Sends forth glad sounds, and, tripping o'er its bed Of pebbly sands or leaping down the rocks, Seems with continuous laughter to rejoice In its own being. Softly tread the marge, Lest from her midway perch thou scare the wren That dips her bill in water. The cool wind, That stirs the stream in play, shall come to thee, Like one that loves thee nor will let thee pass Ungreeted, and shall give its light embrace.
TO A WATERFOWL
Whither, midst falling dew,
While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, Far through their rosy depths dost thou pursue
Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, As, darkly seen against the crimson sky,
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 fanned,
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 sheltered nest.
Thou 'rt gone; the abyss of heaven Hath swallowed 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 time has been that these wild solitudes, Yet beautiful as wild, were trod by me Oftener than now; and when the ills of life Had chafed my spirit, when the unsteady pulse Beat with strange flutterings, I would wander forth And seek the woods. The sunshine on my path
Was to me as a friend. The swelling hills, The quiet dells retiring far between
With gentle invitation to explore
Their windings, were a calm society
That talked with me and soothed me. Then the chant
Of birds, and chime of brooks, and soft caress
Of the fresh sylvan air, made me forget
The thoughts that broke my peace; and I began To gather simples by the fountain's brink,
And lose myself in day-dreams. While I stood
In Nature's loneliness, I was with one
With whom I early grew familiar, one
Who never had a frown for me, whose voice
Never rebuked me for the hours I stole
From cares I loved not, but of which the world
Deems highest, to converse with her. When shrieked The bleak November winds and smote the woods, And the brown fields were herbless, and the shades
That met above the merry rivulet
Where spoiled, I sought, I loved them still; they seemed
Like old companions in adversity.
Still there was beauty in my walks: the brook,
Bordered with sparkling frost-work, was as gay
As with its fringe of summer flowers; afar,
The village with its spires, the path of streams, And dim receding valleys, hid before
By interposing trees, lay visible
Through the bare grove, and my familiar haunts Seemed new to me. Nor was I slow to come
Among them when the clouds from their still skirts Had shaken down on earth the feathery snow, And all was white. The pure keen air abroad, Albeit it breathed no scent of herb, nor heard Love-call of bird nor merry hum of bee, Was not the air of death. Bright mosses crept Over the spotted trunks; and the close buds That lay along the boughs, instinct with life, Patient, and waiting the soft breath of Spring, Feared not the piercing spirit of the North. The snow-bird twittered on the beechen bough;
And 'neath the hemlock, whose thick branches bent Beneath its bright cold burden, and kept dry A circle, on the earth, of withered leaves, The partridge found a shelter. Through the snow The rabbit sprang away. The lighter track Of fox and the racoon's broad path were there, Crossing each other. From his hollow tree, The squirrel was abroad, gathering the nuts Just fallen, that asked the winter cold and sway Of winter blast to shake them from their hold.
But Winter has yet brighter scenes; he boasts Splendors beyond what gorgeous Summer knows, Or Autumn, with his many fruits, and woods
All flushed with many hues. Come when the rains Have glazed the snow and clothed the trees with ice,
While the slant sun of February pours
Into the bowers a flood of light. Approach! The incrusted surface shall upbear thy steps,
And the broad arching portals of the grove Welcome thy entering. Look! the massy trunks Are cased in the pure crystal; each light spray, Nodding and tinkling in the breath of heaven, Is studded with its trembling water-drops, That glimmer with an amethystine light.
But round the parent stem the long low boughs Bend in a glittering ring, and arbors hide The glassy floor. Oh, you might deem the spot The spacious cavern of some virgin mine,
Deep in the womb of earth-where the gems grow,
And diamonds put forth radiant rods and bud With amethyst and topaz-and the place Lit up, most royally, with the pure beam That dwells in them; or haply the vast hall
Of fairy palace, that outlasts the night And fades not in the glory of the sun, Where crystal columns send forth slender shafts And crossing arches, and fantastic aisles Wind from the sight in brightness and are lost Among the crowded pillars. Raise thine eye: Thou seest no cavern roof, no palace vault; There the blue sky and the white drifting cloud Look in. Again the wildered fancy dreams Of spouting fountains, frozen as they rose, And fixed, with all their branching jets, in air, And all their sluices sealed. All, all is light; Light without shade. But all shall pass away With the next sun: from numberless vast trunks Loosened, the crashing ice shall make a sound Like the far roar of rivers, and the eve Shall close o'er the brown woods as it was wont.
And it is pleasant, when the noisy streams
Are just set free, and milder suns melt off The plashy snow save only the firm drift
In the deep glen or the close shade of pines, 'T is pleasant to behold the wreaths of smoke Roll up among the maples of the hill, Where the shrill sound of youthful voices wakes The shriller echo, as the clear pure lymph, That from the wounded trees, in twinkling drops, Falls, mid the golden brightness of the morn, Is gathered in with brimming pails, and oft, Wielded by sturdy hands, the stroke of axe Makes the woods ring. Along the quiet air Come and float calmly off the soft light clouds, Such as you see in summer, and the winds
Scarce stir the branches. Lodged in sunny cleft, Where the cold breezes come not, blooms alone The little wind-flower, whose just opened eye Is blue as the spring heaven it gazes at- Startling the loiterer in the naked groves With unexpected beauty, for the time Of blossoms and green leaves is yet afar. And ere it comes, the encountering winds shall oft Muster their wrath again, and rapid clouds Shade heaven, and, bounding on the frozen earth, Shall fall their volleyed stores, rounded like hail And white like snow, and the loud North again Shall buffet the vexed forest in his rage.
OH FAIREST OF THE RURAL MAIDS Oh fairest of the rural maids,
Thy birth was in the forest shades; Green boughs and glimpses of the sky Were all that met thine infant eye.
« AnteriorContinuar » |