PS 1549 
 .07 
 Copy 3 
 
 THE 
 
 AMEEICAN SEASONS, 
 
 BY 
 
 JESSE E. DOW 
 
 PART I. 
 
 WASHINGTON: 
 PUBLISHED BY WILLIAM ADAM. 
 
 ■ 1848. 
 
^^:v 
 
AUTUMN: 
 
 A PRIZE POEM 
 
 BY 
 
 JESSE E. DOW. 
 
 For him the hand 
 
 Of Autumn linges every fertile branch 
 
 With blooming gold and blushes like the morn." — Akbnside. 
 
 WASHINGTON: 
 PUBLISHED BY WILLIAM ADAM. 
 
 1848. 
 
^ 
 
 ^ v^^ 
 
 J S '06 
 
 r. Barnard, Printer, 
 VVaihington, D. C. 
 

 DEDICATION 
 
 TO 
 
 LEVI WOODBURY, 
 
 OF NEW HAMPSHIRE, 
 THIS POEM IS RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED, BY 
 
 THE AUTHOR, 
 
AUTUMN. 
 
 For him the hand 
 
 Of Autumn tinges every fertile branch 
 
 With blooming gold and blushes like the morn." — dkcnside. 
 
 Season of fading glory! Oh how sad, 
 When through the woodland moans thy fitful gale, 
 Shaking the ripen'd nuts from loftiest bough, 
 And down the forest aisle and sylvan road 
 Whirling the yellow leaves with rustling sound. 
 
 Mountain and vale, and mead, and pasture wild, 
 Have quickly changed their robes of deepest green ; 
 The summer flowers are withered, save a few 
 Pale tremblers by the sunny cottage door, 
 That linger, relics of the roseate band. 
 Till icy winter, wandering from the pole. 
 Sings their sad death-song on the snowy hills. 
 Though not a cloud appears to fleck the sky. 
 The sun at noon-day shines with tempered heat; 
 The solitary flicker bores the tree — 
 The carpenter of birds ; and in the path, 
 The deadly rattlesnake, with flattened head. 
 And tongue of crimsoii darling from his mouib, 
 Watches the idle bird that marks his forw. 
 
6 AUTUMiN. 
 
 Till the charmed victim, with affrighted cries, 
 Drops on his fangs, the vile seducer's prey. 
 
 The hunter takes his way amid the woods, 
 Or by the ocean side; when far away. 
 The wave that roll'd upon the beach has gone, 
 To lave a thousand isles of beauty, ere 
 It breaks again in thunder on that shore. 
 The well-trained setter through the covert seeks 
 The bird the sportsman's fancy prizes o'er 
 The feathered songsters of the woodland wild ; 
 The covey starts, and soon the murd'rous aim 
 Brings down the plover, or the woodcock dun, 
 Or mottled pheasant, that puts trust in man. 
 And finds, as all have found, the trust abused. 
 On the brown stump the sprightly squirrel sits. 
 Filling his striped pouch with ripened grain; 
 While in the thicket near, the rabbit glides, 
 And as his foot falls*on the withered leaves, 
 A rustling sound in the dim woods is heard, 
 Rousing the-chewitt and the piping jay, 
 And starting from the dead pine's naked top. 
 With hoarsest cry, the reconnoitering crow. 
 
 The meadow-lark, with yellow breast, alights 
 On the old field, and sings her favorite strain — 
 A clear harmonious song. The Hunter Boy — 
 A little urchin stealing by his side, 
 
AUTUMN. 
 
 With freckled face, lit up with roguish smiles, 
 And eyes that twinkle, perfect gems of fun — 
 Armed with an ancient musket, that did speak 
 The voice of death on War's victorious fields, 
 Creeps down the garden wall and nears her seal ; 
 Then, casting down his flapping hat of straw, 
 Rests fearless o'er his trembling playmate's back, 
 Takes deadly aim, and shuts both eyes, and fires ! 
 Loud ring the hills, and vales, and plains around, 
 The border grove is filled with sulphurous smoke, 
 The cat-bird cries "for shame !" and darts away 
 Before her leafy resting-place is seen ; 
 And when the cloud of death has floated on, 
 The victim bird is found a gory thing ; 
 While the proud hero of this manly sport, 
 Struts down the lane like Caesar entering Rome. 
 The patient Angler threads the winding brook, 
 Tempting the dainty trout with gilded bait ; 
 And ever and anon, as fleecy clouds 
 Pass o'er the sun, the fish voracious darts 
 From the cool shadows of some mossy bank, 
 Swallows -the bait with one convulsive act, 
 And learns too late that death was at the feast ; 
 While the glad sportsman feels the sudden jerk, 
 And plays his victim with extended line. 
 Swiftly he darts, and from the glittering reel , 
 The silken line is drawn with ringing sound. 
 Till wearied out with struggling that but serves 
 
8 - AUTUMN. 
 
 To drive the barbed weapon deeper still, 
 He seeks his quiet shelter 'neath the bank, 
 And thence in triumph to the shore is borne, 
 A prize that well rewards a day of toil. 
 
 Along the hills the school-boy flies his kite — 
 Shoots the smooth marble thro' the studded ring, 
 Or o'er the commons with a bound and shout, 
 Beats the soft ball for one well skilled to catch. 
 Health crowns the joyful exercise, and night 
 Finds its tired votaries trained for quiet sleep. 
 
 Bearing his hazel wand of curious form, 
 
 The searcher after earth's deep spring goes forth, 
 
 Handling his mystic prongs as Merlin taught, 
 
 Or later follower of the magic school — 
 
 Now over hill-tops, stony as the mounds 
 
 That Indian warriors raise above their slain. 
 
 Then down in valleys, v*here the sun ne'er shines, 
 
 Fringed round with sylvan borders dense and rank, 
 
 He trudges, looking wiser than the one 
 
 Who passes o'er the busy brain his hand. 
 
 And wraps the senses in a sleep profound. 
 
 At length, above a vale where willows bend, 
 
 And grass is greenest in the waning year, 
 
 His curious tell-tale turns tov/ard the earth ; 
 
 He stops, and with a shout of joy proclaims 
 
 Tlie long sought spot where living waters riui. 
 
AUTUMN. 9 
 
 And where the well may sink, nor sink in vain. 
 
 The forest now awakes, while stroke on stroke, 
 Falls on the hoary monarch of the wood, 
 Shaking its regal head amid the host 
 That nurstled in its shade. At length it falls 
 And with terrific crash, bears down to earth 
 Each minor object that obstructs its way — 
 Down on the verdant carpet that had spread 
 Beneath its branches in the summer heat, 
 Behold it lying like a warrior stern. 
 Who, having grappled in the deadly fray. 
 Has sank amid his fellows in his pride — 
 But not to die, tho' robbed of all its green. 
 Still shall it in the lofty steeple live. 
 Or in the battle-ship, whose thunder speaks 
 The voice of Freedom on her ocean way. 
 The sail that wafts the admiral in his pride, 
 By it is held to catch the willing gale, 
 And on its giant breast the fabric rests, 
 That bears the sturdy warriors of the deep. 
 And floats them on in sunshine and in storm. 
 Its branches to the cottage-hearth are given. 
 And by the fire that feeds and grows on them 
 The chilly air is changed to breath of spring. 
 Food, shelter, comfort, from its fall proceed. 
 And thousands bless the hand that laid it low. 
 
10 AUTUMN. 
 
 Above the purple peaks that fringe the west 
 The swollen clouds obey the Tempest's call, 
 And rear their domes and battlements of mist, 
 With turrets, barbicans, and spires of gold ; 
 Now changing into shapes of demon forrn, 
 With wreaths of lightning twining round their brows. 
 And now, like waves of darkness from old night. 
 Scowling and breaking on the misty hills. 
 
 A drowsy stillness steals along the plain ; 
 The leaves hang motionless on every tree ; 
 The twitt'ring swallow glides along the ground, 
 While cautious pigeons seek the sheltering eaves. 
 The geese that o'er the green so stately stalked, 
 Fly towards the gloomy west with heavy wing, 
 And give a noisy welcome to the rain. 
 The cattle from the hills come early home. 
 And from the fallow ground the lab'rer turns. 
 Long ere the hour of sunset, with an eye 
 That reads the secrets of the heavens as well 
 As though it opened first in Chaldea's land. 
 Along the road the mimic whirlwind runs, 
 And with its unseen fingers lifts the dust ; 
 The town-returning wagon faster moves. 
 And down the hill, and o'er the sandy plain, 
 The village Jehu makes the coach-wheel spin ; 
 His horn's wild music swelling on the ear. 
 
AUTUMN. 1 1 
 
 But hark ! the storiti-drum beats the tempest charge ; 
 
 The groaning forest feels its rushing breath, 
 
 And bends its yellow head to let it pass ; 
 
 The vivid lightning takes its errant way, 
 
 While echoing, 'mid the sparkling halls of hail, 
 
 Is heard the sound of its descending feet 
 
 In thunder. The hail drops fearfully around 
 
 Strips the stout trees, and beats to earth the grain, 
 
 Wounds man and beast amid the open fields. 
 
 And strikes with deadly blow the wild fowl down. 
 
 Flash after flash lights up the dreaded scene, 
 And answering thunder speaks from every cloud; 
 While the deep caverns of the ocean swell 
 Their mystic voices in the chorus grand. 
 Men sit in silence now with anxious looks, 
 While timid mothers seek their downy beds. 
 And press their wailing infants to their breasts. 
 
 From her low lattice by the cottage-door. 
 The anxious housewife marks the pelting storm ; 
 Sees the advent'rous traveler onward go, 
 Seeking his distant hamlet, ere the night 
 Adds tenfold horrors to the dismal scene. 
 Swiftly the steed bounds o'er the woodland plain. 
 While hope beams brightly from the rider's eye, 
 When lo ! a crimson flash, with peal sublime, 
 Instant as thought, and terrible as death, 
 
12 AUTUMN. 
 
 Around her bursts. Blinded, she starts, then sees, 
 Apjain. The horse and his bold rider lie 
 Hushed in the marble-sleep that lasts through time 
 And while the wind howls mournfully around. 
 The forest owns the baptism of fire. 
 
 The onset o'er, in mingled fire and hail, 
 
 Behold the rain in sweet profusion falls. 
 
 The warm shower melts the crystal drops that hide 
 
 The earth's brown bosom ; and the foaming brooks 
 
 Go singing down the hills, and through the vales, 
 
 Like happy children when their tasks are o'er 
 
 A few bright flashes, and hoarse, rattling peals. 
 
 And then, amid the broad and crimson glow> 
 
 O'er western hills, a golden spot appears. 
 
 That spreads and brightens as the tempest wanes, 
 
 Like Heaven's first smile upon the dying's face. 
 
 'T is gone, the rumbling of its chariot wheels 
 
 Dies in the ocean vales where echo sleeps ; 
 
 While waves that roll'd in music on the shore. 
 
 Lashed into angry surges, foam and break 
 
 In notes of terror on the rocky lee. 
 
 'T is gone, and on its bosom dark and wild, 
 
 The bow of God is hung, in colors bright 
 
 And beautiful as morning's blushing tints. 
 
 When the ark rested on the mountain top. 
 
 And the small remnant of a deluged world, 
 
 Looked out upon the wilderness and wept. 
 
AUTUMN. 13 
 
 Gently the Sabbath breaks upon the hills, 
 As when the first blest Sabbath marked the course 
 Of Time. The golden sunbeam sleeps upon 
 The woods. No cloud casts o'er the scene a shade. 
 The six days' labor ended, man and beast 
 Enjoy the season of appointed rest. 
 The fields are lonely, and the drowsy dells 
 Scarce catch the whisper of the gentle air ; 
 And now is heard, far over hill and dale. 
 Up laughing valley, and through whisp'ring glen, 
 Gladdening the solitary place, and sadder heart, 
 The sweet-toned Sabbath-bell. Oh, joyful sound ! 
 When from the Indian Isle the storm tossed bark, 
 Furls its white pinion by its cradled shore, 
 And the tir'd sailor, on ftie giddy yard, 
 Cent'ring the thoughts of years in one short hour, 
 Looks to the land, and hears thy melting peal. 
 At such an hour the grateful heart pours out 
 Its praise, that upward soars like the blue smoke 
 Rising from its bright cottage-hearth to Heaven ; 
 And from the deep empyrean the ear 
 Of holy Faith an answering note receives, 
 To still the mourning s*il, and dry its tears. 
 Sweet is the Sabbath to a world of care. 
 When Spring comes blushing with her buds and flowers ; 
 When Summer scents the rose, and fills the grain ; 
 When Autumn crowns her horn, and binds her sheaves, 
 And Winter keeps his cold watch on the hills. 
 2 
 
14 AUTUMN. 
 
 The wakeful cock from distant farm-yard crows 
 The passing hour — the miller stops his wheel 
 To gather headway for the coming task — 
 And by the turnpike-gate the loaded team, 
 With bending necks, stand panting, while beneath 
 The rustic shade the careless teamster waits — 
 With long-lashed whip, and frock of linsey-wool, 
 And hat of undyed felt cocked o'er his eye — 
 There draining to the dregs his foaming gourd, 
 Stands in his brogans every inch a King. 
 Approach him, sage professor, as you list, 
 With question subtil on a point abtruse : 
 Or with a query as to simple things — 
 Physics or metaphysics, old or new, 
 Law, written or unwritten, good or bad. 
 Logic, domestic, or of foreign growth. 
 Knowledge, too deep to know and never known. 
 Or sluggish faith, that takes a teeming age 
 Of miracles, to make one soul believe ; 
 Questions political, that sage to sage 
 Have past for centuries on, as truants wild 
 Toss prickly burs, for their unthinking mates 
 To catch, by moonlight, in th^autumnal woods; 
 Talk of Creation, or the Chinese wall, 
 Wander o'er Athens' hill or sumac knoll. 
 Drink at Castalia's fount or Jaspar's Spring, 
 And he is there to answer and confound. 
 Nature's philosopher ! untaught by schools, 
 
AUTUMN. 
 
