Thy step is as the wind, that weaves Its playful way among the leaves. Thine eyes are springs, in whose serene The forest depths, by foot unprest, A FOREST HYMN THE groves were God's first temples. Ere man learned To hew the shaft, and lay the architrave, And spread the roof above them -ere he framed The lofty vault, to gather and roll back The sound of anthems; in the darkling wood, Amid the cool and silence, he knelt down, Mingled their mossy boughs, and from the All these fair ranks of trees. They in thy sun Budded, and shook their green leaves in thy breeze, And shot toward heaven. The centuryliving crow, Whose birth was in their tops, grew old and died Among their branches, till, at last, they stood, As now they stand, massy, and tall, and dark, Fit shrine for humble worshipper to hold Communion with his Maker. These dim vaults, These winding aisles, of human pomp or pride Report not. No fantastic carvings show The boast of our vain race to change the form Of thy fair works. But thou art herethou fill'st The solitude. Thou art in the soft winds That run along the summit of these trees In music; thou art in the cooler breath That from the inmost darkness of the place Comes, scarcely felt; the barky trunks, the ground, The fresh moist ground, are all instinct with thee. Here is continual worship; - Nature, here, In the tranquillity that thou dost love, Enjoys thy presence. Noiselessly, around, From perch to perch, the solitary bird Passes; and yon clear spring, that, midst its herbs, Wells softly forth and wandering steeps the roots Of half the mighty forest, tells no tale and grace Are here to speak of thee. This mighty Of the broad sun, that delicate forest flower, With scented breath and look so like a smile, Seems, as it issues from the shapeless mould, My heart is awed within me when I think youth In all its beautiful forms. These lofty I GAZED upon the glorious sky And the green mountains round, And thought that when I came to lie At rest within the ground, 'T were pleasant that, in flowery June, When brooks send up a cheerful tune, And groves a joyous sound, The sexton's hand, my grave to make, The rich, green mountain-turf should break. A cell within the frozen mould, A coffin borne through sleet, And icy clods above it rolled, While fierce the tempests beat Earth green beneath the feet, There through the long, long summer hours, The idle butterfly Should rest him there, and there be heard The housewife bee and humming-bird. The rain is falling where they lie, but the cold November rain Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely ones again. The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long ago, And the brier-rose and the orchis died amid the summer glow; But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood, And the yellow sun-flower by the brook, in autumn beauty stood, Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as falls the plague on men, And the brightness of their smile was gone, from upland, glade, and glen. And now, when comes the calm mild day, as still such days will come, To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home; When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are still, And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill, The south wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he bore, And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more. And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty died, The fair meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side. In the cold moist earth we laid her, when the forest cast the leaf, And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief: Yet, not unmeet it was that one like that young friend of ours, So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers. THE PAST THOU unrelenting Past! Strong are the barriers round thy dark domain, And fetters, sure and fast, Hold all that enter thy unbreathing reign. Far in thy realm withdrawn Old empires sit in sullenness and gloom, |