m 
 
 
THE 
 
 LADY ANGELINE; 
 
 A 
 
 LAY OF THE APALACHIANS 
 
 THE HOURS, 
 
 ETO. 
 
 SI 
 
 3 J LOUIS L. NOBLE. 
 
 AUTHOR OF THE " UFE OF COLE." 
 
 NEW YORK : 
 SHELDON, BLAKEMAN & COMPANY. 
 
 M.DCOC.LVI. 
 

 Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1856, by 
 
 SHELDOX, BLAIvEMAN & CO., 
 
 In the Clerk's Office of the District Court, for the Southern District of Now 
 York. 
 
 35tiiaarU ©. ScnRtns, 
 
 P R T \ T F, R A NB S T E U E O T T 1' E R , 
 No. K Frankfort st.. N. Y, 
 
TO 
 
 FKEDERICK E. CHURCH, 
 
 AS A TOKEN OF ADMIRATION FOR HIS ARTISTIC GENIUS, 
 
 WITH HAPPY REMEMBRANCES 
 
 OF MANY HOURS PASSED WITH HIM IN THE STUDIO 
 
 AND AMONG THE CATSKILLS, 
 
 AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED. 
 
 L. L. N. 
 
PREFACE 
 
 The author, with two very dear friends, brother clergymen, 
 Bpent the summer of 1843 among the mountains of North Caro- 
 lina. The Lady Angeline, purely a fiction, and written in the 
 autumn and winter following, was suggested, under the stimulus 
 of the picturesque scenery of those secluded regions, by a few 
 simple incidents and facts : a missionary and his rustic church, 
 the people gathering in from distances for worship, a young 
 woman of singularly fine character, piety and beauty. 
 
 The scene of the poem is the valley of the "Wautauga, a 
 small river washing the base of the Grand-Father Mountain, 
 but taking in " The Lay" the name of the stream. 
 
 The time of the poem is thrown forward into the future, the 
 locality furnishing from its past no sufficient material for poetic 
 fiction. 
 
 The story, mainly an invention to paint to the reader's mind 
 the natural beauties of that wild American Arcadia, is one of 
 youthful love, illustrating the power of divine grace to sustain 
 and to restore — to sustain a character like the Lady Angeline, 
 who wrestles earnestly with trial and temptation — to restore, 
 
 iJ) 
 
VI PREFACE. 
 
 upon repentance, one like Eugene, her lover, that has fallen 
 through them. To recover so soon from so deep a fall would 
 not ordinarily take place. But the time and action of the tale 
 required some poetic license. In the main, though, it has its 
 parallel in the Prodigal of the Parable. And as the suffering 
 of the prodigal was the means of making him " come to himself," 
 so were the love and agitations of Eugene the means of bringing 
 him to himself, and not the real motive of his return to the faith 
 and communion of the church. 
 
 The poems following the Lady Angeline are chiefly very early 
 productions, gathered up from magazines, and revised. The 
 Hours is a series of four poems, in which it has been the object 
 to produce impressions similar to those which the painter desires 
 to produce from pictures of nature — a kind of landscape in 
 verse. The Ballads, &c., are founded chiefly on the imagination 
 and the affections, and illustrate the author's early life and home 
 in the West. 
 
 Lake George, August, 1856. L. L. N. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 THE LADY ANGELINE, A LAY OF THE APALACHIANS, IN 
 
 FOUR CANTOS. 
 
 CANTO FIRST. THE MOUNTAIN, 11 
 
 CANTO SECOND. ST. MAEK'S, 31 
 
 CANTO THIRD. THE CATARACT, 4T 
 
 CANTO FOURTH. CHRISTMAS EVE, - - » - 69 
 
 THE HOUES. 
 
 MORNING. OCTOBER, IN THE CATSKILLS, - » - 79 
 
 NOON. JUNE, UNDER AN ELM OF THE RIVER HURON, 88 
 
 EVENING. JUNE, AMONG THE GROVES OF THE RIVER 
 
 HURON, 94 
 
 MIDNIGHT. JULY, BY A LAKE OF THE RIVER HURON. 
 
 THE FLVING SWAN, 103 
 
VIU CONTENTS. 
 
 BALLADS, &c. 
 
 THE CRIPPLE-BOY : A BALLAD OF THE PEAIEIES, - 111 
 THE RED-GIEL OF THE SKY-BLUE LAKE : A BALLAD 
 
 OF THE 0TTAWA8, 118 
 
 THE DROWNED FLOWER: A BALLAD OF LOVE AND 
 
 BEAUTY, 12T 
 
 WAS IT WELL? 13» 
 
 A SONG: A LITTLE GREEN ISLE, - - - - 144 
 
 TO A BUTTERFLY AMONG THE ROSES. - - - - 147 
 
THE LADY ANGELINE 
 
 A LAY OF THE APALACH1\N.S 
 
 In ^anx dbantcs. 
 
 CANTO FIRST. 
 
 THE MOUNTAIN 
 
 f9] 
 
THE LADY ANGELINE. 
 
 CANTO I. 
 
 THE MOUNTAIN. 
 
 Far down the AUeganean range, 
 Where yet the hunter's horn is strange, 
 And distant heights repeat the hue 
 Of heaven's own deepest, darkest blue, 
 Before the Carohnian's eyes 
 There heaves in gTandeur to the skies. 
 With many a cloud upon its breast, 
 One summit high above the rest. 
 
 Ye, who would o'er the ocean sail 
 Ben Lomond's craggy side to scale ; 
 
 ai) 
 
12 THE LADY ANGELINE. 
 
 Or round the glittering glaciers toil 
 
 Where Arv^ and Arveiron boil ; 
 
 And climb the snows for one brief glance 
 
 Of thee, or thy sweet skies, fair France, — 
 
 Of all that makes the Ehine the Ehine, 
 
 Old cities, castled steeps, the vine ; 
 
 Or through the Alpine ether hail 
 
 Italian beauty, mount and vale ; 
 
 If ye love nature, not the name 
 
 Of pilgrim in the lands of fame, 
 
 Go, seek the torrent, thrid the wild 
 
 Where Apalachian peaks are piled, 
 
 Upon Wautauga's summit stand. 
 
 And look with wonder o'er your own great land. 
 
 Fresh as the dawn, and ere thy glance 
 Pierce the soft purple of the expanse, 
 Pause in the fragrance of the firs. 
 Whose breathing mass below thee stirs, 
 
THE MOUNTAIN. 13 
 
 "Whose sea of verdant minarets 
 The mistj breeze of morning frets, 
 And list, if yet thou can'st, the flow 
 Of waters in the depth below. 
 But when thine upward task is o'er, 
 And wearied, thou would'st gaze no more, 
 Though cliffs in awful stillness frown 
 Where Linville leaps in thunder down,^ — 
 Though crystal Tow, so calm and free. 
 Wind sparkling to the Tennessee, — 
 Or, gathering many a wooded isle, 
 Catawba sea-ward moving smile, 
 Turn yet again : through vapours pale 
 Mark well once more the sylvan vale 
 That hath in high Wautauga's shade " 
 Its morning cool and lingering made. 
 Yea, mark its marvellous depth, — the green 
 Of the embowering groves, — the sheen 
 Of its pure river. Beauteous vale. 
 Cradling the balmy morn, no tale 
 
14 THE LADY ANGELINE. 
 
 Of feudal war, of errant kniglit, 
 Of castle gloomy on tlie height, 
 Kemembered by its hardy sires. 
 Is told around their cottage fires. 
 Of human glory stained with crime. 
 
 Of proud ambition, wrong and grief, 
 Touched by the soft'ning hand of time, 
 
 ISTo story mars their annals brief. 
 Romantic vale,- with nature goes 
 Its past, and not with human woes. 
 But who, thou wanderer of to-day 
 Upon the fir-clad mount, can say 
 That lone fair land no future hath 
 Which yet may fling upon the path 
 Of years its sad or joyous mite? — 
 Some thrilling deed of honour bright ? 
 Some working of the restless heart 
 That wakes to daring, — bears a part 
 In the great play of life, — inspires 
 Tlie poet, and the painter fires? 
 
THE MOUNTAIN. 15 
 
 Beloved ones, whose souls with mine 
 The wreath of holy friendship twine, 
 When last it Avas our bliss to be 
 Once more among the mountains free. 
 The beauty of Wautauga's vale 
 Seemed all prophetic of a tale. 
 And while upon his crags we hung, 
 And of the past and absent sung, 
 The rustic church, the merest dot, 
 Far down upon an emerald spot, 
 Gave promise, at some distant day, 
 Of that which prompts this simple lay. 
 
 " This very night, I number ten 
 More years than God allots to men 
 In holy writ. This very night. 
 Full forty summers gone, — ^how light 
 
16 THF> LADY ANGELINE. 
 
 They rest upon me ! — here, alone, 
 I sat upon this ragged stone, 
 Perchance with my first silver hair : 
 The vault above was heavenly fair. 
 But, now in blackness, now in glow. 
 The deep-voiced thunder roll'd below." 
 
 Thus on Wautauga's hoary height 
 Spoke one whose locks were thin and white ; 
 And thus to one, but not his child, 
 Spake on that ancient sage and mild : 
 
 " My son, take heed! — The perilous edge 
 You tread of the tremendous ledge : 
 While sounds the rapid's sullen roar 
 Like surf upon a distant shore, 
 Drop the still pebble o'er the verge 
 And quick it plumbs the angry surge : 
 Take heed, my son ! tread on with care 
 Along the threshold of the air !" 
 
THE MOUNTAIN. 17 
 
 11. 
 
 O, who, from mountain summit dark, 
 Hath gazed upon the spangled arc 
 Of night, baptized with softest dew 
 From heaven's eternal, tranquil blue. 
 And felt that he was all within 
 The confines of a world of sin ? 
 O, who, upon those vivid wings 
 Bj which the soul expanded springs 
 With thoughts, but with no hope, to gain 
 Some shore in that mysterious main, 
 Hath turned him to the darksome earth, 
 Where wrong and sorrow have their birth, 
 And did not mourn to meet again 
 The vice, the selfishness of men ? 
 And yet who hath not warmly felt. 
 That saw the peaceful moonlight melt 
 Beneath him in the vast profound 
 Untroubled by a dream of sound, 
 
18 THE LADY ANGELINE. 
 
 That there was throbbing many a heart 
 From which he could not dare to part ? 
 Thus in the skies the man of eld 
 His calm, his blessed vision held ; 
 Thus in the vale the youth, his eye, 
 And moved the stillness with a sisfh. 
 
 III. 
 
 " Can I remember," said the sage, 
 " Beyond the changes of an age, 
 When first a wondrous, wild delight 
 I felt upon this mountain height ? 
 Events and things of joy and tears 
 Are buried with my manhood's years, — 
 Are gone beyond my mortal T^en 
 Where sleep forgotten deeds and men : 
 But ! the brightness of the morn — 
 The deer — the hounds — the sounding liorn, 
 Round and round the mountains borne — 
 
THE MOUKTAIN. 19 
 
 Chasm and cliff — the way Ave went — 
 Forest and foam and craggy rent — 
 Till here, at last, I held my breath, 
 Will freshen to the day of death. 
 The river and the rounded field, 
 Like glistening sword upon a shield — 
 The clouds — the breaking of their snow 
 Along the silent rocks below — 
 Aloft the eagle's airy play, 
 Are sights to me of yesterday. 
 Ten sjorings I told. The gentle priest, 
 That ever bless'd our Christmas feast, 
 Well I remember, said the corn 
 Was green on my baptismal morn. 
 And he was with me. Ah, Eugene, 
 A holy man was Augustine ! 
 Before his day, Wautauga's dale 
 Could tell you bat a worldly tale. 
 When years of priestly toil had bent 
 Him o'er his staff, where'er he went. 
 
20 THE LADY ANGELINE. 
 
 It was with gracious hands to bless 
 The peo|)le in his saintliness. 
 All in my youthful days I wist 
 So looked the sweet Evangelist : 
 And all devout did one declare, 
 When first he saw his flowing hair 
 Like snow his sacred robe upon, 
 He had descended from St John. 
 
 lY. 
 
 Upon the mountains beautiful, 
 
 How beautiful his feet ! — O pull 
 
 Bright flowers, the brightest flowers that bloom, 
 
 And sprinkle o'er his grassy tomb ! — 
 
 His memory be the last to fade 
 
 In the dear paradise he made !— 
 
 For youthful Augustine was first 
 
 With lifted cross that ever burst 
 
THE MOUNTAIN. 21 
 
 The spell of sin, the carnal dreams 
 
 That brooded o'er Wautauga's streams. 
 