 15 
 
 Who knows, and can explain in one short hour, 
 More than the wide world knew in Plato's day. 
 
 And there the blacksmith by his anvil stands- 
 Well may you mark his tall and robust form, 
 His forehead full, where intellect may dwell. 
 And eye that glances like the flying sparks 
 When the red bar comes dazzling from the forge. 
 All day his hammer works his iron will, 
 The reaper's sickle and the crooked scythe 
 The ponderous tire that binds the wagon-wheel. 
 And the small rivet of the schoolboy's toy. 
 Come at his bidding from the metal crude. The patient ox 
 Waits for his iron shoes beside his door, 
 And the gay steed, that bounds along the course, 
 Neighs merrier when he plates his hoofs with steel ; 
 The temple door on his stout hinges turns. 
 And in the vault of Mammon rests secure 
 The treasure guarded by his master-key. 
 Day after day he toils, as seldom toil 
 The slaves that drag their lazy length along — 
 Sleeping at noon that they may dance at night — 
 In the plantations of the sunny South ; 
 Yet he unmurmuring bears the laborer's curse, 
 To share his joys and roam the golden fields, 
 Erect in form and intellect — a man ! 
 But when the evening comes with cooling breath, 
 Bringing the hour for labor's sweet repose, 
 
16 AUTUMN. 
 
 He clears his brow from every mark of toil. 
 And seeks his cottage by the village green; 
 There, having ate in peace his frugal meal. 
 He turns his mind, insatiate, to his books: 
 And, by the aid of Learning's golden key, 
 Holds sweet communion with the ages past. 
 Behold ! the scholar now in honest pride I 
 Around him sleep the mystic tomes of years, 
 Books that the western world ne'er saw before — 
 The manuscripts of monks, ere printing gave 
 The world a channel to a sea of thought, 
 Where all might sail, and drink in raptures in 
 The spirit- waters, sparkling from their founts. 
 His tongue can speak more languages than fell 
 From human lips at Babel's overthrow ; 
 Nor secret thing, to mortal spirit known. 
 Is hidden from his penetrating eye. 
 Versed in the deepest mysteries of the schools, 
 With memory stored with all the mind e'er grasped. 
 With talents rarely willed by Fleaven to one, 
 And sympathetic heart that beats for all. 
 Nor knows an outcast at its feast of love , 
 BuRRiTT now lives, the wonder of mankind. 
 Rabbis and sage professors call him learned. 
 And to his humble gateway come in crowds, 
 To hear the page of ancient lore rehearsed, 
 And catch the jewel-thoughts that fall from him 
 Who sits amid the learned, a self-taught man. 
 
AUTUMN. 17 
 
 In the dun forest far away from noise 
 
 Of traveled road, beneath the giant trees, 
 
 Whose branches form a lofty canopy 
 
 O'er a great circle cleared by willing hands, 
 
 Where the gray ash obstructs the serpent's path, 
 
 The happy Christians pitch their tents of prayer. 
 
 There naught is heard but soothing woodland sounds, 
 
 The tempered roar of distant waterfall. 
 
 The fox's sharp bark, the heathcock's cheerful crow, 
 
 The wildcat's growl amid the deepest shade. 
 
 And the shrill scream of hunger-driven hawk, 
 
 As through the openings he pursues his prey. 
 
 Amid the tents upon the highest spot. 
 The preachers' stand in humble form appears, 
 And by its side the horn with mellow note, 
 To give the signal meet for praise and prayer. 
 There all conditions come with hearts of love. 
 Married and single, sons and daughters fair. 
 The emigrants from every templed land ; 
 The Saxon, in his pride of high descent. 
 The Gaul, with spirit-harp of finer strings. 
 The Pict, ne'er weaned from his romantic hills. 
 Where o'er the heather rolls the Highland tongue, 
 The Swiss, whose home is where his cottage smiles^ 
 The light Italian, gayest of the gay. 
 
 And the coarse Hollander, who loves the marsh, 
 
 2* 
 
18 AUTUMN. 
 
 Nor deems a heaven a home without a ditch — 
 
 The river seamen of the mighty west, 
 
 Rude in their speech, but honest as they're rude, 
 
 The man of cities, and the pioneer, 
 
 Whose axe first let the sunlight to the woods, 
 
 When nature in her lonely beauty slept 
 
 On the wide prairie and the sylvan hill — 
 
 1'he beaver-trapper, from the far-off stream ; 
 
 The bison-hunter, from the saline lick ; 
 
 And the wild Indian, in his forest dress, 
 
 All gather from their journeyings to keep, 
 
 In humble guise, a week of holier time. 
 
 And now the horn has echoed wide and shrill. 
 
 And the great congregation waits for prayer. 
 
 One takes the stand — a man not taught by schools- 
 
 In habit plain, with hands embrown'd by toil ; 
 
 Blunt in his speech, yet reverent withal. 
 
 Now, scarcely understood, he lifts his voice 
 
 In praise to God. Then as his feelings catch 
 
 The inspiration of that hallowed hour, 
 
 Soars to a pitch of eloquence sublime. 
 
 While the deep woods are vocal with his prayer. 
 
 His words, like rain upon the thursty ground. 
 
 Fall on the ear of that great multitude. 
 
 Now he describes a Saviour's matchless love — 
 
 His high estate, his exile from the throne, 
 
 His mocking trial, and his felon death ; 
 
AUTUMN. 19 
 
 The noonday sun in darkness veils its face, 
 
 And earthquake voices fill the trembling air, 
 
 While the old dead in shrouds, through Salem's streets. 
 
 Go forth a ghostly company again, 
 
 Singing the song of Moses and the Lamb, 
 
 And making the proud Temple's arches ring. 
 
 With the glad praises of Redeeming Love. 
 
 'Tis done ! the mighty plan is carried out — 
 
 The last great Sacrifice for sin is o'er ; 
 
 Then from the tomb he rolls the stone away, 
 
 And shows a risen Saviour and a God ! 
 
 The different hearers testify his power 
 
 In different ways. The truth, like a sharp sword. 
 
 Has oieaved its path. The flinty heart is crushed ; 
 
 And the great deep of sin is broken up. 
 
 The old transgressors tremble by the stand — 
 
 The young in sin repent to sin no more. 
 
 A thousand voices join in one wild prayer. 
 
 And shrieks, and gicans, and shouts of joy arise, 
 
 And Heaven keeps Sabbath o'er the autumn woods. 
 
 The painted savage, who amid the crowd 
 Has stood unmoved for days, awakes to life ; 
 His giant breast in wild commotion heaves. 
 His heart would speak, nor wait to reach his lips ; 
 He stands and vainly calls to his relief 
 His savage nature ; but, alas ! 't is gone. 
 Then falling on his face amid the woods 
 
20 AUTUMN. 
 
 That often echoed to his war-whoop fell, 
 He casts his weapons at his Saviour's feet, 
 And lays aside his garments stained with blood. 
 His voice in accents of his soul now speaks, 
 His eyes with tears of deep contrition stream, 
 And from a trembling tongue in transport breaks, 
 Sweet Alleluia to the King of Kings ! 
 The angel hovering o'er that forest scene, 
 Bears up the tidings on exulting wing. 
 And soon from the high pinnacles of bliss, 
 The Seraph harps in sweetness makes response, 
 Alleluia ! 
 
 The thrilling song in gentle murmuring falls 
 Upon the anxious ear, like music heard « 
 
 On the calm ocean at the midnight hour ; 
 Speaks to the broken heart in whispers sweet. 
 And dies away amid the forest hum. 
 Alleluia ! 
 
 The night has come, and one by one the lights 
 Go out amid the trees, and the vast multitude 
 Is hushed in sleep. 
 
 The harvest moon sails up its cloudless way, 
 Full, round and red — the farmer's evening friend, 
 Lengthening the hours of labor, when the hand 
 Finds more than it can do within the day. 
 How gently falls its light upon the plains. 
 The quiet lake, and music-breathing woods ; 
 
AUTUMN. 21 
 
 The wakened bird mistakes it for the dawn, 
 And in the bush begins her matin song. 
 A moment rings the solitary strain, 
 And then no sound is wafted to the ear. 
 Save the wild whisper of the dying wind, 
 Or distant foot-fall of some prowling beast. 
 
 Sweet voyager of night ! whose fairy bark 
 
 Sails silently around the dusky earth, 
 
 Whose silver lamp in chastened splendor burns. 
 
 Trimmed by the hand that fashioned thee so fair. 
 
 And sent thee forth on thy eternal way, 
 
 The nearest and the brightest to our eyes 
 
 Of Heaven's innumerable host — sail on 
 
 Thy joyous way, in beauty 'mid the stars, 
 
 And catch the song of those bright sentinels, 
 
 Who watch the outposts on the bounds of Time, 
 
 Sending in vain their rays to pierce the gloom 
 
 Of drear immensity. The lover's eye — 
 
 Whether he grasps the wreck amid the waves. 
 
 Or treads in pride the well appointed deck 
 
 Of richly freighted gallion ; or is doom'd, 
 
 Like Selkirk, in his lonely isle, to dwell 
 
 More desolate because his ear had heard, 
 
 In Scottish valley, the sweet Sabbath bell ; 
 
 Or chases, with the seamen of the north. 
 
 The monster-whale, by Greenland's sounding shore. 
 
 Where crystal icebergs lift their glittering peaks, 
 
22 AUTUMN. 
 
 And bathe with rainbow hues the snowy vales ; 
 Or robs the otter of his glossy coat, 
 Where the Oregon sings her endless hymn 
 To the Pacific's waters ; or gathers 
 Birds' nests 'mid the endless summer isles, 
 Where wave the cocoa-nut and lofty palm 
 O'er crystal billows, 'mid whose coral groves 
 The fish of brightest tints in beauty swim — 
 In health or sickness, joy or sorrow, turns 
 Inquiringly to thee, and speaks of love — 
 Love that endures when strength and reason fails. 
 So the poor idiot on the moonlit hill. 
 Patting his dog, his last and truest friend. 
 Looks up with eye of moie than usual fire. 
 And, 'mid his idle chatterings speaks the name 
 Of one who loved him best in boyhood's dream. 
 
 Thompson, sweet village ! throned upon thy hills, 
 With happy homes, and spires that gleam above 
 Thy sacred altars, where the fathers taught, 
 And generations learned the way to God — 
 How pleasant, with Remembrance's eye, to view 
 The varied landscape changing autumn spreads 
 O'er sunny vales that slumber at thy feet; 
 Where roll the babbling brook and deeper steam, 
 Winding, like threads of silver tissue, wrought 
 By Moorish maidens on their robes of green. 
 Around thee rise a host of smiling towns, 
 
AUTUMN. 23 
 
 Bearing the names of mightier ones abroad. 
 
 There Dudley, glittering on the northern sky, 
 
 Stands on her lofty height supremely fair, 
 
 While westward, Woodstock with her groves is seen, 
 
 In rural beauty blest ; and at her feet, 
 
 Wrapt in a silver cloud, sweet Pomphret vale, 
 
 Spreads its gay bosom, dear to childhood's hour. 
 
 The iron horse now darts with lightning speed 
 
 Through the green valleys that my boyhood knew, 
 
 And at each turn the lovely river makes, 
 
 At the mere plashing of the wild swan's wing, 
 
 A babbling village rises from the flood : 
 
 And there the halls of labor lift their domes 
 
 At Mammon's call, and countless spindles twirl 
 
 The snowy thread, that soon is changed to gold : 
 
 While far around is heard the dash of wheels, 
 
 And the unceasing roar of swollen dams. 
 
 The dead leaves dance upon the river's breast, 
 
 With tufts of cotton- waste, and here and there 
 
 A golden apple, dropped by careless boy. 
 
 Floating along toward the ocean's flood. 
 
