PS 2) 60' iifcmg of ffioingtess. UNITED STATES OF AMERICA.^ % J. Ale* ISSACHAE PRICE. PHILADELPHIA : HENRY B. ASHMEAD, BOOK AND JOB PRINTER, GEORGE STREET ABOVE ELEVENTH. 1856. TSaUf TF/s?7g^ Entered according to the Act of Congress, in the year 1S56, by ISSACHAR PRICE, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States in and for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania. I RESPECTFULLY DEDICATE THIS SMALL VOLUME OP 'ttiu TO MY MUCH BELOVED AND VENERABLE FRIEND AND TUTOR, I. P. P E E F A C E. In the publication of the following verses, I do not look for nor expect any literary merit. I have never claimed the honor of a genuine poet ; hence, it cannot appear that any vain conceit of being a genius has induced me to offer this little book to my subscribers. Having met with adverses and sickness in my business relations, the following pages, independent of their first writing, are here reproduced in this form, more as a pecuniary than a literary affair. Most of the poems were origi- nally designed and composed at school, since which time, some of them have been revised and published VI PREFACE. in the Waverly Magazine and the county papers. If, however, there is a sentiment expressed which may find a resting-place in the bosom of a friend, I may know thereby that I have not written in vain ) — and, I do hope, that the price of this small volume, which may seem a considerable amount, shall never be regretted by a subscriber ; while, at the same time, I must say that I feel greatly in- debted to every one who has aided me in this undertaking. CONTENTS. To Dr. J. Stewart Leech, ----- 9 The Fading Year, ------ n December — Despair, - - - - - -19 A Dream, -------- 25 The Blue Bird, - 28 The Butterfly, ------ 30 To the Leaves, -------32 Autumnal Eves, ------ 34 September is Blowing, ------ 36 Autumnal Greeting, ----- 39 Indian Summer, -------41 The Autumn, ------- 45 Memory's Volume, ------ 49 Sadness Banished, ------ 54 The Azore Islands, ------ 57 Illinois Prairies, ------ 61 An April View, -------64 June, -------- 67 Vlll CONTENTS. The Queen op Summer, - 68 The Nymphs op Brandywine, - - - - 71 The Maid in the Valley, 73 Little Cora, ------- 75 Songs along Brandywine, - - - - - 77 Winter, -------- 85 The Snow Bird, 89 Snow Feet, ------- 91 The Grass Harvest, ------ 93 Lizzie, -------- 95 Greenwood Dell, -------96 Morning, -------- 98 Noon, 101 The Shamokin, - - - - - - -104 The Vision, - - - - - - - -107 The Departure, - - - - - -109 The Frost King, - - - - - - -111 The Old School House, ----- 113 To a Slumbering Maiden, - - - - -115 The New Bridge, - - - - - -117 My Heart is in the Forest, -. - - 120 ffl §r- $♦ Stat fw4 Come, come, my friend, to yon sequestered grove, "Where many a bird doth sing its summer love, And lie outstretched within the shadows cool, And learn a wholesome task from Nature's hallowed school. The page is open under every tree, Broad as the heavens unobscured and free ; And while the breath of Summer floats along, Our souls expanding there may learn some- what of song. How dear the pleasure of a quiet hour, Beside some stream where blooms the wood- land flower — Unseen by men and unannoyed, alone, A devotee at Nature's ever silent throne ! Come to that grove along the Brandywine ; Come, while the Summer glories in her prime ; 2 10 TO DR. J. STUART LEECH. While every breeze is laden down with tune From the soft voices, born of happy May and June. All day the sand-snipe pipes his little song, "While darts the blue kingfisher swift along ; And farther up upon the willow tree The turtle dove sits cooing mournful melody. The cat-bird in the alders warbles sweet, The leaves all trembling 'neath his tiny feet ; And sweeter yet the brown thrush pours his song From hazels growing all the pleasant stream along. Dear is an hour therein of quiet rest, — I would our lives might thus be ever blest, That all along our pathway to the grave Some song might cheer our hearts — some tree above us wave. But as life is — we may not always dream In shadows cool along a fairy stream ; But like that stream, rejoicing to the main, We must in action be, or else our lives are vain. July, 1856. Jafcinjj fear. Clothed in her flowing robes of softest green, The emerald year, amid the fleecy shrouds, As some lone spirit in a purple scene, Descends her realms of amethystine clouds. Tearful she bends and plucks the fading flowers. As one that visits soon to go again ; A few more days — a few more transient hours — And she will leave the green illumined plain. All that was lovely in the sunny June, All that was glowing in the July ray, All the sweet music, all the fairy bloom, Ere long with Summer, will have passed away. Sweet matron of the bright and sunny year, Thy ruby lips soon we will not behold ; Ah ! we shall wet thy path with many a tear "When Autumn rules upon his throne of gold. 12 THE FADING YEAR. The nights grow cool as days of August wane ; The earth is sighing with a sad farewell ; The cricket chants ; all day the birds com- plain In plaintive tones within the lonely dell. The hills bend lowly in the softened blue, Like mighty giants bent in solemn prayer ; And all the scenes are truthful to the view, As wild September whistles down the air. The northwest winds sweep through the forest trees ; I hear and tremble in the withering breath ; Are not the whispers of the mournful breeze The dialects of cold remorseless death ? The tall corn waves ; the meadow's tufted grass Lulls sounds prophetic of the gushing tear; And mellow clouds, like spirits seem to pass, Tinged with the sunshine of the dying year. THE FADING YEAR. 13 Woful and pale September waxes chill ; The cool nights lengthen ; and the frost subdues The giant trees upon the sloping hill, And scented flowers that bathed in sum- mer dews. This is not all ; October steals along ; With sober pace he treads the silent plain, Hushing each soft and vocal voice of song Within the circle of his brown domain. Around his path he murmurs solemn words ; Down through the forest sweeps his fatal breath, Where every tree and every shrub records The summons of that yellow month of death. The ghostly wind in eddies whirls the streams ; The lone leaf whispers as it circles down ; White thistle witches, like our midnight dreams, Float 'round the cottage in the dusky town. 2* 14 THE FADING YEAR. The sky turns gold ; the earth, the clouds, and all, Are burnished with the year's departing ray; And where the softest, brighest sunbeams fall, Death, death ! cold death is at his wanton play. The boastful oak — the monarch of the wood, Stands vanquished in his rugged moun- tain realm : And by the winding brooklet's solitude, In fun'ral robes, behold the doleful elm ! The beech, carved roughly with a hundred names, The village record of the young, the gay — Mourns, full of lessons, in October's flames, Teaching this truth : as I, ye pass away ! The weeping willow, pendent truly weeps Like one forsaken, burdened to the ground, "Who, in his wo, upon his bosom beats Till all are tearful, sorrowful around, . THE FADING YEAR. 15 In topaz hues the chestnut drops its fruit ; The aged walnut, and the shellbark tree Shake down their loads — each one a last tribute To earth distended in her syncope. "Walk forth along the Summer meadows now; The withered clover sighs like one in fear; And we are taught, on bended knees, to bow Where moans the grass in wilted masses sear. Stray onward! seek the deep and silent wood Beneath whose shade the Autumn spider weaves ; How in this scene of purple solitude, The heart learns sadness from the falling leaves ! See, in the west, the sinking sun go down Like one in tears for all our beauty gone ! Through hazy skies he leaves this world of brown ; He fades in gloom behind the open lawn. 16 THE FADING YEAR. His golden shafts illume the piles of clouds ; Some glow in purple, some in orange light, And, moving slowly, in huge massy crowds, March down along the boundless realms of night. October blows, and all the air rebounds ; Echo reverberates from hill to hill : The frosty morning sighs with mournful sounds, Sighs but awhile, and all again is still. The sick grasshopper chirps once more at noon, Chirps in the meadows, feeble and alone ; In vain he sings the merry songs of June — His blithest strain is but a fainting tone. Across the valley flits the silent crow, Flapping his wings, as if in agony, Like some lone messenger of pain and wo, Clothed in his mournful robes of ebony. Perched on a pine tree, how he fills the air With doleful warnings of the coming dread, THE FADING YEAR. 17 When frosty skies hurl down their cold des- pair Across the landscape and the paths we tread ! O sable prophet, prophecy no more ; "We know October's sun will bow his head, And dark November totter up the shore Above the russet of his lonely bed ! The leaves are shaken from the forest bowers ; And through the groves November's shadows spread, And nothing blooms in these dull leaden hours, No tree, no shrub, no blade, — all, all is dead. The lake lies waveless in its silent realm ; The sea scarce murmurs 'mid the jagged rocks ; With flapping sails, and loose unmanaged helm, The sluggish ship rolls down the mer- maid's walks. 