Chapter 5
"And thus the sunny day went by, And night came brooding o'er the seas; A thick cloud swathed the distant sky, And hollow murmurs filled the breeze. The white gull screaming, left the rock, And seaward bent its glancing wing, While heavy waves, with measured shock, Made the dun cliff with echoes ring. How changed the scene! The glassy deep That slumbered in its resting-place, And seeming in its morning sleep To woo me to its soft embrace, Now wakened, was a fearful thing,-- A giant with a scowling form, Who from his bosom seemed to fling The blackened billows to the storm. The wailing winds in terror gushed From the swart sky, and seemed to lash The foaming waves, which madly rushed Toward the tall cliff with headlong dash. Upward the glittering spray was sent, Backward the growling surges whirled, And splintered rocks by lightnings rent, Down thundering midst the waves were hurled. I trembled, yet I would not fly; I feared, yet loved, the awful scene; And gazing on the sea and sky, Spell-bound I stood the rocks between.
X.
"'Twas strange that I, a mountain boy, A lover of green fields and flowers,-- One, who with laughing rills could toy, And hold companionship for hours, With leaves that whispered low at night, Or fountains bubbling from their springs, Or summer winds, whose downy flight, Seemed but the sweep of angel wings:-- 'Twas strange that I should love the clash Of ocean in its maddest hour, And joy to see the billows dash O'er the rent cliff with fearful power. 'Twas strange,--but I was nature's own, Unchecked, untutored; in my soul A harp was set that gave its tone To every touch without control. The zephyr stirred in childhood warm, Thoughts like itself, as soft and blest; And the swift fingers of the storm Woke its own echo in my breast. Aye, and the strings that else had lain Untouched, and to myself unknown, Within my heart, gave back the strain That o'er the sea and rock was thrown. Yes, and wild passions, which had slept Within their cradle, as the waves At morning by the winds unswept, Rippling within their infant caves-- Now, wakened into billows, rose, And held communion with the storm: I saw the air and ocean close In deadly struggle; marked the form Of the dun cloud with misty wing, That wrestled with the giant main; I saw the racing billows spring Like lions leaping from the plain; I saw the surf that upward threw Gray pyramids of foam to heaven; I heard the battle-cry that flew Along the cliff, as though t'were given To cheer the elemental war; I heard the wild bird screaming near; I felt the rock beneath me jar, As if the granite thrilled with fear; I saw, I heard,--yet in my heart The cloud, the cliff, the billow seemed As of myself an imaged part,-- Things I had seen, or oft had dreamed; And in my ear, the thundering tide Was music, and the ocean's moan An echo of my spirit, wide As the wave, and stormy as its own.
XI.
"So passed my morning dreams away, Like birds that shun a wintry cloud, And phantom visions, grim and gray, Came mist-like from the watery shroud: Prophetic visions of the deep, Emblems of those within the breast, Which, summoned from their shadowy sleep, Ride on the storm by passion pressed! In ghastly shapes they rose to view, All gibbering from their crystal caves, As if some horrid mirth they drew From the wild uproar of the waves. With beckoning hands they seemed to urge My footsteps down the dizzy way, To join their train upon the surge, And dance with them amidst the spray: And such the madness of my brain, That I was fain to seek the throng; To meet and mingle on the main, With their mad revelry and song. One step, and down the dizzy cliff, My form had to the waters swung, But gliding in a wreathy skiff, That o'er the crested billows hung, A white form like my mother seemed To shine a moment on my eye;-- With warning look the vision gleamed, Then vanished upward to the sky!
XII.