 On the grey oak the fisher-bird awaits 
 
 The speckled trout, or chaffin, tinged with gold ; 
 
 While 'neath the rock the swimmer leaves his clothes, 
 
 And 'mid the cooling wave in gladness sports 
 
 His ivory limbs, nor heeds the near approach 
 
 Of roaming bard, or red-cheeked factory girl, 
 
24 AUTUMN. 
 
 Who climbs the rustic bridge, nor casts an eye 
 Toward her Leander, naked in the flood. 
 On such fair maidens no Duennas wait, 
 To scare young love from answering love away ; 
 No convent gates are closed to bar her will, 
 Nor Hotspur brothers, armed with deadly steel, 
 In secret wait to guard that honor safe, 
 Which, but for such restraint, had long since fled. 
 Beyond the swampy meadow, fringed with flags, 
 The ancient forest waves its gaudy head, 
 O'er which the eagle takes his lonely way — 
 The mighty hunter of the upper air. 
 There in the mossy dells, where all is still, 
 Save when uncertain murmurs come and go 
 Along the solemn arches of the wood — 
 Like whispers in a lonely lane at dark, 
 Or soothing hum of home-returning bee — 
 The boy, delighted, sets his secret snares, 
 Clearing broad paths amid the yellow leaves, ' 
 Where the cock-partridge may strut in pride 
 At earlest dawn, and find the fatal noose ; 
 There, when the sun is peeping o'er the hills, 
 Tinging the woodland sea with gorgeous hues, 
 He goes, with eager step and anxious eye. 
 Beholds the path obscured, the sapling sprung, 
 And, 'mid the maple boughs, his mottled prey. 
 
 The Reaper pauses in the ample field, 
 
AUTUMN. 25 
 
 Where a rich harvest smiles to bless liis toil, 
 And rests beside the oak, beneath whose shade^ 
 In ages past the wandering Red Man slept ; 
 There, while the sun pours down his fervent ray, 
 The happy laborer seeks to quench his thirst 
 With crystal water from the lime-stone spring, 
 
 Or milk, from prudent housewife's ample store 
 
 Pure as it came from Nature's healthy fount ; 
 And while he sits the idle hours away. 
 He muses o'er his country and her fame, 
 And dares to claim her empire as his own. 
 
 And there, amid the grass, the children play 
 
 Around the sun-burnt maidens, as they twine 
 
 The bands to bind the golden armfuls tight. 
 
 And leave the bristling sheafs, with plenty crowned. 
 
 In beauty standing on the fresh reap'd hill. 
 
 The groaning wagon gathers up the grain 
 
 From auburn fields. The yellow sheaves are piled 
 
 In ponderous heaps, while one well skilled builds up 
 
 The toppling load, and when 'tis finished, sits 
 
 On its sere top, crowned with the ripened grain 
 
 The Autumn's King ! And as the reaper's hale 
 And rosy children shout for joy, he sings. 
 With mellow voice, the song of Harvest Home. 
 The sickle gleams no more amid the field ; 
 The cradled hills are open to the feet 
 Of Want's poor gleaners and the hunter band ; 
 3 
 
26 AUTUMN. 
 
 And there the quail walks with her piping brood 
 Amid the stubble, teaching them to fly. 
 
 Amid the orchard, bending 'neath the load 
 That fair Pomona from her lap has strewn, 
 The busy husbandmen commence their task. 
 The red-cheeked apple, and the greening pale, 
 The golden pippin, and the blue pearmain, 
 Baldwin and russet, all are toppled down. 
 And to the air a balmy fragrance give. 
 And there, the urchins playing all the while, 
 Select the choicest fruit for future use, 
 When the long winter night creeps o'er the hill. 
 And Autumn's golden brow is wrapped in gloom. 
 
 The cider-press, beneath the farmhouse shade, 
 Now creaks, as round old Dobbin takes his way. 
 While from the massive vat the liquor pours, 
 And in abundant casks ferments and foams. 
 Hail, generous drink ! fair Newark's honest boast. 
 The laborer's beverage in a northern clime. 
 Where Freedom first, in deadly strife was born, 
 And where her last scarred-follower shall die — 
 If death to such e'er come. 
 
 Oft have I sighed for thee in spicy clime, > 
 
 Where hung the clustering grape from every bough, 
 And where the nectar of the gods was free 
 As Croton-water in old Gotham's Park. 
 
AUTUMN. 27 
 
 Untainted with the liquid sin that flows 
 
 From the destroyer's still, thy spirit lifts 
 
 The thirsty soul from earth — but not too high, 
 
 Nor leaves at morn a flush upon the brov/. 
 
 An apple caused the first of earth to sin ; 
 
 But thou, well made, and freed from earthly taint, 
 
 Raisest the weary spirit to its tone. 
 
 And givest to labor's cheek the glow of health. 
 
 Now, in the rosy morn, the spotted hounds 
 
 Before the mounted huntsmen hie away. 
 
 O'er fields and meadows, onward see them go. 
 
 Scaling the walls, and trampling down the corn. 
 
 And now they penetrate the forest shade, 
 
 And from the sylvan dell, and wood-capt hill, 
 
 The deep-mouthed bay with wild halloo is heard, 
 
 Swelling in cadence to the hunter's horn. 
 
 In her retreat, amid the deepest shade, 
 
 Where the long grass is tender, and ne'er fails, 
 
 The red-deer hears, and starts, and lists again, 
 
 Till louder still the chase's wild music sounds. 
 
 Then down the hill-side to the lake that spreads 
 
 Its broad unruffled bosom to the morn, 
 
 She takes her course ; while on her haunches come 
 
 The bellowing pack, like gaunt and hungry wolves. 
 
 Now she has gained the stunted alders' shade, 
 
 That line the margin of the waters clear, 
 
 And turning quickly round the wave-worn hill, 
 
28 AUTUMN. 
 
 That towers abruptly o'er the narrow beach. 
 Dips her light hoofs in the unconscious wave, 
 And seeks the mountain-pass with lightning speed. 
 Hid from their sight, the scent in water lost, 
 The eager pack plunge headlong in the flood ; 
 But soon recalled to duty, 'long the shore 
 They scour, till one more practised than the rest. 
 Stops where the chase her sylvan pathway took^ 
 And bellowing wildly, follows in her track, 
 With the whole party thundering at his heels. 
 The wily deer too long has got the start, 
 And novy from distant hill -side sees the foe 
 Come panting up the dell with weary lim.b. 
 A moment only does she look, then turns 
 And glides in silence down the other side ; 
 And when the huntsmen gain the lofty height. 
 The deer is far away — the chase is o'er. 
 
 Oh ! who can sing the glories of the woods, 
 When Indian Summer, like a death-smile, rests 
 On Autumn's sallow cheek too soon to fade. 
 In ages past, when thou didst gently come, 
 "With nights of frost and noons of sultry heat, 
 When skies were blue as highly tempered steel. 
 And rivers clear as crystal, and the mist 
 Upon the mountains hung its silver veil ; 
 When o'er the grass a fairy nei-work spread. 
 And naught was green except the mountain pine. 
 
AUTUMN. 29 
 
 The willow, and the bull-rush by the brook *' — 
 
 Our fathers feared — for then amid the wilds, 
 
 Called by the wampum-belt of varied hue, 
 
 The Indian warriors built their council-fire. 
 
 And in the war-dance joined with hellish rite, 
 
 Till morning broke upon the dusky woods. 
 
 Then, at the hour when mortals soundest sleep, 
 
 And nature is at rest, they sallied forth, 
 
 Armed with the hatchet and the seal ping-knife, 
 
 And trusty rifle, whose report is death. 
 
 The sleeping father woke to hear the cry 
 
 Of butchered wife, and infant rudely torn 
 
 From her clasped arms, to feel the war-club's power. 
 
 One look he gave, and on his silvery head 
 
 The hatchet fell, and loosed the flood of life, 
 
 Then sinking down in death's cold senseless sleep, 
 
 Added fresh fuel to the crackling flames 
 
 That spread around his lonely sylvan cot, 
 
 And lit, with hateful glare, the moaning woods. 
 
 Next morn the wandering hunter marked the waste. 
 
 And found amid the ashes, human bones, 
 
 An axe, a child's steel rattle, and a lock 
 
 Of woman's golden hair, still wet with blood. 
 
 The sun in mellow light sleeps on the hills, 
 
 The lazy river rolls in silence on. 
 
 The woods keep Sabbath, till the deep-mouthed bay 
 
 Of wandering fox-hound breaks upon the ear ; 
 
30 
 
 AUTUMN. 
 
 Or from the top of an old chesnut falls 
 
 The tempting nut the startled squirrel drops, 
 
 Parting the fading leaves with pattering sound ; 
 
 Or on the rotten log beside the stile, 
 
 The busy partridge beats her woodland drum. 
 
 The frost has tipt the trees with lovelier- tints 
 
 Than pencil ever gave to forest scene ; 
 
 There green and gold in various hues combine, 
 
 Spotted with crimson where the maple stands, 
 
 And when the sun upon the hoar-frost shines, 
 
 The foliage spaikles, as though crystals hung 
 
 On every leaf, and trembled in the air. 
 
 The eye now penetrates the half-clad trees, 
 
 And spies the squirrel in his leafy house, 
 
 Or marks upon the limb the wish-ton-wish, 
 
 Who rests by day, that he may sweeter sing 
 
 His song at night, beside the cottage gate. 
 
 The thistle-seed, with wing of silver down, 
 
 Floats in the air, and flashes in the sun. 
 
 The dusky worm that feasted on the leaf 
 
 In the green spring-time, weaves his curious shroud, 
 
 And fastening it by thread of minute size, 
 
 To the tall poplar, swings himself to sleep. 
 
 Type of the resurrection ! lo, he hangs 
 
 Between the mortal and the spirit-land. 
 
 Till called by God, through Nature's changeless laws, 
 
 He starts a winged creature clad in light, 
 
 With tints of morning blushing on his wings. 
 
AUTUMN. 31 
 
 The fisher's boat along the river glides, 
 Nor leaves a ripple in its shallow wake. 
 The wild swan sports in Anacostia's wave, 
 And deems his shadow his departed mate ; 
 The patient heron, on the wave-washed rock 
 For hours stands, watching his suspecting prey ; 
 The wild-goose raises heavily to join 
 The gabbling cohort that is hastening on, 
 High in the air, to the bright summer-land, 
 Where the superb magnolia lifts its head. 
 And scents the gale — a wilderness of flowers. 
 The hardy ivy climbs the giant tree. 
 To place green garlands on its withered head ; 
 The wild grape from the lofty walnut hangs 
 Its purple clusters tempting to the sight ; 
 And by the swampy brook, the sunflower turns 
 Its golden eye in meekness towards its God ; 
 The deer, from sylvan dell comes out to drink ; 
 The buzzard on the dead tree patient waits, 
 For the returning tide to line the shore 
 With food well suited to his groveling taste : 
 And o'er the bosom of the widening stream, 
 The lazy fish-hawk flaps his heavy wing. 
 Old age and childhood mark, with curious eye, 
 The lonely scene, and pass, with cautious tread, 
 Down the still pathway of the dying woods. 
 
 Now, round the mighty piles of corn they sit, 
 
32 AUTUMN. 
 
 The aged ones, the young men, and the lads, 
 
 With here and there a son of Afric's clime, 
 
 With eye that rolls in undiminished joy. 
 
 And mouth that ready waits to swell the laugh, 
 
 Or join the merry huskers' drinking song. 
 
 And thus the labor of a week is done. 
 
 While wives and daughters, 'neath the farmer's roof, 
 
 Spread out the festive boards with viands rich, 
 
 And tempting to the eye of one who bears 
 
 The sweat of labor on his swarthy brow. 
 
 Now, from its yellow sheathe, the ripened corn, 
 
 In well-filled ears, is drawn — a pleasant sight ; 
 
 And while the village maidens pass along. 
 
 Stopping, where'er their fancy wills, to husk. 
 
 Red ears are placed within their anxious palms. 
 
 By roguish ones, who hid them for this hour ; 
 
 And as they draw the crimson emblems forth, 
 
 Full many a kiss is printed on the cheek 
 
 Of rosy innocence, by lips that ne'er 
 
 Such liberty had dared to take before. 
 
 The clock strikes twelve, and from his cozy perch 
 
 Beside the fattest pullet, lo, the cock 
 
 Proclaims the approaching morn with shrillest crow I 
 
 The corn is husked, and now they gather round 
 
 The board, while lovely maidens wait to serve 
 
 With ready hand, the laborers of the eve. 
 
 Now from the lips of village sire ascends 
 
 The prayer for Heaven's rich blessing on their food ; 
 
AUTUMN. 
 
 33 
 
 Thanks for the pouring out of plenty's horn, 
 
 And gratitude for life and health — nay, more, 
 
 For liberty, without which all things else 
 
 Were vain. And while he stands with streaming eye, 
 
 And hand that palsy oft has clasped in vain, 
 
 His trembling accents fall upon the ear. 
 
 Like distant music at the close of day. 
 
 The service o'er, the merry feast begins. 
 
 Then joy runs riot round the sacred chair. 
 
 And dignified propriety is gay 
 
 As gipsy maiden, with her silver bells 
 
 Tinkling around her heels. At length the dawn 
 
 Recall the joyous throng to other scenes ; 
 
 And soon the last gay visiter has bade 
 
 His warm good-bye — and the old house is still. 
 
 Left all alone, in calm security. 
 
 Straight in his oaken-chair of antique form, 
 
 Within his hall, the farmer sits and sleeps. 
 