 Right strange they thought it one should sever 
 
 His very heart from liome forever, 
 
 And come, all guileless as a child— 
 
 To this their Apalachian wild, 
 
 Not for the golden sands that shine 
 
 In the cold chambers of the mine, 
 
 But all without or fee or fame 
 
 To teach rude mountaineers the name 
 
 Of Him who died for you and me, 
 
 For all, on cross of Calvary. 
 
 I cannot help the tears : Eugene, 
 
 A holy man was Augustine. 
 
 The angel of our church, he gave, . 
 
 At altar, bedside and the grave, 
 
 His service till the moss was half 
 
 O'er many a simple epitaph 
 
 Himself had written : block by block, 
 
 He saw them hew the quarried rock 
 
22 THE LADY AKGELINE. 
 
 For tlie gray gotliic : stone by stone, 
 He watched it till tlie pile was grown 
 To tlie fair temple : love was loss 
 Till on tlie spire lie saw the cross 
 Gleam in the silver}^ morn, and fell 
 Through all the dale, in mountain dell, 
 The mellow sound of service-bell. 
 Those sombre aisles the lonely priest 
 Polished with footsteps. Fast and feast, 
 Prayer, homily and sacrament, 
 Bridal and burial, came and went 
 For many a solemn year. Eugene, 
 A saint at rest is Augustine. 
 And yet, while musing o'er his dust, 
 I have, I hope, the harmless trust 
 That still, at times, his sjoirit dwells 
 Among us. 0, the valley tells 
 An old man of his presence : all, 
 Yea, all things speak of him, and call 
 
THE MOL'NTAIX. 23 
 
 llis sainted name. That maid divine, 
 The meek and beauteous Angelina, 
 The last of his brief lineage, seems 
 The heiress of his graces. Gleams — 
 Such gleams of light celestial play 
 Around her brow serene, I say 
 The graces of that blest divine 
 Possess the beauteous Angeline. 
 
 But yonder hangs the moon. How still 
 
 Lies down the dusk Avorld in her light ! 
 Look round and let the spirit fill 
 
 With the magnificence of night. 
 Far on the vasty circle, deep 
 Is the dark Apalachians' sleep ; 
 All glittering like the battle-lance 
 Bhie waters vein the dim expanse ; 
 
24 THE LADY ANGELINE. 
 
 Streams m the sliadowy valleys flash ; 
 Bright torrents down the mountains dash ; 
 But turn me, in this world of wo, 
 
 To }'on blest token in the dark, 
 The golden cross that shines below 
 
 Upon the steeple of St. Mark. 
 0, brighter than the waterfall — 
 Ah, brighter,, lovelier far than all, 
 Is that uplifted gospel sign 
 Forever to these eyes of mine ! 
 It signs the night and morning pale, 
 At noon its shadow signs the vale, 
 It signs the seasons as they roll. 
 Its image signs my secret soul : 
 Then turn me, in this world of wo, 
 
 To yon blest token in the dark, 
 The gilded cross that crowns below 
 
 The temple sacred to St. Mark." 
 Then, as in prayer^ the man of eld 
 Upon the church bis vision held ; 
 
THE MOUNTAIN. 25 
 
 While gazed the youth with absent eye, 
 And gazing, breathed another sigh. 
 
 YI. 
 
 "Ah, father, Augustine may be 
 In saintly company," said he; 
 "And all that in the parish rest 
 "With heavenly visitants be blest : 
 What boots it, hapless, sad Eugene 
 Again St. Austin's vale has seen ? 
 give me back the wild alarms 
 Of battle, and the clang of arms ! 
 That golden cross, such peace to thine, 
 Is anguish to this heart of mine." 
 
 YII. 
 
 What magic in the quiet moon, 
 Uprolling to her solemn noon, 
 
26 THE LADY ANGELINE. 
 
 To make the pensive all forget 
 His lot to Avait, and suffer yet ! 
 What splendour in each living star 
 To light a thoughtful spirit far ! 
 When such soft hours descend to earth 
 What rapturous beauties have their birth 1 
 Peace steals upon the sordid shed, 
 A brightness kindles round the dead : 
 But, oh ! how cheerless, blank and cold 
 Is all that nature can unfold 
 To sinful breasts, where'er they turn, 
 When love and hopeless passion burn : 
 A crown to Avin, or heaven to gain, 
 And lose the dear one, would be pain. 
 And thus, that night, the sad Eugene 
 Sat mindless of the glorious scene : 
 Nor earth, nor heaven his bosom moves ; 
 The lady Angeline he loves. 
 But Angeliiie, 'tis known, has said, — 
 
 Though never for him might love be cold- 
 
THE MOUNTAIN. 27 
 
 With JesTi's grace, she will not wed 
 
 A wanderer from the- church's fold. 
 Wo-worth-the-day, St. Mark's should telJ 
 She gave her hand to an infidel ! 
 
 YIII. 
 
 The moon is at her summit now 
 
 A mist creeps o'er Wautauga's brow : 
 
 Just below, in the fir-trees dark, 
 
 A fervent supplication hark : 
 
 Kneeling in the laurels there, 
 
 Old Ambrose saith his midnight prayer, 
 
 As he hath said it many a year, 
 
 With hope, with fear, with many a tear, 
 
 That we, with all who take their rest 
 
 Among the faithful and the blest — 
 
 Perpetual rest beneath the play 
 
 Of glories of eternal day, 
 
28 THE LADY ANGELIXE. 
 
 May have, in soul and body bright, 
 Our perfect bliss with Christ in light. 
 And surely will he pray alone ? 
 Upon a stone, with moss o'ergrown, 
 In darkness kneels the saint alone. 
 But deeper in the balsam wood 
 A glimmering fire low branches brood, 
 And spread their fragrant greenness o'er 
 The wayward youth who prays no more. 
 On hemlock boughs he lies asleep : 
 But why is not that slumber deep ? 
 Is conscience working at the heart? 
 Say, wherefore does he talk and start? 
 AYith fears and fancies intertwine 
 Dreams of the lady Angelina. 
 
THE LADY AXaELINE. 
 
 A LAY OF THE A PAL A C HI AN S 
 
 CAXTO SECOND. 
 
 SAINT MARK'S 
 
 [29] 
 
THE LADY ANGELINE. 
 
 CANTO II. 
 
 I. 
 
 It is the freshest hour of May, 
 St. Philip's and St. James' day. 
 Meekly in the morning light, 
 
 "Waiitanga, o'er thy crystal flood 
 The scented laurels bend in white, 
 
 And fill Avith odour all the wood. 
 
 II. 
 
 St. Mark's, thy bell is swinging slowly, 
 And all within is hush'd and holy. 
 
 [81] 
 
32 THE LADY AXGELINE. 
 
 Gathering in from many a mile, 
 Goodly numbers up the aisle 
 Pass along witli pious feet 
 To bend in silence at their seat. 
 But serious step and sounding bell 
 Become the sacred stillness well : 
 So lightly maids and mothers tread 
 Their feet could not profane the dead. 
 Angels, it is a moment sweet, 
 A moment for your vision meet : 
 The priest in snowy raiment kneeling, 
 In raiment white Avith golden light 
 Flowing down from the window bright, 
 The swell sublime of organ peaHng. 
 But name me that seraphic maid, 
 A very brightness in the shade, — 
 Yea, walks and seems an angel fair, 
 With him, the man of silvery hair, 
 So lofty and of look so mild ? 
 It is his own baptismal child ; 
 
ST. mark's. 33 
 
 The aged Ambrose sure is he, 
 The Lady Angeline is she ; 
 And, by the rose she wears, I ween. 
 Come from the grave of Augustine. 
 
 III. 
 
 St. Mark's, thou art alone once more : 
 The blessed service all is o'er ; 
 The Gloria sung, on lowly head 
 From priestly hands the blessing shed. 
 But who came softly stealing in. 
 When all, on bended knees, begin 
 The sad confession of their sin, — 
 That solemn plaint the people make 
 When they Christ's body and blood do take ? 
 Who was the young, the martial man 
 That came as Eucharist began, 
 And held in pain his brow so bent 
 Before the holy Sacrament ? 
 2* 
 
34 THK LADY ANGELTKE. 
 
 Eugene it was. Thus entered he 
 The beauteous Angeline to see. 
 While there apart he looks and lingers, 
 He twirls a white rose in his lingers ; 
 White and sweet like those that bloom 
 Around the sainted Austin's tomb ; 
 Sweet and white like that so blest 
 Upon the pious virgin's breast. 
 But wbat is tbat fair flower to him ? 
 The beauty of Eden now were dim : 
 She lights, sbe fills, sbe fires tbe whole 
 Love, fane J, feeling, all his soul. 
 The reckless twirling of the rose 
 The tumult of his bosom shows. 
 But when the maid with tearful eyes 
 Partook the mystic sacrifice, — 
 No lieart, no thought for aught beside 
 Her Lord, the glorious crucified. 
 And longing for a world of bliss 
 With scarce one mortal tie for this — 
 
sr. i\rAR,K\s. 35 
 
 The hapless, hopeless youth confest 
 
 With silent grief his lot imblest. 
 
 Unblest indeed ! — not thus before 
 
 That she was his betrotli'd no more 
 
 Had he for once so keenly felt. 
 
 In ansfuish more than wrath he knelt 
 
 To whisper words, to do a deed 
 
 He had not dream'd : to curse the creed ! — 
 
 His mother's creed, and once his own. 
 
 Upon the mountain ledge the lone 
 
 Last fir that battles with its fate 
 
 Is not so lone and desolate 
 
 As he before that altar then 
 
 Within her mild and sweet Amen. 
 
 So beautiful in form — in face 
 
 So beautiful — such marvellous grace 
 
 E'en in devotion's iix'd repose— 
 
 Some virtue for life's bitterest woes 
 
 In every look, word, action, smile, 
 
 Yea, in her sadness, to beguile 
 
So THE LADY ANGELINE, 
 
 The heart of half its loneliness, 
 She yet was his, — ^he must confess 
 She yet was his no more than one 
 With time and earthly longings done. 
 So beautiful ! — the sinful deed — 
 Ah, no ! he could not curse the creed, 
 The faith of truthful Angeline : 
 To him she made its words divine : 
 And almost with his lips he prayed 
 His own they might again be made. 
 
 lY. 
 
 O Christ! what but Thy grace doth win. 
 Oft times, the soul from damning sin? 
 What but the life Thou dost impart 
 In Thy blest laver to the heart 
 Doth make, at times, the wicked start, 
 Start back from sins of mortal cast, 
 A s children from the dark, aghast ? 
 
ST. mark's. 37 
 
 O Jesu, the baptismal hour 
 The new-born spirit gifts with power 
 Which few, in their allotted day, 
 Have lost, — ^have sinned so quite away 
 It hath not turn'd them, now and then, 
 From crime unto the cross again. 
 And thus, in mercy to his youth. 
 E'en while he bow'd to curse the truth, 
 Mysterious whispers strangely wrought 
 To hush the dreadful, impious thought ; 
 Inspired his wayward soul with fear, 
 And waked anew the memory dear 
 Of Holy Church, of mother mild, 
 Of all that blest him while a child. 
 That mother dear, so pure she died ! — 
 And is she bending at his side 
 That all comes back again so fresh 
 
 She did for him, her only boy ? 
 Though brief her lingering in the flesh, 
 
 Her pilgrimage was made with joy. 
 
38 THE LADY ANGELINE. 
 
 O sure, the saint hatli left her rest ! 
 Surely, the faithless child is blest ! 
 Her full remembrance o'er him steals ; 
 Her love, her tenderness he feels : 
 Dark passion and the days of sin. 
 
 Yea, more than all the beauteous maid, 
 As though they had not ever been 
 
 A moment from his memory fade : 
 He lives again the guileless years, 
 Again he lives that hour of tears 
 When priest the last, low service said 
 By that sweet mother's dying bed, 
 And caught her last, her parting Avord : 
 " My child, I lend him to the Lord." 
 Sad hour for him, — his first deep grief: 
 But now it strangely brought relief, 
 Divine relief, celestial cheer. 
 Unknown through all his wild career. 
 Perchance, — call it — the return 
 
 Of prayers long since embalmed in heaven 
 
ST. mark's. 39 
 
 Perchance again the light doth burn, 
 
 The hght baptismal, as when given. 
 And while he weeps, and would not tell 
 The cause, the saintly know full well, 
 In tears, bright dew of mercy's morn, 
 Are penitence and pardon born. 
 
