Chapter 11

Since then, what steps have trod thy border! Here On thy green bank, the woodmann of the swamp Has laid his axe, the reaper of the hill His sickle, as they stooped to taste thy stream. The sportsman, tired with wandering in the still September noon, has bathed his heated brow In thy cool current. Shouting boys, let loose For a wild holiday, have quaintly shaped Into a cup the folded linden leaf, And dipped thy sliding crystal. From the wars Returning, the plumed soldier by thy side Has sat, and mused how pleasant 'twere to dwell In such a spot, and be as free as thou, And move for no man's bidding more. At eve, When thou wert crimson with the crimson sky, Lovers have gazed upon thee, and have thought Their mingled lives should flow as peacefully And brightly as thy waters. Here the sage, Gazing into thy self-replenished depth, Has seen eternal order circumscribe And bind the motions of eternal change, And from the gushing of thy simple fount Has reasoned to the mighty universe.

Is there no other change for thee, that lurks Among the future ages? Will not man Seek out strange arts to wither and deform The pleasant landscape which thou makest green? Or shall the veins that feed thy constant stream Be choked in middle earth, and flow no more For ever, that the water-plants along Thy channel perish, and the bird in vain Alight to drink? Haply shall these green hills Sink, with the lapse of years, into the gulf Of ocean waters, and thy source be lost Amidst the bitter brine? Or shall they rise, Upheaved in broken cliffs and airy peaks, Haunts of the eagle and the snake, and thou Gush midway from the bare and barren steep?

THE WINDS.

I.

Ye winds, ye unseen currents of the air, Softly ye played a few brief hours ago; Ye bore the murmuring bee; ye tossed the hair O'er maiden cheeks, that took a fresher glow; Ye rolled the round white cloud through depths of blue; Ye shook from shaded flowers the lingering dew; Before you the catalpa's blossoms flew, Light blossoms, dropping on the grass like snow.

II.

How are ye changed! Ye take the cataract's sound; Ye take the whirlpool's fury and its might; The mountain shudders as ye sweep the ground; The valley woods lie prone beneath your flight. The clouds before you shoot like eagles past; The homes of men are rocking in your blast; Ye lift the roofs like autumn leaves, and cast, Skyward, the whirling fragments out of sight.

III.

The weary fowls of heaven make wing in vain, To escape your wrath; ye seize and dash them dead. Against the earth ye drive the roaring rain; The harvest-field becomes a river's bed; And torrents tumble from the hills around, Plains turn to lakes, and villages are drowned, And wailing voices, midst the tempest's sound, Rise, as the rushing waters swell and spread.

IV.

Ye dart upon the deep, and straight is heard A wilder roar, and men grow pale, and pray; Ye fling its floods around you, as a bird Flings o'er his shivering plumes the fountain's spray. See! to the breaking mast the sailor clings; Ye scoop the ocean to its briny springs, And take the mountain billow on your wings, And pile the wreck of navies round the bay.

V.

Why rage ye thus?--no strife for liberty Has made you mad; no tyrant, strong through fear, Has chained your pinions till ye wrenched them free, And rushed into the unmeasured atmosphere; For ye were born in freedom where ye blow; Free o'er the mighty deep to come and go; Earth's solemn woods were yours, her wastes of snow, Her isles where summer blossoms all the year.

VI.

O ye wild winds! a mightier Power than yours In chains upon the shore of Europe lies; The sceptred throng, whose fetters he endures, Watch his mute throes with terror in their eyes: And armed warriors all around him stand, And, as he struggles, tighten every band, And lift the heavy spear, with threatening hand, To pierce the victim, should he strive to rise.

VII.

Yet oh, when that wronged Spirit of our race Shall break, as soon he must, his long-worn chains, And leap in freedom from his prison-place, Lord of his ancient hills and fruitful plains, Let him not rise, like these mad winds of air, To waste the loveliness that time could spare, To fill the earth with wo, and blot her fair Unconscious breast with blood from human veins.

VIII.

But may he like the spring-time come abroad, Who crumbles winter's gyves with gentle might, When in the genial breeze, the breath of God, Come spouting up the unsealed springs to light; Flowers start from their dark prisons at his feet, The woods, long dumb, awake to hymnings sweet, And morn and eve, whose glimmerings almost meet, Crowd back to narrow bounds the ancient night.