18 THE FADING YEAR. The sea-gull crouches, and the petrel moans ; The sea- weed bleaches in the dying sun ; Nor on the strand old ocean longer foams — All sound is silenced, and the year is done. As one diseased, who seems to die, yet lives, The earth receives the Indian Summer hue, Which but a dying, transient splendor gives, And all again resumes the gray and blue. Afar and near the eye may look, but see No signs of Life — no ray of living red ; White winter comes along the windy lea ; The earth is vanquished and its spirit fled. gmmbtr— $*spir* Blow, blow, December, cold and lone, Who boundest from the northern pole ; Howl in mine ear thy winter tone, And hurl thy ice around my soul. Hath life its joys and sweets for me ? Not now ; and vainly I deplore ; Where sunshine danced transparently, A shadow lies upon our floor. Blow, blow, December, ever blow ; There is no warmth for thee to chill "Within my bosom ; throbbing slow, Tis but the heart that thou canst still. A shadow lies upon our floor — A shadow dark and cold as clay ; And, o'er the threshhold comes no more The footstep welcome yesterday. Blow, blow, December madly blow ; I dream no more of happy hours ; Let down thy mantle made of snow, And cover all the summer bowers. 20 DECEMBER — DESPAIR. The smile — the pleasant smile is gone ; A well-known face no more I see ; • And shadows like the cloudy dawn, Hang dull and leaden over me. Blow, blow, December ; thunder now, Through frozen lips a requiem ; Press thy cold fingers on my brow, Blow ; chafe my cheeks ; my vision dim. The vacant chair is at the hearth ; The cheerful blaze cannot renew The pleasant hours of joy and mirth, Nor light the lost again to view. Blow, blow, December, colder yet ; Howl down the mountain's rocky side ; Congeal each summer rivulet, And flaunt thy snowy banners wide. The blinds are closed ; our vacant room Now echoes sadly as I tread ; And, through the cracks, the cold white moon Peeps in to see him ; — he is dead. DECEMBER — DESPAIR. 21 Come, come, stay not from me aloof; Sweep up the forest and the wold ; Howl, dark December, on tlie roof; Haste, liaste thy footsteps, stern and cold. The grave-yard steals upon my sight; And, in a white, sepulchral cloud, I see my father through the night, Wrapped in his winding sheet and shroud. Blow, blow cold month, December, blow ; Your darkness cannot hide the gloom That mantles o'er me, black with woe ; I seek a darker night — the tomb. PART II. Bleak Boreas seeks the polar shore ; His winds of wrath can blight no more. The storms are past ; the snowy hills Are jubilant with a thousand rills. The leaden clouds are swept away And bright and rosy is the day. The mountain smiles ; the vales are green, And sunshine mellows all the scene. 3 22 DECEMBER — DESPAIR. The landscape laughs , the lambkins play ; And tree and shrub again are gay. The flowers unfold their petals bright To breathe the balm and drink the light. Expanding in the sun, holds up Each one his little rosy cup. The far horizon, bathed in light, Throws iris hues upon the night ; And soon the mellow morn appears : Look, man of sorrow — man of tears — Is this not Heaven ? look up, behold The canopy of molten gold ! Fields, meadows, lawns and forests shine And sound with tones of praise divine. The feathered orchestra, all day, Exults in love for God and May. Free, animated, every voice Is loud with song and sweet rejoice. Death disappears ; to weep is vain ; For light and life return again. DECEMBER — DESPAIR. 23 PART III. I hear the vocal voice of spring, I see the rosy hours return ; Sweet, tuneful voices softly sing On sloping banks of moss and fern. I see the landscape laugh again ; I see the mountains dress in green ; The flowers are blooming on the plain To beautify their blushing queen. I hear the ripple of the brook ; It leaps in song to kiss the day ; It leaves the rock and seeks the nook, And gaily murmurs all the way. The shrub puts forth the tender leaves ; The lambs play in the pleasant sun ; The sky is blue, and nothing grieves, For joy and beauty now are one. Afar and near I hear the praise Of bird and kine, of grateful man ; E'en budding flowers seem breathing lays Along the meadow by the dam. 24 DECEMBER — DESPAIR. The robin on the orchard bough, Fills all the valley with his tune, "While May hangs garlands on her brow To greet the sunny queen of noon. Amid this joy all things are bright — The sky, the land, the lake and sea ; But, in our mansion, day is night, My father comes no more to me. Resting beneath a spreading oak at noon, Drunken with rapture and the joy of song, Falling asleep, my dreaming vision sees The mighty bards in shadow float along. Milton comes steadily stealing up the year Amid the revelations of St. John, With Eden's story to his bosom prest, As our first parents pensive walking on ; And Thompson — poet of " the varied Gfod ;" The summer smiles, and clasps him by the hand ; The " rolling year' stoops down and crowns his brow, Whose song is known within the Better Land. And Gray moves in the landscape's fading scene As night comes brooding from the silent sea ; With her he wends among the grassy tombs, In murmur, chanting solemn elegy. 3# 26 A DREAM. Then Cowper, with his earthward bending eyes,* Breathes his pure verse along his walks alone : Sweet Table Talk, and ever charming Task, Fling down their dewy, reverential tone. And one glides down from Scotland's bonny hills, From the fresh heather and the blooming thorn, With highland Mary flitting by his side, Far sweeter than in childhood's happy morn. See ! noble Byron comes in thunder storms, By rugged cliffs along the frantic sea — The minion child of elemental strife, Whose heart, though proud, beat with humility. There many more familiarly I see In peaceful throngs — sweet beings of the * Cowper when at school, intimidated by the larger boys, feared to raise his eyes above the buckles on his shoes. A DREAM. 27 And many come unknown, and go again Like sudden flashes, but I know not where. Bright galaxy of names ! whose tender light Shall beam as stars to nations yet unborn, For years unnumbered by the hero Time, And beckon men up to the fadeless morn. But Homer waves his wand above them all ; The blind old bard can see the rosy day ; Just as I fancy that I hear him speak, The dream is gone — the bards have passed away. UmMih. Thou, of the blue wing, singest sadly ; Soft as the flute's low notes, I hear Thy songs float down the mellow breezes— The faint winds of the dying year. Hither in early spring thou earnest, Tuning the gray and leafless bowers, And sangest as an angel psalmist Awaiting for the time of flowers. But now thy mission-voice is altered ; At least mine ear is sadder grown ; "What seemed to me as marriage music, Sounds like a lonely, fun'ral tone. But who loves not thy plaintive singing Within the gloom October sheds, When summer flowers are pale and withering Whose leaves are scattered on their beds. In vain I think of merry Spring-time, Of every bright and pleasant thing ; For through the chambers of my bosom Echoes thy mellow sorrowing. THE BLUE-BIRD. 29 Dear spirit of the verdant forest, O, animate these dying hours ! For thou shalt, with thy glossy bosom, Soon sing among the southern flowers. But I, in dark November's shadows, Shall tremble 'neath the cottage eaves, And hear no sound — no thrilling music, Except the dirge of falling leaves. Whence earnest thou adown the summer air, O, wand'ring soul ? thou art no native here ; For fairy colors, and the rainbow hues On thy soft wings appear. From what sweet world thou bendest in thy flight, Dear alien, of a country fair and bland? Storms cannot blow among the dewy flow- ers, In that — thy happy land ! 