rocks shrink aghast from the scene! The sword of the angel waves free in the air; Death looks to his quiver,--no arrow is there! He falls like a pyramid, crumbled and torn; And a vision of light on his dying eye borne, In glory reveals the blest souls of the slain,-- And he sees that his sceptre was transient and vain; For, 'mid the bright throng, e'en the infant he slew, And the altar-struck bride, beam full on the view!

The Rainbow Bridge.

Love and Hope and Youth, together-- Travelling once in stormy weather, Met a deep and gloomy tide, Flowing swift and dark and wide. 'Twas named the river of Despair,-- And many a wreck was floating there! The urchins paused, with faces grave, Debating how to cross the wave, When lo! the curtain of the storm Was severed, and the rainbow's form Stood against the parting cloud-- Emblem of peace on trouble's shroud! Hope pointed to the signal flying, And the three, their shoulders plying, O'er the stream the light arch threw-- A rainbow bridge of loveliest hue! Now, laughing as they tripped it o'er, They gayly sought the other shore: But soon the hills began to frown, And the bright sun went darkly down. Though their step was light and fleet, The rainbow vanished 'neath their feet,-- And down they went,--the giddy things! But Hope put forth his ready wings,-- And clinging Love and Youth he bore In triumph to the other shore. But ne'er I ween should mortals deem On rainbow bridge to cross a stream, Unless bright, buoyant Hope is nigh, And, light with Love and Youth, they fly!

The Rival Bubbles.

Two bubbles on a mountain stream, Began their race one shining morn, And lighted by the ruddy beam, Went dancing down 'mid shrub and thorn.

The stream was narrow, wild and lone, But gayly dashed o'er mound and rock, And brighter still the bubbles shone, As if they loved the whirling shock.

Each leaf, and flower, and sunny ray, Was pictured on them as they flew, And o'er their bosoms seemed to play In lovelier forms and colors new.

Thus on they went, and side by side, They kept in sad and sunny weather, And rough or smooth the flowing tide, They brightest shone when close together.

Nor did they deem that they could sever, That clouds could rise, or morning wane; They loved, and thought that love for ever Would bind them in its gentle chain.

But soon the mountain slope was o'er, And 'mid new scenes the waters flowed, And the two bubbles now no more With their first morning beauty glowed.

They parted, and the sunny ray That from each other's love they borrowed; That made their dancing bosoms gay, While other bubbles round them sorrowed:

That ray was dimmed, and on the wind A shadow came, as if from Heaven; Yet on they flew, and sought to find From strife, the bliss that love had given.

They parted, yet in sight they kept, And rivals now the friends became, And if, perchance, the eddies swept Them close, they flashed with flame.

And fiercer forward seemed to bound, With the swift ripples toward the main; And all the lesser bubbles round, Each sought to gather in its train.

They strove, and in that eager strife Their morning friendship was forgot, And all the joys that sweeten life, The rival bubbles knew them not.

The leaves, the flowers, the grassy shore, Were all neglected in the chase, And on their bosoms now no more These forms of beauty found a place.

But all was dim and drear within, And envy dwelt where love was known, And images of fear and sin Were traced, where truth and pleasure shone.

The clouds grew dark, the tide swelled high, And gloom was o'er the waters flung, But riding on the billows, nigh Each other now the bubbles swung.

Closer and closer still they rushed, In anger o'er the rolling river; They met, and 'mid the waters crushed, The rival bubbles burst for ever!

Good Night.

The sun has sunk behind the hills, The shadows o'er the landscape creep; A drowsy sound the woodland fills, And nature folds her arms to sleep: Good night--good night.

The chattering jay has ceased his din-- The noisy robin sings no more-- The crow, his mountain haunt within, Dreams 'mid the forest's surly roar: Good night--good night.

The sunlit cloud floats dim and pale; The dew is falling soft and still; The mist hangs trembling o'er the vale, And silence broods o'er yonder mill: Goodnight--good night.

The rose, so ruddy in the light, Bends on its stem all rayless now, And by its side the lily white A sister shadow, seems to bow: Good night--good night.

The bat may wheel on silent wing-- The fox his guilty vigils keep-- The boding owl his dirges sing; But love and innocence will sleep: Good night--good night!

The Mississippi.[A]

I.