"I left the thundering tide, and sought Once more the mountain and the stream; But long the wrestling ocean wrought Within my bosom: as a dream My boyhood vanished, and I woke Startled to manhood's early morn; No father's hand my pride to yoke, No mother's angel voice to warn. No,--and the gentle vision, lost, That once could curb my wayward will, And lull my bosom passion-tossed, With one soft whisper, "Peace, be still!"-- That vision, spurned by manhood's pride, Came down from heaven to me no more, And I was launched without a guide, To be a wreck on passion's shore. Alas! the giddy bark at sea, 'Mid waves that woo it down to death, From helm and compass wafted free, The toy of every tempest's breath,-- Is but a type of him who goes, Trusting to nature, on the tide Of life, where breezy passion blows, To whelm the adventurer in his pride. Yes, for the smoothest lake hath waves Within its bosom, which will rise And revel when the tempest raves; The cloud will come o'er gentlest skies; And not a favored spot on earth, The furrowing ploughman finds, but there The rank and ready weeds have birth, Sown by the winds to mock his care. 'Tis thus with every human heart; The seeds of ill are scattered wide, And flaunting flowers of vice will start Thick o'er the soil they seek to hide. Aye, and the gentleness of youth, That seems some hill-side sown with flowers, Odorous, as if with budding truth, Shoots into wild fantastic bowers. The spark for ever tends to flame; The ray that quivers in the plash Of yonder river, is the same That feeds the lightning's ruddy flash. The summer breeze that fans the rose, Or eddies down some flowery path, Is but the infant gale that blows To-morrow with the whirlwind's wrath. And He alone, who wields the storm, And bids the arrowy lightning play, Can guide the heart, when wild and warm, It springs on passion's wing away! One angel minister is sent, To guard and guide us to the sky, And still Her sheltering wing is bent, Till manhood rudely throws it by. Oh, then with mad disdain we spurn A mother's gentle teaching; throw Her bosom from us, and we burn, To rush in freedom, where the glow Of pleasure lights the dancing wave: We launch the bark, we woo the gale, And reckless of the darkling grave That yawns below, we speed the sail!
XIII.
"Stranger! a murderer stands before thee! To tell the guilty tale were vain-- It is enough--the curse is o'er me-- And I am but a wandering Cain. What boots it that the world bestows, For deeds of death its honors dear? The blood that from the duel flows, Will cry to heaven, and heaven will hear! Thou shalt not kill!' 'Twas deeply traced In living stone, and thunder-sealed; It cannot be by man effaced, Or fashion's impious act repealed. And though we seek with thin deceit, To blind Jehovah's piercing gaze, Call murder, honor,--can we cheat The Omniscient with a specious phrase? Alas! 'tis adding crime to crime, To veil the blood our hands have spilt, And seek by words of softening chime, To lend blest virtue's charm to guilt. Oh, no! in vain the world may give The fearful deed a gentle name-- I slew my friend, and now I live To feel perdition's glowing flame. His missile cut the upward air-- Mine, winged with murder won its way, Straight to his manly bosom,--there He fell, unconscious as the clay! One thrill of triumph through me swept,-- But, as I gazed upon his brow, A chilling horror o'er me crept,-- And I am what thou seest now!
XIV.
"Stranger,--thy bosom cannot know The desolation of the soul, When the rough, gale hath ceased to blow, Yet o'er it bids the billow roll. A helmless wreck upon the tide-- An earthquake's ruin wrapped in gloom-- A gnarled oak blasted in its pride-- Are feeble emblems of my doom. There is a tongue in every leaf, A sigh in every tossing tree-- A murmur in each wave; of grief They whisper, and they speak to me. Nature hath many voices--strings Of varied melody: and oft Lone spirits come on breezy wings, To wake their music sad or soft. But in the wilderness, where Heaven Is the wrapt listener, the tone Is ever mournful: there is given, A chorus for the skies, alone. At night, when the pale moonlight falls O'er prairies, sleeping like a grave, And glorious through these mountain halls, Pours in a flood its silvery wave-- I climb the cliff, and hear the song, That o'er the breast of stillness steals: I hear the cataract thundering strong From far; I hear the wave that peals Along the lone lake's pebbly shore; I hear the sweeping gust that weaves The tree tops, and the winds that pour In rippling lapses through the leaves. And as the diapason sweeps Across the breast of night, the moan Of wolves upon the spirit creeps, Lending the hymn a wilder tone. The panther's wail, the owlet's scream, The whippoorwill's complaining song, Blend with the cataract's solemn theme, And the wild cadences prolong. And often when the heart is chilled By the deep harmony, the note Of some light-hearted bird is trilled Upon the breeze. How sweet its throat! Yet, as a gem upon the finger Of a pale corse, deepens the gloom, By its bright rays that laugh and linger In the dread bosom of the tomb; So doth the note of that wild bird, Sadden the anthem of the hills, And my hushed bosom, spirit-stirred, With lonelier desolation thrills.
XV.
