The deer glides shadowy by,
The rabbit springs before me wing'd with dread, The squirrel leaves the strew'd nuts where it fedWith a low chirping cry,
And the quick flicker like a checker'd speck, Climbs the moss'd oak and taps with darting neck.
The air-how calm and still!
Each gentle sound comes sweetly to my ear,-
The falling nut, the bee-wing's music near,
The purling of the rill,
The chirp of bird, the sighing of the breeze,
And the far axe-blow echoing through the trees.
With what a feeling deep
Does Nature speak to us! Oh, how divine
The flame that glows on her eternal shrine!
What knowledge can we reap
From her great pages if we read aright!
Through her God shows His wisdom and His might.
The visions of our youth!
Bright as the autumn foliage are they found,
Robed in their glittering rainbows, all around,
Radiant in seeming truth,
Luring us onward, with their treacherous glow,
And brightening lovelier, swifter as they go.
Then comes the threatening cloud;
Despair seems blackening in our adverse sky;
Frail as the leaves our brilliant visions die;
And, where once brightly glow'd
Fancy's enchanted Eden, nought appears
But a wide waste of sorrow and of tears.
But when our youth is past,
With its vain visions and its storms, serene
As yon mild sky, and peaceful as this scene,
Contentment smiles at last
Upon our way, and glorious hopes are given
To light our path, whose native home is heaven.
THE lake's gold and purple have vanish'd from sight,
The glimmer of twilight is merged into night,
The woods on the borders in blackness are mass'd,
The waters in motionless ebony glass'd,
The stars that first spangle the pearl of the west
Are lost in the bright blazing crowds of the rest;
Light the torch!-launch the boat!-for to-night we are here,
The salmon, the quick-darting salmon, to spear.
We urge our light craft by the push of the oar
Through the serpent-like stems of the lilies near shore,
And turn the sharp prow at yon crescent-shaped cove,
Made black by the down-hanging boughs of its grove;
The meek eddy-gurgle that whirls at our dip,
Sounds low as the wine-bead which bursts on the lip;
On the lake, from the flame of our torch, we behold
A pyramid pictured in spangles of gold,
And the marble-like depths on each side of the blaze
Are full of dark sparkles, far in as we gaze;
The loon from his nook in the bank, sends a cry;
The night-hawk darts down, with a rush, through the sky;
In gutturals hoarse, on his green slimy log,
To his shrill piping tribe, croaks the patriarch frog;
And bleat, low, and bark, from the banks, mingle faint
With the anchorite whip-poor-will's mournful complaint.
We glide in the cove; let the torch be flared low!
The spot where our victim is lurking, 'twill show;
'Midst the twigs of this dead sunken tree-top he lies,—
Poise, comrade! your spear,-or farewell to our prize!
It darts; to the blow his best efforts are bent,–
A white bubbling streak shows its rapid descent;
He grasps it as upward it shoots through the air,
Three cheers for our luck!-the barb'd victim is there!
Give way, boys! give way, boys! our prow points to shore,
Give way, boys! give way, boys! our labour is o'er.
As the black mass of forest our torch-light receives,
It breaks into groups of trunks, branches, and leaves :
Low perch'd on the hemlock, we've blinded with light Yon gray-headed owl !—see him flutter from sight! And the orator frog, as we glide with our glow,
Stops his speech with a groan, and dives splashing below, One long and strong pull !-the prow grates on the sand; Three cheers for our luck, boys! as spring we to land.
CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH.
Born at Alexandria, near Washington, D.C., 1813.
WRITTEN AT SORRENTO.
THE wild waves madly dash and roar,
In thunder-throbs, upon the beach;
Their broad white hands upon the shore
They struggle evermore to reach.
Up through the cavernous rocks amain,
With short, hoarse growl, they plunge and leap,
Like an arm'd host, again and again,
Battering some castellated steep.
Great pulses of the ocean heart,
Beating from out immensity!
What mystic news would ye impart
From the great spirit of the sea?
Ever, in still increasing force,
Earnest as cries of love or hate,
Your large and eloquent discourse
Is mighty as the march of fate.
I sit alone on the glowing sand,
Fill'd with the music of your speech,
And only half may understand
The wondrous lore that ye would teach.
The sea-weed and the shells are wise,
And versed in your broad Sanscrit tongue;
The rocks need not our ears and eyes
To comprehend the under-song.
The ocean and the shore are one;
The rocks and trees that hang above,
The birds and insects in the sun,
Are link'd in one strong tie of love.
Would that I might with freedom be A seer into your hidden truth, Joining your firm fraternity,
To drink with you perpetual youth!
THE Hours are viewless angels,
That still go gliding by,
And bear each minute's record up
To Him who sits on high.
And we, who walk among them,
As one by one departs,
See not that they are hovering
For ever round our hearts.
Like summer-bees, that hover
Around the idle flowers,
They gather every act and thought,
Those viewless Angel-Hours.
The poison or the nectar
The heart's deep flower-cups yield, A sample still they gather swift,
And leave us in the field.
And some flit by on pinions
Of joyous gold and blue,
And some flag on with drooping wings
Of sorrow's darker hue.
But still they steal the record,
And bear it far away;
Their mission-flight by day or night
No magic power can stay.
And as we spend each minute
That God to us hath given,
The deeds are known before His throne,
The tale is told in heaven.
These bee-like Hours we see not,
Nor hear their noiseless wings;
We only feel, too oft, when flown,
That they have left their stings.
So, teach me, Heavenly Father,
To meet each flying Hour,
That as they go they may not show
My heart a poison-flower!
So, when death brings its shadows,
The Hours that linger last
Shall bear my hopes on angel-wings,
Unfetter'd by the past.
HENRY THEODORE TUCKERMAN.
Born at Boston, Mass: 1813-died 1871.
BRAVELY thy old arms fling
Their countless pennons to the fields of air,
And, like a sylvan king,
Their panoply of green still proudly wear.
As some rude tower of old, Thy massive trunk still rears its rugged form, With limbs of giant mould,
To battle sternly with the winter storm.
|