 AYhen lowly knelt pure Angeliue 
 To take the sacred bread and wine, 
 
 In view of sacramental vase 
 Where each had once received the sign 
 In token of the faith divine, 
 
 0, had she seen his face 
 At that calm moment when the past 
 Its brightness o'er his spirit cast, 
 The silent rapture which possest 
 Her heavenly mind, her peaceful breast, 
 
40 THE LADY ANGELTNE. 
 
 Had yielded to sucli thouglits as move 
 The heart that cannot cease to love. 
 
 YI. 
 
 Eugene and Angeline were one 
 Ere childhood's rosy days were done. 
 Elect as fawn upon the mountains, 
 Kestless as the rippling fountains, 
 Blithe as birds in fragrant bowers. 
 Fairer than the blooming flowers. 
 Beneath old Ambrose's godly care, 
 Grew up and loved the orphan pair. 
 Wautauga, where thy currents roam 
 With rocks and darkness, or with foam 
 And thunder in the rapid's strife. 
 Thou art no picture of their life : 
 Where thou dost glass the world above 
 I see their beauteous life and love. 
 
ST. mark's. 41 
 
 And tliey were plighted. Yea, a green 
 And flowery month was all between 
 The lovers and their bridal morn. 
 
 Alas ! — it sounded through the vale ; 
 But not the hunter's merry horn 
 
 Came down the startled gale ; 
 The bugle-blast of war had pealed : 
 Eugene was called to battle-field. 
 And Angeline was left alone, 
 To pray and make her secret moan. 
 St. Mark's a holy tale could tell : 
 The matin and the vesper bell 
 Ne'er warn'd, in vain, before its shrine 
 At least the lady Angeline. 
 And oft in the dead hour of night, 
 Noiseless as the mist and white 
 Moving on the mountain height, 
 Beside the pale baptismal font, 
 Was she, the virgin lady, wont 
 
42 THE LADY ANGELINE. 
 
 To supplicate that war might cease, 
 To pray for holy Church's peace, 
 To pray with tears upon her face 
 That angels good and Jesu's grace 
 Would never let temptation win 
 Her own Eugene to ways of sin ; 
 But grant him with St. Austin's men 
 To worship in St. Mark's again. 
 Devoted maid, it could not be 
 That Mercy would not list to thee. 
 One boon, thy dearest, was not given. 
 But why, a mystery left to heaven. 
 A remnant of St. Austin's men 
 Did worship in St. Mark's again : 
 But Jesu's grace and angel's shield, 
 To guard him on the tented field, 
 Had failed to kee]3 his faith. He fell. 
 Eugene returned an infidel. 
 But 0, the grief beyond control, 
 The pride that stung him to the soul. 
 
ST. mark's. 43 
 
 When from his long betrothed he heard 
 The cahn, but firmly-spokeVi word 
 That cut the tie, and turn'd him free ! — 
 O, who shall tell the agony 
 That wrung her faithful, suffering heart, 
 While thus the virgin dared to part 
 With all for years beloved as life ! — 
 Yet brief it was, the painful strife. 
 Then saintly peace, and might divine, 
 Did bless the lady Angelina. 
 
THE LADY ANGELINE. 
 
 A LAY OF THE APALACHIANS 
 
 CANTO THIRD. 
 
 THE CATARACT, 
 
 [46] 
 
THE LADY ANGELINE 
 
 CANTO HI. 
 
 THE CATAEACT, 
 I. 
 
 The service o'er, an liour is fled; 
 
 St. Mark's all silent as its dead ; 
 
 The cross it signs St, Austin's tomb, 
 
 And noon is in the forest's gloom. 
 
 "Mj daughter," thus old Ambrose spake, 
 
 And plucked with care a living rose^ 
 "I leave you to yourself to take 
 
 Your pleasure where the laurel blows. 
 The dew falls early in the dell ; 
 Be back before the vesper bell." 
 To Angeline the rose he gave. 
 And parted at the father's grave. 
 
 [47] 
 
48 THE LADY ANGELINE. 
 
 Meek Angelino in pious mood 
 Now loiters in the maple wood. 
 The tuneful birds, from limb to limb, 
 Are voiceless at her vocal hymn. 
 And now she bathes her feet so white 
 All in the river foam so bright ; 
 Then. moving lightly as with wings, 
 " Yenite Exultemus " sings. 
 'T were lovely for a saint in bliss 
 To mate with one so sweet as this. 
 The working of her love to see, 
 And list her heavenly melody. 
 
 II. 
 
 The pathway with the river bends, 
 Her way along the path she wends, 
 Bright'ning with her looks the flowers, 
 Music making for the bowers, 
 
THE CATARACT. 49 
 
 Soft music from the service-book 
 
 Wedded to her lily hand: 
 And now she meets a noisy brook, 
 
 The loudest in the land. 
 It is the child of a chasm dark, 
 A mile within the mountain — hark ! — 
 Comes rolling down the endless sound: 
 Up there, the waters boom and bound. 
 Bounding, booming, lingering never, 
 
 Now on slippery steps they toil, 
 Plunging now, in foam forever 
 
 In their thunder-basin boil : 
 But where the currents leap the lightest, 
 "Where the frighten'd stream is whitest 
 Is on the top of the precipice 
 Looking into the black abyss. 
 And once, from sun to sun, that tomb 
 Of the live torrent owns no gloom. 
 Its beauty then, with naught compare; 
 And Angeline that hour is there. 
 3 
 
50 THE LADY ANGELINE. 
 
 III. 
 
 O, dearly loves lone Angeline 
 To see tliat glittering curtain sliinc, 
 Dearly loves that veil of snow 
 Falling into the foam below. 
 Falling, yet ever unfolding still, 
 Apparel with silver the rocks it will. 
 
 IV. 
 
 'LTpon a crag she stands, and leans 
 Upon a dripping crag, that screens 
 Her from the mist and showery bow 
 That makes the terrible chasm glow. 
 As marble hush'd and motionless 
 She gazes in her loveliness. 
 And many a pleasing picture makes, 
 
THE CATARACT. 51 
 
 Pictures that the poets love, 
 Till all tlie tint and image takes 
 
 Of draperies in the world above : 
 And while she in her rapture dreams 
 Herself a shining angel seems, 
 A white-robed angel, soft and low 
 Chanting ''Cantate Domino." 
 And she will swell the holj chant 
 
 When she looks off in the vaulted wood, 
 Where ever the hollow murmurs haunt, 
 
 Where ever the gloomy shadows brood ; 
 For the lofty arch of beech and birch 
 Is solemn and dim like an ancient church. 
 And now she turns to the vaulted wood 
 
 Where the voice of the waters haunts ; 
 As ever the gloomy shadows brood, 
 
 But never the maiden chants : 
 Between the boughs of laurel green 
 With silent face looks in Euorene. 
 
62 THE LADY ANGELIl^E. 
 
 Y. 
 
 Fair Angelinc grew pale and faint, 
 And turn'd to heaven lier lovely face 
 
 How beautiful a trembling saint 
 In silent prayer for grace I 
 
 YI. 
 
 "0, Angeline! mine Angeline!— 
 
 Eugene,— say, — is lie not thine ? — 
 
 Is lie Eugene no more to tliee? " 
 
 He spake it kneeling on his knee ; 
 
 Earnest, sure, but tenderly : 
 
 Nor does she take her hand away. 
 
 Albeit she will not look or say. 
 
 ^'Ah, speak! — for life were we not one?- 
 
 O, speak ! — is all forever done ? 
 
 Call back thy first, thy latest vow: 
 
 O, tell me, is it over now ? 
 
THE CATARACT. 53 
 
 All green thy mother's grave is grown, 
 And thou art in the world alone ; 
 And if some little change in me, 
 Yet, tell me, have I chang'd to thee ? — 
 Speak, — speak to me, O maid divine ! 
 And wh.isper that I still am thine." 
 
 VII. 
 
 Fast tears in shining currents roll ; 
 And what is passing in her soul ? 
 Her hand, so passionately prest, 
 She steals away : upon her breast 
 Both, hands are meekly cross'd : a word, 
 A faltering whisper, dies unheard. 
 Kind angels, haste with help divine ! — 
 She sinks, — she faints, fair Angeline. 
 Ah, could she love thee less, the spell 
 Thus woven had not work'd so well : 
 
5-i THE LADY AXGELINE. 
 
 All tliat tliy words have made her feel, 
 Eugene, she may not dare reveal : 
 And yet to bid thee from her sight, 
 Or chide, the virgin hath no might. 
 And there all pale she lay like death ; 
 And there amid the roar for aid 
 He wildly call'd, or vainly pray'd : 
 And now a seraph's quick'ning breath, 
 Perchance, revives her spirit weak. 
 And brings the beauty to her cheek. 
 Like one from painful dream that wakes, 
 Uncertain, soft complaint she makes ; 
 Then opes her eyes of heavenly hue. 
 Melting in light so deep and blue. 
 And gently rises to her feet. 
 
 Press'd to her heart her clasped hands, 
 How calm, how saintlike there she stands ! 
 Her earnest look how pure and sweet ! 
 And will she to her lover speak ? 
 A tear is on his haggard cheek : 
 
THE CATARACT. 55 
 
 Desolate and wretclied tliere 
 On the granite wet and bare, 
 Ilis misery, his look is prayer : 
 Unheeding^, will she leave him so ?- 
 That suffering, is it nothing? — no! 
 
 YIII. 
 
 " Eugene," — her voice is sad and mild — 
 
 " Eugene, of Holy Church the child, 
 
 The world, the prince of sin, hath led 
 
 Thee blindly down among the dead. 
 
 To Holy Mother's arms return : 
 
 To penitence she spreads them : spurn — 
 
 O, by thy mother's dying pain. 
 
 Thy thraldom spurn ! — dash off the chain !- 
 
 Come back to hope — to life again ! " 
 
66 THE LADY ANGELINE. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Tears, liot tears are all to trace 
 The torture of his buried face ; 
 And sobs the only sound to tell 
 The ang^uish of the infidel. 
 
 X. 
 
 O nature, how thou lovest to bless 
 With thy eternal tenderness ! — 
 Thy beauty round the wretch to fling, 
 And soothingly to sorrow sing ! 
 Yet thoughtless, heartless how they go. 
 Poor ingrates, sad'ning o'er their wo ! 
 Bright Eden spots, where angel blest 
 AYould gi^e his golden pinions rest, 
 Or spirit lost might almost cease 
 To suffer, and look round for peace, 
 
THE CATAR^VCT. 57 
 
 To mortals, in their little grief, 
 Are deserts barren of relief 
 
 XI. 
 
 Sad youth, and was it thus with thee, 
 In that thine hour of misery ? 
 Tall cliffs complexion'd with the night, 
 Eocks kindling in the midday light. 
 The sparkling spray, the shadows whist, 
 The glory bending in the mist, 
 The loving boughs, the pine's soft lock 
 Upon the linden's breast, the shock 
 Of shivering falls, the foam, the snow 
 Of torrents in their furious flow. 
 Were these less beauteous, less sublime, 
 Than in thy purer, happier time ? 
 "Was all thy loftier spirit fled, 
 Which nature, from thy childhood, fed, 
 3* 
 
58 TTIl<: LADY ANGELTNE. 
 
 That tlioii could'st hear in soul no more 
 Earth, wood and gladsome waters pour 
 From cavern, crag and flowery cell 
 Melodious sweetness down the dell ? 
 
 xn. 
 
 0, ISTatnre, that was not tliine hour : 
 Around his heart a holier power 
 "Was working. Lo ! his look, his foco 
 Give token of Almighty grace. 
 Hast thou the dungeon-captive seen 
 
 In freedom's 'rapturous moment when, 
 The prison-walls behind, the green 
 
 Wide world and life were his again ? 
 Hast thou beheld the long-lost stand, — 
 
 His shadow on the sea — his eye 
 Tn tears upon his native land — 
 
 Come home with his belov'd to die ? 
 
THE C'ATARACT. 59 
 
 Then turn and read the rapture well 
 
 Which kindles thus the infidel. 
 
 That silent ecstasj' ! — it chains 
 
 All motion, language, sense, and gains 
 
 The height sublime from whence the soul 
 
 Can with a prophet's ken control 
 
 The past, the future, life and deatli, 
 
 In the brief compass of a breath. 
 
