I see the long procession The young heart hot and restless, And for ever and for ever, As long as the river flows, The moon and its broken reflection TO THE DRIVING CLOUD. GLOOMY and dark art thou, O chief of the mighty Omawhaws; Gloomy and dark, as the driving cloud, whose name thou hast taken! Wrapt in thy scarlet blanket, I see thee stalk through the city's Narrow and populous streets, as once by the margin of rivers Stalked those birds unknown, that have left us only their footprints. What, in a few short years, will remain of thy race but the footprints? How canst thou walk in these streets, who hast trod the green turf of the prairies? How canst thou breathe in this air, who hast breathed the sweet air of the mountains? Ah! 'tis in vain that with lordly looks of disdain thou dost challenge Looks of dislike in return, and question these walls and these pavements, Claiming the soil for thy hunting-grounds, while downtrodden millions Starve in the garrets of Europe, and cry from its caverns that they, too, Have been created heirs of the earth, and claim its division! Back, then, back to thy woods in the regions west of the Wabash! There as a monarch thou reignest. In autumn the leaves of the maple Pave the floors of thy palace-halls with gold, and in summer Pine-trees waft through its chambers the odorous breath of their branches. There thou art strong and great, a hero, a tamer of horses! There thou chasest the stately stag on the banks of the Elk-horn, Or by the roar of the Running-Water, or where the Omawhaw Calls thee, and leaps through the wild ravine like a brave of the Blackfeet! Hark! what murmurs arise from the heart of those mountainous deserts ? Is it the cry of the Foxes and Crows, or the mighty Behemoth, Who, unharmed, on his tusks once caught the bolts of the thunder, And now lurks in his lair to destroy the race of the red man ? Far more fatal to thee and thy race than the Crows and the Foxes, Far more fatal to thee and thy race than the tread of Behemoth, Lo! the big thunder-canoe, that steadily breasts the Missouri's Merciless current! and yonder, afar on the prairies, the camp-fires Gleam through the night; and the cloud of dust in the gray of the daybreak Marks not the buffalo's track, nor the Mandan's dexterous. horse-race; It is a caravan, whitening the desert where dwell the Camanches! Ha! how the breath of these Saxons and Celts, like the blast of the east-wind, Drifts evermore to the west the scanty smokes of thy wigwams! Songs. SEAWEED. WHEN descends on the Atlantic Laden with seaweed from the rocks: From Bermuda's reefs; from edges Surges of San Salvador; From the tumbling surf, that buries On the desolate, rainy seas; Ever drifting, drifting, drifting Currents of the restless main; So when storms of wild emotion Of the poet's soul, ere long Floats some fragment of a song: From the far-off isles enchanted, With the golden fruit of Truth; In the tropic clime of Youth; From the strong Will, and the Endeavour That for ever Wrestles with the tides of Fate; From the wreck of Hopes far-scattered, Tempest-shattered, Floating waste and desolate ; Ever drifting, drifting, drifting Currents of the restless heart; THE DAY IS DONE. THE day is done, and the darkness I see the lights of the village Gleam through the rain and the mist, A feeling of sadness and longing, As the mist resembles the rain. Come, read to me some poem, Not from the grand old masters, For, like strains of martial music, Read from some humbler poet, Who, through long days of labour, Such songs have power to quiet Then read from the treasured volume And lend to the rhyme of the poet And the night shall be filled with music, AFTERNOON IN FEBRUARY. THE day is ending, The night is descending; The river dead. Through clouds like ashes, On village windows That glimmer red. The snow recommences; The buried fences Mark no longer The road o'er the plain; |