Through woods and mountain passes The winds, like anthems, roll; They are chanting solemn masses, Singing, "Pray for this poor soul, Pray,-pray!"
And the hooded clouds, like friars, Tell their beads in drops of rain, And patter their doleful prayers;— But their prayers are all in vain, All in vain!
There he stands in foul weather, The foolish, fond Old Year, Crowned with wild flowers and with heather, Like weak, despised Lear,
Then comes the summer-like day, Bids the old man rejoice! His joy! his last! O, the old man gray, Loveth that ever-soft voice,
To the crimson woods he saith,- To the voice gentle and low
Of the soft air, like a daughter's breath,— Pray do not mock me so!
Do not laugh at me!"
And now the sweet day is dead; Cold in his arms it lies; No stain from its breath is spread Over the glassy skies,
No mist or stain!
Then, too, the Old Year dieth, And the forests utter a moan, Like the voice of one who crieth In the wilderness alone, "Vex not his ghost!"
Then comes, with an awful roar, Gathering and sounding on, The storm-wind from Labrador. The wind Euroclydon,
The storm-wind!
Howl! howl! and from the forest Sweep the red leaves away! Would, the sins that thou abhorrest, O Soul! could thus decay, And be swept away!
For there shall come a mightier blast, There shall be a darker day; And the stars, from heaven down-cast, Like red leaves be swept away! Kyrie, eleyson!
These poems were written for the most part during my college life, and all of them before the age of nineteen. Some have found their way into schools, and seem to be successful. Others lead a vagabond and precarious existence in the corners of newspapers: or have changed their names and run away to seek their fortunes beyond the sea. I say, with the Bishop of Avranches, on a similar occasion, "I cannot be displeased to see these children of mine, which I have neglected, and almost exposed, brought from their wanderings in lanes and alleys, and safely lodged, in order to go forth into the world together in a more decorous garb."
WHEN the warm sun, that brings Seed-time and harvest, has returned again, 'Tis sweet to visit the still wood, where springs The first flower of the plain.
When forest glades are teeming with bright forms, Nor dark and many-folded clouds foretell The coming-on of storms.
From the earth's loosened mould The sapling draws its sustenance, and thrives; Though stricken to the heart with winter's cold, The drooping tree revives.
The softly-warbled song
Comes from the pleasant woods, and colored wings Glance quick in the bright sun, that moves along The forest openings.
When the bright sunset fills
The silver woods with light, the green slope throws Its shadows in the hollows of the hills, And wide the upland glows.
And, when the eve is born,
In the blue lake the sky, o'er-reaching far, Is hollowed out, and the moon dips her horn, And twinkles many a star.
Stand the gray rocks, and trembling shadows throw, And the fair trees look over, side by side, And see themselves below.
Sweet April!-many a thought
Is wedded unto thee, as hearts are wed; Nor shall they fail, till, to its autumn brought, Life's golden fruit is shed.
WITH what a glory comes and goes the year! The buds of spring, those beautiful harbingers Of sunny skies and cloudless times, enjoy Life's newness, and earth's garniture spread out! And when the silver habit of the clouds Comes down upon the autumn sun, and with A sober gladness the old year takes up His bright inheritance of golden fruits, A pomp and pageant fill the splendid scene.
There is a beautiful spirit breathing now Its mellow richness on the clustered trees, And, from a beaker full of richest dyes, Pouring new glory on the autumn woods, And dipping in warm light the pillared clouds. Morn on the mountain, like a summer bird, Lifts up her purple wing, and in the vales The gentle wind, a sweet and passionate wooer, Kisses the blushing leaf, and stirs up life Within the solemn woods of ash deep-crimsoned, And silver beech, and maple yellow-leaved, Where autumn, like a faint old man, sits down By the wayside a-weary. Through the trees The golden robin moves. The purple finch, That on wild cherry and red cedar feeds, A winter bird, comes with its plaintive whistle, And pecks by the witch-hazel, whilst aloud From cottage roofs the warbling blue-bird sings, And merrily, with oft-repeated stroke, Sounds from the threshing-floor the busy flail.
O what a glory doth this world put on For him who, with a fervent heart, goes forth Under the bright and glorious sky, and looks On duties well performed, and days well spent!
For him the wind, ay, and the yellow leaves Shall have a voice, and give him eloquent teachings. He shall so hear the solemn hymn, that Death Has lifted up for all, that he shall go To his long resting-place without a tear.
WOODS IN WINTER.
WHEN winter winds are piercing chill, And through the hawthorn blows the gale, With solemn feet I tread the hill,
That overbrows the lonely vale.
O'er the bare upland, and away Through the long reach of desert woods, The embracing sunbeams chastely play, And gladden these deep solitudes.
Where, twisted round the barren oak, The summer vine in beauty clung, And summer winds the stillness broke, The crystal icicle is hung.
Where, from their frozen urns, mute springs
Pour out the river's gradual tide,
Shrilly the skater's iron rings,
And voices fill the woodland side.
Alas! how changed from the fair scene, When birds sang out their mellow lay, And winds were soft, and woods were green, And the song ceased not with the day.
But still wild music is abroad,
Pale, desert woods! within your crowd; And gathering winds, in hoarse accord, Amid the vocal reeds pipe loud.
Chill airs and wintry winds! my ear Has grown familiar with your song;
I hear it in the opening year,- I listen, and it cheers me long.
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