 AVhere is he ? — -Where, those years of sin — 
 
 The darkness he has wandered in ? 
 
 Is this that bursts upon him light 
 
 From the innumerable flight 
 
 Of angels o'er the heavenly mount? 
 
 His spirit, has it reached the fount 
 
 That from the golden city rolls. 
 
 Where bathe in bliss perfected souls ? 
 
 Or hath the voice of penitence 
 
 Gall'd back the life of innocence, 
 
 The soft, celestial dawn of truth 
 
 That breathed around his guileless youtli ? 
 
60 THE LADY ANGELTNE. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Like fabled knight of okl romance, 
 Long time the beatifick trance 
 In stilhiess bound him where he stood 
 Within the sprinkhng of the flood. 
 He moves, at length, and lifts Ms eyes 
 Up to the blue and silent skies. 
 How pure ! — how deep !— divinely fair ! 
 Eternity and heaven w^ere there. 
 How strangely beautiful and new 
 Was earth, were all things, to his view ! 
 The cliff with its terrific frown. 
 The gulf still down and further down 
 Were lovely in their very dread ; 
 Their shades a peaceful blessing shed : 
 And, whitening o'er the precipice 
 That walled the dungeon-like abyss, 
 Like some wild creature, snow-besprent, 
 In orladness from the firmament. 
 
THE CATARACT. 61 
 
 The waterfall a glory brought, 
 
 In its ethereal birth-place caught, 
 
 The glittering splendour of the world 
 
 From whence it seemed in thunder hurl'd. 
 
 Had mortal ever drunk such bliss ? 
 
 "Was he, the wretch, alone in this ? 
 
 And would the peace, the rapture, last ? 
 
 Ah, would not suffering mercy cast 
 
 Such worthless, sin-polluted dust 
 
 Again to unbelief and lust, 
 
 Nor let a worm of yileness dim 
 
 The lustre of the seraphim? 
 
 O for the pinions of the dove 
 
 To bear his stricken soul abov e ! — 
 
 To speed him in his sorrow then 
 
 Beyond temptation, sin and men, — 
 
 Yea, to the very Mercy-Seat, 
 
 At the Eedeemer's wounded feet, 
 
 In humble, penitential prayer. 
 
 To perish — if he perish — there. 
 
62 THE LADT AXaELTNE. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 The time was past when woodman track'd 
 The glen below, the cataract. 
 Beneath the little ghostly cloud, 
 In shadCj in shape an empty shroud, 
 That ever pales, all night, the gloom, 
 The dark of that tremendous tomb, 
 Eugene, subdued in soul, resigned, 
 Upon the rock-moss cold reclined. 
 The fount of grief had run too low 
 For one more piteous tear to flow : 
 His look was clear, serene and blest 
 As heaven in its immortal rest : 
 His lips no voice of prayer did pour ; 
 They had, till he could pray no more : 
 With saint-like stillness to adore, 
 To hope, was all he had the power, — 
 To hope that this was mercy's hour 
 
THE CATARACT. 63 
 
 By grace resisted long, to quell 
 His spirit proud and infidel, 
 And lead Mm, long to Satan sold, 
 Back to the heavenly Shepherd's fold. 
 
 XV. 
 
 Meek Angeline, what were thy fears, 
 How keen thy sorrow, free thy tears, 
 When thou dids't leave o'crwhelmVl, undone, 
 That loved, and once the plighted one, 
 Yf as thy sad secret. Pensive, pale, 
 Wautauga, down thy leafy vale 
 A green deserted path she trod 
 In silence to the house of God. 
 Meek Angeline, and what the prayer 
 Thy fervent soul above did bear. 
 Or v/hat returning hope was thine, 
 While bowed beneath the vault divine, 
 
64 THE LADY AKGELIXE. 
 
 Before the robed priest appear, 
 
 Was thine to feel, and Christ's to hear. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 well she knew the strength of grace 
 Upon our harden'd, blinded race : 
 What work so vast it could not do ? 
 What nature it could not renew ? 
 An unbeliever now, his youth 
 Was imaged in the mould of truth. 
 In such the Holy Spirit glows 
 Like nature in the opening rose. 
 Baptized at birth, — trained in the ways 
 His feet should tread in riper days, — 
 With apostolic hands o'erspread, — 
 From off the mystic altar fed, 
 Could not that grace vouchsafed to all 
 From after years of sin recall ? 
 
THE CATAKACT. 65 
 
 Oil, 't was a proud, rebellious deed 
 
 To fall from apostolic creed ! — 
 
 'N'ay, almost more than man miglit claim, 
 
 To put his Lord to open shame, 
 
 Then ask again the Christian name. 
 
 But had he fall'n so far, so deep ? 
 
 Had all his faith at one dread sweep 
 
 Been blotted out ? — no footstep left ? — 
 
 Of love, hope, fear — of all bereft? 
 
 Eugene, it might not, could not be ; 
 
 All was not wliolly lost to thee. 
 
 For such the Church herself could pray : 
 
 0, surely, then, for him she may. 
 
 And she the power of prayer has tried : 
 
 And of the Father's mercy knows, 
 How freely, for the Crucified, 
 
 To suppliants it flows. 
 But, oh ! she fears, and will confess, 
 
 Of mortal love her sinful part : 
 
QQ THE LADY ANGELINE. 
 
 'T is love that fires her earnestness, 
 
 And kindles round her heart. 
 But holiest saints are feeble dust, 
 And Christ all-merciful, we trust. 
 Then silently with zeal divine 
 Prayed on the Lady Angelina. 
 
THE LADY AKGELINE. 
 
 A LAY OF THE APALACHIANS 
 
 CANTO FOURTH. 
 
 CHRISTMAS EVE 
 
 [fi~l 
 
THE LADY ANGELINE 
 CANTO IV. 
 
 CHRISTMAS EVE. 
 
 St. Mark's it liath. a Sacristan, 
 A hoary, tall and solemn man : 
 And he has rung and toll'd the bell 
 How long the old can only tell. 
 Many a grave in width a span, 
 
 Many a grave full shoulder deep, 
 Has digged this ancient Sacristan, 
 
 Where babe and patriarch sleep. 
 And he is in the ivied tower. 
 
 His lamp upon the window-sill ; 
 
70 THE LADY ANGELINE. 
 
 Black shadows in the belfry lower ; 
 
 December wind is shrill ; 
 And when the heavy bell doth heave, 
 Far goes the peal of Christmas eve. 
 
 II. 
 
 The pointed windows deep and high 
 Let in the blue of every sky — 
 The spangled north, east, south and west 
 Yet warm in rose and saffron vest, — ■ 
 Let in the moon, a silvery flame, 
 As o'er Wautauga's snows it came. 
 Melting in one wide brightness down 
 White slope, cliff, forest green and brown, 
 And lending highlands far away 
 Soft splendours all unknown by day. 
 
CHEISTMAS EVE. 71 
 
 III. 
 
 St. Mark's, upon this festive eve 
 
 What heart would not forget to grieve ? 
 
 What heart would not be bounding light, 
 
 St. Austin, in thy vale, to-night ? 
 
 For once, in all the year, 'tis white ; 
 
 'Tis white with snow on every hill, 
 
 And earth and heaven are cold and still : 
 
 And many a gay and goodly sleigh 
 
 With bells and music speeds away— 
 
 Away — away — a crowded load — 
 
 Down many a winding mountain road : 
 
 Kor is the last a breath too late. 
 
 When the horses breathe at the temple-gate. 
 
 lY. 
 
 Of all that have the portal past, 
 Who hath a pleasure that will last, 
 
72 THE LADY ANGELINE. 
 
 JSTaj, deepen with liis life, like thine, 
 O, blest, most beauteous Angeline ? 
 "While youth and childhood freely gaze 
 Upon the cluster'd lights that blaze 
 Among the festive green, — the gift 
 Of woodland bower and rocky rift — 
 And soft, prelusive music fills 
 The fane, and all disquiet stills. 
 The maiden sits in sweet repose : 
 Upon her breast the nursling rose 
 No rest more sweet and tranquil knows. 
 At aged Ambrose's side she sits : 
 And; if her virgin fancy flits 
 To that dear time of smiles and tears 
 That bounds a maiden's hopes and fears- 
 The nuptial time — some heavenly strain 
 Recalls her to herself a;?ain. 
 
CHRISTMAS EVE. 73 
 
 Pure Angeline, she knows tlie sin 
 Of any eartlily dream within 
 The bosom, while the sacrifice 
 Of prayer ascendeth to the skies. 
 And in the prayers she prays in thought 
 To supplicate as Christian ought; 
 And then as often doth confess, 
 In secret soul^ her sinfulness. 
 The dream returns against her will, 
 Is banish'd, and returneth still. 
 But who shall say, thou gentle saint, 
 That owns himself of sin the taint. 
 Thy fault he would not pardon well, 
 Could he but hear all thou canst tell ? 
 4 
 
74 THE LADY ANGELINE. 
 
 YI. 
 
 To-morrow, blest Kativity, 
 
 Glad day, from earthly labour free, 
 
 From vale, from homes among the mist 
 
 They come to Holy Eucharist. 
 
 But what has been, for many a week, 
 
 A hope to bless the maiden meek ; 
 
 0, what shall be a joy too dear 
 
 To last with all its sweetness here ; 
 
 Yea, peace almost too pure to feel, 
 
 AYill be with him again to kneel ; 
 
 "With him, Eugene, once more to bow 
 
 ISTear that baptismal vase, 
 Where Ambrose spake the sponsor's vow 
 
 When they were born of grace. 
 And take the hallowed bread and wine 
 That 2:ive our souls their Lord Divine. 
 
CHRISTMAS EVE. 75 
 
 VII. 
 
 Alone, and in tlie evening sliade, 
 
 Among the graves and in tlie groves, 
 The lady Angeline has prayed 
 
 Unnumbered prayers for him she loves. 
 Her prayers are heard, — the lost is found,- 
 The stray return'd to holy ground. 
 Piere'd with the sense of sin — the sense 
 Of all that is his dark offence, 
 The son has sought the Father's face, 
 And ask'd with tears the servant's place. 
 Heart-broken, contrite at the cross, 
 All sinful gain He counts but loss, 
 And gladdens in the feith that leads 
 Where Jesus for the sinner bleeds ; 
 Yea, triumphs in the faith which brings 
 The pardon of the King of kings, 
 And leaves that peace which passeth well 
 Or man's or angel's tongue to tell. 
 
76 THE LADY ANGELINE, 
 
 Full sliort, it may be deem'd, has been 
 
 The penance for so foul a sm. 
 
 Too short, perchance. But they who see 
 
 His grief, his deep humility, 
 
 Hail with the joy of saints the close 
 
 Of these his j^enitential woes. 
 
 Confession full pour'd forth to heaven, 
 
 And priestly absolution given, 
 
 Eugene will taste the feast divine 
 
 With Ambrose and his Ansceline. 
 
 THE END. 
 
THE HOURS 
 
 MORNINO. 
 OCTOBER, IN THE CATSKILLS. 
 
 NOON, 
 JUNE, UNDER AN ELM OF THE RIYER HURON. 
 
 KVENING. 
 
 JUNE, IN THE GROVES OF THE RIVER HURON. 
 
 MIDNIGHT. 
 
 JULY, BY A LAKE OF THE RIVER HURON. 
 TO A FLYING SWAN. 
 
 [77J 
 
THE HOURS 
 
 MORNINQ. 
 
 Give me the mountaius ! — tlie dark multitude, 
 That with the burden of its fleecy clouds 
 And forests seems some mighty caravan, 
 Bearing strange wealth, and touching heaven's high 
 
 arch, 
 From steepled Corway to the grassy Eoan,' 
 
 When by the ample river I repose. 
 Stilled by the silence of its solemn roll, 
 Away, like the fleet pigeon down the wind, 
 Speeds to the mountain foam my spirit free. 
 
 [79] 
 
80 THE HOURS. 
 
 Whether I see the prairie's emerald line 
 
 Blaze in the sunset, and await its vast, 
 
 Illimitable evening ; or behold, 
 
 Where breaks the surf on the resounding coast, 
 
 The early billows plume the far-off sea, 
 
 The mountains still I seek. The spirit's home 
 
 Is in the mountains. Even the dry path 
 
 Of the once merry meadow-brook recalls 
 
 The fountain sleeping on its pebbly bed. 
 
 And the rough rock where snowy beauty bounds. 
 