0, hast thou chosen this thy dwelling-place, Content to flutter but an hour and die ? Unfold thy golden wings, sweet thing, — away, And seek thy native sky ! Beware of July, and her sunny smiles ; The glow of August passes — soon is gone ; And where thou flittest in thy fairy robes, The wild winds cometh on. THE BUTTERFLY. 31 Our verdant plains but soil thy painted wings, Our sweetest roses taint thy sweeter breath, Our pearly dews and meadow-scented airs Are drugs to thee, and death. Stay not a moment 'mid the honeyed bowers, Nor loiter where the clover spreads in bloom ; Haste from the cottage and the harvest fields Ere death shall seal thy doom ! 1 % f rate. Stay yet awhile, green leaves, Oh, not so soon depart; Stay, 'mid the summer wreaths, Dear pictures to my heart! Upon the swinging bough, Stay yet a transient while — Lovelier, brighter now Seemeth your precious smile. Ye will not — cannot stay — The hoary frost must fall ; The keen, decisive gray "Will soon have vanquished all. And ye shall fade and die, All withered, seared, embrowned ; The breeze in solemn sigh, Shall bear you to the ground. How much of joy is gone When ye are pale and dead — The heart hath ceased its song, The spirit nearly fled ! TO THE LEAVES. 33 Earth, then hath no control To lead our footsteps on ; The sad and lonely soul Aspires to quit the throng. Oh, in the by-way glade, Upon your mournful bier, Among the joys decayed, We drop a silent tear ! And, — where your graves are made, Of late we blithesome trod — Within that leafless glade, We give ourselves to God. Jlutomnal to. Come, draw the chairs around the cheerful blaze ; The cold autumnal eves are here ; Gone is the day, and gone the summer haze — The world is on its bier. Come, while the back-log simmers in the fire, And gloom and darkness brood without; "While chill wild winds attune the frosty lyre And play around about. Come, form the circle round the blazing hearth ; These are the hours of friendship now ; Let loving hearts join in the social mirth While loudly creaks the bow — The old, old bough, with many a crook and twist That strikes upon the mossy roof Like some bare giant with his boney fist, Declaiming stern reproof. AUTUMNAL EVES. 35 Bring in the wine-cup flashing to the brim, And drink once more to old "lang syne;" Drink, and be merry — raise the olden hymn, Fired with the rosy wine ! Drink and be merry while the shadows dance Like curious phantoms on the wall ; The cups we pledge shall much our love enhance, As spectres rise and fall. Drink and be merry while November howls "With madness down his cold domain, In answer to the hooting of the owls Across the gusty plain : And ours shall be a night of joy on earth As wailing storms around us roar; Come, join the circle, ye who love the mirth Our fathers knew of yore. &tfbnta is §Ifltoing. September is blowing His trumpet and horn; And loud the cold breezes Are howling forlorn. September is blowing : "With his banner and drum Triumphing o'er Summer — His battle is won. His locklets of russet Doth he shake on his head; And the frost from his beard Falls on the flower bed : The tiny rose fadeth ; And its leaves fall around Blown, scattered and driven, About the cold ground. The old forests shiver Like a tottering crown ; The frost of September Is painting them brown. SEPTEMBER IS BLOWING. 37 The tall oak is shining In his vestment of gold — The king of the woodland Alone in the wold : Deserted and vanquished Is he drooping and low ; For the leaves from his boughs October will blow. September is blowing; He has reddened the sun ; The singers of summer Are vanquished and dumb. The willow trees languish, And they mournfully sound ; And the dead, withered grass, Sleeps cold and profound. September is blowing, Oh, how stormy and fast! The notes of his bugle Bring death on the blast. 4* 38 SEPTEMBER IS BLOWING. He flaunts his cold banners Over forest and plain ; He greets his brown brother — October — with rain. ^tttanal (grating, "We greet thee, cold monarch, The king of the year, With thy banners of death Gleaming yellow and sear ; We welcome thy coming, Though rigid and chill, Thou walkest the valley, And crownest the hill ! Oh, stern is thy mandate When bright flowers obey, And pale, in thy breathing, They all die away ; When they fall to the earth, Borne down by the breeze — The scented companions Of dry, withered leaves ! How sadly thy whispers Commune with the heart, When sitting sequestered From mortals apart ! 40 AUTUMNAL GREETING. But sweetly they teach us And awake in the soul, Thoughts of Elysium — Our spirits' bright goal. Thou comest in power And glory arrayed ; — But one there is greater Thy mission has made ; Whose arm is puissant To lay thy crown low, And stay thy stern footsteps Of desolate woe ! We welcome thee, therefore, As messenger good, Amid our bright flowers And tall, shady wood ; We welcome thy banners And streamers of gold — Thou and they be our guests ? All solemn and cold. Downingtown, September 1st, 1853, Into jtamr. A mellow beauty sleeps upon the earth When Indian Summer bends above the scene : Where dreamy halos prophesied his birth As forests doffed their garb of vestal green. A holy stillness rests within the air; Lulled by the songs the mournful brook- let sings, In cadences half-syllabled in prayer, As if the breeze had folded up his wings. No longer now the shouts of mirth resound, Nor merry warblings Heavenward arise ; The Summer's gladness bendeth to the ground — Naught but low moanings murmur through the skies. Enlarged, behold the crimson sun ascend In hazy mist that hangs around the morn. It seems in vain his glory he would lend, The faded earth to light her year forlorn. 42 INDIAN SUMMER. At midday, mark the languid splendor bland — Down from the zenith pallid sun-rays fall Upon the wide extent of mystic land, Illumined as the lamp illumes the pall. Across the hill-side, ranged in phalanxed rows, Sad sentinels, the pale, wan cornshocks stand, When black and silent perch the solemn crows — The mimic plumes of a lone warrior band. Away along the far horizon's verge, Scarce seen, the trees bend low their mossy boughs, Like woful widows hark'ning to a dirge, Or maidens making dark, monastic vows. Ah, gay, young souls, as buoyant as the spring, "With cheeks full blooming as the summer rose; Ye have not learned the sweets those mo- ments bring In Indian Summer's heavenly repose. INDIAN SUMMER. 43 Vain revelry, stay your loud laughter now ; Disturb not nature in her solemn pray'r ; The fated stillness on her dying brow, Falls, like the night-dew — truthful — every- where. E'en here is seldom heard the pheasant's drum Within the wood below the glassy lake ; The quail's bob-white is rarely ever sung This sober hour of quietness to break. "Who, that hath stood within the mourning room, As some fond friend turned from the earth away, Hath not been startled by the chilling gloom, Which lingers 'round the cold and marble clay? That hour before the spirit took its flight, With sealed lips, spoke more than man can tell ; His eyes were closed forever to the light — His ears were ringing with the tolling knell. / 44 INDIAN SUMMER. This is the hour before the year expires — This is the silence of foreboding death ; Soon the last embers of the season's fires. Will have died out in Indian Summer's breath. % \}t gtotunm. All coldly comes the Autumn brown, Over the meadows wood and town ; And all the world grows sober now, The wild winds sweep his solemn brow. The earth assumes a mellow hue, And hazy turns the soundless blue ; The lofty oaks in purple glow, And whisper in the breezes low. The hills seem resting in the balm, Of Autumn's melancholy calm, Like giants sleeping in the morn Of some forsaken land forlorn. The 'sweet birds flit from bough to bough, But they are sad and songless now ; A lonely chirp is all I hear, Within the fading, dying year— A lonely chirp within the dell — ■ And this is all — a last farewell. The grasses in the meadows mourn, And sadly stand the shocks of corn, As those forever doomed to go Along a weary path of wo ; — They stand all vanquished like a host, 4(3 THE AUTUMN. O'erawecl and beaten by a ghost. Poor shocks of corn, my heart like you, Is cold and lonely with the view. ~No more I raise my tearful eyes, Up to the overspreading skies, But walk the fields in calm profound, Like age bent lowly to the ground. I hear the muffled caw of crows, "When Autumn's dreamy zephyr blows ; From hill to hill the echo bounds — The saddest of all dismal sounds ; And through my bosom's dark recess, Their dirge, o'erladen with distress, Floats sadly, solemnly and slow, As sluggish rivers onward go. At early dawn of morning gray, The realm of frost spreads far away, Across the valleys and the hills, Along the margins of the rills. The crisp blades crackle as you tread Upon their frosty-feathered bed ; Ah, then I know the summer flowers Have dropped their bloom beneath the bowers. Their painted leaves lie dead and strown, By ruthless, winter tempests blown, THE AUTUMN. 