"You bid me pray? aye, I have prayed! Each cliff and cave, each rock and glen, Have heard my ardent lips invade The ear of Heaven,--again, again. And in the secret hour of night, When all-revealing darkness brings Its brighter world than this of light-- My spirit, borne on wizard wings, Hath won its upward way afar, And ranged the shoreless sea of dreams-- Hath touched at many a wheeling star That shines beyond these solar beams; And on the trackless deep of thought, Like Him, who found this Western World, 'Mid doubt and storm my passage wrought, Till weary fancy's wing was furled-- And, as the sky-bent eagle, borne Down by the lightning blast of heaven, So was my outcast spirit torn, And backward to its dwelling driven. Yet not in vain, perchance, my tears, My penitence, my patient prayer, For, softened with the flow of years, My breast is lightened of its care. And once at night when meteors flew Down on their glittering wings from heaven, My mother's spirit met my view, Whispering of peace and sin forgiven! Yet, though my lip to thee confess, My wrestling bosom's sweet relief, Think not I count my crime the less, That pitying Heaven hath soothed my grief. No--yon wild rose hath sweet perfume To scatter on this desert air; Yet, hid beneath its fragrant bloom, Sharp thorns are set, the flesh to tear. And thus, repentance, while it brings Forgiveness to the broken heart, Still leaves contrition's thousand stings To waken sorrow with their smart.
XVI.
"Such is my story--this my home,-- And I the monarch of the dell-- Above my head, the forest dome,-- Around, the battlements that swell To heaven, and make my castle strong. My messengers are winds that lave Far reedy shores, and bring me song, Blent with the murmurs of the wave. And birds of every rainbow hue, The antelope, and timid deer, The wild goat mingling with the blue Of heaven on yonder rock, are here. And oft at morn, the mocking-bird Doth greet me with its sweetest lay; The wood-dove, where the bush is stirred, Looks from its cover on my way. I would not break the spider's thread,-- The buzzing insect dances free; I crush no toad beneath my tread,-- The lizard crawls in liberty! I harm no living thing; my sway Of peace hath soothed the grumbling bear,-- The wolf walks by in open day, And fawns upon me from his lair. Aye, and my heart hath bowed so low, I gather in this solitude, Joy from the love that seems to flow From these brute tenants of the leafy wood.
XVII.
"Stranger, farewell! The deepening eve doth warn, And the mild moonlight beckons thee away; And, ere the lingering night shall melt to morn, Let thy swift foot across the prairie stray. Nay, tempt me not! for I alone am cast, A wretch from all I used to grieve or bless; And doomed to wail and wander here at last, Am deeply wedded to the wilderness. Thy hand again shall feel the thrilling grasp Of friendship--and thine ear shall catch the tone Of joyous kindred; and thine arm shall clasp, Perchance, some gentle bosom to thine own. Oh God! 'tis right--for he hath never torn, With his own daring hand the thread of life-- He ne'er hath stolen thy privilege, or borne A fellow mortal down in murderous strife!
XVIII.
"Stranger, farewell! these woods shall be my home, And here shall be my grave! My hour is brief, But while it lasts, it is my task to roam, And read of Heaven from nature's open leaf. And though I wander from my race away, As some lone meteor, dim and distant, wheels In wintry banishment, where but a ray Of kindred stars in timid twilight steals-- Still will I catch the light that faintly falls Through my leaf-latticed window of the skies, And I will listen to the voice that calls From heaven, where the wind stricken forest sighs. And I will read of dim Creation's morn, From the deep archives of these mossy hills-- On wings of wizard thought, my fancy, borne Back by the whispers of these pouring rills, Shall read the unwritten record of the land-- For God, unwitnessed here hath walked the dell, These cliffs have quivered at his loud command, These waters blushed, where his deep shadow fell! And at his bidding, 'mid these solitudes, The ebb and flow of life have poured their waves, Till Time, the hoary sexton of these woods, Despairing, broods o'er the uncounted graves. And warrior tribes have come from some far land, And made these mountains echo with their cry-- And they have mouldered--and their mighty hand Hath writ no record on the earth or sky! And 'mid the awful stillness of their grave, The forest oaks have flourished; and the breath Of years hath swept their races, wave on wave, As ages fainted on the shores of death. The tumbling cliff perchance hath thundered deep, Like a rough note of music in the song Of centuries, and the whirlwind's crushing sweep, Hath ploughed the forest with its furrows strong. And though these legends, like the eddying leaves Of autumn, scattered by the whirlwind's breath, Are borne away where dim Oblivion weaves Her shroud, within the rayless halls of death; Still with a prophet gaze I'll thread my way, And wake the giant spectres of the tomb; With fancy's wand I'll chase the phantoms gray, And burst the shadowy seal that shrouds their doom. Thus shall the past its misty lore unfold, And bid my soul on nature's ladder rise, Till I shall meet some clasping hand, whose hold Shall draw my homesick spirit to the skies.