 Yea, the rent waters of the ragged gulf 
 
 Eoar when I burn the patient light, and make 
 
 Murmurs among mj thoughts. O give me then 
 
 The dark, uncounted mountains ! — give me these, 
 
 The chief amid ten thousand — grand in breadth — 
 
 Bold in their sweep along the azure — fair 
 
 In the pure ermine of the vapoury morn. 
 
 All hail, ye venerable summits ! Health 
 
 To your proud hemlocks ! Calmty still ye smile 
 
MORNING. 81 
 
 Out of your sunny cliambers, and reveal 
 
 Your awfulness and strength where ye make bare 
 
 To the rash storm your adamantine arms. 
 
 I am glad, vivid with joy, once more 
 
 To be your child, escaping from the toils 
 
 And forms of life. Some welcome have you not 
 
 For one whose love hath prompted this return ? 
 
 Ye have, I feel it : List ! along the height 
 
 Softly the minstrel zephyr winds the woods ; 
 
 Sings in its mossy cell that wild recluse 
 
 Of echoing solitudes, the waterfall ; 
 
 Spinning all day her glittering thread, she bids 
 
 From her cool cloister forth the virgin mist, 
 
 Cinctured with grace, and deck'd with purity, 
 
 To meet me as with timbrel and with dance, 
 
 Beating with pearly fingers the wet leaves. 
 
 And footing it o'er the ruddy maple-tops : 
 
 These are your welcome to a loving heart. 
 
 4* 
 
82 THE HOURS. 
 
 But 0, ye patrons of tlie blissful past, 
 Let me restrain tlie impulse to ascend 
 With haste to the high places where ye hold 
 Communion with immensity, and climb 
 To yon brave ledge, out in the luminous air, 
 Dewy and tufted with the feathery fern. 
 
 I cannot now recall those lively thoughts 
 "Which memory, busy with your image, Avaked 
 In my long absence. That you rise before me, 
 Complete in splendour, and outreaching fancy, 
 Doth them extinguish, as the radiant dawn 
 Quenches the sparkling stars. But well I know 
 Ye were a dear remembrance : dreams of you 
 Have made me happy : hopes of a return, 
 Yet happier. Now, arrayed in the rich pomp 
 Of ripe October, brilliant with all hues. 
 With royal perfume redolent, and laced 
 With the rare tissues of the showery night, 
 Ye so amaze mine eye, and thrill my soul, 
 
MORKING. 83 
 
 That I stand captive, kindling witli emotion ; 
 
 In Him rejoicing, the Great Artist, who 
 
 Will count it not irreverence, but praise, 
 
 When I exclaim : As beautiful as heaven ! 
 
 But for one grief, and I should own a joy 
 
 Finer than when delight first wing'd my feet 
 
 Up to your airy pinnacles. You can. 
 
 Ye steeps, with your innumerable tongues. 
 
 Tell me the new-born sorrow that will throw 
 
 A mournful shadow on my quiet walk. 
 
 Whose foot-prints, frequent in your yielding moss 
 
 Beside mine own, with mouldering foliage fill ? 
 
 Whose figures, picturesque in woodland garb, 
 
 No more look life-like in your polish'd pools ? 
 
 Whose faces, flush'd with pleasure, do your springs 
 
 Mirror no more after the rugged meal ? 
 
 Beloved ones, will ye not miss them, when 
 
 I steal half-timorous where the fierce, white torrent 
 
 Searches the sullen chasm ? Will ye not miss 
 
 Their gladness when my solitary shout 
 
84 THE HOURS. 
 
 Hunts the faint eclio in the dim ravine ? 
 Loud was the din of voices when we scaled 
 The j)erilous crag ; merry the music when, 
 Treadins; the brink, we snno; old melodies ; 
 Fresh is, as yesterday, the favourite verse, 
 Repeated while apart Ave picked our ways 
 Upward and upward yet through darkening firs. 
 But now, alluring memories, away. 
 And leave me with the present. Let the heart 
 Quaff for the future from the mighty fount. 
 Around whose border bounteous nature flings 
 Profusion infinite. 
 
 Mid-mountain here, 
 I breathe the odour of the frosted balm, 
 Rising like incense through the myriad tops 
 Of the broad slope below me. Hark, above ! 
 Wails in the hasty scud the plaintive pine. 
 Before me, lo ! the awful garniture 
 Of aores and the seasons : scowling cliffs, 
 
MOKNING. 85 
 
 Forms everlasting, universal rest, 
 Briglit falls, the thunder's snowy chariot, 
 Eternal walls bannered with flaming boughs, 
 Weltering in glory gorgeous draperies, 
 Crimson, and gold, and ever-living green ; 
 But chiefly thou, kingly peak, enthroned 
 Among the summits. Through the misty bars 
 Of thy pale visor earliest thou dost see 
 The blushing East. Now lifting it, thou takest 
 On thy majestic countenance the morn. 
 Like one that does her rosy coming love. 
 And, helm'd with thy perpetual firs, thou hail'st 
 From out thy solitudes the peopled earth ; 
 Towns in the purple distance ; cot and tilth 
 Couch'd lowly in thy droppings ; many a bark 
 Dotting the Hudson's blue. Imperial height 1 
 Primeval grandeur hangs in thy repose. 
 But thou dost shed thy blessings on a race 
 Equal to thy destruction. Did'st thou hide 
 Within thy bosom treasure, they would pierce 
 
86 THE HOURS. 
 
 Thy coldest vein, thy black foundations dig, 
 Burst thy firm breast, or through thy solid brain 
 Send the hot car. Alas ! the day is nigh, 
 When havoc Avill steal up with glistening axe, 
 And dash thine ancient honours from thy brow. 
 
 Thy verdant diadem how beauteous ! Spring 
 Hath her perennial bower upon thee. Clouds 
 Come to thy greenness with their softest showers. 
 All glorious now their parting ! Kissing thee 
 A last adieu, they lift their dazzling skirts 
 And leave thee in thy sole magnificence, 
 Themselves to vanish in the spotless heavens. 
 O might I plead for thee ! Thou hast a right 
 Ever to flourish. None may fell a fir, 
 And say he hath not v/rong'd thee ; wrong'd the land 
 That looks to thee, and loves thee. Thou hast seen, 
 In thy parental watch, the wanton airs 
 Play with the ringlets of the red-man's smoke ; 
 And art a witness of the woes that crush'd 
 
MOENING. 87 
 
 The simple tribes. But yesterday, tliou saw'st 
 The daring sail of Hendric ; heard'st the boom 
 Of battle in the strife of liberty. 
 And none hath smitten thee. And none may smite. 
 Forever live ! Live till the poets come, 
 Whose souls sublimer than the mountains shall 
 Breathe strains of freedom, truth, and glory, with 
 A power and sweetness that will move the vales, 
 The countless vales from Corway to the Eoau, 
 From Hampshire's crystal torrents to the cliffs 
 That hear Tallulah thunder in his caves. 
 
THE HOURS. 
 
 NOON. 
 JUNE, UNDER AN ELM OF THE EIYER HURON.^ 
 
 A dazzling noon ! — Under this drooping elm, 
 Embracing with its patient arms a cloud 
 Of foliage dense, I breathe delicious coolness. 
 And drink the nectar of the drowsy shade. 
 Sinking, I feel it stealing o'er each sense 
 And on the mind, the slumber that now steeps 
 The glowing landscape and the fainting air. 
 
 And sweet is sleep upon the flowery slope, 
 Pleasing the lapse into unconsciousness. 
 But, couch'd between these strong moss-cover'd roots 
 Till peeps the sun beneath the pendent boughs 
 
 [88] 
 
NOON. 89 
 
 To fright tlie timorous shadow from her tent, 
 Far sweeter will it be to watch and muse, 
 With fickle fancy and the blissful heart 
 Delighting in the beautiful repose. 
 Morn hath its freshness, eve her tenderness, 
 Midnight mysterious voices, visions, where 
 Suspicious darkness lurks, and where the pool 
 And starry dew deep in the darkness shine, 
 To lull imagination or to startle. 
 But when from brilliant noontide sink the bees 
 Into the hollow flowers, then thoughts serene 
 Wing the abyss of the Invisible, 
 And gather tokens of eternal rest. 
 
 lione wild, virgin of nature, of all hours 
 Is this thine own, thy chosen one for dreams ? 
 Is this faint murmur — ^fainter now — now full — 
 The sound of thy low breathing ? do they tell 
 Like silvery bells the time, those liquid tones 
 In the cool chambers of the feathery nests ? 
 
90 THE HOURS. 
 
 Or hast tliou holy service, and dost keep 
 Thy countless creatures motionless and hush 
 While thou art bent and breathless at the throne 
 Of thy bright sovereign ? Tranquil as the eye 
 Of rapt devotion is the pond ; above 
 Meek willows bow each on the other's bosom ; 
 Along the brink hare-bell and iris listen 
 To their uplooking images below ; 
 The spangling lilies in their whiteness lie 
 Upon the surface ; and the large-eyed pike 
 Dares the fall day, and suns his golden scales ; 
 The heron, hermit of the dismal fen, 
 Mopes on the reedy brim ; the tufted bog 
 Beds the sly serpent ; and the sable loon, 
 Deep diver, spots the blue. A startling peal 
 From his white-throated bugle, and again 
 The gleaming noon resumes its silent reign. 
 Call it, O solitude, thy solemn time 
 Of worship, — the calm fellowship of skies, 
 Earth, waiting waters, and the lingering winds, 
 
NOON. 91 
 
 In one great act religions to the Power 
 That sheds into the breast of each its life, 
 And heavenly beanty o'er the robes of all. 
 
 Nature, in this thy loneliness, how like 
 
 Some ancient temple of the gothic form. 
 
 Yon forest, see ! — an endless labyrinth 
 
 Of cloister, shadowy aisle, and pillar'd arch, 
 
 With many a mossy tomb of majesty 
 
 Once proud in royal verdure : and, lo ! here. 
 
 The towering grove that lays soft evening o'er 
 
 One half the lake a vast cathedral stands. 
 
 Through windows high, antique and huge of frame. 
 
 Glides in the lustrous hour on breathless wing. 
 
 Leaving her glistening footsteps in the maze 
 
 Of leafy galleries, and the dim vaults 
 
 Dapple with glory. Stillness how profound 
 
 The spacious vista haunts ! — stillness as when 
 
 Anthems are hush, and gone the multitude. 
 
92 THE HOURS. 
 
 silence, how thou dost unchain the soul 
 
 And call it forth to wander ! A brief sound, 
 
 A drop of melody from airy cell, 
 
 Hath magic power, — can make the spirit pause, 
 
 And listen for an echo, or an answer 
 
 From cave and grotto where wild music sleeps. 
 
 Sweet thrush, that warbled note, which thou did'st 
 
 fling 
 From the green threshold of thy lofty bower 
 Into this Lord's- day quiet, makes the fancy 
 On her light pinions poise and every bough 
 People with unseen minstrels like thyself 
 
 And shall not I, ye veiled, ye voiceless choirs, 
 Like you, keep my concealment, nor disturb 
 The universal Sabbath till the West 
 Pipes to his breezy banquet the warm woods ? 
 Yea, will I wait, and woo the grateful shade ; 
 Blending with your light preludes this my song. 
 
NOON. 93 
 
 Mine intellectual harping, till what time 
 
 Sounds the lone forest with the twilight bass j 
 
 Of its invisible organ, and ye pour 
 
 From your ten thousand rusthng seats glad strains 
 
 Into the swelling tide of harmony. 
 
THE HOURS. 
 
 EVENING. 
 
 JUNE, IN THE GROVES OF THE RIVER HURON. 
 
 How like a dream long years of absence flit 
 When home we come to childhood's lovely land, 
 And with emotion tread its quiet paths ! 
 But how the earlier and far-distant times 
 With startling freshness rush upon the mind, 
 E'en at the crackling of an acorn-shell 
 Beneath the foot, while under antique oaks 
 You look and linger, — ^linger — turn and look ! 
 At every view, what dear remembrances 
 Does fancy weave, and that all-quickening power, 
 Imagination, to the beautiful 
 Work up, and with a life and passion fill ! 
 
 [94] 
 
EVENING, 95 
 
 Are these the groves, bright Huron, of thy vale ? 
 Yonder, the thickets where I pnll'd the grapes, 
 Shook the red plums, and stoned the walnut boughs, 
 And shell'd the yellow-coated hazelnut ? 
 Almost I feel the basket on my arm ; 
 I listen for the voices of my mates ; 
 I catch the glance of her that picked with me, 
 Her timid glance, a sunbeam to my heart. 
 