 While the fierce house-dog watches at his feet. 
 
 Sweet hour of plenteous ease, when Care puts off 
 
 His wrinkled brow, and Charity and Love, 
 
 The fairest sisters of the heavenly train. 
 
 Go hand in hand along the faded walks, 
 
 And sit at evening by the cottage door. 
 
 There the old soldier, covered o'er with scars, 
 
 Limping along unnoticed by the crowd, 
 
 Whose liberties were purchased with his blood, 
 
 Finds 'neath the whispering elms before the door, 
 
34 AUTUMN. 
 
 A welcome seat ; and there the little ones, 
 
 Called from their play by watchful Towser's growl, 
 
 And the patched dress that glory gives her sons. 
 
 Gather around their sire with mute surprise, 
 
 And list to tales of other days, when war. 
 
 With iron feet, swept thundering o'er the glade. 
 
 And reared his bloody altars on the hills. 
 
 And while they listen, lo ! the soldier's face 
 
 Grows less terrific, and his tatter'd dress 
 
 No longer seems to hide a vagrant's form. 
 
 With stealthy look and silent step, they seek 
 
 The festive board, and silently return ; 
 
 Then, while he wipes from his dim eye a tear, 
 
 They fill the old man's pack with generous food, 
 
 Proffer the goblet full to his parched lips, 
 
 And play at " hide and seek " around his chair. 
 
 The heart of power may coldly beat when they 
 
 Who fought for Freedom in her darkest hour. 
 
 In age and penury, appear to claim 
 
 The boon a monarch never yet refused ; 
 
 But by the hearth-stones of his native land, 
 
 Where liberal thoughts and generous feelings dwell. 
 
 The valiant soldier ne'er shall find a churl 
 
 To bid him trudge, a rude unwelcome guest. 
 
 On Salem's hills the Hebrews' reign is o'er, 
 The silver trump of jubilee is still. 
 Timbrel and harp and soft-toned dulcimer 
 
AUTUMN. 35 
 
 Have ceased their strains in Sharon's rosy vale ; 
 The scattered tribes in earth's remotest bounds 
 Wander like sheep upon the mountain side, 
 And Israel mourns her empire and her God. 
 The fisher, solitary, dries his net 
 On the green rock, amid the silver wave. 
 Where, robed in purple, sat imperial Tyre, 
 And through the autumn day beholds no sail. 
 To catch the scented breeze from Cypress Isle. 
 The hills of Judah, crowned with ruins gray, 
 Lift their brown summits to the deep blue air. 
 And cast their cooling shadows on the sea. 
 Hushed is the shepherd's lute, the reaper's shout, 
 The bleat of flocks, and patriarch's song of praise ; 
 The Harvester of years has o'r them past. 
 And hung his reaping hook in Joseph's tomb. 
 But though the trump of jubilee is still, 
 And Israel's host in triumph meet no more 
 By Jacob's well, or Siloa's sacred brook ; 
 Yet in the western world, where Freedom rears 
 Her Banner o'er the altar of her God, 
 And all religions meet in peaceful mood, 
 At Autumn's close, the wanderers return 
 To distant homes, to keep Thanksgiving Day. 
 Such was the custom of the Pilgrim band, 
 When first they trod that wild and wintry shore, 
 And such th' observance of their sterling sons. 
 Who, scattered o'er the freeman's heritage, 
 
36 ATTTITMN. 
 
 Remember tlieir bold ancestry with pride, 
 
 And where they tread, make new New England's bloom. 
 
 The days grow shorter, and the nights with frost 
 
 Creep shivering o'er the landscape's fading green. 
 
 The village stage comes in at later hour, 
 
 From city, town, and distant boarding-school, 
 
 Bringing a host of merry hearts,, who seek 
 
 The joys of childhood by their native hearths ; 
 
 And as it pauses at the welcome door. 
 
 The inmates rush, uncovered, to the stile, 
 
 And there, 'mid kisses long and loud, is heard 
 
 The mother's anxious inquiry for health. 
 
 The boisterous brother's rude though hearty hail. 
 
 And happy father's well-timed welcome home. 
 
 What joys, what transports centre in the hour. 
 
 While the old mansion rings with childlike mirth. 
 
 For weeks the very atmosphere has teemed 
 
 With savory odor from the kitchen flue. 
 
 And now the day begins, clear, cold and still. 
 
 While yet the sun sails up it morning course. 
 
 The merry peal from village spire is heard, 
 
 And straightway pours the tide of life along. 
 
 Gathering fresh numbers from each ivied door. 
 
 Changing their greetings warm on every hand. 
 
 With those by Mammon or by glory called. 
 
 Whose wandering feet have homeward turned again : 
 
 And many a speaking eye reveals the tale 
 
 Of love long felt, but ne'er before expressed. 
 
AUTUMN. 37 
 
 The church is still, and maiden modesty 
 
 Has smoothed her dress and re-arranged her curl, 
 
 Then from the choir the pealing anthem swells 
 
 With chorus grand — and voices long unused 
 
 To holy song join in the symphony 
 
 Of praise. Prayer long and eloquent ensues, 
 
 In which the earth, the nation, and the church. 
 
 The righteous and the wicked, rich and poor, 
 
 Remembrance find. And then a meet discourse. 
 
 Recounting changes of the variant year, 
 
 Paying a tribute just to absent worth. 
 
 And hanging garlands green on Glory's tomb. 
 
 The heart is touched — the mourner's eye grows dim — 
 
 The proud are humble and the poor rejoice ; 
 
 And when the speaker closes, with a charge 
 
 To pay due homage to the Mighty One 
 
 Who guides Arcturus and his boisterous sons, 
 
 Binds the sweet influence of the Pleiades, 
 
 And breaks Orion's broad and sparkling bonds, 
 
 All hearts, with one accord, in reverence bow, 
 
 And pure thanksgiving peals from every tongue. 
 
 The service done, they seek their cheerful hearths 
 To spend the hallowed day in feasts of love. 
 The feast is set — and Joy's wild burst is o'er — 
 The mother's eye has marked the vacant chair — 
 The father's ear has missed his first horn's step — 
 And where the church-yard sleeps, so still, they look 
 4 
 
38 AUTUMN. 
 
 With hearts of grief, and eyes suffused with tear&* 
 
 Evening with smiles and tales has come, and round 
 The social circle blind-man's buff is played. 
 Wisdom and years are straightway laid aside, 
 And Manhood lives its childhood o'er again. 
 Seeking the golden shadows of the days 
 Long passed away. 
 
 And now the youngest having sought repose. 
 Friend after friend drops in with cheerful heart ; 
 The merry dance succeeds the merry game. 
 And the light foot with lighter heart keeps time. 
 Music is also there, with gentle tone, 
 Singing the favorite tunes of other days. 
 Age with its wrinkle. Childhood with its smile. 
 Youth with its hope, and Manhood with its care, 
 Joy blends with high esteem, and admiration 
 Kindles into love. 
 
 The old clock ticks the drowsy hours along — 
 
 The midnight comes — the joyous throng disperse ; 
 
 Full many a head on sleepless pillow lies. 
 
 Till wearied out, with thinking o'er the past, * 
 
 The mind surrenders to the body's guide, 
 
 And dreams of fancy dance before the eye. 
 
 Blest Labor ! thou dost fringe the poor man's lids 
 With gold ; and drive remembrance of his wrongs 
 
AUTUMN. 39 
 
 Away — hang o'er his drowsy visions scenes - 
 
 Of pleasantness, where round a cheerful cot 
 
 Wind paths of peace. Oh, Night ! to him what are 
 
 The ills of day, if thou but shelter him 
 
 With brooding wing. — 
 
 Earth without labor — what a dreary waste ! 
 
 Sadder to view than Asia's barren plains. 
 
 Or Afric's sea of sand. He that would strike 
 
 The arm of sinews down, would make the field 
 
 A solitude, and crowded mart a den 
 
 Of thieves. — 
 
 When the moist sickle restfe upon its hook, 
 
 And the rich stores of earth are gathered in. 
 
 The fair is held — a feast of fruits and flowers — ■ 
 
 Of Art's fine workmanship and Labor's yield. 
 
 From the dark pines that fringe Aristook's wave. 
 
 To the wild chapparal that rudely turns 
 
 The martial foot from Rio Bravo's bank, 
 
 From the Atlantic's many-peopled shore 
 
 To the Columbia's vales of living green, 
 
 The joyful mandate rings, and man pours forth 
 
 His richest treasures to the gaze of day. 
 
 The nation sits in judgment on her arts, 
 
 Her choice productions and her fruitful glebes. 
 
 And cheers the laborer's toil with voice of praise. 
 
 Thus man is dignified by honest toil, 
 
 And the dread curse pronounced in Time's young spring 
 
 Becomes a blessing in its autumn day. 
 
40 AUTUMN. 
 
 So may the laborer stand amid his race — 
 
 Taught that true knowledge elevates the soul, 
 
 That the poor carpenter of Gallilee 
 
 Once worked His task — then in the temple taught — 
 
 Then gave redemption to a guilty world — 
 
 And then resumed His station by His God ! 
 
 Now from the well-filled barn, in gusty day, 
 
 The flail's loud beat is heard — a pleasing sound — 
 
 And from the chaff the full unspotted grain 
 
 Is winnowed by the stripling's feeble hand. 
 
 And while the dust is flying far and wide 
 
 The wheat is gathered in, a precious store, 
 
 Tempting the factor's mercenary eye, 
 
 And bidding famine with her sickly form 
 
 Wander afar from Freedom's hallowed soil ; 
 
 The timid quail, with well-fledged brood, draws near. 
 
 Her tithe to claim from man's productive toil, 
 
 And barn -yard fowls their rich thanksgivings spend. 
 
 Nor dream of days of want in times to come, 
 
 When winter o'er the frozen earth shall claim 
 
 His sovereignty with cutting blasts and snow. 
 
 Autumn departs, and soon on hills of brown, 
 
 In storms will break the dark solstitial morn. 
 
 The grove has lost its verdure and its song, 
 
 And withered leaves, in heaps, are mouldering round. 
 
 Keen northern blasts, from Greenland's gelid wastes, 
 
AUTUMN. 41 
 
 Wake the dark woods of storm-wrapt Labrador, 
 And o'er Canadian wilds and ocean-lakes, 
 Down Mississippi's vales in fury howl. 
 By Huron's flood the savage wrapped in furs 
 Gathers his tent of skins beneath the snow, 
 And 'mid the smoke, for days, securely waits, 
 For the encrusting rain to plate the drift 
 With glittering ice, that cracks not at his tread. 
 Where he may chase the moose, whose hoofs break thro' 
 And leave upon the trail a track of blood. 
 The miner on Superior's pictured cliff's, 
 Where sings the thunder its eternal hymn. 
 Waits in his cabin rude for hours of spring, 
 Giving up pleasure, and e'en health itself. 
 That he may climb to fortune's fickle height, 
 Through veins of copper, and up shafts of gold. 
 The pilgrim's son, in freedom, builds his cot, 
 And hails a shadowy old world from the new. 
 On the Pacific's main, where blooming hills 
 Hang o'er the flood, and catch the dying strain 
 Borne on the waves from India's coral strand. 
 The farmer's boy, long since amid the woods. 
 Has plucked the hazel and the chestnut brown. 
 And sharp -ribbed walnut, for his winter store. 
 Leaving the staining butternut untouched, 
 For the hoar-frost to peel its ragged shell. 
 The sheep go wandering o'er the barren plains 
 In search of welcome food, and where the scythe 
 4* 
 
42 AUTUMN. 
 
 Between the pointed stones has passed along^ 
 The sallow loiterers of the autumn field, 
 Crop closer than the crooked blade of man. 
 The red-breasts, gathered into flocks, no longer pipe 
 Their sweetest songs beside the cottage door : 
 And the vast family of sea-birds screech 
 Their notes of sadness o'er the sounding sea. 
 The rivers lift their voices, as the rain 
 From chilly clouds falls on the dreary scene, 
 And high above the banks in torrents swell, 
 Sweeping the cottage and the well-filled barn, 
 The dam, the bridge, and the old ivied mill. 
 With stacks of grain and implements of man, 
 In wild confusion onward to the sea. 
 Sad are the notes of Nature — doubly sad, 
 Where leaping o'er her brown and dizzy height, 
 With robe of silver and a rainbow crown, 
 Niagara sings her thunder-hymn to earth's 
 Remotest waters — where oft the poet's eye 
 Beholds, amid the shades of autumn eve, 
 The Tuscarora in his phantom bark. 
 Singing his death-song on the cataract's brow. 
 Or where, amid Virginia's fertile vale, 
 The Rock-bridge in its grandeur towers above 
 The little stream that runs so far beneath. 
 That human ear ne'er caught its hoarsest brawl. 
 There where the Deluge pierced the mountain chain 
 And sent its wild pent river to the sea. 
 
AUTUMN. 43 
 
 The storm, with sternest music, calls its clouds, 
 And through the giant arch remorseless sweeps. 
 Causing dread whirlpools of the misty air. 
 