THE OLD MAN'S COUNSEL.°

Among our hills and valleys, I have known Wise and grave men, who, while their diligent hands Tended or gathered in the fruits of earth, Were reverent learners in the solemn school Of nature. Not in vain to them were sent Seed-time and harvest, or the vernal shower That darkened the brown tilth, or snow that beat On the white winter hills. Each brought, in turn, Some truth, some lesson on the life of man, Or recognition of the Eternal mind Who veils his glory with the elements.

One such I knew long since, a white-haired man, Pithy of speech, and merry when he would; A genial optimist, who daily drew From what he saw his quaint moralities. Kindly he held communion, though so old, With me a dreaming boy, and taught me much That books tell not, and I shall ne'er forget.

The sun of May was bright in middle heaven, And steeped the sprouting forests, the green hills And emerald wheat-fields, in his yellow light. Upon the apple-tree, where rosy buds Stood clustered, ready to burst forth in bloom, The robin warbled forth his full clear note For hours, and wearied not. Within the woods, Whose young and half transparent leaves scarce cast A shade, gay circles of anemones Danced on their stalks; the shadbush, white with flowers, Brightened the glens; the new-leaved butternut And quivering poplar to the roving breeze Gave a balsamic fragrance. In the fields I saw the pulses of the gentle wind On the young grass. My heart was touched with joy At so much beauty, flushing every hour Into a fuller beauty; but my friend, The thoughtful ancient, standing at my side, Gazed on it mildly sad. I asked him why.

"Well mayst thou join in gladness," he replied, "With the glad earth, her springing plants and flowers, And this soft wind, the herald of the green Luxuriant summer. Thou art young like them, And well mayst thou rejoice. But while the flight Of seasons fills and knits thy spreading frame, It withers mine, and thins my hair, and dims These eyes, whose fading light shall soon be quenched In utter darkness. Hearest thou that bird?"

I listened, and from midst the depth of woods Heard the love-signal of the grouse, that wears A sable ruff around his mottled neck; Partridge they call him by our northern streams, And pheasant by the Delaware. He beat 'Gainst his barred sides his speckled wings, and made A sound like distant thunder; slow the strokes At first, then fast and faster, till at length They passed into a murmur and were still.

"There hast thou," said my friend, "a fitting type Of human life. 'Tis an old truth, I know, But images like these revive the power Of long familiar truths. Slow pass our days In childhood, and the hours of light are long Betwixt the morn and eve; with swifter lapse They glide in manhood, and in age they fly; Till days and seasons flit before the mind As flit the snow-flakes in a winter storm, Seen rather than distinguished. Ah! I seem As if I sat within a helpless bark By swiftly running waters hurried on To shoot some mighty cliff. Along the banks Grove after grove, rock after frowning rock, Bare sands and pleasant homes, and flowery nooks, And isles and whirlpools in the stream, appear Each after each, but the devoted skiff Darts by so swiftly that their images Dwell not upon the mind, or only dwell In dim confusion; faster yet I sweep By other banks, and the great gulf is near.

"Wisely, my son, while yet thy days are long, And this fair change of seasons passes slow, Gather and treasure up the good they yield-- All that they teach of virtue, of pure thoughts And kind affections, reverence for thy God And for thy brethren; so when thou shalt come Into these barren years, thou mayst not bring A mind unfurnished and a withered heart."

Long since that white-haired ancient slept--but still, When the red flower-buds crowd the orchard bough, And the ruffed grouse is drumming far within The woods, his venerable form again Is at my side, his voice is in my ear.

LINES IN MEMORY OF WILLIAM LEGGETT.

The earth may ring, from shore to shore, With echoes of a glorious name, But he, whose loss our tears deplore, Has left behind him more than fame.

For when the death-frost came to lie On Leggett's warm and mighty heart, And quenched his bold and friendly eye, His spirit did not all depart.

The words of fire that from his pen Were flung upon the fervent page, Still move, still shake the hearts of men, Amid a cold and coward age.

His love of truth, too warm, too strong For Hope or Fear to chain or chill, His hate of tyranny and wrong, Burn in the breasts he kindled still.

AN EVENING REVERY.

FROM AN UNFINISHED POEM.

