BEAVERKILL, THE RIVER. 25
Bay Ridge, N. Y.
AT BAY RIDGE, LONG ISLAND.
PLEASANT it is to lie amid the grass
Under these shady locusts, half the day,
Watching the ships reflected on the Bay,
Topmast and shroud, as in a wizard's glass:
To see the happy-hearted martins pass,
Brushing the dew-drops from the lilac spray:
Or else to hang enamored o'er some lay
Of fairy regions: or to muse, alas!
On Dante, exiled, journeying outworn;
On patient Milton's sorrowfulest eyes
Shut from the splendors of the Night nd Morn:
To think that now, beneath the Italian skies,
In such clear air as this, by Tiber's wave,
Daisies are trembling over Keats's grave.
Thomas Bailey Aldrich.
Beaverkill, the River, N. Y.
The sunset falls in streaking glow;
Here, the mown meadow's velvet plat,
And there, the buckwheat's scented snow.
A cluster of low roofs is prest
Against the mountain's leaning breast.
But each rude porch is closed and barred:
For tenderest Youth and Age alone
Are left those humble roofs to guard,
Till Day resumes his blazing throne.
Where deepest shade the forest flings,
The hunters seek that forest's game;
Men tireless as the eagle's wings,
Of dauntless heart and iron frame.
The sparkling Beaverkill beside,
Benighted in their wanderings wide,
They merry dress the slaughtered deer,
And make the twilight ring with cheer;
Now chorus of the woods, now tale
Of panther-fight and Indian trail, -
Till the rude group, the camp-fire round,
Crouch with their rifles, on the ground.
Where wide the branch-linked river spreads,
Near rapids swift, a fairy isle,
Three leagues above those mountain-sheds,
Looks like a sweet perpetual smile.
The muskrat burrows in its sides,
Down its steep slopes the otter slides;
The splendid sheldrake, floating, feeds
In his close haunts amid the reeds;
Around its sandy points, all day,
Watches and wades the crane for prey;
While show its shallows lily-robes
Of heart-shaped leaves and golden globes.
Above the mountain hamlet, fade
Eve's tints, and darkness spreads its shade;
Their pointed tops the cedars rear
Against the starlight bright and clear.
Then come the many sounds and sights
Usual in forest summer-nights:
At intervals, the flitting breeze
Draws soft, low sobbings from the trees;
From the deep woods, in transient float,
Tinkles the whetsaw's double note;
The wakeful frog, unceasing, groans;
Twang the mosquito's hungry tones,
And echoing sweetly, on the hill,
Whistles the sorrowing whippoorwill;
From the cleft pine the gray owl hoots,
Swells from the swamp the wolf's long cry,
And, now and then, a meteor shoots
And melts within the spangled sky.
The firefly opes and shuts its gleam,
The cricket chirps, the tree-toad crows;
And hark! the cougar's distant scream
Afar the mountain echo throws.
HYMN OF THE MORAVIAN NUNS OF BETHLEHEM
AT THE CONSECRATION OF PULASKI'S BANNER.
WHEN the dying flame of day
Through the chancel shot its ray,
Far the glimmering tapers shed
Faint light on the cowled head;
And the censer burning swung,
Where, before the altar, hung
The crimson banner, that with prayer
Had been consecrated there.
And the nuns' sweet hymn was heard the while,
Sung low, in the dim, mysterious aisle.
"Take thy banner! May it wave
Proudly o'er the good and brave;
When the battle's distant wail
Breaks the sabbath of our vale,
When the clarion's music thrills
To the hearts of these lone hills,
When the spear in conflict shakes,
And the strong lance shivering breaks.
"Take thy banner! and, beneath
The battle-cloud's encircling wreath,
Guard it, till our homes are free!
Guard it! God will prosper thee!
In the dark and trying hour,
In the breaking forth of
power,
In the rush of steeds and men,
His right hand will shield thee then.
"Take thy banner! But when night
Closes round the ghastly fight,
If the vanquished warrior bow,
Spare him! By our holy vow,
By our prayers and many tears,
By the mercy that endears,
Spare him he our love hath shared!
Spare him! as thou wouldst be spared!
"Take thy banner! and if e'er
Thou shouldst press the soldier's bier,
And the muffled drum should beat
To the tread of mournful feet,
Then this crimson flag shall be
Martial cloak and shroud for thee."
The warrior took that banner proud,
And it was his martial cloak and shroud!
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
Bloomingdale, N. Y.
WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE.
WOODMAN, spare that tree!
Touch not a single bough!
In youth it sheltered me,
And I'll protect it now.
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