 Autumn departs, and earth in sadness mourns, 
 And all around is desolate and chill. 
 Empires have had their autumns, and are lost 
 Beneath the dead and rustling leaves of Time. 
 Egypt, majestic in her ruin, sleeps 
 Upon the Nile — the pyramids her history 
 And her tomb. Idumea 'mid her cliffs, 
 Yawns in her gloom, an empty sepulchre ; 
 Tadmor is hid amid the desert sand ; 
 Balbec's tremendous wall upon the waste, 
 Shelters the spotted lizard and the owl ; 
 And Babylon, the mighty, is a heap 
 By the Euphrates. Tyre has been swallowed 
 By the tideless sea ; Greece sits in darkness 
 On her classic hills, 'mid templed groves — 
 Her king a Saxon, and her children slaves. 
 The Muscovite has found a shorter way 
 To old Byzantium ; and the lazy Turk 
 That loiters there, is but a Turk in name. 
 Dark Ethiopia knows her bounds no more ; 
 Carthage is but a pasture wild for goats ; 
 Persia now roams the waste in broken hordes ; 
 Imperial Rome, once mistress of the world, 
 Is but a province, where a mitred priest 
 
44 AUTUMN. 
 
 Sits in the Caesar's chair without his crown , 
 And the furr'd Russ directs the haughty race 
 Of Ghengis Khan and fiery Tamerlane. 
 Ages and kingdoms feel the sickle's click, 
 And bend their heads before the reaper's tread. 
 The Earth shall have her autumn, with the stars 
 That sang in beauty at the birth of Time ; 
 And Death shall have his autumn, for he too 
 Must die. The heavens shall have their autumn, 
 And be rolled back to their ancient nothingness ; 
 And All shall fade, and fall around, and die, 
 But God, and the vast Hierarchy of souls. 
 
 Oh, Death ! when thou dost come with trembling limbs, 
 
 Down the brown hills, where waves the ripened grain, 
 
 To bear the aged exile home to God, 
 
 While Autumn's wailing wind sings Harvest Home — 
 
 When health's blight roses slowly fade away, 
 
 As flowers of spring-time breathed on by the frost ; 
 
 When dire consumption saps the roots of life, 
 
 And slow but sure its victims steal along 
 
 The shaded path that winds around the tomb ; 
 
 Or when by burning fever racked and parched, 
 
 The prostrate form with joy awaits thy call ; 
 
 Or when forsaken by the loved and false, 
 
 The broken spirit sits beside the grave. 
 
 And weaves strange garlands from the withered flowers 
 
 To crown the head-stone of departed hopes. 
 
AUTUMN. 45 
 
 Thou art a welcome and an honored guest. 
 But when in youth and health, without a sign, 
 Thou comest in thy most appalling form, 
 Swift as the sunbeam streaming from on high, 
 Then thou dost rudely snap Hope's brightest buds, 
 And form dread sepulchres in every heart — 
 Chasms that never close with rolling years — 
 Wounds that forever festering, never heal. 
 Till deeper sorrows settle on the soul. 
 
 Autumn departs, and with it ends the song 
 Of the rude bard, who essayed first to sing 
 In high scholastic verse, its scenes of gold ; 
 A pleasant pastime for an idle month, 
 When the hot sun pour'd down its sickly rays 
 And pestilence at noonday walked abroad. 
 
 Autumn departs, and on its cheerless gale. 
 
 Sighing o'er barren moor and russet grove, 
 
 The feeble lay goes forth, with deep distrust. 
 
 And much of hope, entwined with more of fear ; 
 
 If it shall fail — and stranger things have been. 
 
 And with the leaves around, whirl through the vale. 
 
 And up the forest's melancholy path. 
 
 Lifeless and useless, as the withered band. 
 
 'Tis an old truth, by bard of sweetness told, 
 
 " Leaves have their time to fall, and stars to set." 
 
 But if perchance some generous soul shall take 
 
46 AUTUMN. 
 
 The half-fledged warbler to a pleasant home, 
 Where bright-eyed children gather in their joy — 
 Type of the host that throng the homes of Heaven- 
 Glean from its varied notes one sound to please, 
 One truth to charm and elevate the soul. 
 And bid young genius in her wild-wood sing. 
 The scenes and glories of her native land — 
 Then shall the bard in his retreat rejoice, 
 And sing again, when Spring, with sunny brow, 
 Shall speak the resurrection of the flowers. 
 
WINTER 
 
WINTER : 
 
 A POEM, 
 
 BY 
 
 JESSE E. DOW. 
 
 Ileie Winter holds hi< unrejoicing coiul."— Thomio: 
 
 WASHINGTON . 
 
 PUBLISHED BY WILLIAM ADAM. 
 
 1S48. 
 
1^. BiBNARD, Printer, 
 Washington, D. C. 
 
DEDICATION. 
 
 HON. JAMES DIXON 
 
 ONE OF THE 
 
 Representatives of the American People, 
 
 AND A POET, 
 
 THIS POEM IS RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED. 
 
 " 'Twas thine the seasons of the North to sing. 
 
 In sonnets glowing with seraphic fire : 
 But now thy harp is silent by the stream, 
 And sylvan hill, where truant Childhood roam'd, 
 Drinking in beauty from the cup of flowers." 
 
 THE AUTHOR, 
 
WINTER. 
 
 Now Winter steals around the dying year, 
 With icy feet and panoply of Hail. 
 The hills grow dark, and thro' the spotted groves 
 The chilly night-wind sings with saddest strain, 
 Bidding the house-wife pile her evening fire, 
 While man forsakes the woodland's russet way, 
 Where danced the red leaf in the chequered light. 
 When mellow Autumn cast her glories 'round. 
 
 Changed is the scene from that bright Eden hour, 
 When at a thought the spirit marshal'd earth. 
 Dressed in the green luxuriance of Spring, 
 Left the bright portals of eternal day, 
 And sailing down the blue empyrean, sang 
 Her joyful song, the parting hymn of Heaven. 
 
 The scanty twilight swiftly fades in gloom ; 
 The frost's blue mantle rests upon the stream ; 
 The distant hill draws near in evening's haze, 
 And creaks the wheel upon the lonely road. 
 With noiseless feet the gleaming warder spans 
 
54 WINTER. 
 
 The swollen waters with a crystal arch ; 
 
 And 'round the trav'ler's muffled face a web 
 
 Of silver weaves, while on his raven steed, 
 
 The white foam, sparkling from the bit, congeals. 
 
 The wandering flocks a doubtful cover seek. 
 
 Where tempting haystacks rear their yellow lees, 
 
 And there they huddle still and chew the cud, 
 
 Nor heed the anxious herd-boy's distant call, 
 
 Though oft repeated on the sullen moor. 
 
 The wild geese gabble in the misty air, 
 
 As joyfully their tireless flight they wing 
 
 To summer waters, where the tropic sun 
 
 Looks from mid Heaven upon the upright mast, 
 
 Nor casts a shadow on the deck at noon ; 
 
 And when the death-shot suddenly arrests 
 
 The gray wing'd voy'ger in his trackless course. 
 
 The bold unfaltering pilot of the air. 
 
 Closes the death-gap in his noisy ranks, 
 
 And marshals on the harrow of the storm. 
 
 From rocky hills and deep sequestered glens, 
 The fox no longer sends his fretful bark; 
 And from the deepest woods at dusky hour, 
 Clapping their tingling hands, the choppers come 
 With boisterous glee and song. The hamlet heartl 
 With hearty hickory piled that brighter burns 
 When Winter whistles rudely at the door, 
 Now sends its cheerful blaze far up the flue, 
 
WINTER. 55 
 
 Making the snoring blood-hound change his lair ; 
 While shrill and oft the Shepherd's clock proclaims 
 The creeping shadows and his hour of rest. 
 Around the moon, precurser of the storm, 
 The silent halo marks its mystic ring, 
 And fleecy clouds move slowly o'er the sky 
 Like wandering flocks upon an upland lea ; 
 While brighter glow the intervening stars 
 From Hesper's orb to Verrier's distant world. 
 
 From market-town, the thrifty farmer brings 
 The golden product of a toiling year, 
 And pure affection bounds to meet his smile, 
 While joy, unclouded, lights his cottage home. 
 Now ruddy sirloins lift their knightly crests 
 'Mid mealy mercers in their rusty coats. 
 And groans the board by rustic plenty spread. 
 While ponderous slices pass like leaves away — 
 Red leaves that glide along a mountain stream 
 When snows are melting in their airy dells. 
 And forest cataracts sing their drinking songs. 
 The rosy girls and manly striplings join, 
 Nor daintly refuse the wholesome food ; 
 E'en frosty age, with palsied hand, contrives 
 To conquer Hunger in her toothless den. 
 The weary trav'ler, sheltered from the blast, 
 Where the huge forestick bears its glowing load. 
 Hears with delight, the farmer's manly hail 
 
56 WINTER. 
 
 That bids him welcome to the ample feast. 
 
 No ceremony needs the hungry man, 
 
 But at the word, he turns with burning zeal, 
 
 While like the widow's cruse, the savory rib 
 
 Towers with his strength and conquers his desire ; 
 
 And now the balmy cider, richly laced 
 
 With scarlet peppers, foams around the board ; 
 
 All drink in peace and all are warmed within ; 
 
 Yet are they chilled when e'er the insatiate pack 
 
 Of trooping wild winds howl along the moor. 
 
 The feast is o'er, and gathering round the fire, 
 
 A glowing circle of enchanting health. 
 
 They seat themselves and turn as they grow warm ; 
 
 While from his wand'ring 'mid the gloomy night. 
 
 On the brown settle rests the weary man, 
 
 A silent watcher, tho' himself unwatched. 
 
 And there with merry laugh, the jest goes round, 
 
 And cousins kiss as cousins ever will. 
 
 While Innocence in blushes, sits secure 
 
 Though half inclined to leave and half to love. 
 
 The grandsire dozing in his antique chair, 
 Beneath the Revolution's battle sword, 
 That on the Elk horn hangs a sacred thing, 
 Starts from his dream and speaks of wintry war, — 
 Of Arnold struggling 'mid Canadian wilds, 
 Of Valley Forge and its cold solitudes, 
 
WINTER. 
 
 Of midnight marches 'mid the blinding snows. 
 When drowsy Princeton heard the icy drum's 
 Wild beat along the frozen Delaware, — 
 Of men upon their war steods turned to stone. 
 Each with a jeweled lance and snowy plume. 
 Like Knights of Death, upon their vigils cold. 
 In the white porch of Runic Odin's hall ; 
 While in the corner sits the wrinkled Dame, 
 The kitten playing with her rolling ball. 
 Knitting the weary thread of life away. 
 
 Harmless and still the snow begins to faW 
 Like the first shedding of the Autumn's leaf, 
 •Scarce felt upon the weary trav'ler's form. 
 Slowly the forest pathway disappears. 
 The garden stile, the wood pile, and the curh 
 Where on its chain, the oaken bucket hangs, 
 Remembered oft amid the desert wastes. 
 By him who pressed in youth, its mossy lip. 
 At length the storm, blinding and furious, sweeps. 
 Shutting the vision in with glimmering pale. 
 And fashioning the snow wreath as it lists. 
 The hour of savage dreariness appears ; 
 The solemn pines shake off their snowy plumes, 
 And beat the air like giants at their play ; 
 While on the lost one's ear their murmurings fall 
 Like the wild breaker's tempest-breathing hymn. 
 The Winter's wind, how sad its rising moari. 
 
58 WINTER. 
 
 O'er barren pasture and round lonely hilf, 
 
 Now wailing 'mid the forest's creaking Hmbsy 
 
 Where not a leaf the wrinkled bark conceals. 
 
 And now around the northern corners bleak, 
 
 Howling with gusty breath its strength away ; 
 
 The farna house quakes as tho' a whirl-wind tim'd 
 
 Its dreadful march. In his dark stable lows 
 
 The affrighted ox, while elms majestic pay 
 
 Their stately reverence to the tyrant blast. 
 
 The windows in their casements rattle loud. 
 
 And chimneys totter o'er the drifted roof; 
 
 The night seems long and on the thresholds sleeps- 
 
 The yawning day. Thro' crack and crevice sifts^^ 
 
 With rustling sound, the sparkling snow, 
 
 Piling its tiny mountains 'round the room ; 
 
 The well-sweep bows its weather beaten head 
 
 And clanks its rusty chains with maniac glee. 
 
 While sounds of terror haunt the upper roomsy 
 
 Or follow echo down the hollow glens. 
 
 The silver-fingered frost is at his work. 
 
 Nipping the green-house plants in bower and hall. 
 
 And forming on the quilted counterpane 
 
 Bright crystals from the unconscious sleeper's breath. 
 
 Mysterious elf! yet at his noiseless step ; 
 
 The clock grows silent and the goblet parts 
 
 With merry click, while on the window pane 
 
 Pictures of silver start to Childhood's gaze, 
 
 So beautiful, that one from sleep aroused 
 
WINTER. 59 
 
 Would fain believe life's pilgrimage had closed 
 In Fairy Land : But ah ! soon undeceived, 
 The whiffling snow shuts out the dawning light, 
 And forms a barrier to the foot of man. 
 
