And, therefore, bards of old,
Sages, and hermits of the solemn wood, Did in thy beams behold
A beauteous type of that unchanging good, That bright eternal beacon, by whose ray The voyager of time should shape his heedful way.
AUTUMN WOODS.
ERE, in the northern gale,
The summer tresses of the trees are gone, The woods of autumn, all around our vale, Have put their glory on.
The mountains that infold
In their wide sweep, the color'd landscape round, Seem groups of giant kings in purple and gold, That guard the enchanted ground.
I roam the woods that crown
The upland, where the mingled splendors glow, Where the gay company of trees look down On the green fields below.
In these bright walks; the sweet southwest at play, Flies, rustling, where the painted leaves, are strown Along the winding way.
And far in heaven, the while,
The sun, that sends that gale to wander here, Pours out on the fair earth his quiet smile,— The sweetest of the year.
Where now the solemn shade, Verdure and gloom where many branches meet; So grateful, when the noon of summer made The valleys sick with heat?
Let in through all the trees
Come the strange rays; the forest depths are bright; Their sunny-colour'd foliage, in the breeze, Twinkles, like beams of light.
The rivulet, late unseen,
Where bickering through the shrubs its waters run, Shines with the image of its golden screen, And glimmerings of the sun.
But 'neath yon crimson tree,
Lover to listening maid might breathe his flame,
Nor mark, within its roseate canopy,
Her blush of maiden shame.
Oh, Autumn! why so soon
Depart the hues that make thy forests glad; Thy gentle wind and thy fair sunny noon, And leave thee wild and sad!
Ah, 't were a lot too blest
For ever in thy colour'd shades to stray Amidst the kisses of the soft southwest To rove and dream for aye;
And leave the vain low strife,
That makes men mad—the tug for wealth and power, The passions and the cares that wither life, And waste its little hour.
I KNOW where the timid fawn abides In the depths of the shaded dell,
Where the leaves are broad, and the thicket hides, With its many stems and its tangled sides, From the eye of the hunter well.
I know where the young May violet grows, In its lone and lowly nook,
On the mossy bank, where the larch tree throws Its broad dark boughs, in solemn repose,
Far over the silent brook.
And that timid fawn starts not with fear When I steal to her secret bower, And that young May violet to me is dear, And I visit the silent streamlet near, To look on the lovely flower.
Thus Maquon sings as he lightly walks To the hunting ground on the hills;
"T is a song of his maid of the woods and rocks, With her bright black eyes and long black locks, And voice like the music of rills.
He goes to the chase-but evil eyes Are at watch in the thicker shades;
For she was lovely that smiled on his sighs, And he bore, from a hundred lovers, his prize,
The boughs in the morning wind are stirr'd, And the woods their song renew, With the early carol of many a bird,
And the quicken'd tune of the streamlet heard Where the hazles trickle with dew.
And Maquon has promis'd his dark-hair'd maid, Ere eve shall redden the sky,
A good red deer from the forest shade,
That bounds with the herd through grove and glade, At her cabin door shall lie.
The hollow woods, in the setting sun, Ring shrill with the fire-bird's lay; And Maquon's sylvan labours are done, And his shafts are spent, but the spoil they won He bears on his homeward way.
He stops near his bower-his eye perceives Strange traces along the ground—
At once, to the earth his burden he heaves, He breaks through the veil of boughs and leaves, And gains its door with a bound.
But the vines are torn on its walls that leant, And all from the young shrubs there
By struggling hands have the leaves been rent, And there hangs, on the sassafras broken and bent, One tress of the well known hair.
But where is she who at this calm hour, Ever watch'd his coming to see,
She is not at the door, nor yet in the bower, He calls-but he only hears on the flower The hum of the laden bee.
It is not a time for idle grief,
Nor a time for tears to flow;
The horror that freezes his limbs is brief— He grasps his war axe and bow, and a sheaf Of darts made sharp for the foe.
And he looks for the print of the ruffian's feet, Where he bore the maiden away;
And he darts on the fatal path more fleet Than the blast that hurries the vapour and sleet O'er the wild November day.
But at length the maples in crimson are dyed, And the grape is black on the cabin side,-
And she smiles at his hearth once more.
But far in a pine grove, dark and cold, Where the yellow leaf falls not,
Nor the autumn shines in scarlet and gold, There lies a hillock of fresh dark mould, In the deepest gloom of the spot.
that way, And the Indian girls, that pass
Point out the ravisher's grave;
"And how soon to the bower she loved," they say, Return'd the maid that was borne away From Maquon, the fond and the brave."
To him who in the love of Nature holda Communion with her visible forms, she speaks A various language; for his gayer hours She has a voice of gladness, and a smile And eloquence of beauty, and she glides Into his dark musings, with a mild And gentle sympathy, that steals away Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts Of the last bitter hour come like a blight Over thy spirit, and sad images
Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall, And breathless darkness, and the narrow house, Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart;- Go forth, unto the open sky, and list
To Nature's teachings, while from all around- Earth and her waters, and the depths of air,— Comes a still voice-Yet a few days, and thee The all-beholding sun shall see no more In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground, Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears, Nor in the embrace of ocean shall exist
Thy image. Earth, that nourish'd thee, shall claim Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again; And, lost each human trace, surrendering up Thine individual being, shalt thou go To mix for ever with the elements, To be a brother to th' insensible rock, And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain Turns with his share and treads upon. The oak Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould. Yet not to thy eternal resting place
Shalt thou retire alone-nor couldst thou wish Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down With patriarchs of the infant world-with kings The powerful of the earth-the wise, the good, Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past, All in one mighty sepulchre.-The hills Rock-ribb'd and ancient as the sun,—the vales Stretching in pensive quietness between;- The venerable woods-rivers that move In majesty, and the complaining brooks
That make the meadows green; and pour'd round all, Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste,-
Are but the solemn decorations all
Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun, The planets, all the infinite host of heaven, Are shining on the sad abodes of death, Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread The globe are but a handful to the tribes That slumber in its bosom.-Take the wings Of morning-and the Barcan desert pierce, Or lose thyself in the continuous woods Where rolls the Oregan, and hears no sound, Save his own dashings-yet-the dead are there, And millions in those solitudes, since first The flight of years began, have laid them down In their last sleep-the dead reign there alone.- So shalt thou rest-and what if thou shalt fall Unnoticed by the living—and no friend Take note of thy departure? All that breathe Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care Plod on, and each one as before will chase His favorite phantom; yet all these shall leave Their mirth and their employments, and shall come, And make their bed with thee. As the long train Of ages glide away, the sons of men,
The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes In the full strength of years, matron, and maid, The bow'd with age, the infant in the smiles And beauty of its innocent age cut off,- Shall one by one be gather'd to thy side, By those, who in their turn shall follow them. So live, that when thy summons comes to join The innumerable caravan, that moves
To the pale realms of shade, where each shall take His chamber in the silent halls of death, Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night, Scourged to his dungeon, but sustain'd and soothed By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave, Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.
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