Thou carest little how or where. I see thee eager at thy play, And like it, to a sea as wide and deep, Now shouting to the apples on the Thou driftest gently down the tides tree With cheeks as round and red as they ; And now among the yellow stalks, Among the flowering shrubs and plants, As restless as the bee, Along the garden walks, of sleep. O child! O new-born denizen The tracks of thy small carriage- Thou openest the mysterious gate wheels I trace; And see at every turn how they ef- Whole villages of sand-roofed tents, Above the cavernous and secret Into the future's undiscovered land. As at the touch of Fate! Into those realms of love and hate, Of wandering and nomadic tribes of Freighted with hope and fear ; ants. Ah, cruel little Tamerlane, What! tired already! with those suppliant looks, And voice more beautiful than a poet's books, Or murmuring sound of water as it flows, Thou comest back to parley with re pose ! This rustic seat in the old apple-tree, And shining with the argent light of Shall for a season be our place of rest. Beneath us, like an oriole's pendent nest, From which the laughing birds have taken wing, By thee abandoned, hangs thy vacant swing. Dream-like the waters of the river gleam; As upon subterranean streams, By what astrology of fear or hope A prophecy and intimation, Behind all human destinies. Ah! if thy fate, with anguish fraught, Should be to wet the dusty soil With the hot tears and sweat of toil, To struggle with imperious thought, A sailless vessel drops adown the Until the overburdened brain, stream, Weary with labor, faint with pain, Like a jarred pendulum, retain rest. And if a more auspicious fate moor. Nor to thyself the task shall be Without reward; for thou shalt learn The wisdom early to discern And hearing the hammers, as they smote The anvils with a different note, Stole from the varying tones, that hung Vibrant on every iron tongue, And burns to ashes in the skies. THE OCCULTATION OF ORION.1 1 The Occultation of Orion. Astronomically speaking, this title is incorrect: as I apply to a constellation what can properly be applied to some of its stars only. But my observation is made from the hill of song, and not from that of science; and will, I trust, be found sufficiently accurate for the present purpose. O'er East and West its beam impended; And day, with all its hours of light, Like the astrologers of eld, Majestic, mournful, Saturn goes, And the current that came from the occan Seemed to lift and bear them away; As, sweeping and eddying through them, Rose the belated tide, And, streaming into the moonlight, The seaweed floated wide. And like those waters rushing A flood of thoughts came o'er me How often, O, how often, In the days that had gone by, I had stood on that bridge at midnight, And gazed on that wave and sky! How often, O, how often, I had wished that the ebbing tide Would bear me away on its bosom O'er the ocean wild and wide! For my heart was hot and restless, But now it has fallen from me, Yet whenever I cross the river On its bridge with wooden piers, Like the odor of brine from the ocean Comes the thought of other years. And I think how many thousands Still passing to and fro, And for ever and for ever, As long as the river flows, As long as the heart has passions, The moon and its broken reflection TO THE DRIVING CLOUD. 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, GLOOMY and dark art thou, O chief Or by the roar of the Running 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! 't is in vain that with lordly looks of disdain thou dost challenge Looks of dislike in return, and ques tion these walls and these pavements, Claiming the soil for thy huntinggrounds, while down-trodden millions Starve in the garrets of Europe, and Calls Water, or where the Omaw haw 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 Far more fatal to thee and thy race than the Crows and the Foxes, 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 campfires Gleam through the night, and the cloud of dust in the gray of the day break Marks not the buffalo's track, nor the Mandan's dexterous horserace; cry from its caverns that they, It is a caravan, whitening the des too, Have been created heirs of the earth, and claim its division! Back, then, back to thy woods in ert where dwell the Caman- Ha! how the breath of these Saxons wams! SONGS. SEAWEED. WHEN descends on the Atlantic The gigantic Storm-wind of the equinox, Landward in his wrath he scourges The toiling surges, Laden with seaweed from the rocks: From Bermuda's reefs; from edges In some far-off, bright Azore ; Surges of San Salvador; From the tumbling surf, that buries The Orkneyan skerries, Answering the hoarse Hebrides; And from wrecks of ships, and drifting Spars, uplifting On the desolate, rainy seas Ever drifting, drifting, drifting Currents of the restless main ; All have found repose again. 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, Heaven has planted With the golden fruit of Truth; From the flashing surf, whose vision Gleams Elysian In the tropic clime of Youth; 294 From the strong Will, and the Endeavor That forever Wrestles with the tides of Fate; From the wreck of Hopes far-scattered, Tempest-shattered, Ever drifting, drifting, drifting Currents of the restless heart; Household words, no more depart. THE DAY IS DONE. THE day is done, and the darkness Falls from the wings of Night, As a feather is wafted downward From an eagle in his flight. I see the lights of the village Gleam through the rain and the mist, And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me, That my soul cannot resist : A feeling of sadness and longing, That is not akin to pain, And resembles sorrow only As the mist resembles the rain. Come, read to me some poem, Some simple and heartfelt lay, That shall soothe this restless feeling, And banish the thoughts of day. Not from the grand old masters, |