 Ye lordly trees, patricians of the earth, 
 How solemn, how majestic your repose ! 
 Soft murmur sleeps ; daj^'s weary melodies 
 Upon the damp air slumber ; in the dark 
 The lonely cricket strikes her silvery lyre ; 
 "While on the listening sense there seem to swell 
 Harmonious breathings through the voiceless night. 
 What gladness fills my breast, ye spreading groves, 
 That they have left you, — left you as ye were, 
 An ancient and a beauteous brotherhood. 
 Like grain before the reaper the tall woods 
 
96 THE HOUKS. 
 
 Are Yanishing. For cold utility 
 
 No sanctity their awful shades possess ; 
 
 No spell they whisper in the ear of gain. 
 
 O, I am glad you still are hand in hand 
 In the grand round of solitude ! I joy 
 That yet in your magnificence ye move 
 With the rich summer garlanded ; and feel 
 Ye bear for me a welcome on your brows. 
 For I have loved you from a very boy 
 With a most tender and unfailing love : 
 Nay, of your beauty spoken mth a zeal 
 That has begotten many a wish to come 
 And kindle cottage fires beneath your green. 
 And here I own, that I have never gone 
 Beyond the reach of your broad shadows, — never 
 Beyond the music of your rustling, — ^never 
 Beyond the music of your dropping dews. 
 Your image has pursued me to the waves, 
 Fleecing the rocks with whiteness, — to the clouds. 
 
EVENING. 
 
 Fleecing the mountain summits witli their snow. 
 I own it here, joii have possess'd me so, — 
 So coord, and shaded me in feverish dreams, — 
 So haunted me, and with mj feelings wrought. 
 In gardens, city parks, and walks embower'd. 
 That I no less could do than seek once more 
 Your presence and your blessing. I am here, 
 Thou Gothic forest, to be young again. 
 A benison, ye venerable forms, 
 O shed upon me from your outspread hands ! — 
 O bless me with my boyhood 1 — be to me 
 All that ye were ! 
 
 But here, what sinuous trail 
 Into the shrubbery stealing ? — Still I see, 
 Time with his tender velvet comes at last 
 And mantles alL AVell I remember when. 
 By the light-footed tribes hard beaten, for, 
 Far o'er the rolling plains it winding went 
 Like a brown thread. Mossy and yielding noWj 
 
98 THE HOUKS. 
 
 It lies before me like a sunken grave. 
 
 Tliis knotty limb, swinging an oriole's nest 
 
 Oat of tlie fox's spring, lias bow'd the plumes 
 
 Of many a painted warrior, and sent off 
 
 From the vdde curtain of its foliage rich 
 
 Flashes of camp-light to the distant dark, 
 
 To the lone hunter in the w*et midnight 
 
 A cheerful signal of the sleeper's fire. 
 
 But they are gone, those wild, romantic men. 
 
 Whose wondrous voices wak'd these spacious bowers. 
 
 For poet only will the airy whoop 
 
 Peal through the rustling chambers. He alone 
 
 Upon the noiseless dancers will look in ; 
 
 Alone will see them bail their Vv^rcck'd canoes. 
 
 And part the weeds that cluster round the tomb. 
 
 How gently now the odorous dew descends^ 
 E'en with the starlight in its silent fall. 
 In this small opening. What a joyous gush 
 Of sympathy flows upward from my heart 
 
EVENING. 99 
 
 To jon blue heaven, the heart's eternal home I 
 O happy moment in a blessed place ! 
 
 It was not, I remember, in those years 
 
 As on this genial evening. 'T was a place 
 
 That with the deep'ning twilight fearful grew, 
 
 Hushing the whistle, quick'ning the light step, 
 
 As eagerly with basket crown'd I came 
 
 With the ripe river fruits. On yonder knoll, 
 
 Lull'd by the warbling currents, sleep the' dead. 
 
 Children of solitude, meek flowers that peep 
 
 From ruin'd lodge, and watch in burial spots. 
 
 Ye woo me thither -with your fragrant airs. 
 
 Ah, my unwilling feet ! — again I feel 
 
 The old enchantment calling up the fears 
 
 Of timorous youth. Once more I feel the touch 
 
 Of the cold fetter of my childish dread. 
 
 And startle at the thought of haunted ground. 
 
100 THE HOUES. 
 
 But liere I turn. Aloft the fire-flj holds 
 
 His little lantern on my homeward path ; 
 
 In circles swift the lonesome night-hawk spins 
 
 Her dusky toil around me. It is strange 
 
 I have no power to shake from me the sense 
 
 Of a mysterious presence. An alarm 
 
 Is passing down the golden lines of life, 
 
 Telling of some unseen companionship. 
 
 And who that finds delight in moving thus 
 
 The sable folds of evening's drapery, 
 
 Beneath primeval arches such as these, 
 
 Has never known this trouble ? Who has not. 
 
 In pensive wanderings through these moon-lit aisles, 
 
 Been startled by strange salutation, and 
 
 So brought to an involuntary pause ? 
 
 As instant wind o'er placid water or 
 
 The silken strings of an JSolian harp. 
 
 Immortal breezes seem to sweep the chords 
 
 Of inmost being. Fancy can it be ? 
 
 There have been moments when I could believe 
 
EVENING. 101 
 
 It was the meeting of some kindred soul 
 
 For brief, yet deep communion with mine own. 
 
 But hark ! the groves like giant sleepers breathe, 
 With the low sound of slumber softening 
 The whip-poor-will's sharp whistle. From afar 
 The owl deep-throated sends his harsh good-night. 
 
THE HOURS. 
 
 MIDNIGHT. 
 
 THE FLYIXG SWAN. 
 
 what a still, briglit niglit ! It is tlie sleep 
 Of beauteous natui^e in her bridal bower. 
 While solemn groves darken the shining lake, 
 Shedding the sounding dew-drop on its slumber, 
 See how the moonlight melts upon their green. 
 
 But hark ! — what " music ? — hark from the deep 
 
 South !— 
 Piercing the night, how like the clear sweet bugle 
 It searches wide the listening wilderness. 
 A swan. I know it by the trumpet tone. 
 
 [1021 
 
MIDNIGHT. 103 
 
 Winging lier pathless way in the cool heavens^ 
 Piping her midnight melody she comes. 
 
 BeautiM bird ! — upon the dusk, still world 
 Thou faliest like an angel, like a lone 
 White angel from some orb of harmony. 
 Where art thou ? — where ? — like a full fountain 
 
 pours 
 Thy strain from out the starry azure, yet 
 Ko speck, no first faint motion on the blue. 
 And why this hour, this strange mysterious hour, 
 Is thine, and thine alone, who can unfold ? 
 What fleest thou ? — what farewell hast thou taken ? — 
 What seekest thou ? — what hope is in thy breast ? 
 Perchance, while all is silent but the heart, 
 Thou hast some human longing, heavenly thought, 
 And singest yonder in the holy deep 
 Because thou hast a pinion : if it be, 
 for a wing, upon the aerial tide 
 To sail with thee, a minstrel mariner ! 
 
104 THE HOURvS. 
 
 "Wtieii \Yitli sublimer gaze tliou wlieel'st away, 
 Breasting the brilliance to serenest space, 
 Hast tliou tlie unspeakable, the awful thrill ? — 
 The lone, lost feeling in the vasty vault ? 
 O for an ear, to hear thy clarion song 
 Eange the ethereal chambers ! — ranging on 
 To everlasting stillness, from whose depth 
 Steals naught but the pure starlight evermore : 
 for thine ear, at thy far height, to list 
 The mellow echoes from the plaintive earth 
 Breathe mild petition for thy quick return ! 
 
 And hither, haply, thou wilt bend a neck. 
 And settle calmly to thy liquid rest. 
 If thy pale image flaring in the abyss 
 Startle thee not aloft. Lone aeronaut. 
 That catchest on thine airy looking-out, 
 Glassing the hollow darkness, many a lake. 
 Pillow thy whiteness, bathe thy beauty here. 
 There is blue water and the pebbly shoal. 
 
MIDNIGHT. 105 
 
 The reedy inlet and the grassy cove, 
 Earer than cloth of gold the sandy beach, 
 The woody islet witli its lily fringe 
 Spangling the wave with snowy blossoms, where, 
 As fair Diana 'mong the silvery stars, 
 Beneath o'erbending branches thou wilt move, 
 Till early warblers shake the pearly shower. 
 And whistling pinions warn thee to thy voyage. 
 
 But where art thou? — lost? — spirited away 
 
 To bowers of light by whispery calls above? 
 
 Or does some billow of the ocean air, 
 
 In its still roll around from zone to zone, 
 
 Far in the empyrean heave thee ? Hush ! — 
 
 A panting in the very zenith, — hush ! — 
 
 The swan. How strong her great wing times the 
 
 silence ! 
 
 She passes over high and quietly. 
 5* 
 
106 THE HOURS. 
 
 Now peals tlie living clarion anew, 
 Showering the vale with voices, far and wide 
 A witchery working in its solitudes : 
 Shrill snort the affrighted deer ; upon the lake 
 The loon, sole sentinel, halloos alarm ; 
 Yells the shy fox ; tingling in every vein 
 I feel the wild enchantment ; hark ! they come. 
 The dulcet echoes from the distant woods 
 Like fainter horns responsive, all the while 
 From misty isles, soft-stealing symphonies. 
 
 Huron, bright river of the bark canoe, 
 Threading the glassy ponds and emerald meads. 
 Thy beauty fades. In thy romantic dale 
 Midnight ere long shall pass away unwaked 
 But by the watch-dog and the village clock, 
 And she, thy minstrel queen, her ermine dip 
 In lonelier waters. 
 
 Ah, thou will not stoop. 
 Thy sleepless eye seeks on the verge of heaven 
 
MIDNIGHT. 107 
 
 The wider welcome of the ocean-lake. 
 
 The chasing moon-beams glancing on thy plumes 
 
 Keveal thee now a palpitating spot 
 
 Into the northern-light retreating. 
 
 There !— 
 
 Sinks gently back upon her flowery couch 
 The startled night ; tinkle the damp wood- vaults, 
 While slip the dew-pearls from her leafy curtains. 
 Once more that note, — the last, — how spirit-like ! 
 While vainly yet mine ear another waits, 
 A sad, sweet longing lingers in my heart. 
 
 END OF THE HOURS. 
 
BALLADS, &c 
 
 THE CRIPPLE-BOY : A BALLAD OF THE PP^IRIES. 
 
 THE RED-GIRL OF THE SKY-BLUE LAKE: A BALLAD OF THE 
 OTTAWAS. 
 
 THE DROWNED FLOWER: A BALLAD OF LOVE AND BEAUTY. 
 
 WAS IT WELL? 
 
 A SONG : A LITTLE GREEN ISLE. 
 
 TO A BUTTERFLY AMONG THE ROSES. 
 
 [109] 
 
THE CRIPPLE- BOY: 
 
 A BALLAD OF THE PRAIRIES. 
 I. 
 
 Upon an Indian rush-mat, spread 
 
 Where oaken boughs a coolness shed, 
 
 Alone he sat, a cripple-child, 
 
 With eyes so lustrous, large and wild, 
 
 And fingers thin and pale to see 
 
 Clasped upon his palsied knee. 
 
 All but him with life and play 
 
 Gathering fruits had tripped away. 
 
 He, poor boy, was glad once more 
 
 To sit without the log- house door. 
 
 That turf so fresh, so thickly grown, 
 
 Those rustling oaks were all his own. 
 
 He loved them in his heart ; they loved again. 
 
 Or seem'd to love, he said, and calm'd his pain. 
 
 [Ill] 
 
112 ■ thp: cripple-boy : 
 
 n. 
 
 Upon a prairie wide and wild 
 Look'd off that suffering cripple-cliild. 
 The honr was breezy, the hour was bright : 
 O, 't was a lovely, a lively sight : 
 
 An eagle sailing to and fro 
 Under a lofty cloud so white ; 
 
 Over the billowy grass below 
 Floating swift their shadows light ; 
 And mingled noises sweet and clear, 
 
 Noises out of the ringing wood. 
 Were pleasing trouble in his ear, 
 
 A shock how pleasant to his blood. 
 O, happy world ! beauty and blessing slept 
 On every thing but him, he felt, and wept. 
 