47 "Where every foot shall tramp above The relics of their summer love. Sweet flowers ! how transient every bloom I The fairest find the earliest tomb ! The sun arises in the east, As one in mourning at a feast ; In gloom within the west he goes, And sinks as one beneath his woes. Can this be he, who brightly shone, In triumph on his summer throne, "Whose rays were dauntless, hot and wild, Now feeble as a dying child ? — If such God shackles with his ban, Ah, what are you, poor mortal man ? Leave foolish pride, ye little great, While Autumn reads your certain fate 1 But see the clouds, fold piled on fold, Flushed with the sun's departing gold : A dying hue the forest fills, And sombre rays o'ertop the hills. I stand and see the sun go down, And all the world is clothed in brown. Ah, now the spirit quiet broods Within the by-w r ay's solitudes, Learns truths from revelations new, As falls the frosty laden dew. 48 THE AUTUMN. How peaceful are tlie solemn hours, Amid the lone decaying flow'rs ; Beneath the trees the spirit breathes The sadness of the falling leaves ! In Autumn evenings chill and cold The soul receives words yet untold. Blest be these hours of solemn calm — This mournful lecture unto man — This softly prophesying gloom, Whose lips of death tell of the tomb ! Pfmffrg'a §almt I open memory's dusty tome And see the scenes of old, But every page within the book. Is dark with murk and mould. And one by one I turn the leaves, Damp with the dew of years, But see the pictures growing dim, Till I am blind with tears. Upon a mildew' d page, behold My boy-hood as a dream ; — The mossy village 'neath the trees In a valley broad and green ! There stands the crumbling school house yet— A relic of decay ! But all the sunny faces then — Ah, tell me where are they ? 5*' 50 MEMORY'S VOLUME. Upon the upland slopes of life Some delve with me and toil Along our pathway to the grave. Amid the loud turmoil. But others like the rainbow hues, Have faded from the day ; Like dandelions from the meads Of the sunny month of May. Ah, she more fair than any flower, Too frail on earth to stand, Went, when the rosy hours returned, Into the silent land. Sweet Cora Downing' s grave was made In spring time's happy hours : They laid the little blasted bud Beneath the op'ning flow'rs. The picture of our master old, Has faded from this book : But I can see his grassy grave In yonder silent nook, memory's volume. 51 We joyed beneath, his pleasant smile, And trembled 'neath his rod, But he, our potentate and lord, Has gone to meet his God. The orchard, wherein many days, We played beneath the shade, The woodman's axe has lopped away: The trunks are lowly laid. And be, who, wben we gathered fruit, Came shouting us to scare, Worn with his weary watch in life, Hath left this world of care. Upon another page I see The village house of prayer, But miss the good, devoted throng Who used to enter there. Behind the church the marble slabs Speak of the long ago, And mossy letters half defaced, Tell me who lie below. ■52 memory's volume. Behold, upon another leaf, The tavern old and gray ! But like the pilgrim whom he fed, The landlord went away. The bell teams come not to the pump. Beside the mossy door : And noisy drivers, on the porch, Are jovial never more. I see the ancient market house Far down the rural street, Where trod the crowd of farmers old, With ever busy feet. But they have left the market house That moulders in decay, And gone down to the silent rooms "Whose walls are built of clay. Here close I up this volume old Stamped with departing years: I cannot see the pictures now ; For I am blind with tears. memory's volume. 53 Yes, close the volume, lay it by — The old and Messed book- Turn from the vista of the past, And toward the future look. How sad the hour when I look backward, Wandering through the youthful scene, Strolling along the flowery valley And the dewy meadows green ; For, in those hallowed years departed, Thither do I tread alone, Where hushed are childhood's angel voices, Dumb and silent ev'ry tone ! The gray old school-house stands deserted, Down amid the valley green, Where thorny brambles choke the play- ground, Cruel thistles grow between : There loving playmates no more greet me With their joyful laugh at noon; How varied now is each one's pathway — Some are in the silent tomb. And never more bright heavenly faces Glow beneath the shady trees, Whose verdant boughs, with blossoms laden Shook their fragrance on the breeze. SADNESS BANISHED. 55 But hear ! the summer-birds are singing — As of old they sing again ! That dulcet music through my bosom Breathes the melody of pain. Each tuneful sparrow in the hedges Chirps a melancholy lay Around the school-house, now in ruins, For its inmates passed away ; So walk I onward sadly, lonely * In the shadow of despair, As all the beauty darkens round me In the even's dusky air. But comes a spirit floating near me — Cora's disembodied form; A beautiful expanded angel, Fairer than in youthful morn ! She — lovely seraph — soothes this sorrow, Calls me to her sunny bourn, — That pure and lofty golden mansion Where there is no heart forlorn. And here, amid the misty, vanished Years that long have rolled away, Among the saddest teaching relics Mould'ring down in dull decay 56 SADNESS BANISHED. She pours the balm into my bosom, Into ev'ry dark recess, The light and love of her dominion ; — Sadness banished : blessedness ! J^Oftt Prate, Far, far away in the sea, In the deep, unfathomed sea, In the briny, broad Atlantic, Rise the fairy, high, gigantic Azores in the sea. Like a dark dream in the sea, In the deep, unsounded sea, Are those islands in the gloom From the mast-head and jibboom, When first seen at sea — Like a bright dream in the sea, In the deep eternal sea, As in sleep we often dream, Seemed they in the morning beam Near the ship at sea. Flores, Corvo, in the sea, — Two twin islands in the sea Smile with love upon each other, As a sister and a brother, In the sparkling sea. 6 58 AZORE ISLANDS. A volcano in the sea. In the deep untrammeled sea, Is huge Pico, black and high, Like a giant in the sky, Rising from the sea. Fairy Fayal, in the sea, In the deep majestic sea, How your brother, Pico, mocks All the grandeur of your rocks In the flashing; sea. But thy meadows in the sea Laugh at his sublimity, And his jagged vertebrae, And his stony brow at sea — - Cragged in the sea. "While thy bosom in the sea, Pair and balmy in the sea, Bears the golden grain the vine Pills the vintage full of wine Prom his crags at sea. Prom Fayal and from Pico, Eastward in the heaving sea, AZORE ISLANDS. 59 Beliold St. George loom long and grand- Three leagues of sombre, rolling land Laving in the sea. But south eastward in the sea, Sits the father in the sea — Old St. Michael ! there is he With the sea-gull on his knee, 'Mid his progeny. Many vessels in the sea Tossed and driven in the sea, Find a haven here at sea, And the swarthy Portugue Shows humanity. Dark-eyed maidens in the sea, Yet your tresses I can see Glossy on your bosoms bare, Ruffled by the summer air In the distant sea. Peasant yeoman in the sea, Peasant maidens in the sea, I shall keep your memory Sacred here across the sea ; And my prayer shall be, — 60 AZORE ISLANDS. Bless the humble Portugue Far, far away in the sea, In the briny, broad Atlantic, On the fairy, high, gigantic Azores in the sea. Hallowed — spreading out in glory*, See the prairies broad and green. Glowing in the waving splendor Of the verdant Summer Queen ; Reaching from the flashing water Of the mimic ocean lakes, Laughing to Ohio river, Whose wide bosom, heaving, shakes ! Prom the turbid Mississippi To the Indiana line, Seas of green — the Eden gardens Spread eternally sublime, By the fountains irrigated Of Vermilion, Mackinaw, And the giant Illinois Roaring in his own eclat. a & Throwing up their golden splendor On the scudding clouds of morn ; Rustling in their rich productions — Boundless fields of wheat and corn ; 6* 62 ILLINOIS PRAIRIES. Painting all the blue horizon, When the sinking sun goes down, With the glowing iris color, Fading into mellow brown. Lazy, stretching up his pinions, Careless, heedless of your tread, In your random path the plover Scarcely turns his striped head, From the tufted grassy patches, Prairie chickens, startled sail"; Smaller and more slyly hidden Pipes the inoffensive quail. "Where the lord of cattle bellowed,, Stamping, master of the plain, Looking on the early settler With defiance but in vain, Polls the fiery steed, in thunder, Paging, mad with heat and steam, Down the bison's beaten pathway : — - Like an eagle hear him scream. See ascend the rounded prairie Smoke in fleecy masses hurled, ILLINOIS PRAIRIES. 