HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.
WRITTEN FOR THE MOST PART DURING MY COLLEGE LIFE, AND ALL OF THEM BEFORE THE AGE OF NINETEEN.]
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.
Comes from the pleasant woods, and coloured 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 silvery 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.
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.
the hills, when heaven's wide arch
Was glorious with the sun's returning march, And woods were brightened, and soft gales Went forth to kiss the sun-clad vales.
The clouds were far beneath me;-bathed in light, They gathered mid-way round the wooded height, And, in their fading glory, shone
Like hosts in battle overthrown,
As many a pinnacle, with shifting glance, Through the grey mist thrust up its shattered lance,
The dark pine blasted, bare, and cleft. The veil of cloud was lifted, and below Glowed the rich valley, and the river's flow Was darkened by the forest's shade, Or glistened in the white cascade; Where upward, in the mellow blush of day, The noisy bittern wheeled his spiral way.
I heard the distant waters dash, I saw the current whirl and flash,-
And richly, by the blue lake's silver beach, The woods were bending with a silent reach. Then o'er the vale, with gentle swell,
The music of the village bell
Came sweetly to the echo-giving hills;
And the wild horn, whose voice the woodland fills, Was ringing to the merry shout,
That faint and far the glen sent out,
Where, answering to the sudden shot, thin smoke, Through thick-leaved branches, from the dingle broke.
If thou art worn and hard beset
With sorrows, that thou wouldst forget,
If thou wouldst read a lesson, that will keep Thy heart from fainting and thy soul from sleep, Go to the woods and hills!-No tears
Dim the sweet look that Nature wears.
HYMN OF THE MORAVIAN NUNS OF BETHLEHEM,
AT THE CONSECRATION OF PULASKI'S BANNER.
WHEN the dying flame of day Through the chancel shot its ray, Far the glimmering tapers shed Faint light on the cowled head; And the censor burning swung, Where, before the altar, hung The blood-red banner, that with prayer Had been consecrated there.
And the nun's sweet hymn was heard the while,
Sung low in the dim, mysterious aisle. "Take thy banner! May it wave
Proudly o'er the good and brave; When the battle's distant wail Breaks the sabbath of our vale, When the clarion's music thrills To the hearts of these lone hills, When the spear in conflict shakes, And the strong lance shivering breaks. "Take thy banner! and, beneath
The battle-cloud's encircling wreath, Guard it!-till our homes are free! Guard it!-God will prosper thee!
Os sunny slope and beechen swell, The shadowed light of evening fell; And, where the maple's leaf was brown, With soft and silent lapse came down The glory, that the wood receives, At sunset, in its brazen leaves.
Far upward in the mellow light One cloud of white,
Rose the blue hills.
Around a far uplifted cone, In the warm blush of evening
An image of the silver lakes, By which the Indian's soul awakes.
But soon a funeral hymn was heard Where the soft breath of evening stirred The tall, grey forest; and a band Of stern in heart, and strong in hand, Came winding down beside the wave, To lay the red chief in his grave. They sang, that by his native bowers He stood in the last moon of flowers, And thirty snows had not yet shed Their glory on the warrior's head; But, as the summer fruit decays, So died he in those naked days.
A dark cloak of the roebuck's skin Its heavy folds the weapons, made Covered the warrior, and within For the hard toils of war were laid; The cuirass, woven of plaited reeds, And the broad belt of shells and beads.
Chanted the death-dirge of the slain; Before, a dark-haired virgin train Behind, the long procession came Of hoary men and chiefs of fame, With heavy hearts, and eyes of grief, Leading the war-horse of their chief.
Uncurbed, unreined, and riderless, Stripped of his proud and martial dress, With darting eye, and nostril spread, And heavy and impatient tread, He came; and oft that eye so proud Asked for his rider in the crowd.
They buried the dark chief-they freed Beside the grave his battle steed; And swift an arrow cleaved its way To his stern heart! One piercing neigh Arose, and, on the dead man's plain, The rider grasps his steed again.
THE SPIRIT OF POETRY.
THERE is a quiet spirit in these woods,
That dwells where'er the gentle south wind blows; Where, underneath the white-thorn, in the glade, The wild-flowers bloom, or, kissing the soft air, The leaves above their sunny palms outspread. With what a tender and impassioned voice It fills the nice and delicate ear of thought, When the fast-ushering star of Morning comes O'er-riding the grey hills with golden scarf; Or when the cowled and dusky-sandaled Eve, In mourning weeds, from out the western gate, Departs with silent pace! That spirit moves In the green valley, where the silver brook, From its full laver, pours the white cascade; And, babbling low amid the tangled woods,
Slips down through moss-grown stones with endless laughter.
Its feet go forth, when it doth
on the everlasting hills,
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