XIX.
"Farewell! the thread of sympathy that tied My heart to man is sundered, and I go To hold communion with the shades that glide, Wherever forests wave, or waters flow. And when my fluttering heart shall faint and fail, These limbs shall totter to some hollow cave, Where the poor Dreamer's dream shall cease. The gale Shall gather music from the wood and wave, And pour it in my dying ear; the wing Of busy zephyrs to the flowers shall go, And from them all their sweetest odors bring, To soothe, perchance, their fainting lover's woe. My sinking soul shall catch the dreamy sound Of far-off waters, murmuring to their doom, And eddying winds, from distant mountains bound, Shall come to sing a requiem round my tomb. The breeze shall o'er me weave a leafy shroud, And I shall slumber in the shadowy dell-- Till God shall rend the spirit's darkling cloud, And give it wings of light. Stranger, Farewell!"
Good and Evil.
When man from Paradise was driven, And thorns around his pathway sprung, Sweet Mercy wandering there from heaven Upon those thorns bright roses flung.
Aye, and as Justice cursed the ground, She stole behind, unheard, unseen-- And while the curses fell around, She scattered seeds of joy between.
And thus, as evils sprung to light, And spread, like weeds, their poisons wide, Fresh healing plants came blooming bright, And stood, to check them, side by side.
And now, though Eden blooms afar, And man is exiled from its bowers, Still mercy steals through bolt and bar, And brings away its choicest flowers.
The very toil, the thorns of care, That Heaven in wrath for sin imposes, By mercy changed, no curses are-- One brings us rest, the other roses.
Thus joy is linked with every woe-- Each cup of ill its pleasure brings; The rose is crushed, but then, you know, The sweeter fragrance from it springs.
If justice throw athwart our way, A deepening eve of fear and sorrow, Hope, like the moon, reflects the ray Of the bright sun that shines to-morrow.
And mercy gilds with stars the night; Sweet music plays through weeping willows; The blackest cave with gems is bright, And pearls illume the ocean billows.
The very grave, though clouds may rise, And shroud it o'er with midnight gloom, Unfolds to faith the deep blue skies, That glorious shine beyond the tomb.
The Mountain Stream.
One summer morn, while yet the thrilling lay, Of the dew-loving lark was full and strong, Trampling the wild flowers in my careless way, Up the steep mountain-side I strode along-- My only guide, a brook whose joyous song, Seemed like a boy's light-hearted roundelay, As down it rushed, the leafy bowers among, Scattering o'er bud and bloom its pearly spray-- A beauteous semblance of life's opening day.
And looking back to that all-gladdening morn, When I was free and sportive as the stream-- When roses blushed with no suspected thorn, And fancy's sunlight gilded every dream-- While hope yet shed its sweet delusive beam, And disappointment still delayed to warn-- With fond regret, I still pursued the theme-- With clambering step still up the steep was borne, Too sad to smile, too pleased perchance to mourn.
And now I stood beside that rivulet's spring, That came unbidden with a bubbling bound-- And stealing forth, a gentle trembling thing, It seemed an infant fearing all around-- Yet clinging to its mother's breast--the ground. But soon it bolder grew, and with a wing It went: its carol was a joyous sound, Making the silent woods responsive ring, And the far forest-echoes, sighing, sing.
And now I stood upon the mountain's height-- Like a wide map, the landscape lay unrolled-- There could I trace that rivulet's path of light, From the steep mountain to the sea of gold; Now leaping o'er the rocks like chamois bold,-- Now like a crouching hare concealed from sight,-- Now hid beneath the willow's bowering fold, As if they sought to stay its arrowy flight, Then give it forth again more swift and bright.
'Twas changeful--beautiful; now dark, now fair-- A tale of life, from childhood to the tomb-- Its birth-place near the skies, in mountain air, Where wild flowers throw around their sweet perfume, Like the blest thoughts that often brightly bloom, At home, beneath a mother's culturing care-- Its form now hid in shadows, such as gloom Our downward way--its grave in ocean, where It mingles with the wave--a dweller there!
And though that stream be hidden from the view, 'Tis yet preserved 'neath ocean's briny crest: That wide eternity of waves is true-- And as the planets anchored in their rest, The sparkling streamlet lives; and while unblest, The land-wave stagnant lingers--there the blue Tide holds the river stainless in its breast-- An image still of life, that sparkles through The starry deep of heaven, for ever new.