63 Like the vapor of a furnace Fuming from another world ! In the distance soft and dreamy, See a line of wood appear Like a silken cord dividing The apartment of the year. Behold the pioneer wagons, Slowly winding farther west, Vanish down the grassy prairie As the white clouds from its breast- Pilgrims to the wilds untrodden Minnesota, Oregon, And the thickets of Nebraska, Basking in the setting sun. Sadly comes the vanquished red man Seeking his forefather's grounds ; But the rude plow's devastation Levels all his graves and mounds. Poor, dejected, roving Indian, Dead in hope, yet shed a tear, Where thou standest with affection, Thine in peace may slumber near ! Standing amid the April flow'rs And looking down the chilly year, I see the cold retreating hours Resume the helmet and the spear. And from the shadows dim and dark Of hoary headed January, I hear the chieftains grim and stark Saluting those of February. Shall we be beaten by a maid With sceptre but a wreath of flowers— A trivial nymph of nook and glade— A sunny child of shady bowers ? Nay ! to the contest, warriors now ! The battle yet may not be lost : The maid of fair and sunny brow Shall quake beneath the horrid frost ! I see them marsh'ling in the field And, phalanxed, stealing up the year With many a brightly burnished shield, And many a cold icicle spear. AN APRIL VIEW. t They have no drum — no thrilling strain To animate the soul within, But tread the silent hill and plain Like 'Pluto on his march of sin. Lo ! in the vanquished realm of March They over all her meadows pass, And underneath her sunny arch They trample down the springing grass I tremble ! they are drawing near ; The maiden, Spring, is deadly pale ; The boding sky is dark and drear — Ah, now they tread her flowery vale ! The chieftain's voice is heard again ; On warriors to the work of death ! Ours be the day ! and not in vain Let sword be struck with every breath. The contest rages — blast on blast Sweeps madly howling dread amain ; The snow in clouds descending fast Lies shrouding many a hill and plain. While whirlwinds tw T ist the mighty trees And toss their boughs to earth below, 66 AN APRIL VIEW. The night's cold hours of horror freeze The tender scions in the snow. Rejoice ! the battle now is o'er, And Spring, the mistress, wins the day ; The vanquished monarch shall no more Molest the dancing Queen of May. Come, maidens, join the jovial throng, The land is blooming, spread with flow'rs 5To voice shall drown the pleasant song Of bonny Spring's illumined hours. April, 1854. See where she comes — the agile queen— "With glowing face and voice of tune, Adorned in soft, transparent green — The lovely, bonny maiden, June. Where winds the pleasant Brandywine, The maiden dips her rosy cup, And drinks, as Bacchus of his wine, With eager lip, sup after sup. I see her o'er Hardscrabble float, Twining the sweetest summer wreaths. While greets her many a mellow throat, Beneath the thickly clustered leaves. And up the valley green and broad She cometh like an angel fair — A special messenger of God — With jetty eyes and glossy hair. Let us go forth and meet the queen — • The youngest child of summer hours— Amid the bright resplendent scene, Among the charmed scented flow'rs. %\t (§wm of SnmratL She comes in stately pride and beauty, Crowned with wreaths of scented flow'rs, Like a gentle maid on duty, Twining all the land with bow'rs. Behold her at the peep of morning, With her rosy cheeks in bloom ; With her smiles the skies adorning, Deep'ning into radiant noon. See the far horizon gleaming "With the laughter of her face, "While her sunny smiles are streaming Through the upper halls of space. Now her eyes are eastward bending, Like a winged lark at night, To his meadow green descending, With a heart full of delight. Now she windeth down the mountain, By the river's verdant brink ; Now she stand eth by the fountain Where the herds in quiet drink. THE QUEEN OF SUMMER. 63 Now she walketh through the valley, By the deep sequestered dell ; Now her feet, in silence, dally By the reaper's dripping well. Up the w r elkin she hath wended, To the seat of slumbering noon ; Half the day of labor ended, Shady groves- she gives — a boon. From the coueh of noon she bendeth Toward her holy place of rest, Where, in spirit-being, endeth All our sorrow in the west. Now the shades of eve are falling Thickly round the Summer Queen, "While her muffled voice is calling Mortals to the sun-set scene. Behold as in the dawn of morn, The Queen of Summer stately yet, Gliding down the dreamy bourn — With the orb of glory set ! Thus the Queen of Summer teacheth — All of brightness sinks to rest 7 70 QUEEN OF SUMMER. In the far off realms, that reacheth Deep and pleasant as the west. Nothing evil, dark unholy Can ascend and trace the skies ; None but footsteps pure and lowly Enter in at Paradise. %\t $&m$* at ^mtytoiw. A train of fairy nymphs one day Passed by, and bore my friend away ; They took him in their arms divine, Along the singing Brandy wine. Each lip, each cheek was like the rose, That in the sweetest garden blows ; Each orb, each tender beaming eye, "Was bnt the mirror of the sky, As they loved him — loved him well — More than pen or tongue can tell ; And in their pleasant sylvan mood, They sought friend Hoope's " solitude" Thither no voice of strife may come, But songs of birds, and lulling hum Of tireless, busy, honey bees, Among the early flowers and trees. One tender fay of angel look Brought him white pebbles from the brook, And one that loved him very well, Brought him the purple muscle shell ; But one — that grew beside the rill, Plucked him the modest daffodil. While some would pleasing stories tell. 72 THE NYMPHS OF BRANDYWINE. Others would fetch the bright blue bell, Cull butter- cups and dandelions, And hunt the tender springing scions ; They brought him these — a tribute meet For one so beautiful and sweet, When they had wreathed his brow with flow'rs Dripping with dew of pearly show'rs, They took him up, on pinions free, And bore my minion back to me. May, 1S54. %\t pa in % Mlti. Aclown a vernal valley A pensive maiden strayed ; I watched her footsteps dally Beneath the hazel shade. A thin robe waved around her, A rose was on her breast, With her little lily hands Across her bosom prest. At length she kneeled in prayer Amid the waving grass ; And I could hear her accents Upon the zephyr pass. Ah ! she was one forsaken — ■ Astray from cottage home — - A tearful little maiden, Dejected and alone ! He cruelly had left her — Her lover proud and high ; For I could hear her whisper His name with sob and sigh. 7* 74 THE MAID IN THE VALLEY. At last I caught her aspect Distorted — paled with wo ; My reckless heart and haughty Beat tenderly and low. I lightly stole upon her As she knelt down in pray'r, And bent my knee beside her — She knew not I was there. And when she sighed : false hearted ! I said : it cannot be ; Thy lover is beside thee, My love, -and I am he J No more shall we be parted ; One path shall yet be ours "Within this fragrant valley^ Amid its scented flow'rs. pile ta. They laid down little Cora — where ? Upon a downy bed To rest her aching head ! No, not there. They laid down little Cora — where ? Upon a bed of flowers In Summer's sunny hours ! No, not there. They laid down little Cora — where ? Beneath the shady trees Lulled by the hum of bees ! No, not there. They laid her softly down to rest In that unwakeful bed, Prom whence she never, never more Should raise her little head. 