The summer day is closed--the sun is set: Well they have done their office, those bright hours, The latest of whose train goes softly out In the red West. The green blade of the ground Has risen, and herds have cropped it; the young twig Has spread its plaited tissues to the sun; Flowers of the garden and the waste have blown And withered; seeds have fallen upon the soil, From bursting cells, and in their graves await Their resurrection. Insects from the pools Have filled the air awhile with humming wings, That now are still for ever; painted moths Have wandered the blue sky, and died again; The mother-bird hath broken for her brood Their prison shell, or shoved them from the nest, Plumed for their earliest flight. In bright alcoves, In woodland cottages with barky walls, In noisome cells of the tumultuous town, Mothers have clasped with joy the new-born babe. Graves by the lonely forest, by the shore Of rivers and of ocean, by the ways Of the thronged city, have been hollowed out And filled, and closed. This day hath parted friends That ne'er before were parted; it hath knit New friendships; it hath seen the maiden plight Her faith, and trust her peace to him who long Had wooed; and it hath heard, from lips which late Were eloquent of love, the first harsh word, That told the wedded one her peace was flown. Farewell to the sweet sunshine! One glad day Is added now to Childhood's merry days, And one calm day to those of quiet Age. Still the fleet hours run on; and as I lean, Amid the thickening darkness, lamps are lit, By those who watch the dead, and those who twine Flowers for the bride. The mother from the eyes Of her sick infant shades the painful light, And sadly listens to his quick-drawn breath.

Oh thou great Movement of the Universe, Or Change, or Flight of Time--for ye are one! That bearest, silently, this visible scene Into night's shadow and the streaming rays Of starlight, whither art thou bearing me? I feel the mighty current sweep me on, Yet know not whither. Man foretells afar The courses of the stars; the very hour He knows when they shall darken or grow bright; Yet doth the eclipse of Sorrow and of Death Come unforewarned. Who next, of those I love, Shall pass from life, or, sadder yet, shall fall From virtue? Strife with foes, or bitterer strife With friends, or shame and general scorn of men-- Which who can bear?--or the fierce rack of pain, Lie they within my path? Or shall the years Push me, with soft and inoffensive pace, Into the stilly twilight of my age? Or do the portals of another life Even now, while I am glorying in my strength, Impend around me? Oh! beyond that bourne, In the vast cycle of being which begins At that broad threshold, with what fairer forms Shall the great law of change and progress clothe Its workings? Gently--so have good men taught-- Gently, and without grief, the old shall glide Into the new; the eternal flow of things, Like a bright river of the fields of heaven, Shall journey onward in perpetual peace.

THE PAINTED CUP.°

The fresh savannas of the Sangamon Here rise in gentle swells, and the long grass Is mixed with rustling hazels. Scarlet tufts Are glowing in the green, like flakes of fire; The wanderers of the prairie know them well, And call that brilliant flower the Painted Cup.

Now, if thou art a poet, tell me not That these bright chalices were tinted thus To hold the dew for fairies, when they meet On moonlight evenings in the hazel bowers, And dance till they are thirsty. Call not up, Amid this fresh and virgin solitude, The faded fancies of an elder world; But leave these scarlet cups to spotted moths Of June, and glistening flies, and humming-birds, To drink from, when on all these boundless lawns The morning sun looks hot. Or let the wind O'erturn in sport their ruddy brims, and pour A sudden shower upon the strawberry plant, To swell the reddening fruit that even now Breathes a slight fragrance from the sunny slope.

But thou art of a gayer fancy. Well-- Let then the gentle Manitou of flowers, Lingering amid the bloomy waste he loves, Though all his swarthy worshippers are gone-- Slender and small, his rounded cheek all brown And ruddy with the sunshine; let him come On summer mornings, when the blossoms wake, And part with little hands the spiky grass; And touching, with his cherry lips, the edge Of these bright beakers, drain the gathered dew.

A DREAM.

I had a dream--a strange, wild dream-- Said a dear voice at early light; And even yet its shadows seem To linger in my waking sight.

Earth, green with spring, and fresh with dew, And bright with morn, before me stood; And airs just wakened softly blew On the young blossoms of the wood.

Birds sang within the sprouting shade, Bees hummed amid the whispering grass, And children prattled as they played Beside the rivulet's dimpling glass

Fast climbed the sun: the flowers were flown, There played no children in the glen; For some were gone, and some were grown To blooming dames and bearded men.