 III. 
 
 Humming a lightsome tune of j^ore 
 Just within the log-house door, 
 
A BALLAD OF THE PRAIRIES. 113 
 
 Tears a-trickling down liis clieek 
 
 Saw his mother, and so did speak : 
 
 "What now — what makes my Henry weep ? 
 
 You and I, the house we keep ; 
 
 Eed berries for the winter day 
 
 They gather, weary lads, away, 
 
 Away in woodlands lone and deep ; 
 
 Why now, I wonder why you weep ? 
 
 Mother, I wish that I could be 
 
 A sailor-boy upon the sea. 
 A sailor-boy upon the sea, my son ! — 
 What ails the child ? — What have the children done ? 
 
 lY. 
 
 I do — I wish that I could be 
 A sailor on the rolling sea. 
 In the shadow of the sails 
 I could rock and ride all day, 
 
114 THE CRIPPLE-BOY : 
 
 Merrily going with tlie gales, 
 
 As I have heard a sailor say. 
 I would, I guess, come back again 
 For mother and sisters now and then. 
 And the prairie-fire so bright. 
 Curling, crackling in the night, 
 And tell of all the wonders seen 
 Away upon the ocean green. 
 Hush, hush — talk not about the ocean so 
 Better at home a hunter hale to go. 
 
 With sob and sigh he faintly smiled. 
 And thus spake on the cripple-cliild : 
 I would I were a hunter hale, 
 
 Nimbler than the nimble doe 
 Bounding fleetly down the dale, 
 
 But that can never be, I know. 
 
A BALLAD OF THE PRAIRIES. 115 
 
 BeMnd our house the wood-lands lie, 
 The prairie wide and green before, 
 And I have seen them with mj eye 
 
 A thousand times and more ; 
 Yet in the woods I never strayed, 
 Or on the prairie-border played. 
 0, mother dear, that I could only be 
 A sailor-boy upon the rolling sea ! 
 
 yi. 
 
 You would have turned with a tear, 
 
 A tear upon your cheek : 
 She wept aloud, the woman dear. 
 
 And further could not speak. 
 The boy's, it was a bitter lot 
 
 She always felt, I trow ; 
 Yet never till then its bitterness 
 
 Had work'd her bosom so. 
 
116 THE CRIPPLE-BOY: 
 
 Sharp suffering lie, for many a day, 
 
 Had taken in patient part ; 
 But now tlie sense of misery lay 
 Like lead upon Ids lieart. 
 Till noon s^e sat beside the log-house door, 
 But never a measure of the tune of yore. 
 
 yn. 
 
 Piped the March-wind ; pinch'd and slow 
 
 The deer were trooping in the snow. 
 
 The cripple-boy, upon the floor. 
 
 Saw them out of the log-house door. 
 
 Mother, mother, when shall we 
 
 Sit out beneath the burr-oak tree ? 
 
 Will the prairie ever be green ? and when ? 
 
 0, will it ever be summer again ? 
 
 In silence looked she on her child : 
 
 Those eyes so lustrous, large and wild, 
 
A BALLAD OF THE PRAIRIES. 117 
 
 Seemed wilder still. It may have been 
 That he was grown so pale and thin. 
 It came, the emerald month, and sweetly shed 
 Beauty for grief, and garlands for the dead. 
 
THE KED-GIEL OF THE SKY-BLUE LAKE. 
 
 A BALLAD OF THE OTTAWAS. 
 
 PART FIEST. 
 
 Push off, push off the bark canoe ! 
 
 The skj-blue lake is still ; 
 The flash of the lightning-flj is faint, 
 
 And hush'd is the whip-poor-will. 
 
 The pale witch-flowers of night I love ; 
 
 On the witch's isle they blow. 
 The red-girl of the sky-blue lake 
 
 Was telling her brother so. 
 
 Off, off with the birch canoe, my boy, 
 And tarry till I come back. 
 
 [118] 
 
A BALLAD OF THE OTTAWAS. 119 
 
 No, sister, nigh is the j^anther-cliff ; 
 And he will smell my track. 
 
 Quick, at thy bidding, the boat shall go ; 
 
 The broadest paddle for me ; 
 My little gTay dog on the beach shall bark ; 
 
 But I will paddle with thee. 
 
 Kow, nay, across the deep I slip 
 
 Alone for the pale witch-flower. 
 I come ere the big-OAvl hoots for day ; 
 
 So wait in the berry-bower. 
 
 Thou art a hunter bold and fleet, 
 As wolf and panther know ; 
 And thou shalt whoop at the water-stars 
 
 • That watch in the bend below. 
 A merry time will the hunter pass ; 
 And the woods will whoop also. 
 
120 THE RED-GIRL: 
 
 Now half-way over the sky-blue lake 
 Does paddle the wild rcd-giii : 
 
 A minute she holds, and keeps her breath ; 
 
 That minute the night is still as death ; 
 And the waters round her curl. 
 
 Away she looks with beating heart, 
 
 Away to the purple isle ; 
 Above and below is the red, round moon ; 
 
 And she listens all the while, 
 A-listening for a whistle shrill 
 
 Away in the purple isle. 
 
 The water was smooth as smooth could be. 
 And bright as a warrior's blade ; 
 
 Alone the dash of the leaping fish 
 A mark on the silence made. 
 
 The Ottawa-girl of the black, black eye, 
 Leans out of the low canoe ; 
 
A BALLAD OF THE OTTAWAS. 121 
 
 Anew she lays her glossy hair, 
 
 In the glass of the shining blue. 
 
 And now it nears the yellow beach, 
 
 The stem of her birchen bark ; 
 Like a path it follows the shadow slim 
 
 Of a hunter tall and dark. 
 
 My do 76 ! — ^he spake it how tenderly: 
 
 Her moccasin prints the sand : 
 The Ottawa bending on his knee 
 
 Is taking her slender hand. 
 
 Her slender hand in his, he breathes 
 
 Her gentle name, Me-Me : 
 Long lashes shade her brilliant eyes, 
 
 And thus again spake he : 
 
 My dove, my dark-eyed dove, the shells 
 That shine in the deep below 
 6 
 
122 THE RED-GIRL: 
 
 Are all thine own, and the scarlet bird, 
 And the skin of the spotted doe. 
 
 The red-girl of the sky-blue lake, 
 
 She loves that hunter bold ; 
 But vengeance hot and hatred lurk, 
 And ever by day or night they work. 
 In the heart of her father old. 
 
 And thither when the wigwam sleeps, 
 But not for the pale witch-flower, 
 Athwart the wake of the dreamy swan, 
 That leaf-like shallop passes on 
 Alone to the lover's bower. 
 
A BALLAD OF THE OTTAWAS. 123 
 
 PART SECOND. 
 
 The Indian boy lie soundly sleeps ; 
 
 Grim shadows around him play ; 
 Hath cried him weary long ago ; 
 His little gray dog is moaning low, 
 
 And the big-owl hoots for day. 
 
 Oh, weary, weary Indian boy. 
 
 How frightful are his dreams : 
 
 His sister dear, she comes ; and then 
 The witch of the swamp it seems. 
 
 A wolf is trotting in the brake 
 All under the panther's limb ; 
 
 But they have lapp'd a fawn's sweet blood. 
 And careless are grown of him. 
 
 Hark 1 hark ! in the wilderness dark ; 
 It moves with a crackling sound : 
 
121 THE red-girl: 
 
 Flashes a sudden line of surf 
 
 On the pebbly beach around. 
 
 Hark ! hark ! on the water so dark, 
 The loon and the startled crane ; 
 
 The thunder-blast is howling past, 
 And roars the coming rain. 
 
 Oh, red-girl of the sky-blue lake. 
 Look well to thy light canoe ! 
 
 The billow is white, the gale is loud ; 
 It mocks thy shrill halloo. 
 
 The billow is white, the gale is loud, 
 Look well to thy bending oar ! 
 The loon hath taken his wing of jet, 
 Is cuffing the swells that foam and fret 
 Afar from the foamy shore. 
 
 Close down upon the frothy edge. 
 In the calm and pleasant morn, 
 
A BALLAD OF THE OTTAWAS. 125 
 
 The Ottawa-boy was looking out, 
 Was looking out forlorn. 
 
 His eyes are red, liis liair is wild, 
 
 Louder lie cannot call : 
 Her name comes back, bis sister's name, 
 And surely from tlie isle it came, 
 
 An ecbo, and that is all. 
 
 The shadow of the lonely isle, 
 
 In line or two by two, 
 Like spots of snow, how still and slow 
 
 The silent swans move through. 
 The snowy swans are all that move 
 
 Upon the silent blue. 
 
 Turn home, thou wild wood- child, turn home ! 
 
 There is never a line that tells 
 How deep the girl of the sky-blue lake 
 
 Is gone with her shining shells. 
 
126 THE RED-GIRL. 
 
 Her spirit glides in a sj)irit-bark, 
 
 And the gales are soft and low : 
 Where never the thunder- voice is heard 
 She lists the song of the scarlet bird, 
 And skips with tlie beautiful doe. 
 
THE DROWNED FLOWER: 
 
 A BALLAD OF LOVE AND BEAUTY. 
 
 It may know age, but not decay. 
 
 Habingdon's Castaba. 
 
 Child, I pray it be thy lot 
 Yet to know as bright a spot : 
 Pond or park no crowned king 
 Hath so brave as what I sing. 
 
 There is a lake in the Huron land, 
 A lovely lake with a shining strand : 
 The swan is queen of the northern air ; 
 She bathes the snow of her bosom there. 
 
 [127] 
 
128 THE DROWNED FLOWER: 
 
 A thousand, tliousand bouglis above 
 Bend to her beauty, and woo her love : 
 Like stars beneath her breast asleep 
 The lilies lie on the shadowy deep. 
 
 Between their stems that crinkle down 
 As serpents bright to the bottom brown, 
 Like silent birds where the woods are dim, 
 The pickerel, perch and the sunfish swim. 
 
 Alone there stands in a forest of larch 
 A lofty cliff with a cavernous arch ; 
 And out of it leaps a cataract white, 
 A burst of light from the bosom of night. 
 
 With many a sweep and graceful crook 
 Steals in at the South a crystal brook ; 
 In at the South as a prlittering: snake 
 When the mid-nis^ht moon is over the lake. 
 
A BALLAD OF LOVE AND BEAUTY. 129 
 
 Out of the thickets, and clown- the lawns, 
 
 It warbles and skips with the birds and fawns ; 
 
 Yet loiters in like a gentle doe 
 
 Through rustling reeds in the meadows low. 
 
 Waiting on either bank are seen 
 Such tender tufts of the willow green 
 They bow if the faintest breezes pass. 
 And see themselves in their liquid glass. 
 
 And all between is a flush of flowers, 
 
 By the rainbow touched in the evening showers ; 
 
 After the zephyrs among them play 
 
 They flee with odorous wings away. 
 
 6^ 
 
180 THE DROWNED FLOATER : 
 
 II. 
 
 Child, I trow there's many a bower 
 Where does flourish such a flower : 
 Eyes alone may look till blind ; 
 Hearts do help such blooms to find. 
 
 A spirit-like birtli is tlie new moon's light 
 In the downy leaves of an April night: 
 The sonl of the beautiful loves to mate 
 With the rare, the pure, and the delicate. 
 
 From lofty down to lowly things 
 
 'T is thus forever, the minstrel sings, 
 
 As memory brings again the hour 
 
 He found, by the brook, a wonderful flower. 
 
 A rock did cradle it on the brink, 
 Where come the deer, at dark, to drink ; 
 From sympathy sure it used to dip 
 In the sweet water its sweeter lip. 
 
A BALLAD OF LOVE AND BEAUTY. 131 
 
 While all around there were fragrant gems 
 Of many a tint on a thousand stems, 
 A princess this, and ladies of honour 
 The courtliest seem'd to wait upon her : 
 
 Or, hath the Genius of every place 
 
 A castle of might, a throne of grace, 
 
 That rock, in truth, were an elfin-tower. 
 
 And the mercy-seat were the wonderful flower : 
 
 Or, it were the form of the Fay itself 
 Transfigured to startle each smaller elf, 
 And give to the humming-bird's raptured eyes 
 A glorious gleam of its paradise. 
 
 A poet such union of grace had caught. 
 
 It might have awaken'd, I ween, the thought 
 
 Of the face of the glorified One above, 
 
 The flower and fount of all beauty and love. 
 
