Not unavenged-the foeman, from the wood, Beheld the deed, and when the midnight shade Was stillest, gorged his battle-axe with blood; All died-the wailing babe-the shrieking maidAnd in the flood of fire that scathed the glade, The roofs went down; but deep the silence grew, When on the dewy woods the day-beam play'd; No more the cabin smokes rose wreath'd and blue, And ever, by their lake, lay moor'd the light canoe.
Look now abroad-another race has fill'd These populous borders-wide the wood recedes, And towns shoot up, and fertile realms are till'd; The land is full of harvests and green meads; Streams numberless, that many a fountain feeds, Shine, disembower'd, and give to sun and breeze Their virgin waters; the full region leads
New colonies forth, that toward the western seas Spread, like a rapid flame among the autumnal trees.
Here the free spirit of mankind at length Throws its last fetters off; and who shall place A limit to the giant's unchain'd strength, Or curb his swiftness in the forward race. Far, like the comet's way through infinite space, Stretches the long untravell'd path of light Into the depths of ages: we may trace, Afar, the brightening glory of its flight, Till the receding rays are lost to human sight.
Europe is given a prey to sterner fates, And writhes in shackles; strong the arms that chain To earth her struggling multitude of states; She too is strong, and might not chafe in vain Against them, but shake off the vampyre train That batten on her blood, and break their net. Yes, she shall look on brighter days, and gain The meed of worthier deeds; the moment set To rescue and raise up, draws near-but is not yet.
But thou, my country, thou shalt never fall, But with thy children-thy maternal care, Thy lavish love, thy blessings shower'd on all- These are thy fetters-seas and stormy air Are the wide barrier of thy borders, where
Among thy gallant sons that guard thee well, Thou laugh'st at enemies: who shall then declare The date of thy deep-founded strength, or tell How happy, in thy lap, the sons of men shall dwell.
To him who in the love of Nature holds 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 darker 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 grey 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. 13
WHITHER, 'midst falling dew,
While glow the heavens with the last steps of day Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue Thy solitary way?
Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, As, darkly painted on the crimson sky, Thy figure floats along.
Seek'st thou the plashy brink Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, Or where the rocking billows rise and sink On the chafed ocean side?
There is a Power whose care Teaches thy way along that pathless coast,- The desert and illimitable air,— Lone wandering, but not lost.
All day thy wings have fann'd At that far height, the cold thin atmosphere; Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land, Though the dark night is near.
And soon that toil shall end,
Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest, And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend Soon o'er thy shelter'd nest.
Thou 'rt gone, the abyss of heaven Hath swallow'd up thy form; yet, on my heart Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given, And shall not soon depart.
He, who, from zone to zone,
Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, In the long way that I must tread alone, Will lead my steps aright.
THE MURDERED TRAVELLER.
WHEN spring to woods and wastes around, Brought bloom and joy again,
The murder'd traveller's bones were found, Far down a narrow glen.
The fragrant birch, above him, hung Her tassels in the sky;
And many a vernal blossom sprung, And nodded, careless, by.
The red-bird warbled, as he wrought His hanging nest o'erhead, And fearless near the fatal spot, Her young the partridge led.
But there was weeping far away, And gentle eyes, for him,
With watching many an anxious day, Grew sorrowful and dim.
They little knew, who loved him so, The fearful death he met, When shouting o'er the desert snow, Unarm'd, and hard beset;-
Nor how, when round the frosty pole The northern dawn was red, The mountain wolf and wild-cat stole To banquet on the dead ;-
Nor how, when strangers found his bones, They dress'd the hasty bier,
And mark'd his grave with nameless stones, Unmoisten'd by a tear.
But long they look'd, and fear'd, and wept, Within his distant home;
And dream'd, and started as they slept, For joy that he was come.
So long they look'd-but never spied His welcome step again,
Nor knew the fearful death he died
Far down that narrow glen.
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