 The sheep upon the meadow sleep in drifts, 
 The black cock crows amid the thickest pines, 
 The rabbit gambols in his winter coat, 
 And leaves his foot-prints on the virgin snow. 
 Soon from the door the icy gate is borne. 
 And to her task, the singing milk-maid goes ; 
 Then glides the ponderous sled by oxen drawn. 
 Filled with the stalwart lads and bright-eyed girls. 
 Who tread King Whitehead 'neath their rustic feet, 
 And laugh his fiercest attributes to scorn. 
 And now the hardy schoolboy from the hills, 
 While the bright sun looks on a dazzling world, 
 Coasts on his sledge, unmanageably swift. 
 Tripping the milk maid with her shining pail. 
 And spilling o'er her the half frozen milk. 
 While, in his lap, a startled, scolding thing. 
 She rides, indignant, to the lowest vale. 
 
 Now fly the snow balls with unerring aim, 
 Where idle boys in mimic war engage. 
 And oft advancing, oft repulsed, the hosts 
 Seem fairly balanced, while " to conquer " sits 
 Poised on a pellet, in an urchin's hand. 
 
60 WINTEK. 
 
 At length, 'tis done, the fatal ball is hurled, 
 
 And thro' the air it speeds with whizzing sounds 
 
 Plumping the leader in his frosty eye. 
 
 Who falls, and in an avalanche, rolls down 
 
 The glittering breach to lead the charge no more. 
 
 In full retreat, the headless army flies ; 
 
 The panting craven, first to reach the fort. 
 
 While red mouth'd urchins mount the captured heights. 
 
 And shout in triumph o'er the bloodless fray. 
 
 Soon the cold touch, ambition's fever chills, 
 
 And with a bosom filTd with powdered snow, 
 
 The childish captive seeks his pleasant home, 
 
 Blowing his hands, and crying with the cold, 
 
 While the bold conquerors strut in martial pride : 
 
 Their battered beavers cock'd upon their brows, 
 
 Like the old guard on Jena's glorious day. 
 
 Where Hudson murmurs 'mid her storied hills, 
 Her Palisades and pinnacles of cold. 
 The snow ball, shaken from the hunter's foot 
 Upon the mountain, downward, gathering, rolls, 
 Bounding from cliff to cliff, and gathering still. 
 And still with increased swiftness, rushing on, 
 'Till from the dizzy battlement it leaps 
 AVith thunder-shout, a fearful avalanche. 
 Parting the waters with its deaf 'ning roar, 
 While Crow-nest echoes, and the welkin rings. 
 
WINTEK. 61 
 
 Sweet flood of mountain scenery, memory clings 
 Around thy fairy dells where bells the deer 
 In merry spring-time, by his timid mate, 
 Burying his cast off antlers 'neath the leaves 
 And violets pale, and guarding from the touch 
 Of insects' wing his budding head. And thy 
 Tall peaks, bathed in the sunlight, or enrob'd 
 In storms — inajestic dials of the noon. 
 Casting the time-drawn shadows on thy flood, 
 Leaving the sloop's white canvass half in light 
 And half in shade — half past and half to come, 
 And shedding o'er the " Poet's Nest," a ray 
 Of golden light to cheer his deathless song. 
 And they who look upon the castled Khine, 
 Or on the Ebro, turn again to thee. 
 And haiJ thee, loveliest of Earth's lovely streams, 
 Whether thou art a babbler of the Spring, 
 Or bride of Winter in thy jewels dressed. 
 Thy shores have echoed with the notes of war, 
 When on the forest fell the brave Champlain ; 
 Or when in later days in Freedom's hour. 
 Up thy wild gorges and along thy hills, 
 The old Provincial drums beat loud and clear. 
 While Allen with his brave Green Mountain band, 
 Leaped o'er Ticonderoga's dizzy walls. 
 And in the midnight's still and solemn hour, 
 Bade the proud host surrender to his God. 
 
62 WINTER. 
 
 Wrapped in his furry robe, the Polar dwarf 
 Drives his wild dogs along the Northern ring, 
 Hears the black wolf o'er icy prairies, howl. 
 And sees Aurora's crackling blaze unmoved. 
 Far in the distance gleams his house of snow, 
 Where his loved partner trims her burning lamp ; 
 Watching the cradle pouch of glossy skin. 
 That holds in slumbers sv/eet, the swart Pappoose. 
 Laden with furs, the hunter's richest spoil, 
 Torn from the Polar bear or oily seal. 
 Where Artie seas thro' icy nostrils breathe, 
 Homeward he wends his solitary way, 
 Cheering his evening ride with songs of joy, 
 While his swift coursers turn a listening ear. 
 
 To him, stern Winter has unnumbered charms 
 
 Of savage plenty and barbaric ease ; 
 
 And by the iceberg's glittering shrine, he lifts 
 
 His rude thanksgiving to his idol God, 
 
 While the wierd sorcerer beats Devotion's drunu- 
 
 Wiiile Winter flaps his ensign's frosty fold 
 
 O'er the last moments of the dying year, 
 
 From Maine's dark forests down the Atlantic shore, 
 
 To the Tortugas and the Floral reef. 
 
 From hoarse Niagara's chain of ocean lakes, 
 
 Where brawls St. Lawrence 'mid his thousand isles, 
 
 From the great rivers of the shadowy west. 
 
wiNTEn. 63 
 
 From Mississippi's vales and Brasso's plains, 
 The .chosen delegates of sovereign will, 
 Clad in the purple of the masses, come 
 To legislate and stay the hand of power. 
 
 In the high places of the free, they sit 
 
 Like the great council of the Ravens, held 
 
 Contemporaneous, in the Dismal Swamp, 
 
 Where Appomattox, on his bear skin, ruled 
 
 When Old Virginia was an Indian maid. 
 
 And there they legislate and clamor fierce, 
 
 And talk of liberty and equal rights, 
 
 And the old days of glory ; 
 
 While from the centre to the Union's verge, 
 
 Guided by passion, patronage or pride. 
 
 Power ebbs and flows with a tremendous wave, 
 
 O'er public welfare and domestic rights. 
 
 Not so — when from the tyranny of Kings, 
 
 The young Republic, like an eagle, burst, 
 
 And screamed her song of triumph 'mid the stars. 
 
 Then Sages sat in legislation's halls. 
 
 And Patriots still'd the demagogue's wild cry ; 
 
 Shewed him their scars, and pointed to the grave 
 
 By the Potomac's broad and glassy flood, 
 
 Where 'neath the laurel, slept the god-like-man 
 
 Who knew no glory but his country's good — 
 
 No country but the land his sword had won. 
 
64 WINTER. 
 
 Crowned with the holly wreath, Old Christmas sits, 
 And shakes his jolly sides and laughs aloud, 
 While the wide fire-place, fill'd with crackling logs, 
 Sends its warm ripple 'round the murky room. 
 Then while the happy children gather 'round 
 And sing his carols with unbounded glee, 
 The aged mark his hale familiar form, 
 And bid him welcome to the hearth once more. 
 
 His merry pastime o'er, with midnight's chime, 
 
 Leaving behind, his gifts a precious store. 
 
 Up the tall chimney, lo ! he takes his flight, 
 
 And sings amid the storm, his " cradle hymn.'' 
 
 The sick man on his tiresome couch, awakes 
 
 And listens to the soul enlivening sound, 
 
 While the poor pris'ner in the dungeon's gloom. 
 
 Clasps his cold fetters to his panting breast. 
 
 And dares again to hope for mercy's smile. 
 
 Down in the lonesome hovel 'mid the straw. 
 
 The beggar, huddling with his starving child, 
 
 Lifts up his head with momentary joy, 
 
 And murmurs "Christmas" from a faltering tongue. 
 
 Day dawns — the rich man leaves his purple couch — 
 
 The prisoner, freed by death, no longer weeps, 
 
 And the wan beggar, with his famished child, 
 
 Sings like the sky lark, at the gate of Heaven. 
 
 Chanting around the frozen lake, behold 
 
WINTER. «S5 
 
 The happy converts in their robes of white, 
 Led by the Church in all her righteousness. 
 And now, where crystal waters gently run, 
 The zealous axe, a giant fountain cleaves, 
 Where, 'mid the prayers and anthems of the good, 
 The guilty plunge, and wash their sins away. 
 
 Oh ! it is sweet to hear the holy song 
 In triumph break upon the frosty ear, 
 From river's brink or forest's leafless way. 
 When 'mid her Sabbath, meek Religion walks 
 The path of duty, leaning on her Lord. 
 
 The Old Year sleeps in his white sepulchre. 
 While Time, renewed, goes forth in search of flowers. 
 Strong in his morning march, and blest with Hope — 
 Length' ning the days and hastening on the Spring. 
 
 Cold fell the midnight rain, and far and wide 
 The sleet, a crystal panoply has cast ; 
 While on the pine trees' giant branches, hang 
 The mammoth icicles in dazzling rows — 
 The jeweled fringe of Winter's gorgeous robe. 
 The earth's pale bosom bears a glassy sheet. 
 On which the moor-fowl strives to run in vain — 
 And man no longer walks in pride, erect. 
 Fences and walls are hidden 'neath the glaze, 
 And sleighs, with merry bells, above them glide, 
 6* 
 
66 WINTER. 
 
 The panting horses shod with corks of steel. 
 
 And now the forest lifts its icy head, 
 
 Each tree a diamond, glittering in the sun ; 
 
 While in the jeweled aisles, bright shadows fall 
 
 Like sunlight streaming thro' an oriel pane. 
 
 The wind in fitful murmurs, lifts its voice. 
 
 And from the waving woods, the shattered ice 
 
 Falls heavily, while many a towering limb, 
 
 Wrenched from its hoary trunk, comes toppling down 
 
 With thunder crash, and far and wide, is heard 
 
 The tinkling atoms as they dance away. 
 
 Enchanting scene! too beautiful for earth — 
 
 Brighter than Persian dreamer e'er beheld 
 
 In fancy's magic hour, when Genii wrought 
 
 In the magnificence of Fairy Land. 
 
 Enjoy the hour, ye lovers of the morn. 
 
 Whose feet delight to brush the midnight's tears, 
 
 For soon the sun shall break the magic spell, 
 
 And like the loveliest of the sparkling train [comes. 
 
 That danced the Pale Queen down. — When noon-tide 
 
 The sombre grove shall hang its drooping head. 
 
 The night is still — the moon in beauty sails 
 
 Up the cold sea of Heaven, and on the hills 
 
 Of snow, looks down with more effulgent beam. 
 
 The air is teeming with the sparkling frost, 
 
 And not a breeze is felt on hill or plain ; 
 
 While the cold streams are soundless in the 'woods. 
 
WINTER. 67 
 
 Now crowd the merry dancers of the North, 
 The graceful sleighs, from ozier basket slight, 
 That glides along upon its sapling shoes, 
 To the Great Western with its cushioned seats. 
 Its pictured wings and richly blazoned beak. 
 There, underneath the brown and furry robes, 
 With glowing bricks in sheets of flannel rolPd, 
 The living load is snugly stowed away ; 
 While nought but sparkling eyes and noses red. 
 Meet the rude frost, and own his subtle power. 
 
 Hung round with bells that tinkle at the touch. 
 The horses stamp, impatient to be off. 
 While the strong driver, in his coat of fur, 
 With a red comfort wound q^round his chin, 
 Receives the reins, and cherrups in his glee. 
 
 Off at the signal, dash the happy train, 
 The snow balls flying from the horses heels, 
 Pelting the gay ones as they glide along, 
 While the sweet bells, in wintry music clear, 
 And merry voices on the evening sound, 
 Mingled with boisterous mirth and growing love. 
 Swiftly the joyous company pass on. 
 O'er hill and dale and thro' the forest shade. 
 Cheering the light that twinkles down the glen, 
 And shuddering as they pass the haunted house 
 Where mortal foot ne'er treads, nor cricket sings. 
 
68 
 
 WINTER^ 
 
 The farmer startles at the joyous route — 
 Sees the glad train sweep by, and hears the sound 
 Of their sweet tones in distance, melt away. 
 The lass, neglected by her homespun beau, 
 Careless of duty, in the corner mopes ; 
 While the wild lad, unworthy deemed to drive 
 The Deacon's mare, sits sullen, by her side, 
 Making strange figures on the ample hearth, 
 And plotting vengeance for all time to come. 
 
 Afar, to some bright village, lo, they speed, 
 Where, by the sign-po^t stands the jovial Inn — 
 And there the youthful dance to thrilling tunes 
 From the blind beggar's pleading violin, 
 Whose cheering notes have echo'd 'round the world, 
 While the more serious drink the balmy flip, 
 And find substantial pleasures in the feast. 
 
 At length the spirit tires, and now for home — 
 The horses prancing, to the door they bring ; 
 The bill is paid, the foaming flagon drained, 
 And the bright mass of life is bundled in. 
 Then, like wild Jehus, lo, the steadiest drive. 
 While many a load is pitched beneath the snow — 
 Matrons and maids, and rude uproarious boys, 
 'Mid laughs and jeers, and many a drabbled dress 
 That scraped the snow-drift as it upward flew. 
 