Far in the West, where snow-capt mountains rise, Like marble shafts beneath Heaven's stooping dome, And sunset's dreamy curtain drapes the skies, As if enchantment there would build her home-- O'er wood and wave, from haunts of men away-- From out the glen, all trembling like a child, A babbling streamlet comes as if to play-- Albeit the scene is savage, lone and wild. Here at the mountain's foot, that infant wave 'Mid bowering leaves doth hide its rustic birth-- Here learns the rock and precipice to brave-- And go the Monarch River of the Earth! Far, far from hence, its bosom deep and wide, Bears the proud steamer on its fiery wing-- Along its banks, bright cities rise in pride, And o'er its breast their gorgeous image fling. The Mississippi needs no herald now-- But here within this glen unknown to fame, It flows content--a bubble on its brow, A leaf upon its breast--without a name!

II.

Strange contrasts here--for on the glacier's height, The tempest raves, and arrowy lightnings leap-- Yet deep beneath, the wild flowers lone and light, On slender stems in breezeless silence sleep. Skyward the racing eagles wildly fling Their savage clamor to the echoing dell-- While sheltered deep, the bee with folded wing, Voluptuous slumbers in his fragrant cell. Around, the splintered rocks are heaped to heaven, With grisly caverns yawning wide between, As if the Titans there had battle given, And left their ruin written on the scene! Yet o'er these ghastly shapes, soft lichens wind, And timid daisies droop, and tranquil flowers A robe of many-colored beauty, bind, As if some vagrant fairy claimed these bowers.

III.

Fit cradle this--Majestic Stream, for thee! Nursed at the glacier's foot--by tempests fed-- The lightning flashing o'er thy canopy, And thunders pealing round thine infant bed-- The pious Indian marks thy mystic birth, 'Mid storm and cloud, and nature's aspect wild-- And wondering, deems thee not a thing of earth, But great Manitto's fair and favored child. Aye--and the mind, by inspiration taught, Like nature's pupil feels a Presence near, Which bids the bosom tremble with the thought That He who came from Teman hath been here![B]

IV.

What thronging fancies crowd upon the soul, As from these heights the Giant Stream we trace, And wander with its waters as they roll From hence, to their far ocean dwelling-place-- Marking its birth in this bleak frigid zone, Its conquering march to yonder tropic shore, The boundless valley which it makes its own, With thousand tribute rivers as they pour! No classic page its story to reveal; No nymph, or naïad, sporting in its glades; No banks encrimsoned with heroic steel; And haunted yet by dim poetic shades-- Its annals linger in the eternal rock, Hoary with centuries; in cataracts that sing To the dull ear of ages; in the shock Of plunging glaciers that madly fling, The forest like a flight of spears, aloft: In wooded vales that spread beyond the view; In boundless prairies, blooming fair and soft; In mantling vines that teem with clusters blue; And as the sunny south upon us breathes-- In orange groves that scent the balmy air, And tempt soft summer with its fragrant wreaths, Throughout the year to be a dweller there.

V.

These of the past their whispered lore unfold, And fertile fancy with its wizard art, May weave wild legends, as the seers of old Made gods and heroes into being start. Perchance some mystic mound may wake the spell: A crumbled skull--a spear--a vase of clay Within its bosom half the tale may tell-- And all the rest 'tis fancy's gift to say. Alas! that ruthless science in these days, To its stern crucible hath brought at last, The cherished shapes that all so fondly gaze Upon us from the dim poetic past! Else might these moonlit prairies show at dawn, The dew-swept circle of the elfin dance-- These woodlands teem with sportive fay and faun-- These grottoes glimmer with sweet Echo's glance. Perchance a future Homer might have wrought From out the scattered wreck of ages fled, Some long lost Troy, where mighty heroes fought, And made the earth re-echo with their tread!

VI.

It may not be, for though these scenes are fair, As fabled Arcady--the sylph and fay, And all their gentle kindred, shun the air, Where car and steamer make their stormy way. Perchance some Cooper's magic art may wake The sleeping legends of this mighty vale, And twine fond memories round the lawn and lake, Where Warrior fought or Lover told his tale: And when the Red Man's form hath left these glades, And memory's moonlight o'er his story streams, From their dim graves shall rise heroic shades, And fill the fancy with romantic dreams. Then, in the city's gorgeous squares shall rise The chiselled column to the admiring view-- To mark the spot where some stern Black Hawk lies, Whom ages gone, our glorious grandsires slew!

VII.