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The earliest ray of the golden day
On that hallowed spot is cast;
And the evening sun, as he leaves the world,
Looks kindly on that spot last.
The pilgrim spirit has not fled:
It walks in noon's broad light;
And it watches the bed of the glorious dead,
With the holy stars, by night.
It watches the bed of the brave who have bled,
And shall guard this ice-bound shore,
Till the waves of the bay, where the May-Flower lay,
Shall foam and freeze no more..
POWER OF THE SOUL IN INVESTING EXTERNAL CIRCUMSTANCES WITH THE HUE OF ITS OWN FEELINGS..
-LIFE in itself, it life to all things gives:
For whatsoe'er it looks on, that thing lives—
Becomes an acting being, ill or good;
And, grateful to its giver, tenders food
For the Soul's health, or, suffering change unblest,
Pours poison down to rankle in the breast:
As is the man, e' en so it bears its part,
And answers, thought to thought, and heart to heart.
Yes, man reduplicates himself. You see,
In yonder lake, reflected rock and tree.
Each leaf at rest, or quivering in the air,
Now rests, now stirs as if a breeze were there
Sweeping the crystal depths. How perfect all!
And see those slender top-bonghs rise and fall;
The double strips of silvery sand unite
Above, below, each grain distinct and bright.
-Thou bird, that seek'st thy food upon that bough,
Peck not alone; that bird below, as thou,
Is busy after food, and happy, too.
-They're gone! Both, pleased, away together flew.
And see we thus sent up, rock, sand, and wood,
Life, joy, and motion from the sleepy flood?
The world, O man, is like that flood to thee:
Turn where thou wilt, thyself in all things see
Reflected back. As drives the blinding sand
Round Egypt's piles, where 'er thou tak'st thy stand,
If that thy heart be barren, there will sweep
The drifting waste, like waves along the deep,
Fill up the vale, and choke the laughing streams
That ran by grass and brake, with dancing beams,
Sear the fresh woods, and from thy heavy eye
Veil the wide-shifting glories of the sky,
And one, still, sightless level make the earth,
Like thy dull, lonely, joyless Soul,—a dearth.
The rill is tuneless to his ear who feels
No harmony within; the south wind steals
As silent as unseen amongst the leaves.
Who has no inward beauty, none perceives,
Though all around is beautiful. Nay, more—
In nature's calmest hour he hears the roar
Of winds and flinging waves-puts out the light,
When high and angry passions meet in fight;
And, his own spirit into tumult hurled,
He makes a turmoil of a quiet world:
The fiends of his own bosom people air
With kindred fiends, that hunt him to despair.
Hates he his fellow-men? Why, then, he deems
'Tis hate for hate :-as he, so each one seems.
Soul! fearful is thy power, which thus transforms All things into its likeness; heaves in storms The strong, proud sea, or lays it down to rest, Like the hushed infant on its mother's breastWhich gives each outward circumstance its hue, And shapes all others' acts and thoughts anew, That so, they joy, or love, or hate, impart, As joy, love, hate, holds rule within the heart.
THE DEAD LEAVES STROW THE FOREST WALK.
THE dead leaves strow the forest walk,
And wither'd are the pale wild-flowers;
The frost hangs blackening on the stalk,
The dew-drops fall in frozen showers.
Gone are the spring's green sprouting bowers
Gone summer's rich and mantling vines,
And Autumn, with her yellow hours,
On hill and plain no longer shines.
I learn'd a clear and wild-toned note,
That rose and swell'd from yonder tree-
A gay bird, with too sweet a throat,
There perch'd and raised her song for me.
The winter comes, and where is she?
Away-where summer wings will rove,
Where buds are fresh, and every tree
Is vocal with the notes of love.
Too mild the breath of southern sky,
Too fresh the flower that blushes there, The northern breeze that rustles by,
Finds leaves too green, and buds too fair;
No forest-tree stands stript and bare,
No stream beneath the ice is dead,
No mountain-top with sleety hair Bends o'er the snows its reverend head.
Go there with all the birds,-and seek
A happier clime, with livelier flight, Kiss, with the sun, the evening's cheel
And leave me lonely with the night. -I'll gaze upon the cold north light, And mark where all its glories shoneSee! that it all is fair and bright, Feel that it all is cold and gone.
THERE's beauty in the deep:
The wave is bluer than the sky;
And though the light shine bright on high,
More softly do the sea-gems glow
That sparkle in the depths below;
The rainbow's tints are only made
When on the waters they are laid,
And sun and moon most sweetly shine
Upon the ocean's level brine.