 In the dim morn the last wild rider stalls 
 
WINTER. 69 
 
 His panting steeds, and slovenly all day, 
 The joy-worn maidens do their lotted tasks- 
 The thrifty matrons scolding at their heels. 
 
 Gliding along the sled's hard polished track, 
 The schoolboy, with his satchel, seeks the door 
 Where learning, placed upon her lowly form, 
 Sways in her seat and cons the pictured page. 
 Here sits the judge, and there the culprit pale, 
 And there the warrior thumbs his blotted book ; 
 Yonder the infant sculptor carves the bench. 
 While on his slate, the painter rudely draws. 
 Here pleading voices, shew the advocates, 
 And solemn nasal twang, the learned divine ; 
 There physic shakes his ever doubting head, 
 And the young admiral coils his little rope ; 
 The merry Andrew, swings upon the door. 
 The actress struts, in tragic humor dressed. 
 The modest woman peers from little ways, 
 And the bold vixen, looks her infant part ; 
 High over all, the teacher sits in state ; 
 His quick eye glancing round the well filled room, 
 Marking the half munched apple, half concealed 
 By the young rogue who watches him the while. 
 Noting the secret laugh or whisper rude ; 
 The top, from well stuffed pocket, peering out, 
 Or snow ball, melting in the aching hand ; 
 Listening to trifles with a look profound. 
 Soothing the weak, and feruling the strong. 
 
70 winter: 
 
 Correcting, teaching, training heart and hand, 
 
 And from the highest, claiming reverence due. 
 
 The Schoolmaster ! who envies him his lot — 
 
 Secluded from mankind — the school his world. 
 
 Yet who would bid him leave his lofty sphere, 
 
 While education rules the thinking mass. 
 
 The coming age is his, and he prepares 
 
 The youthful spirit for its eagle flight, 
 
 When fails its half-fledged wing, and from the sun, 
 
 Its bright eye turns, afraid to drink its beams. 
 
 He gives to wavering virtue, strength and form, 
 
 Turns murder's blood-shot eye, to paths of love, 
 
 Tames wild ambition in his mad career. 
 
 And breaks the mind's young colt, with master bit. 
 
 The Winter's school — oh, who can tell the power 
 
 Its days exert upon the busy world ; 
 
 What deeds of glory from its influence spring. 
 
 When manhood marches down the hill of Time ! 
 
 From the lone cabin in the western wild 
 
 That looks thro' leafless woods on barren wastes. 
 
 And sees no counterpart in joy or grief — 
 
 The emigrant's last refuge and his home — 
 
 To the proud capitol where mammon rears 
 
 Her shrine of heartless elegance and ease — 
 
 Mother of Freedom ! thou art still the same, 
 
 The jewel of a proud and templed land. 
 
 Around whose sparkling soul, love's clusters cling, 
 
WINTER. 71 
 
 Shining the brighter in the hour of gloom ; 
 
 Yet thou dost love the shores beyond the sea, 
 
 The moustached ape, that teaches thee to dance, 
 
 Or sing with bursting throat, Italia's airs, 
 
 The songs of Tyrol, and the purple Rhine, 
 
 Old Scottish lays and Normandy's rude glees. 
 
 But seldom from thy silver voice, doth float 
 
 The strains thy country's genius tunes for thee, 
 
 Sweeter than Switzer's chant in Alpine glen, 
 
 Or Tasso's song in Arqua's mossy vale. 
 
 Yet, 'round the village altar, where in love, 
 
 The pure in heart their priceless offerings bring, 
 
 The rosy belle leads off the rustic choir, 
 
 In Holden's chant or Billings' song of praise. 
 
 Soon the bass leader, with his giant hand. 
 
 Where manly toil has set its hallowed seal, 
 
 Beats common time, and in the spirit sings ; 
 
 And then the loitering parts come tripping on, 
 
 'Till sweet-toned voices bursting every bound, 
 
 Swell the wild strain and drown the quaint bassoon. 
 
 Up to the singers, roll a sea of eyes — 
 
 Some dim with age, and some with tears suffused, 
 
 And smirking mothers toss their heads in pride. 
 
 As high above the highest, sweetly soar 
 
 Their daughter's voices, wonderful to hear; 
 
 While the aged Deacon 'neath the pulpit stairs, 
 
 Wrapt in a vision of estatic bliss, 
 
 Sings sweetly on when all the rest have done. 
 
72 WINTE^ 
 
 O'er the iced waters when the day grows dim, 
 Thrilling with life, the merry skaters glide; 
 Now swiftly coursing in the far off cove, 
 Drawing the sledge with rustic beauties filPd, 
 While others 'round them, like a body guard, 
 Wave the wild torches of the birchen bark, 
 Or knots of pine that crackle as they burn, 
 And send the blazing pitch in shadows 'round. 
 
 Now swifter gliding by the lonely place 
 Where glaring eye balls startle 'mid the shade. 
 And now retreating from the bending ice 
 That marks the outlet where the waters breathe : 
 Now like the warriors of the frozen North, 
 Brandishing mimic weapons in the air, 
 And now evanishing in deeper gloom, 
 Bearing away the captives and their spoils. 
 
 Graceful as young Apollos, lo ! they move, 
 While 'round the burnished steel beneath their feet, 
 The sparks of fire roll out and in their path. 
 The skate's curved furrow, like the diamond's trace 
 On the smooth glass, arrests the follower's eye. 
 Far in the hours of sleep, the frolic lasts. 
 And all by turns, the blooming burden bear. 
 While those less skillful, glide along the shore. 
 And hold sweet converse by the blazing pine. 
 And oft some tyro, in presumption, bold. 
 
WINTER. 73 
 
 Mounts the bright blades to see what he can do, 
 And after plunging madly in the crowd, 
 .Falls on his blockhead crown 'mid laughs and jeers, 
 Learning, when on the icy mirror sprawled, 
 How liard it is with ignorance to move 
 In life's dread orbit, or in boyish play. 
 
 Mirth rules the hour, and Friendship twines her cord 
 Still closer 'round the tender heart of youth. 
 The old and young the passing joke enjoy. 
 And Health with rosy lip, stands by to crown 
 The swaddled boy, who leaves the heated room. 
 To beat with sturdy limbs, the bracing air. 
 
 Along the plains the jovial echoes spread. 
 While passing trav'Iers stop, the sounds to hear, 
 And sigh to think their boyhood's days are o'er — 
 Days filled with innocence and crowned with peace. 
 
 And now the princely merchants of the North, 
 Cut from the lake's cold breast, the crystal blocks. 
 And send them glittering, on their snowy wings, 
 To cool the lip of India's sallow lord. 
 The fierce Malay or silken Mandarin, 
 The Creole on the Mississippi's banks, 
 Or Spaniard, in the Garden Isle of God, 
 Where the dark Moro lifts its bastions tall. 
 And frowns defiance to a floating world. 
 7 
 
74 WINTER. 
 
 And Indostan, and Persia, and the shores 
 Of Mozambique and Zanzibar — the isles 
 That slumber in the coral's gloAving arms, 
 'Neath tulip trees and palms that never fade- 
 Dark Nubia's waste and dreamy. Barbary, 
 Are blest with wintry souvenirs, from shores 
 Where Freedom in her icy cradle, watched 
 The kindling glories of the Western Star. 
 
 A sail upon the Ocean wilderness — 
 
 A gallant bark tipon the stormy deep. 
 
 Lo, at the helm a treacherous pilot stands. 
 
 Seeking a haven on the darkest lee, 
 
 Where tempests howl the saddest thro' the pines, 
 
 And waves leap wildest in their mad career ; 
 
 Now sweeping by the far-off western isles. 
 
 Whose dizzy craters slumber in the sky ; 
 
 And now retreating with expiring day 
 
 From the hoarse wave that breaks on Labrador. 
 
 Days, weeks, and months in agony are past, 
 And hope hangs trembling o'er the yawning deep. 
 Death claims his tribute too from that pale band. 
 And Heaven receives the sheaves its gleaner brings ; 
 While by the dauntless warrior kneels in prayer 
 The Saxon mother and her fair hair'd boy — 
 Grey knighthood's hope and Innocence' sweet bud. 
 Land ho ! the look out man doth sweetly sing. 
 
WINTER. 
 
 75 
 
 High in the midnight air and by the cot, 
 
 Where woman cheers when sterner manhood pales, 
 
 The joyful sound in gentle echo floats. 
 
 Land ho ! and by the savage's dying fire 
 The ark of Freedom anchors in the bay. 
 
 Time honored land ! where Puritanic faith, 
 Seeking a refuge in a night of gloom, 
 Rear'd her rude altar by the eagle's nest, 
 And leaning on the arm of Mercy, roamed 
 The desolation, trusting in her God. 
 Pure as the handful of the olden flood, 
 Beneath the thunder-rocking pines they sang 
 The plaintive hymns of childhood's fairer home, 
 And laid the deep foundations of the State. 
 
 Oh, it was wonderful in that stern hour. 
 While the dark waters hailed the answering woods. 
 To hear them sing with voices tuned in love, 
 Southampton's chant and Leyden's sweeter song. 
 
 Time on the grave of centuries has trod. 
 Since closed that winter's day of doubt and gloom, 
 And millions have gone out from them with joy, 
 To hear the wave on Sacramento's bar, 
 Chaunt dread responses to Columbia's roar. 
 And now as in the winter's night, I stand, 
 
76 WINTER. 
 
 On the white shore where sleep the pilgrim dead, 
 And look upon the ocean black with storms, 
 I see the tempest-driven bark rush on, 
 Filled with the exiles from a land of thrones, 
 To find a refuge where the Mayflower lay. 
 
 Poised high above the sea-horse's frozen corse, 
 
 The Arctic raven screams her song of death, 
 
 While echo from the glittering peaks of cold, 
 
 Comes like an answer from a realm of sleep. 
 
 Sad was the fate of him, adventurous one. 
 
 Who lured by science or the love of gain. 
 
 Spread his rent sail to catch the frosty breeze. 
 
 Where the still lightning danced around the pole. 
 
 O'er his lone bark the silent frost king breathed; 
 
 Cased shroud, and spar, and blackened hulk, in hiail, 
 
 And gave him captive, to the wizard charge 
 
 Of the grim warder of the frozen North. 
 
 For him, the lov'd ones in a sunnier clime. 
 
 Have watched at morning's dawn and evening's hush ; 
 
 And oft the fading wife has heard his step ^ 
 
 Come sounding up the solitary lane. 
 
 And ran to meet him with her little ones ; 
 
 Alas ! no father came, that home to cheer, 
 
 Nor shall the iceberg loose him from its grasp, 
 
 'Till the last trumpet rings along the wave. 
 
 And topples down the pinnacles of cold. 
 
 While Winter howls around their blotted hearths, 
 
WINTER. 77 
 
 And whirls the snow-drift o'er their nameless graves, 
 Nations forgotten, in our forests sleep — 
 Old denizens of a luxuriant earth, 
 Who rode the dark mastodon down to drink, 
 And ploughed the prairies with the river ox : 
 Giants! who lived in patriarchal woods. 
 Where the great vulture made her bloody nest, 
 And fed her young ones with the elk, whose bones 
 Sleep in the limestone of the Mammoth Cave : 
 And there are those who passed the frozen strait 
 Of Bhering — or in junks of China, came 
 O'er the Pacific, to Francisco's Bay. 
 Norsemen ! who with the red haired Eric sailed 
 To Markland, Vinland, and the blooming shores 
 Of Massachusetts, leaving their foot-prints 
 On the sandstone ledge, and mystic writing 
 On the Dighton Rock. And those old mariners 
 Who, from the fair Atlantis' sunken isle, 
 Sail'd westward ere Columbus boldly steered 
 For the New World his prophet vision saw. 
 And they are gone, and by the Atlantic's shore, 
 And the Cordilleras' vales, and on the Gulf 
 Where the half savage fells the logwood grove, 
 Their giant piles in mossy silence sleep. 
 
 Columbia ! there was one who loved to tread 
 Thy rugged paths in his young pilgrimage,* 
 
 * Wilson. 
 
 7* 
 
78 WINTER. 
 
 Far from the Bonny Doon and silver Ayr; 
 
 Now camping with the moose amid the snows, 
 
 Where tall Kathadin lifts her frosty head, 
 
 And hears Penobscot's tributaries roar — 
 
 And now in silken hammock swinging free, 
 
 Where the magnolia lifts her crown of flowers, 
 
 And scents the wave that breaks on Tampa's shore. 
 
 His was no warrior's march o'er fields of blood, 
 
 No midnight onslaught or sly ambuscade, 
 
 Leaving the morn to tell its tale of woe, 
 
 And man to mourn the mischief man had done. 
 
 But yet in perils oft, he paced the wild, 
 
 When fell the dying tree, or howled the storm, 
 
 While at his feet, the snake with crooked fang, 
 
 In poison hissed ; and 'round his hunters' fire, 
 
 With glaring eye balls, prowled the panther fierce. 
 
 Day after day within the lonely glen, 
 
 Or noxious swamp, where sallow fevers breed, 
 
 Hungry and weary, with his rifle true. 
 
