And frequent, on the everlasting hills, Its feet go forth, when it doth wrap itself In all the dark embroidery of the storm, And shouts the stern, strong wind.And here, amid The silent majesty of these deep woods, lts presence shall uplift thy thoughts from earth, As to the sunshine and the pure, bright air Their tops the green trees lift.Hence gifted bards Have ever loved the calm and quiet shades.
For them there was an eloquent voice in all The sylvan pomp of woods, the golden sun, The flowers, the leaves, the river on its way, Blue skies, and silver clouds, and gentle winds, The swelling upland, where the sidelong sun Aslant the wooded slope, at evening, goes, Groves, through whose broken roof the sky looks in, Mountain, and shattered cliff, and sunny vale, The distant lake, fountains, and mighty trees, In many a lazy syllable, repeating Their old poetic legends to the wind.
And this is the sweet spirit, that doth fill The world; and, in these wayward days of youth, My busy fancy oft embodies it, As a bright image of the light and beauty That dwell in nature; of the heavenly forms We worship in our dreams, and the soft hues That stain the wild bird's wing, and flush the clouds When the sun sets.Within her tender eye The heaven of April, with its changing light, And when it wears the blue of May, is hung, And on her lip the rich, red rose.Her hair Is like the summer tresses of the trees, When twilight makes them brown, and on her cheek Blushes the richness of an autumn sky, With ever-shifting beauty.Then her breath, It is so like the gentle air of Spring, As, front the morning's dewy flowers, it comes Full of their fragrance, that it is a joy To have it round us, and her silver voice Is the rich music of a summer bird, Heard in the still night, with its passionate cadence.
BURIAL OF THE MINNISINK
On sunny slope and beechen swell, The shadowed light of evening fell;And, where the maple's leaf was brown, With soft and silent lapse came down, The glory, that the wood receives, At sunset, in its golden leaves.
Far upward in the mellow light Rose the blue hills.One cloud of white, Around a far uplifted cone, In the warm blush of evening shone;An image of the silver lakes, By which the Indian's soul awakes.
But soon a funeral hymn was heard Where the soft breath of evening stirred The tall, gray forest; and a band Of stern in heart, and strong in hand, Came winding down beside the wave, To lay the red chief in his grave.
They sang, that by his native bowers He stood, in the last moon of flowers, And thirty snows had not yet shed Their glory on the warrior's head;But, as the summer fruit decays, So died he in those naked days.
A dark cloak of the roebuck's skin Covered the warrior, and within Its heavy folds the weapons, made For the hard toils of war, were laid;The cuirass, woven of plaited reeds, And the broad belt of shells and beads.
Before, a dark-haired virgin train Chanted the death dirge of the slain;Behind, the long procession came Of hoary men and chiefs of fame, With heavy hearts, and eyes of grief, Leading the war-horse of their chief.
Stripped of his proud and martial dress, Uncurbed, unreined, and riderless, With darting eye, and nostril spread, And heavy and impatient tread, He came; and oft that eye so proud Asked for his rider in the crowd.
They buried the dark chief; they freed Beside the grave his battle steed;And swift an arrow cleaved its way To his stern heart! One piercing neigh Arose, and, on the dead man's plain, The rider grasps his steed again.
L' ENVOI
Ye voices, that arose After the Evening's close, And whispered to my restless heart repose!
Go, breathe it in the ear Of all who doubt and fear, And say to them, "Be of good cheer!"Ye sounds, so low and calm, That in the groves of balm Seemed to me like an angel's psalm!
Go, mingle yet once more With the perpetual roar Of the pine forest dark and hoar!
Tongues of the dead, not lost But speaking from deaths frost, Like fiery tongues at Pentecost!
Glimmer, as funeral lamps, Amid the chills and darn ps Of the vast plain where Death encamps!
****************
BALLADS AND OTHER POEMS
THE SKELETON IN ARMOR
"Speak! speak I thou fearful guest Who, with thy hollow breast Still in rude armor drest, Comest to daunt me!
Wrapt not in Eastern balms, Bat with thy fleshless palms Stretched, as if asking alms, Why dost thou haunt me?"Then, from those cavernous eyes Pale flashes seemed to rise, As when the Northern skies Gleam in December;And, like the water's flow Under December's snow, Came a dull voice of woe From the heart's chamber.
"I was a Viking old!
My deeds, though manifold, No Skald in song has told, No Saga taught thee!
Take heed, that in thy verse Thou dost the tale rehearse, Else dread a dead man's curse;For this I sought thee.
"Far in the Northern Land, By the wild Baltic's strand, I, with my childish hand, Tamed the gerfalcon;And, with my skates fast-bound, Skimmed the half-frozen Sound, That the poor whimpering hound Trembled to walk on.
"Oft to his frozen lair Tracked I the grisly bear, While from my path the hare Fled like a shadow;Oft through the forest dark Followed the were-wolf's bark, Until the soaring lark Sang from the meadow.
"But when I older grew, Joining a corsair's crew, O'er the dark sea I flew With the marauders.
Wild was the life we led;
Many the souls that sped, Many the hearts that bled, By our stern orders.
"Many a wassail-bout Wore the long Winter out;Often our midnight shout Set the cocks crowing, As we the Berserk's tale Measured in cups of ale, Draining the oaken pail, Filled to o'erflowing.
"Once as I told in glee Tales of the stormy sea, Soft eyes did gaze on me, Burning yet tender;And as the white stars shine On the dark Norway pine, On that dark heart of mine Fell their soft splendor.
"I wooed the blue-eyed maid, Yielding, yet half afraid, And in the forest's shade Our vows were plighted.
Under its loosened vest Fluttered her little breast Like birds within their nest By the hawk frighted.