There 's beauty in the deep.
There's music in the deep:-
It is not in the surf's rough roar,
Nor in the whispering, shelly, shore-
They are but earthly sounds, that tell
How little of the sea-nymph's shell,
That sends its loud, clear note abroad,
Or winds its softness through the flood,
Echoes through groves with coral gay,
And dies, on spongy banks, away.
There's music in the deep.
There 's quiet in the deep:-
Above, let tides and tempests rave,
And earth-born whirlwinds wake the wave;
Above, let care and fear contend,
With sin and sorrow to the end:
Here, far beneath the tainted foam,
That frets above our peaceful home,
We dream in joy, and wake in love,
Nor know the rage that yells above.
There's quiet in the deep.
ON THE LOSS OF PROFESSOR FISHER, OF YALE college. THE breath of air that stirs the harp's soft string,
Floats on to join the whirlwind and the storm; The drops of dew exhaled from flowers of spring,
Rise and assume the tempest's threatening form;
The first mild beam of morning's glorious sun,
Ere night, is sporting in the lightning's flash;
And the smooth stream, that flows in quiet on,
Moves but to aid the overwhelming dash
That wave and wind can muster, when the might
Of earth, and air, and sea, and sky unite.
So science whisper'd in thy charmed ear,
And radiant learning beckon'd thee away. The breeze was music to thee, and the clear
Beam of thy morning promised a bright day.
And they have wreck'd thee !-But there is a shore
Where storms are hush'd, where tempests never rage; Where angry skies and blackening seas, no more
With gusty strength their roaring warfare wage.
By thee its peaceful margant shall be trod-
Thy home is Heaven, and thy friend is God.
THE FALLS OF NIAGARA.
THe thoughts are strange that crowd into my brain,
While I look upward to thee. It would seem
As if God pour'd thee from his "hollow hand,"
And hung his bow upon thine awful front;
And spoke in that loud voice, which seem'd to him
Who dwelt in Patmos for his Saviour's sake,
"The sound of many waters;" and had bade
Thy flood to chronicle the ages back,
And notch His cent'ries in the eternal rocks.
Deep calleth unto deep. And what are we,
That hear the question of that voice sublime?
Oh! what are all the notes that ever rung
From war's vain trumpet, by thy thundering side!
Yea, what is all the riot man can make
In his short life, to thy unceasing roar!
And yet, bold babbler, what art thou to Him,
Who drown'd a world, and heap'd the waters far
Above its loftiest mountains?- -a light wave,
That breaks, and whispers of its Maker's might.
FROM AN ADDRESS TO CONNECTICUT RIVER.
FROM that lone lake, the sweetest of the chain
That links the mountain to the mighty main,
Fresh from the rock and welling by the tree,
Rushing to meet and dare and breast the sea,
Fair, noble, glorious, river! in thy wave
The sunniest slopes and sweetest pastures lave,
The mountain torrent, with its wintry roar
Springs from its home and leaps upon thy shore ;—
The promontories love thee-and for this
Turn their rough cheeks and stay thee for thy kiss.
Stern, at thy source, thy northern Guardians stand,
Rude rulers of the solitary land,
Wild dwellers by thy cold sequester'd springs,
Of earth the feathers and of air the wings;
Their blasts have rock'd thy cradle, and in storm
Cover'd thy couch and swathed in snow thy form-
Yet, bless'd by all the elements that sweep
The clouds above, or the unfathom❜d deep,
The purest breezes scent thy blooming hills,
The gentlest dews drop on thy eddying rills,
By the moss'd bank, and by the aged tree,
The silver streamlet smoothest glides to thee,
The young oak greets thee at the waters' edge,
Wet by the wave, though anchor'd in the ledge.
"T is there the otter dives, the beaver feeds,
Where pensive osiers dip their willowy weeds,
And there the wild-cat purs amid her brood,
And trains them, in the sylvan solitude,
To watch the squirrel's leap, or mark the mink
Paddling the water by thy quiet brink ;—
Or to out-gaze the gray owl in the dark,
Or hear the young fox practising to bark.
Dark as the frost-nipp'd leaves that strow'd the ground,
The Indian hunter here his shelter found;
Here cut his bow and shaped his arrows true,
Here built his wigwam and his bark canoe,
Spear'd the quick salmon leaping up the fall,
And slew the deer without the rifle ball.