132 THE DROWNED FLOWER: 
 
 It was pure as the brow of innocence 
 Bent low in tlie smile of Omnipotence ; 
 And yet from a warmth in its snow, I guess, 
 Like an angel it was not passionless. 
 
 Ah, no ! I trow of its delicate heart 
 To light it was yielding the holiest part. 
 As it came with a blush at early day, 
 And stole in the purple of eve away. 
 
 But whether it bore to aught beside 
 A single feeling to love allied, 
 I know not, save to the listening air 
 It whispered ever a spicy prayer. 
 
 And penitence seem'd the crowning grace 
 Of all that slept in its sweet embrace ; 
 A sinless tear in its bowl it kept 
 As ever a d3dng infant wept. 
 
A BALLAD OF LOVE AND BEAUTY. 138 
 
 in. 
 
 Child, there's beauty, and there's love ; 
 Both do dwell in heaven above : 
 Hearts and flowers can tell, I know. 
 Both do wander here below. 
 
 O, come we liither or deaf or blind ? 
 
 Sweet music, bright visions do follow the mind^ 
 
 Do follow it in from a Avorld of bliss 
 
 Or ever we look to love in this. 
 
 JSTor is it a poet's airy dream 
 
 That things are deeper than what they seem ; 
 
 He feels they are, if his soul can see 
 
 In nature one token of sympathy. 
 
 ISTow what in that being of vernal birth, 
 Kindred alone to the dark cold earth, 
 Could trouble the lyre which hangs within, 
 So still as we pass this world of sin ? 
 
134 THE DROWNED FLOWER : 
 
 Beauty ! — From heaven as fast as it fell, 
 Peals it rung on that beautiful bell 
 That troubled the lyre which hangs within 
 So still as I pass this world of sin. 
 
 And so it was love in perfect feature 
 My heart poured out on that peerless creature 
 Love, in a sense, of the kind and power 
 Which carries the knight to his lady's l)Ower. 
 
 And whether by prairie or pond I went, 
 One image all thought and flmcy blent, 
 Till I was too full of the beauteous elf 
 Longer to keep it alone to myself. 
 
 And so to one it was told that could 
 Hear melody soft in the silent wood, 
 And silence feel where the waterfall fell, 
 Fair Laura, maid of the hazel dell. 
 
A BALLAD OF LOVE AND BEAUTY. 185 
 
 One balmj morn, as its briglit eyelash 
 The orient pricked with a rosy flash, — 
 Her favourite hour it was, I knew, — 
 We hurried away in the heavy dew. 
 
 The brilliancy pure of the bloom we sought 
 In the beaming blue of her eyes I caught : 
 How plain, or ever we reach'd the place, 
 I caught its blush in her beaming face. 
 
 But, ah me ! who, save one that has found 
 Her darling, left for a moment, drown'd, 
 The fainting away of my soul can guess 
 "When I miss'd my blossom of loveliness ? 
 
 There were the pink and the columbine, 
 The lady-slipper and eglantine, 
 The scarlet lily and cardinal-flower. 
 And silken vines in a rosy bower, 
 
l36 THE DROWNED FLOWER: 
 
 The crimson phlox and tlie golden-rod, 
 And buttons of gold on a velvet sod, 
 And flowery plumes and lace ^d lawn, — 
 But the crown of beauty and love was gone. 
 
 Now what that pitiless deed had wrought 
 Was matter of wonder and painful thought ; 
 But soon were seen, on the miirgin near^ 
 The deep foot-prints of a bounding deer. 
 
 Alas ! the fate of my flower was plain : 
 The passing brook was a funeral train. 
 Marching on with a mournful tread 
 After the bier of the beautiful dead. 
 
 A minute we gazed : what else I forget, 
 Till looks in mutual sorrow met, 
 And each perceived — 't was a dear surprise- 
 Beauty and love in the other's eyes. 
 
A BALLAD OF LOVE AND BEAUTY. 137 
 
 Child, our love is constant ever ; 
 Beauty hath a burial never ; 
 Part they may when forms do die ; 
 Both at last will meet on high. 
 
 Now wliether that was indeed the queen 
 Full many a rose will doubt, I ween, 
 And say, that fancy upon the stem 
 Did put the robe and the diadem. 
 
 I dare not cavil but this may be. 
 What matter ? My vision it cleared to see : 
 The glass of Beauty's most beautiful part 
 Is ever the deep of the liuman heart. 
 
 And that which plays on its wonderful motion 
 As moon-beams over the rolling ocean, 
 Is beauty, the smile of eternal love 
 Out of the windows of bliss above : 
 
138 THE DROWNED FLOWER. 
 
 Is beauty, the breath and life of light 
 Our spirits catch in the outward sight ; 
 And, whether on cloud or the emerald sod. 
 Do feel for us that it falls from God. 
 
 And if it vanish and flit away. 
 It meets nor darkness nor decay ; 
 It fades, perhaps, in a flower to seek 
 Diviner youth in a virgin's cheek. 
 
 And so it is an immortal sprite. 
 
 Passing along to the Infinite. 
 
 When the doors of a brighter world unfold, 
 
 It follows the saints on the flames of the old. 
 
WAS IT WELL? 
 
 Serene, imperial Eleanore ! — Tennyson. 
 
 Was it well, Eleanore, 
 
 In look — in all — ^like one to be 
 
 That loves and listens silently ? 
 Ok, was it well, Eleanore, 
 
 At the parting what was spoken ? 
 
 Words that many a heart have broken? 
 Oh, will their memory haunt no more. 
 Thine own, forever, Eleanore ? 
 
 My youth with cares was overgrown : 
 
 Some few, but tearful memories hung 
 
 Around a heart yet beating lone, 
 
 But lightly as when I was young ; 
 
 [139] 
 
1-iO WAS IT WELL? 
 
 Too young for auglit but love and truth 
 And beauty in the face of youth. 
 "Well, those cares around me clinging, 
 And the lone heart lightly springing, 
 Then, Eleanore, I heard that thou 
 "Wast part of all I know thee now. 
 Loveliness with so much grief 
 Blending were above belief, 
 Hadst thou not been in spirit more, 
 Gentlest, brightest Eleanore. 
 "What made thee, so they told me, less 
 "Virgin than angel was holiness. 
 
 And then there came a dreamy thought ; 
 Deep in the quiet heart it wrought. 
 Till in all its streams again 
 Gush'd that youthful, tender pain ; 
 And hope once more on trembling wing 
 
WAS IT WELL? 141 
 
 Could dare the bridal wreath to fling 
 
 On angel Eleanore ; 
 Could dare to whisper she was mine, 
 And bid my longing spirit pine, 
 
 And be alone no more. 
 
 Oh, Eleanore, it were not well 
 The tumult of my breast to tell, 
 All, all that pensive twilight through, 
 The last upon my path to you. 
 Ah ! passion hath no bliss so deep 
 
 As sank upon my peaceful soul ; 
 No stillness hath a pilgrim's sleep 
 
 Like that which o'er my spirit stole. 
 When in thy presence first I moved. 
 And drank thy look, that look beloved. 
 Yea, drank thy look ! — Oh, Eleanore, 
 
 "Could its serene, its tender light 
 
 Have faded from my gaze that night ; — 
 Oh, had we met no more, 
 
142 WAS IT WELL? 
 
 Memories sweet had lingered yet, 
 Mingling with some fond regret. 
 
 But, ah ! 't was mine to linger round 
 Thy footsteps light ; to list the sound 
 Of thy rich voice : 't was mine to mark 
 Thy brow so beautiful and dark 
 While hearkening to a tale of wo ; 
 To catch the rapture and the glow 
 Of thy deep look, so calm, so clear 
 When nature to thy heart was near: 
 'T was mine, all this was mine, and more 
 To know, to feel, fair Eleanore, 
 The goodness of the life you live ; 
 What is the ceaseless boon you give 
 To all around, to Christ above : 
 Duty with rosy smiles and love. 
 
 Bear witness, O ye sounding streams. 
 Where sylvan Unadilla dreams 
 
WAS IT WELL? 143 
 
 Among her soft blue mountains, liow 
 We loved your wildness ; vine and bough. 
 Arching our way ; my jealous ear 
 Following amid your murmurs near 
 Her silvery speech ; and coming through 
 The fragrant evening's purple hue. 
 To wake my soul with new surprise, 
 The pure mild splendour of her eyes. 
 
 "Was it well, Eleanore, 
 
 In look — in all — ^like one to be 
 
 That loves and listens silently ? 
 O, was it well, Eleanore, 
 
 At the parting what was spoken ? 
 
 Words that many a heart have broken ? 
 Their memory, will it haunt no more 
 Thine own, forever, Eleanore? 
 
SONG: 
 
 A LITTLE GREEN ISLE 
 
 A LITTLE green isle in a round blue lake 
 There is in the cool north-west : 
 
 The greenest isle in the month of May. 
 There the wood-birds sleep, and the wood-birds wake, 
 To warble and woo, as the breezes shake 
 The bough of each moss-built nest. 
 the green little isle, 
 How dear to me while 
 I was free with its beauty as they. 
 
 [144] 
 
A LITTLE GEEEN ISLE. 145 
 
 The flowers are thick in the velvety grass, 
 And thicker around the springs : 
 
 The sweetest flowers of the month of May. 
 And over the billows as bright as glass 
 As the snowy swan and her younglings pass, 
 Her trumpet-like tune she sings. 
 the sweet little isle, 
 How dear to me while 
 I was light on its waters as they. 
 
 A rocking canoe of the silvery birch 
 Went over the shining tide : 
 
 A leaf-like bark for the month of May. 
 For the water-lily we went in search 
 Where the lofty larch, like a solemn church, 
 Is dark by the water-side. 
 O the dear little isle, 
 How dear to me while 
 I was there with the children at play. 
 
146 SONG. 
 
 0, little lone isle of the round blue lake 
 Far off in the cool north-west, 
 
 My heart is thine in the month of May. 
 Thou art beautiful yet, though billows break 
 O'er the silvery birch, and the willows make 
 Their moan where the lovely rest. 
 the lone little isle, 
 Ever green to me while 
 I remember such dear ones as they. 
 
TO A BUTTEEFLY AMONG THE EOSES. 
 
 Thou voiceless creature of a sunny morn, 
 Beneath. tHs flowery lilach-tree, 
 0, how I love to look at thee ! 
 Thou hast, I ween, some tender hue 
 Of all that blooms in sun and dew. 
 I wonder what is here thy duty, 
 Thou floating picture of May's beauty ? 
 Perchance, thou wandering fancy, thou wast born 
 For me this passing moment to adorn. 
 
 I fain would think such errand thine this mom. 
 To yonder hungry thrush — although 
 I scare him from the bough — I know 
 A certain, sudden prey thou art ; 
 
 [1471 
 
148 TO A BUTTERFLY. 
 
 And never will in mortal heart 
 
 Awake again that feeling fine, 
 
 Which now, bright moth, thou wakest in mine. 
 So T will say, fair creature, thou wast born 
 For me this flying moment to adorn. 
 
 My life, though lonely, could not be forlorn, 
 While heaven upon my pathway flings 
 Such beautiful, such sinless things. 
 And here, before thy being closes, 
 My heart with thee among the roses, 
 I '11 let thine early love for beauty 
 Awake my soul afresh to duty, 
 
 And breathe a warm thanksgiving thou wast born 
 For me one passing moment to adorn. 
 
 THE END. 
 
NOTES 
 
 NOTE 1. 
 
 The Wautauga, Catawba, Towe, and the Linnville, the latter 
 of which is broken by one of the finest cataracts of the South- 
 ern States, all take their rise, with other streams, in the valleys 
 in view from the top of the Grand-Father Mountain, upon the 
 summit of which the scene of the poem opens. 
 
 NOTE 2. 
 
 Corway, or Chocorua Peak, is one of the most picturesque 
 and difficult of ascent in New Hampshire. The Roan, the sum- 
 mit of which is a kind of rolling prairie, is perhaps the most 
 remarkable of the Carolinian mountains. Tallulah : those 
 splendid cascades in northern Georgian 
 
 NOTE 3. 
 
 The River Huron flows into Lake Erie from a chain of small 
 lakes in the interior of Michigan, In the first settlement of the 
 lands along its banks, there might be seen miles of scenery not 
 unlike that of English parks. As it then was, it furnishes the 
 scenes and incidents to most of the foregoing pieces. 
 
 [149] 
 
, iRRARY OF CONGRESS 
 
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 " 015 762 842 2