And where, O, where are the unnumbered vows
We made, my sister, at the twilight fall,
A thousand times, and the still starry hours
Of the dew-glistening eve-in many a walk
By the green borders of our native stream,
And in the chequered shade of these old oaks-
The moonlight silvering o'er each mossy trunk,
And every bough, as an Æolian harp,
Full of the solemn chant of the low breeze?
Thou hast forgotten this-and standest here,
Thy hand in mine, and hearest, even now,
The rustling wood, the stir of falling leaves,
And-hark the far off murmur of the brook!
Nay, do not weep, my sister !-do not speakNow know I, by the tone, and by the
Of tenderness, with many tears bedimmed,
Thou hast remembered all. Thou measurest well
The work that is before thee, and the joys
That are behind. Now, be the past forgot-
The youthful love, the hearth-light and the home,
Song, dance, and story, and the vows-the vows
That we change not, and part not unto death-
Yea, all the spirits of departed bliss,
That even now, like spirits of the dead,
Seen dimly in the living mourner's dreams,
And trilling, ever and anon, the notes
Long loved of old-O hear them, heed them not
Press on for, like the fairies of the tale,
That mocked, unseen, the tempted traveller,
With power alone o'er those who gave them ear,
They would but turn thee from thy high resolve.
Then look not back! O, triumph in the strength
Of an exalted purpose! Eagle-like,
Press sunward on. Thou shalt not be alone.
Have but an eye on God, as surely God
Will have an eye on thee-press on! press on!
BURY me by the Ocean's side
O give me a grave on the verge of the deep,
When the sea-gales blow, my marble may sweepAnd the glistening surf
And bathe my cold bosom, in death as I sleep!
That the vesper at eve-fall may sing o'er my grave, Like the hymn of the bee,
Or the hum of the shell in the silent wave!
Or an anthem-roar
Shall be beat on the shore,
By the storm and the surge-like march of the brave!
Bury me by the deep
Where a living footstep never may tread
And come not to weep
O wake not with sorrow the dream of the dead!
But leave me the dirge
Of the breaking surge,
And the silent tears of the sea on my head!
And grave no Parian praise-
Purple no turf for the heartless tomb-
And burn no holy blaze,
To flatter the awe of its solemn gloom!
For the holier light
Of the star-eyed night,
And the violet morning my rest will illume:
Than of sorrow and love, shall be strewn on my clay By the young green year,
With its fragrant dews and its crimson array——
O leave me to sleep
On the verge of the deep,
Till the sky and the seas shall have passed away!
THOU beautiful, romantic Dell!
Thy banks of hemlock highlands swell,
Like huge sea billows, o'er the isles
Round which the branching river smiles.
Look up! how sombre and how vast
The shadows those dark mountains cast,
Making noon twilight; or, look down
The giddy depths, so steep and brown,
Where claret waters foam and play
A tinkling tune, then dance away.
Oft, with my oak-leaf basket green,
On summer holidays serene,
Along your hill-sides have I stray'd,
And, on the ground, all scarlet made,
This is a wild and picturesque pass of the Housatonic, about twenty miles from its mouth, near the pleasant village of Newtown, Connecticut.
Pick'd in full stems, as low I kneel'd,
Strawberries, rubies of the field,
Coming late home; or, in the flood,
Cool'd the warm current of my blood
While swam the house-dog after me,
With long red tongue lapt out in glee.
'Tis glorious, here, at breaking day,
To watch the orient clouds of gray
Blush crimson, as the yellow sun
Walks up to take his purple throne,
And melts to snowy mists the dew
That kiss'd, all night, each blossom's hue,
Till, like a tumbling ocean spread,
They hide low vale and tall cliff's head,
And many a tree's fantastic form
Looks like some toss'd ship in a storm.
How still the scene! yet, here war's hum
Once echoed wildly from the drum,
When waved the lily flower's gay bloom
O'er glittering troops with sword and plume,
Who, on the clover meadows round,
Their white tents pitch'd, while music's sound,
From horn and cymbal, play'd some strain
That oft had charm'd the banks of Seine,
And village girls came down to dance,
At evening with the youths of France.
Fair was the hour, secluded Dell!
When last I taught my listening shell
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