'Twas noon, 'twas summer: I beheld Woods darkening in the flush of day, And that bright rivulet spread and swelled, A mighty stream, with creek and bay.

And here was love, and there was strife, And mirthful shouts, and wrathful cries, And strong men, struggling as for life, With knotted limbs and angry eyes.

Now stooped the sun--the shades grew thin; The rustling paths were piled with leaves; And sunburnt groups were gathering in, From the shorn field, its fruits and sheaves.

The river heaved with sullen sounds; The chilly wind was sad with moans; Black hearses passed, and burial-grounds Grew thick with monumental stones.

Still waned the day; the wind that chased The jagged clouds blew chillier yet; The woods were stripped, the fields were waste, The wintry sun was near its set.

And of the young, and strong, and fair, A lonely remnant, gray and weak, Lingered, and shivered to the air Of that bleak shore and water bleak.

Ah! age is drear, and death is cold! I turned to thee, for thou wert near, And saw thee withered, bowed, and old, And woke all faint with sudden fear.

'Twas thus I heard the dreamer say, And bade her clear her clouded brow; "For thou and I, since childhood's day, Have walked in such a dream till now.

"Watch we in calmness, as they rise, The changes of that rapid dream, And note its lessons, till our eyes Shall open in the morning beam."

THE ANTIQUITY OF FREEDOM.

Here are old trees, tall oaks and gnarled pines, That stream with gray-green mosses; here the ground Was never trenched by spade, and flowers spring up Unsown, and die ungathered. It is sweet To linger here, among the flitting birds And leaping squirrels, wandering brooks, and winds That shake the leaves, and scatter, as they pass, A fragrance from the cedars, thickly set With pale blue berries. In these peaceful shades-- Peaceful, unpruned, immeasurably old-- My thoughts go up the long dim path of years, Back to the earliest days of liberty.

Oh FREEDOM! thou art not, as poets dream, A fair young girl, with light and delicate limbs, And wavy tresses gushing from the cap With which the Roman master crowned his slave When he took off the gyves. A bearded man, Armed to the teeth, art thou; one mailed hand Grasps the broad shield, and one the sword; thy brow, Glorious in beauty though it be, is scarred With tokens of old wars; thy massive limbs Are strong with struggling. Power at thee has launched His bolts, and with his lightnings smitten thee; They could not quench the life thou hast from heaven. Merciless power has dug thy dungeon deep, And his swart armorers, by a thousand fires, Have forged thy chain; yet, while he deems thee bound, The links are shivered, and the prison walls Fall outward; terribly thou springest forth, As springs the flame above a burning pile, And shoutest to the nations, who return Thy shoutings, while the pale oppressor flies.

Thy birthright was not given by human hands: Thou wert twin-born with man. In pleasant fields, While yet our race was few, thou sat'st with him, To tend the quiet flock and watch the stars, And teach the reed to utter simple airs. Thou by his side, amid the tangled wood, Didst war upon the panther and the wolf, His only foes; and thou with him didst draw The earliest furrows on the mountain side, Soft with the deluge. Tyranny himself, Thy enemy, although of reverend look, Hoary with many years, and far obeyed, Is later born than thou; and as he meets The grave defiance of thine elder eye, The usurper trembles in his fastnesses.

Thou shalt wax stronger with the lapse of years, But he shall fade into a feebler age; Feebler, yet subtler. He shall weave his snares, And spring them on thy careless steps, and clap His withered hands, and from their ambush call His hordes to fall upon thee. He shall send Quaint maskers, wearing fair and gallant forms, To catch thy gaze, and uttering graceful words To charm thy ear; while his sly imps, by stealth, Twine round thee threads of steel, light thread on thread That grow to fetters; or bind down thy arms With chains concealed in chaplets. Oh! not yet Mayst thou unbrace thy corslet, nor lay by Thy sword; nor yet, O Freedom! close thy lids In slumber; for thine enemy never sleeps, And thou must watch and combat till the day Of the new earth and heaven. But wouldst thou rest Awhile from tumult and the frauds of men, These old and friendly solitudes invite Thy visit. They, while yet the forest trees Were young upon the unviolated earth, And yet the moss-stains on the rock were new, Beheld thy glorious childhood, and rejoiced.