'They laid her in the silent grave To slumber and to rest, Beneath the cold, cold sod that lies Upon her icy breast. 76 LITTLE CORA. They laid lier there when early Spring Made glad the sunny hours ; Though nipt the fairest one of all The sweet unfolding flowers. Birds sang their gayest roundelays Above her lifeless form, As if to call her spirit back From God's eternal morn. And yet they warble by her bed In soft melodious strain, Calling the one who loved them well ; But she comes not again. Sflnp along §rafrgtorat NO. I. Come, let us stray by Brandywine, Beneath the beech and sycamore, The ripples sing down mossy beds And whisper, love, along the shore- The moon shines brightly from her throne ; Her silver rays are on the stream ; And, dressed in beauty through the meads, The Even walks as in a dream. Come, while the breath of July flows Up from the fields of dewy flow'rs ; And all the splendor of the year, Seems shining in the mellow hours. Come, Mary, I will weave for thee A song along the Brandywine, Pure as the dew that bathes the buds Unfolding in the summer time. 78 SONGS ALONG BRANDYWINE. NO. II. Soft is Italian clime — Sweet are its streams ; Softer where Brandywine Sings in its dreams. Ve have no Tuscan maids Dusky and brown ; But we have pleasant shades. Close to the town. Thither our ladies walk Fairy and fine ; Sweet is their honey talk By Brandywine. Give me our quiet streams, And our fair maids, When in the soft summer beams Cool in the shades. SONGS ALONG BRAKBYWINE. 79 NO. Ill* Here I tread and silent muse In the twilight and the dews — * See the shadows dimly spread Like the phantoms of the dead, While the robin's chirping dies In the darkness of the skies: Muse and think and ponder o'er Sunny days that are no more ; Then the thrillings through my heart From the light of childhood start- When a truant wild I ran By the flow'ry sprinkled dam; When I loved these shadows cool Better than a master's rule* Pleasant were those sunny hours 'Mid the meadow's scented flow'rs ; But I feared, and wandered home, Skulking like a guilty drone, Knowing well the fatal rule For a truant from his school. Pleasant days and sorrow's hours, Still I meet you in these bowers ; And I think the thoughts again 80 SONGS ALONG BRANDYWINE. Ere the soul had yet a stain ; "When the bosom warm and true. Blended with the heav'nly blue, "What is childhood ? Oh, a light Shining on our future night, "When the clouds of manhood swim ! Making our horizon dim ! But the shadows darkly spread Like the phantoms of the dead. SONGS ALONG BRANDYWINE. 81 NO. IV. Sweet stream, thy music calls me forth In even's dewy time ; I come to learn thy mellow psalms Oh, singing Brandywine. Thon bringest down the balm of flowers From meadows bright and green, "Where flashing wings of joyous birds In sunny colors gleam. Thou bringest on thy silver waves The murmur of the groves, Where summer birds sing thrillingly Their sweet celestial loves. Thou barest on those dulcet airs And every pleasant voice, Till e'en this dull, cold heart of mine Leaps up at thy rejoice. 82 SONGS ALONG BRANDYWINE. NO. V. Oh, vocal stream, oh, charming brook, I read thy rhymes as from a book — As from a book I read the rhyme Of some sweet poet's thoughts divine. But softer do thy murmurs flow Than any poet's verse I know ; And more thou pourest through my breast The music lulling me to rest. Here I have volumes in my hand, But I shall lay them in the sand ; Their rhymes are dull when thine I hear Fall softly in my listening ear ; They only through the heart may roll ; But thine trills lovely in the soul. SONGS ALONG BRANDYWINE. 83 NO. VI. Beneath thy silver waves, behold Another world like this of ours ; I deem I hear the singing birds, And see the bright inverted flow'rs. The sky spreads lovely far beneath, Dream-like except a ripple mars ; And then I see the fairy forms, The little, dancing, silver stars. And, from the upturned hills of green, Like Beauty kissing pleasant June ; Peeping at first as one afraid, I see the pale, aquatic moon. Oh, fairy sight, oh novel scene, Ye giveth one exquisite bliss — Not many know, not many feel Except beside a stream like this ! 84 SONGS ALONG BRANDYWINE. NO. VII. Here many strayed, who stray no more ; Here many came and played with me, Upon this green and grassy shore, Beneath the spreading willow tree. Here many gamboled blithe and gay, Who died in youth's bright, sunny morn; "When memory wanders back that way My aching heart is left forlorn. !Nbt all are dead ; yet some remain, Whose path if you should ask me where, I could not tell ; and it were vain To hope their light again to share. But tuneful voices now are hushed ; And all the past is like a dream ; My heart with loneliness were crushed But for the music of the stream. And this I hear yet as in youth — The low, the plaintive murmured tune, But now it speaks a sterner truth To manhood's heart ; soon — dying soon. WMtx. "When "Winter o'er the midnight skies, Extends his cold domain, The Polar Star, in brightness, vies The twinkling of the Wain. And huge Orion, proudest shines, Of all the starry host ; — With Taurus, in the blue confines, The battle is his boast. The low'ring cloud soon intervenes ; And driving hail and rain Come rattling from inclement wings, Along the misty plain. The morn arises bleak and gray, O'er vale and forest vast; And boisterous all the gloomy day, In whirlwinds sweeps the blast. The only songs the traveller cheer, Who weary plods his way, The snow-birds nestling cold and drear, Make, 'round the ricks of hay. 8* 86 WINTER. Then seasons mild have left the earth— The Spring and Summer day — The yellow cornucopsean birth, Successive fled away. And, o'er the autumn mellow, brown, Dejected and subdued, The howling winter thunders down, His rigid solitude. Boreas, whistling from the north, Embattling fiercely bold, While, rushing through the forest forth, He waxes chill and cold. And, when around the cottage walls, So pitiless he howls, The shivering hound his master calls, "With wistful whines and growls. The frost descends — nor storm abates ; While maddened tempests blow, Unkindly ermined winter shakes His locks of ice and snow. The tinkling of the merry bells, Make stirring music now ; WINTER. 87 In buoyant hearts that music swells. Beneath the winter's brow. The sleigh glides swift— the charger bites Upon the icy bit ; The clatter of his hoofs, delights Those hearts which love hath lit. And down the way on glist'ning snow, In furs from wind and storm, The maidens and their lovers go, Together nestled, warm. How happ'ly beat ten thousand hearts In mansions large and grand, "Where comfort all her joys, imparts At Fortune's gay command. Around the festive board in glee, Are glowing faces bright — Ah ! what is that to poverty In "Winter's cheerless night. Oh, wealth, have pity now ! nor scorn The needy poor, who wait, In tattered robes, in snow and storm, Half frozen at your gate. 88 WINTER. How cheering when misfortunes gaunt, Depress us to the clay, To find kind sympathy, our want, Hath nobly come to stay ! " The bread upon the waters cast Returns in many days," And him who shares his morsel last The great Redeemer pays. %\t Swto Sir*. "Why comest thou, dear minion, when the winter Lays desolate the fields of summer flow'rs Do stormy days to thee prove more delicious Than Summer's sunny hours ? On broken reeds I hear thee in the mea- dows, And in the bow'rs deserted, soft and low Thy music trembles every stormy morning, Amid the falling snow. When pathless drifts are piled along the highway, When every hill is white, and vale and moor ; Thou comest blithely, making little foot- prints Around the cottage door. Though Boreas harshly from the northward whistles, And huge, black clouds ride on the stormy air, 90 THE SNOW BIRD. Thy songs remind me of the blue-bird's singing "When skies are mild and fair. The ruder winds weigh not upon thy pinions ; But thou, triumphing over every storm, F oldest thy wing, after thy day's rejoicing, To sing again at morn. The darkest day, when woods are bare and lifeless, And every herb is bound with icy chains, "When winds blow hollow up the snowy valleys, Thou sing'st thy sweetest strains. "Why wilt thou go while rosy spring is coming ? Stay, stay and sing as in the winter day ; When flow'rs are blooming and the glad bees humming, Fly not from us away ! Hark, hark, what sounds my hearing greet — Soft, feath'ry footsteps in the