 He watched for nature with a Poet's zeal. 
 
 Filling his pouch with people of the air. 
 
 And gathering up the wisdom of the woods. 
 
 Within her curtained room, now Fashion sits 
 On the soft cushion of luxurious ease, 
 Kobed in the furs from Scandinavia's waste, 
 With silks from Indus and from Sarmacand— 
 Bright ribbons from the Arno's classic vales, 
 
WINTER. 79 
 
 And velvets from Genoa's stately looms'. 
 Around her neck of alabaster hue, 
 Where dallies oft, the summer's golden breeze, 
 Twine the rich shawls of Shiras or Lahore, 
 Whh downy tippets from the Eider's wing, 
 That circled oft, Alaska's crimson snows. 
 Or scaled the ice-crag of the Orcades. 
 There diamonds glitter with the lustrous pearl, 
 
 Brought by the bleeding diver from the bed 
 Of Pernambuco : And o'er locks of jet, 
 
 Wave the white plumes the desert ostrich wore. 
 
 Beneath the satin shoe in beauty spreads. 
 
 The flowery carpet in the Harem wrought 
 
 By jeweled hands of Abyssinia's slaves, 
 
 Or fairer daughters of Circassian vales ; 
 
 And 'round the room with dreamy pictures hung, 
 
 In amber light the sweetest odors float. 
 
 Like perfumed clouds that sail at evening o'er 
 
 Seraglio's Point and up the Golden Horn. 
 
 Yesj there she sits upon her giddy throne 
 Mistress of power and warder of the soul ! 
 Before whose potent spell stern Virtue falls, 
 And meek Religion strives and strives in vain. 
 There Valor comes to worship, and the wise 
 Who wear the spotted Ermine, or the lawn, 
 And there the student, from his musty lore, 
 Leads thro' the courtly dance without a thrill, 
 
80 WINTER. 
 
 The blooming maiden, or the prude of years, 
 Selfish alike, and as the loe-berg cold, 
 And worthless as the sea-weed on the shore. 
 Oh, hollow-hearted mockery, for thee — 
 Earth has no happy home, and Heaven no joy. 
 
 Along Superior's vast and glittering shores 
 
 On his broad snow shoes stalks the hardy post, 
 
 While o'er his head the solitary bird, 
 
 That knows no friendship and that fears no foe, 
 
 Sails in his eagle strength and screams for joy. 
 
 Noon comes, but still he halts not in his march ; 
 
 Now walking on the glacier's dizzy verge 
 
 Where headlong plunge the deer in danger's hour 
 
 To find eternal quiet at the base ; 
 
 And now retreating from the sinking drift 
 
 That o'er a chasm terrible has thrown 
 
 A fleecy bridge to tempt his cautious feet, 
 
 While down the dark abyss the snowy arch 
 
 In thunder falls and crumbles in its gloom. 
 
 The day is fast descending, and his feet 
 
 Have weary grown, and 'round his heart the wave 
 
 Of life that beat exultingly at morn 
 
 Is cold and sluggish as the iceberg's surge. 
 
 For him no hamlet smiles beneath the hill, 
 
 No cheerful inn upon the boundless plain 
 
 Curls its blue smoke to lure him to its hearth, 
 
 But all around is desolate and cold, 
 
WINTEK. g[ 
 
 His chance of rest the wandering Red man's lodge-- 
 His food the pounded flesh of mountain deer 
 Pack'd in the Bison's polished horn— his drink 
 Pure water from the lake where broke the Elk ♦ 
 
 Its icy barrier, when he quenched his thirst ; 
 His trembling hope, a vague desire to sleepL 
 Sleep that when once indulged shall never break 
 Till the last Winter melts in endless sprino- 
 
 Musing he stands upon the pictured cliffs, 
 Whose fancied turrets feed the thunder cloud 
 When spectre miners raise their fires below, 
 
 And casts his eyes along the icy sheet. 
 Whose fabled shores repeat the spirit song 
 
 The Red man sings in his green hunting heaven. 
 
 Oh ! this is solitude, that pains the heart, 
 
 And makes the wanderer sigh for cities vast, 
 
 Where human voices harsh, if not unkind. 
 
 Break on the ear and satisfy the soul. 
 
 But lo ! a raven wings her rapid flight, 
 
 Seeking a rest in dark Wiskonsin's pines, 
 
 And screaming hoarsely to her lagging mates; 
 
 He notes the sound oft heard around his home, 
 
 And starts from his cold reverie whh joy. 
 
 So Fremont felt when, on the cloud-capt peak, 
 
 The last of the Cordilleras' glittering chain. 
 
 He looked on Mississippi's distant vale, 
 
 And on the green savannahs of the West, 
 
82 WINTER. 
 
 And heard around his head, the humble bee,. 
 
 Lone messenger from civilization's home, 
 
 Singing the song she sang, above the flowers. 
 
 Onward he moves, and lo ! beneath the clifl^. 
 
 An Indian wigwam meets his anxious eye ; 
 
 He hears the laughter of the savage boys — 
 
 The watch dog's bark and hunter's cheerful whoop, 
 
 As home he bears his heavy anllered spoil ; 
 
 Then fades away the sadness of the past. 
 
 For pain departed, seems to one relieved, 
 
 A little thing, and easy to be borne ; 
 
 And on the chieftain's couch of furs reclined. 
 
 He dreams of sunnier skies and happier days. 
 
 Out on its lonely way the iceberg sweeps. 
 Its dizzy summit trembling in the air ; 
 While in its clefts, the wing-wear'd sea-bird rests, 
 And breaks the awful solitude with screams. 
 Onward it parts the wave in calm and storm ; 
 Its pinnacles in rainbow glories bathed, 
 While on its dazzling walls, the scowling wave 
 Breaks its proud crest, and thunders 'mid its foam. 
 Pale isle of terror to the seamen's eye. 
 When seen at evening in the misty air — 
 Shunned by the gallant bark that loves the storm. 
 And rides in triumph by a rocky lee. 
 
 Melting away and mingling with the deep. 
 
WINTER. 83 
 
 Ship of the ice-king, launched by unseen hands, 
 Where part the mountains with terrific sound. 
 By Baffin's Isle or Greenland's dismal shore, — 
 Whose banner is the tempest's scattered pine, 
 Whose home is ocean and whose builder God — 
 Sail on in lonely grandeur wild and free, 
 And find at last thy destiny a wave. 
 Thy strength a bubble and thy glory foam. 
 
 Where the moose bellows o'er the frozen tide 
 
 And from the fallen tree the brown bear rolls 
 
 A torpid ball, the hardy lumber men 
 
 Who beard old Winter in his icy lair 
 
 By Millinoket and the Eagle lake, 
 
 Fell the tall masts and launch them in the vales. 
 
 Making the woods and wild morasses ring. 
 
 With crashing blows and Labor's cheerful song, 
 
 And there when Winter breaks his glittering chain, 
 
 And melts the snow wreath on the sunny hill, 
 
 Wild swell the dark ravines with deafening roar. 
 
 Hurling the rafts, the woodman's treasure, down 
 
 Penobscot fierce, and noisy Kennebec, 
 
 Whose sylvan floods receive them with a shout. 
 
 And bear them on in triumph to the sea. 
 
 Where ponderous mill wheels dash the fretted waves. 
 
 And tireless saws perform their giant tasks. 
 
 Then joyful Bangor lifts her head and shouts 
 
 To Damariscotta and her hundred mills 
 
84 WINTER. 
 
 While far away the wings of commerce bear 
 The winter harvest of the mountain pine. 
 
 Season of crackling nuts and pippins pale, 
 
 Of frosted cider and wild popping corn, 
 
 Of cheerful hearths with glowing embers piled, 
 
 Of honest labor in his blessed home. 
 
 Now mirthful maidens turn the diamond quilt. 
 
 The standard covering of the nuptial couch. 
 
 On which for weeks the busy hand has toiled, 
 
 While bashful lovers sitting by the fire. 
 
 Pass the good tell in whispers round the ring, 
 
 Or melt the frosty ear with mellow tale. 
 
 The labor done the merry route begins 
 
 With ' hunt the thimble,' or ' rude blind man's buff,'- 
 
 Old fashioned games contrived in good old times 
 
 That old and young might share the rapturous hour, 
 
 And grey haired Wisdom be a child again. 
 
 Soon the old mansion to its centre shakes. 
 
 While maidens coy resist their bolder swains, 
 
 Who strive to steal ripe kisses in the dark, 
 
 And in their struggle find superior joys. 
 
 Oh ! Winter, tho' thou bearest on thy brow 
 
 The tempest scar and icy touch of death. 
 
 Still do I love thee, for beyond thee hope 
 
 A brighter world presents to reason's eye. 
 
 Where the Archangel sings his morning song 
 
 The heavenly skylark at the break of day. 
 
winteh. 85 
 
 The hand of Winter to the door latch clings, 
 
 As o'er the threshold of the day he strides, 
 
 An old man followed by a whimpering hound ; 
 
 The peeping red-bud from the snow bank cheers 
 
 His frosty eye, while o'er his vision pale 
 
 The morning's splendor flashes like the light 
 
 Of Hecla thrown on Iceland's peaks of cold. 
 
 Through forests bare he moves with silent tread, 
 
 Marking the squirrel's nest upon the tree, 
 
 Or scarlet Oriole's solitary pouch, 
 
 Hanging deserted on the maple's bough ; 
 
 Now stopping where with net of curious make 
 
 The truant snares the parti idge of the South, 
 
 Who on the upland field shall call no more 
 
 ' Bob White ! Bob White !' in tones of melting love ; 
 
 Or where the hunter on his panting steed, 
 
 Chases the red fox down the snowy hills, 
 
 And winds his crooked horn with wild hallo ; 
 
 Or when the evening comes with dying breeze 
 
 Slays in the dusky woods the sly racoon. 
 
 And drags the opossum from his leafy cave ; 
 
 Health-giving sport, tho' cruel to the mind 
 
 Of one attuned to universal love. 
 
 Worthy the painted savages' ruder taste, 
 
 W^hen warriors slumber by the council fire. 
 
 And pass unharmed the Emigrant's lone train, 
 
 Through the still vistas of the forest land. 
 
 Pensive he goes with slow and cautious step, 
 
 His threadbare mantle clinging to his form. 
 
86- WINTER. 
 
 Turning aside from his grey pilgrimage, 
 
 To view the icebank in the sunless vale, 
 
 And stopping oft with tearful eye to gaze 
 
 On southern slopes where spots of green appear ; 
 
 Now listening to the distant prairie's moan 
 
 Where 'mid the snow around, the Bison bull 
 
 The throttling wolves sit watching red with gore, 
 
 And now beholding Nature's famishM tribes 
 
 On Kanzas' plains and new Helvatia's hills 
 
 Eating their furry robes in wild despair. 
 
 Or gathering 'round their fathers' graves to die. 
 
 Before his tread the grizzly bear retreats 
 
 To distant wilds, where fdncy scarce can send 
 
 Her winged thought to cheer the Exile's home, 
 
 And on his daring head the mountain sheep 
 
 Rattles with pond'rous horns the snow drift down. 
 
 While drowsy twilight folds her dusky wing, 
 And voiceless lightnings dart along the sky. 
 The hoary pilgrim seeks the icy pole. 
 His step more feeble as he nears his home ; 
 At length he totters down the northern hill 
 And in the whiffling snow is lost from view. 
 'Tis midnight, and the arctic maiden hears 
 His last shrill whistle on the icy cliff, 
 While in the distance dies his hounds' wild bark, 
 No more to chill the soul till blushing spring, 
 And smiling Summer with her purple crown 
 Makes way for Autumn, and her reaper's song, 
 
WINTER. 87 
 
 Her sheaf of gold, and death smiles on the hills. 
 
 In the deep forest dies the winter hymn ; 
 
 The warm rain comes at evening from the south ; 
 
 The roads break up beneath the heavy wheels ; 
 
 The snow drifts melting fill the rivulet's banks, 
 
 The rivulets the streams, the streams the floods — 
 
 And from the mountains and the lofty hills 
 
 The floods, red frothing, mingled earth and snow, 
 
 Pile up the stately rivers, till their tides 
 
 Their crystal barriers break, and thunder on 
 
 In one wild tumult to the insatiate sea. 
 
 Mills leave their ancient seats and sink in foam; 
 
 The massive bridges on the icebergs float ; 
 
 While trees uprooted strew the noisy shores, 
 
 Mingled with blacken'd nuts and withered leaves, 
 
 Tracing for after years the freshet's march. 
 
 Morn comes with golden eye, to view the scene; 
 
 The forests ring, the precipices shout, 
 
 The waterfalls lift up their voices loud, 
 
 The cataracts in solemn grandeur roar — 
 
 Rocks, fields and dells rejoice, and soon the earth 
 
 Rends her cold shroud, and at the signal feels 
 
 The seeds within her quicken into life. 
 
 Now peeps the blue-eyed violet from the vale, 
 
 And hails the daisy on the mountain side ; 
 
 While the gay blue bird whistling in the glen 
 
 Proclaims to man and beast with throat of joy 
 
 The resurrection of the blooming flowers.