THE MAIDEN'S SORROW.

Seven long years has the desert rain Dropped on the clods that hide thy face; Seven long years of sorrow and pain I have thought of thy burial-place.

Thought of thy fate in the distant west, Dying with none that loved thee near; They who flung the earth on thy breast Turned from the spot williout a tear.

There, I think, on that lonely grave, Violets spring in the soft May shower; There, in the summer breezes, wave Crimson phlox and moccasin flower.

There the turtles alight, and there Feeds with her fawn the timid doe; There, when the winter woods are bare, Walks the wolf on the crackling snow.

Soon wilt thou wipe my tears away; All my task upon earth is done; My poor father, old and gray, Slumbers beneath the churchyard stone.

In the dreams of my lonely bed, Ever thy form before me seems; All night long I talk with the dead, All day long I think of my dreams.

This deep wound that bleeds and aches, This long pain, a sleepless pain-- When the Father my spirit takes, I shall feel it no more again.

THE RETURN OF YOUTH.

My friend, thou sorrowest for thy golden prime, For thy fair youthful years too swift of flight; Thou musest, with wet eyes, upon the time Of cheerful hopes that filled the world with light,-- Years when thy heart was bold, thy hand was strong, And quick the thought that moved thy tongue to speak, And willing faith was thine, and scorn of wrong Summoned the sudden crimson to thy cheek.

Thou lookest forward on the coming days, Shuddering to feel their shadow o'er thee creep; A path, thick-set with changes and decays, Slopes downward to the place of common sleep; And they who walked with thee in life's first stage, Leave one by one thy side, and, waiting near, Thou seest the sad companions of thy age-- Dull love of rest, and weariness and fear.

Yet grieve thou not, nor think thy youth is gone, Nor deem that glorious season e'er could die. Thy pleasant youth, a little while withdrawn, Waits on the horizon of a brighter sky; Waits, like the morn, that folds her wing and hides, Till the slow stars bring back her dawning hour; Waits, like the vanished spring, that slumbering bides Her own sweet time to waken bud and flower.

There shall he welcome thee, when thou shalt stand On his bright morning hills, with smiles more sweet Than when at first he took thee by the hand, Through the fair earth to lead thy tender feet. He shall bring back, but brighter, broader still, Life's early glory to thine eyes again, Shall clothe thy spirit with new strength, and fill Thy leaping heart with warmer love than then.

Hast thou not glimpses, in the twilight here, Of mountains where immortal morn prevails? Comes there not, through the silence, to thine ear A gentle rustling of the morning gales; A murmur, wafted from that glorious shore, Of streams that water banks for ever fair, And voices of the loved ones gone before, More musical in that celestial air?

A HYMN OF THE SEA.

The sea is mighty, but a mightier sways His restless billows. Thou, whose hands have scooped His boundless gulfs and built his shore, thy breath, That moved in the beginning o'er his face, Moves o'er it evermore. The obedient waves To its strong motion roll, and rise and fall. Still from that realm of rain thy cloud goes up, As at the first, to water the great earth, And keep her valleys green. A hundred realms Watch its broad shadow warping on the wind, And in the dropping shower, with gladness hear Thy promise of the harvest. I look forth Over the boundless blue, where joyously The bright crests of innumerable waves Glance to the sun at once, as when the hands Of a great multitude are upward flung In acclamation. I behold the ships Gliding from cape to cape, from isle to isle, Or stemming toward far lands, or hastening home From the old world. It is thy friendly breeze That bears them, with the riches of the land, And treasure of dear lives, till, in the port, The shouting seaman climbs and furls the sail.

But who shall bide thy tempest, who shall face The blast that wakes the fury of the sea? Oh God! thy justice makes the world turn pale, When on the armed fleet, that royally Bears down the surges, carrying war, to smite Some city, or invade some thoughtless realm, Descends the fierce tornado. The vast hulks Are whirled like chaff upon the waves; the sails Fly, rent like webs of gossamer; the masts Are snapped asunder; downward from the decks, Downward are slung, into the fathomless gulf, Their cruel engines; and their hosts, arrayed In trappings of the battle-field, are whelmed By whirlpools, or dashed dead upon the rocks. Then stand the nations still with awe, and pause, A moment, from the bloody work of war.