street ! Far over woods, borne on the breeze, I hear them tramp among the trees — Tramp, tramp all day with measured tread Amid the forests cold and dead : And, over meadows dumb and chill, And on the bleak and vanquished hill, They come, they come — soft little feet — And tramp before me in the street ! Around the cottage and the barn The small, white feet fall soft and low ; And they walk down the rural farm — White, feath'ry feet, embalmed in snow ! The big white snow has little feet, And they slide down the cloudy air, Down, down among the rain and sleet — What lady's feet are half so fair ? Cold little feet, cold little feet — See how they dance along the street ! And, while half slumb'ring, I can hear Them tramping, by my window, near ; 92 SNOW-FEET. Till, faint with travel, they complain And rest against my window pane. And 'round the eaves they gather fast And still they come on ev'ry blast. White little feet ! they come, they come, When all the world is cold and numb. Whence come they to this cold abode Adown their bleak aerial road ? But ask not this ; — they come — they come When all the world is cold and numb ! %\t tos Jartost Hark ! amid the meadows The red winged starlings sing ; Shout the swarthy mowers ; Their scythes vibrating ring ; Hie down along the waving grass And see them harvesting ! Strong arms bare and brawny Toss up the scented hay : Hear the joyous laughter Of merry maidens gay, With icy water in the cans Fresh as the fountain spray ! From the rural cottage Across the clover bloom For the weary rustics Sounds the horn at noon ; They eat their harvest meal beneath A willow's spreading gloom. To the open barn doors 'Neath the torrid ray, See the jolly teamster 94 THE GRASS HARVEST. Bring up a load of hay ; On which a bonny maiden sits Brown as an autumn day ! Bless the noble farmer, Each honest lad and lass Down the sunny meadows Among the withered grass ; — Blessed be each toiling harvester In all that comes to pass ! Poor Lizzie died — they placed the sod Upon her quiet breast ; And she is slumb'ring calmly now In death's eternal rest : She closed her eyes as womanhood Bent o'er her azure morn — The last farewell died on her lips, And we are left forlorn : She withered in the summer time : Beneath the rosy bow'rs, Upon her breast she crossed her arms, And died amid the flow'rs : While all the sky was bright and blue, And earth was full of tune, The ebon hearse bore Lizzie down Unto the silent tomb. Oh, bright-eyed, laughing child, the loss Is more than thou canst know ; But I can feel the sting of death — The pang of grief and wo. Once more I come to the cot loved well- The mossy cot of Greenwood Dell ; Ah, many a path. I've wandered through Since last I bade its walls adieu. But all the scenes I know full well, None, none I love as Greenwood Dell ; For here are noble souls and kind, And genial warmth of heart and mind. Sweet spot is this ! Oh, I deplore "When hence I turn to come no more ; And sadly shall I onward go To stranger lands with heart of wo. Oft will I turn with tearful eyes Toward these dearly cherished skies, "Where love and friendship firmly dwell In the quiet cot of Greenwood Dell. And I shall often deem I hear The merry birds, with voices clear, Sing, in the calm Spring morning fine, Along the vocal Brandywine. GREENWOOD DELL. 97 And every whisper of the breeze And pleasant rustle of the trees I oft will hear when far I dwell From this dear spot, sweet Greenwood Dell. And I shall see, in pleasant dreams — The early flowers along the streams — The flowers, that I have loved so well, That deck the meads of Greenwood Dell. And I will see the good old man, Grown gray in Education's van ; For memory shall lend her light, Quenched only by Death's endless night. "When grief and woe my bosom swell Ah, I shall sigh for Greenwood Dell. 9* The morning is dawning ; A glimmering ray Points out to our vision The brow of the day. Away up the welkin The bars of the light Are streaking with silver The skirts of the night. The red sun is rising And inland is rolled O'er the slumb'ring valley A halo of gold. The mantle of darkness Is folded and gone ; The earth shines in beauty And revels in song. All things are translucent In this joyous hour ; The rainbow is glowing, And blooming the bow'r. MORNING. 99 Behold the bright streamlet In vapor upborn By th' water-wheel flashing, Is kissing the morn. Each feathery cherub Is singing in tune With all the soft voices Of May and of June. Above the dim mountains, High, cragged and gray, The mist of the fountains Is rolling away. The broad shining river Rejoicing and free, Untrammeled, resistless, Winds down to the sea. The crystalline brooklet Gay, jubilant, flinging Its spray from the crags, To the river is singing. The earth is a mirror, And the blue sky above, 100 MORNING. In which are reflected God's mercy and love. All bright things in common To man he hath given, But breathe of the coming Of brighter in Heaven. jtoofc See across the spreading plain How the noon is standing still ; And asleep beneath the shade She reclines upon the hill. Hot a sound is rising up, Not a mellow noted tune ; But a silence fills the air In the sickened hour of noon. All is solemn in the heat, All is pending breathless now ; Not a voice is heard abroad, Scarce a bee upon the bough. Little birds have hushed their songs ; Drooping sit beneath the leaves, Hidden from the heat of day ; Nor the spider longer weaves. Thirsty herds are in the brooks, And the folds beneath the shade ; Dumb the pleasant singing thrush, And the catbird in the glade. 102 NOON. Slow along the pensive stream Murmurs through the willow grove ; There the turtle coos no more Her complaining notes of love. Dead the hour as here I lie In a doze yet half awake, In the shadow of a tree Dreaming of the drowsy lake — Of the distant hills and dim, Mantled in a hazy gloom — Dreaming they are giants chained, In a solemn prison room — Of the gentle sloping vale Filled with slumber where no sound, Scarce a whisper in the grass, Rises from the heated ground. Languid, withered flowers bend In the pressure of repose, Like a little sorry maid, 'Neath a weary weight of woes. Now I wake amid the noon Resting on the shaded grass ; NOON. 103 See the white clouds through the blue, Rolling in a lazy mass. All is silence ; not a sound — Not the faintest murmur tune, In the deep enchanted realm Of the sultry hour of noon. On these fair hills the Shamokin once trod Exultant lord of all the country round, Beneath the ancient trees he worshiped God, And knew no other master of the ground. "With spirit free at early dawn he came And plied his oar within the Brandy wine ; Year after year he hunted, fished the same, Oh, happy then the Indian's sunny clime ! He wooed the maiden of his love and youth, And 'neath the oak he drew her to his breast ; Into her ear he breathed the words of truth And spoke of peace — their future years of rest. And she would smile, the maiden of the wood, Her deep orbs glowing like the very skies ; To her a Heav'n was in that solitude, For all was sacred in her lovely eyes. THE SHAMOKIN. 105 But years since then have passed and gone ; no more The Shamokin is seen among the hills ; Sometimes a bone is found along the shore Of these pure crystal mountain cradled streams ; Save this there is no sign of all that race Of red skinned men forever passed away ; From far the white man came and took his place And claimed the ground wherein his bones decay. "When autumn spreads his sombre hues around, And the low hills are in their yellow dress, Methinks a footstep tramps the solemn ground Of some lone Indian in his sore distress. But 'tis a dream, a lonely, lonely dream, Born of the fancy like a breath of air ; The Shamokin no more will tread this scene, His native land so fraught with fell de- spair. 10 106 THE SHAMOKIN. Where leaped the wild deer, thunders now the forge ; The echo sounds from hill to hill again ; The black smoke, from the grand romantic gorge, Rolls down the air along the valley's plain. And where the wigwam stood, the farmer's barn Peeps up amid the few remaining trees, Filled with the treasure of the cultured farm — Such now the sight this generation sees. I see thee, child, dear budding flower, Rejoicing in the spring — "What time the merry throated birds In sweet orchestras sing. Up through the verdant meadows dance Thy little feet in glee ; While Heav'n is in thy azure eyes, Thy mother's face I see. Each lineament I fondly trace — Oh, may thy mother's bloom Be seen again in colors bright Triumphing o'er the tomb ! Each season dies ; year follows year; Yet still I see the flower, More dear to me than all the rest, Expand through storm or shower. Anon I see thee, rosy fair As summer's blushing morn ; Though one has left my bleeding heart, Why should I feel forlorn ? 