Warbling to charm the air with melody,
Floats on the frosty breeze; yet Nature hath
The very soul of music in her looks,—
The sunshine and the shade of poetry!
I stand upon thy loftiest pinnacle,
Temple of Nature! and look down with awe
On the wide world beneath me, dimly seen.
Around me crowd the giant sons of earth,
Fixed on their old foundations, unsubdued,-
Firm as when first rebellion bade them rise,
Unrifted to the Thunderer;-now they seem
A family of mountains, clustering round
Their hoary patriarch,-emulously watching
To meet the partial glances of the day.
Far in the glowing East, the flecking light,
Mellowed by distance,—with the blue sky blending,—
Questions the eye with ever-varying forms.
The sun is up;-away the shadows fling
From the broad hills, and hurrying to the west,
Sport in the sunshine, till they die away.
The many beauteous mountain-streams leap down,
Out-welling from the clouds, and sparkling light
Dances along with their perennial flow.
And there is beauty in yon river's path-
The glad Connecticut. I know her well
By the white veil she mantles o'er her charms.
At times, she loiters by a ridge of hills,
Sportfully hiding; then again with glee
Out-rushes from her wild-wood lurking-place.
Far as the eye can bound, the ocean-waves
And lakes and rivers, mountains, vales and woods,
And all that holds the Faculty entranced,
Bathed in a flood of glory, float in air,
And sleep in the deep quietude of joy!
There is a fearful stillness in this place—
A presence that forbids to break the spell,
Till the heart pours its agony in tears.
But I must drink the vision while it lasts;
For even now the curling vapours rise,
Wreathing their cloudy coronals to grace
These towering summits-bidding me away.
But often shall my heart turn back again,
Thou glorious eminence !—and when oppressed
And aching with the coldness of the world,
Find a sweet resting-place and home with thee
O! thou sole-sitting Spirit of Loneliness,
Whose haunt is by the wild and dropping caves;
Thou, of the musing eye and scattered tress,
I meet thee with a passionate joy, no less
Than when the mariner, from off his waves,
Catches the glimpses of a far blue shore-
He thinks the danger of his voyage o'er,
And pressing all his canvass, steers to land,
With a glad bosom and a ready hand.
So I would hie me to thy desolate shade,
And seat myself in some deep-sheltered nook,
And never breathe a wish again to look
On the tossed world, but rather listless laid
Pore on the bubbles of the passing brook.
THE LAST SONG OF THE GREEK PATRIOT.
One last, best effort now
They shall not call us slaves-
These iron necks shall never bow
To barter for a hated life,
But we will tell in mortal strife,
What wrath a freeman braves—
A few short years, and we have known
The pride and joy-to live alone.
Our ancient land was free,
We washed its stains in blood
Again the hymn of Liberty
Rose from the high Athenian shrine,
And virgin hands did often twine,
In the dark olive wood,
Their garlands for the youthful brow,
Who taught the heathen Turk to bow.
These have been glorious days-
Let come what will, our fame
Is like the sun's eternal blaze,
And when they tell of Marathon,
And all the fields our fathers won,
They too shall name
Botzaris, and the few who died,
Victims of glory, by his side.
The world has told our doom-
"T is Liberty or Death-
The tree we planted must not bloom,
For Turk and Christian-all unite,
And royal hands our sentence write,
And yet our breath,
When trampled by the ruffian herd,
Shall never breathe one recreant word.
If we must die-then die
And let the foul disgrace
Cling to their names eternally,
Who, when they had the power to save, Doomed to a dark and bloody grave
A high, devoted race
Awhile the sweets of life to know,
O God! and then to perish so!
But Freedom has one shore-
Would we could shelter there
The tender ones, we value more
M
Than life or fame-O! generous men,
Be with us, as ye long have been,
And we will share
All the poor fruit of toils and pains,—
Our hearts-our lives—perhaps, our chains.
Come, at this fatal hour,
Ye last of high-born souls;
Come-when the crushing weight of
Has all but bent our necks to earth-
We will not shame our glorious birth;
Nor Turk, nor Hun controls
The heart that holds the Spartan fire,
The sacred relic of his sire.
We know, ye cannot fear-
We know, that ye are brave-
To us—your very name is dear—
O! by that name, and all its light,
We bid ye join the murderous fight,
To win and save-
O! come--if it be only time
To fall with us-in Death sublime.
Glorious Vision! who art thou,
With thy starry crown of light,
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