108 THE VISION. Behold, in thee, my youthful love ! Death's arrows hit in vain ; All, all the summer's faded flowers "Will grow and bloom again. Wilt $*prttttt. He heard an angel calling him Into a brighter sphere ; He laid his earthly cares aside Without a sigh or tear. But I was sorrowful and mourned To see him go away, And wishfully I called him back : < ; Oh Father, Father, stay I" How lonely will our mansion be, How vacant every room ! The shadow, falling at the door, A never fading gloom ! But he had folded up his hands And lain his cares away ; No scalding tears, no fond embrace, Had charms to make him stay. Forsaken homestead ! never more His footsteps shall I hear ; The threshhold knows a stranger's foot, My cheeks a dryless tear. 10* 110 THE DEPARTURE. Weep willows, weep ; bend low your boughs Around the shattered door ; The stranger laughs ; his heart is light, But mine, oh, nevermore ! The Frost-king sits on his icy throne And drearily doth he reign alone, With his auburn locks all tossed behind, Like streamers cold, by the solemn wind. No warbling bird sings him a note In cadence sweet from its mellow throat ; And the scented flowers scatter their leaves When they kiss the air that monarch breathes. Behold that king in his surtout brown, Which around him hangs, like curtains, down; His outstretched arm swings the sceptre high That cleaves the clouds in the autumn sky. He looks below and his fated glance Hoods the green land in a yellow trance ; And he wields his sceptre through the earth Till silence broods o'er the summer's mirth. 112 THE FROST KING. He blows from his nostrils with'ring breath ; The breeze goes heralding woe and death : The meadows mourn as the winds sweep by Where the tall dead grass bosoms the sigh; And the old shorn oaks, all sad and bare, Lift up their arms in the solemn air, As if beseeching alms in prayer. Upon the clouds do his banners hang, "Where their golden hues in splendor shine ; And through the ether the vapors roll, As a ghost armada on patrol. In early morn, at the break of day, The Frost-king's beard on the meads is gray. His head reclines in the woodlands deep Where the leaves lie drifted in a heap ; His sober face in the solemn noon Mirrors the glow of the forests' gloom ; And his evening psalms fall on the ear, As smothered songs from a heart of fear. Look on that king — oh, my brothers, look ! Eead the dread manuscript of his book ; With trembling read, or with laughing breath — Ye who may laugh ; for it speaketh death. Yonder on- the hill side Sloping to the vale, The decaying school house Tells a mournful tale. Green the grass is growing Round the faded door; Young, nimble, playful feet, Tramp there nevermore. The wild vines climb the jamb; Rank weeds hide the sill ; No smiling children laugh; — All around is still. With moss the roof is set Partly in decay ; The chimney topples down Piecemeal every day. The old persimmon trees, Underneath whose shade, At noon we ate our pie And loud laughter made, 114 THE OLD SCHOOL HOUSE. Begin to droop with age. Breathing solemn sound, Casting lonely shadows, On the lonely ground. The w 7 orm fence is removed, Once from where it stood, Zigzagging down the hill Half way mid a wood. But there the meadows are Still the types of truth, Spreading their breasts of green In eternal youth. Dear meadows, broad and fair, Limpid, mellow stream, Old school house, in decay, Like a faded dream, I look on you and mourn Till the tears run fast, Blinding my eyes that I Cannot see the past. f a Stotorag Itaita, The gay lark is winging Its way in the skies ; The blue bird is singing : Oh, maiden arise ! Arise and behold The morning of gold ! The wren and the sparrow In sweet melody, The boy at the harrow Are all calling thee : Arise and behold The morning of gold ! Up on the willow tree Sings the jet black bird, And on the lombardy His music is heard : Arise and behold The morning of gold ! 116 TO A SLUMBERING MAIDEN. The robin and pewee, Perched by thy casement, Sing, loudly calling thee, "With sheer amazement : Arise and behold The morning of gold ! Sweet songs are falling Around without number ; All things are calling Thee up from thy slumber : Arise and behold The morning of gold ! Open thy beamy Bright eyes to the day ; Shake all thy dreamy Indulgence away : For the morning, oh. maiden, Is a beautiful aidenn ! %\t $hto §rifyje. O'er a quiet stream whose low notes swell Through the quiet groves of Greenwood Dell, An old tree bends its clustered bowers, Whose trunk is grown with moss and flowers. At foot of the tree how many a day The little birds came with the squirrels to play, While the waves on the pebbles, like the sound of a bell, Made musical notes through Greenwood Dell. , At the foot of the tree in gentle spring, The flowers peep up when the blue birds sing, Unfolding their leaves with an odorous smell, On the banks of the stream in Greenwood Dell. The violets open their pale blue eyes, By its branches sheltered from the stormy skies, 11 118 THE NEW BRIDGE, And their eloquent blushes seem to swell The praise of the tree in Greenwood Dell. And the waving grass shoots up in the air Beneath the tree that is growing there, Hiding the flowers we love so well On the shady banks of Greenwood Dell. And under its branches the fishes swim In the placid waves 'neath the shadows dim; For the rays of the sun can scarcely gleam Through the leaves of the boughs on the hallowed stream. The gentle breeze of the rosy day Sweeps through its boughs in the month of May, And a pleasant shade it spreads at noon When the air is hot in the month of June. The old old tree that I love so well That bends o'er the stream in Greenwood Dell, Has its green boughs lopped by the axe away ; And the boys have made it a bridge to-day. THE NEW BRIDGE. 119 K"ow the tree that we used so much to ad- mire With a poet's heart and his soul of fire. Bends over the stream with its boughs all gone ; And its mossy trunk we walk upon. The timid maid, with her foot of snow, Over the stream walks, trembling slow, On the trunk of the tree she loved so well, To gather flowers in Greenwood Dell. But the lad takes the hand of her he loves As they walk o'er the bridge to seek the groves, Conducting her safe to the other side "Where of all the flowers she is the pride. But the old old tree bends a tree no more, A bridge it reaches from shore to shore ; Yet a tree I shall bless it, loved so well, When its branches were green in Green- wood Dell. My heart is in tlie forest now, In the wild wood deep and old, When autumn paints the swinging bough "With colors bright as gold. My heart is in the old, old wood, When sadly falls the leaf; For in the solemn solitude, I strengthen my belief. God speaks within the forest bowers ; And oh ! how sweet to hear His accents 'mid the withered flowers, Fall through the dying year. My heart is in the forest old When ev'ry blade is dead, And every leaf is lying cold Upon its icy bed. My heart is in the forest old Beneath November's sky When wild winds whistle up the wold And all the living die. NOTES Page 67. Hardscrabble is the name of a hill south of Downing- town. Page 71. The Nymphs of Brandy-wine is a little story, in verse, of my friend John J. Pinkerton, who accompanied some ladies one summer afternoon to the Brandywine. Page 104. Shamokin is the name of a tribe of Indians who once had their homes on the banks of Brandywine. Mr. Norris Dowlin informed me, that some time ago a few bones were washed up, supposed to be part of the remains of that tribe. 124 NOTES. PaCxE 117. The Xew Bridge is an old tree, bending across the Brandywine, opposite Jonathan Gause's Boarding School, about half a mile south of iMarshaltown. The boys one day, superintended by A. J. Watson, got their axes to work and made a complete bridge of it Deacidified using the Bookkeeper proce: Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide Treatment Date: Sept. 2009 PreservationTechnologie A WORLD LEADER IN COLLECTIONS PRESERVATI 111 Thomson Park Drive Cranberry Township, PA 16066 f7241 779-2111