XV.

"You bid me pray? aye, I have prayed! Each cliff and cave, each rock and glen, Have heard my ardent lips invade The ear of Heaven,—again, again. And in the secret hour of night, When all-revealing darkness brings Its brighter world than this of light— My spirit, borne on wizard wings, Hath won its upward way afar, And ranged the shoreless sea of dreams— Hath touched at many a wheeling star That shines beyond these solar beams; And on the trackless deep of thought, Like Him, who found this Western World, 'Mid doubt and storm my passage wrought, Till weary fancy's wing was furled— And, as the sky-bent eagle, borne Down by the lightning blast of heaven, So was my outcast spirit torn, And backward to its dwelling driven. Yet not in vain, perchance, my tears, My penitence, my patient prayer, For, softened with the flow of years, My breast is lightened of its care. And once at night when meteors flew Down on their glittering wings from heaven, My mother's spirit met my view, Whispering of peace and sin forgiven! Yet, though my lip to thee confess, My wrestling bosom's sweet relief, Think not I count my crime the less, That pitying Heaven hath soothed my grief. No—yon wild rose hath sweet perfume To scatter on this desert air; Yet, hid beneath its fragrant bloom, Sharp thorns are set, the flesh to tear. And thus, repentance, while it brings Forgiveness to the broken heart, Still leaves contrition's thousand stings To waken sorrow with their smart.

XVI.

"Such is my story—this my home,— And I the monarch of the dell— Above my head, the forest dome,— Around, the battlements that swell To heaven, and make my castle strong. My messengers are winds that lave Far reedy shores, and bring me song, Blent with the murmurs of the wave. And birds of every rainbow hue, The antelope, and timid deer, The wild goat mingling with the blue Of heaven on yonder rock, are here. And oft at morn, the mocking-bird Doth greet me with its sweetest lay; The wood-dove, where the bush is stirred, Looks from its cover on my way. I would not break the spider's thread,— The buzzing insect dances free; I crush no toad beneath my tread,— The lizard crawls in liberty! I harm no living thing; my sway Of peace hath soothed the grumbling bear,— The wolf walks by in open day, And fawns upon me from his lair. Aye, and my heart hath bowed so low, I gather in this solitude, Joy from the love that seems to flow From these brute tenants of the leafy wood.



XVII.

"Stranger, farewell! The deepening eve doth warn, And the mild moonlight beckons thee away; And, ere the lingering night shall melt to morn, Let thy swift foot across the prairie stray. Nay, tempt me not! for I alone am cast, A wretch from all I used to grieve or bless; And doomed to wail and wander here at last, Am deeply wedded to the wilderness. Thy hand again shall feel the thrilling grasp Of friendship—and thine ear shall catch the tone Of joyous kindred; and thine arm shall clasp, Perchance, some gentle bosom to thine own. Oh God! 'tis right—for he hath never torn, With his own daring hand the thread of life— He ne'er hath stolen thy privilege, or borne A fellow mortal down in murderous strife!

XVIII.

"Stranger, farewell! these woods shall be my home, And here shall be my grave! My hour is brief, But while it lasts, it is my task to roam, And read of Heaven from nature's open leaf. And though I wander from my race away, As some lone meteor, dim and distant, wheels In wintry banishment, where but a ray Of kindred stars in timid twilight steals— Still will I catch the light that faintly falls Through my leaf-latticed window of the skies, And I will listen to the voice that calls From heaven, where the wind stricken forest sighs. And I will read of dim Creation's morn, From the deep archives of these mossy hills— On wings of wizard thought, my fancy, borne Back by the whispers of these pouring rills, Shall read the unwritten record of the land— For God, unwitnessed here hath walked the dell, These cliffs have quivered at his loud command, These waters blushed, where his deep shadow fell! And at his bidding, 'mid these solitudes, The ebb and flow of life have poured their waves, Till Time, the hoary sexton of these woods, Despairing, broods o'er the uncounted graves. And warrior tribes have come from some far land, And made these mountains echo with their cry— And they have mouldered—and their mighty hand Hath writ no record on the earth or sky! And 'mid the awful stillness of their grave, The forest oaks have flourished; and the breath Of years hath swept their races, wave on wave, As ages fainted on the shores of death. The tumbling cliff perchance hath thundered deep, Like a rough note of music in the song Of centuries, and the whirlwind's crushing sweep, Hath ploughed the forest with its furrows strong. And though these legends, like the eddying leaves Of autumn, scattered by the whirlwind's breath, Are borne away where dim Oblivion weaves Her shroud, within the rayless halls of death; Still with a prophet gaze I'll thread my way, And wake the giant spectres of the tomb; With fancy's wand I'll chase the phantoms gray, And burst the shadowy seal that shrouds their doom. Thus shall the past its misty lore unfold, And bid my soul on nature's ladder rise, Till I shall meet some clasping hand, whose hold Shall draw my homesick spirit to the skies.

XIX.

"Farewell! the thread of sympathy that tied My heart to man is sundered, and I go To hold communion with the shades that glide, Wherever forests wave, or waters flow. And when my fluttering heart shall faint and fail, These limbs shall totter to some hollow cave, Where the poor Dreamer's dream shall cease. The gale Shall gather music from the wood and wave, And pour it in my dying ear; the wing Of busy zephyrs to the flowers shall go, And from them all their sweetest odors bring, To soothe, perchance, their fainting lover's woe. My sinking soul shall catch the dreamy sound Of far-off waters, murmuring to their doom, And eddying winds, from distant mountains bound, Shall come to sing a requiem round my tomb. The breeze shall o'er me weave a leafy shroud, And I shall slumber in the shadowy dell— Till God shall rend the spirit's darkling cloud, And give it wings of light. Stranger, Farewell!"



Good and Evil.



When man from Paradise was driven, And thorns around his pathway sprung, Sweet Mercy wandering there from heaven Upon those thorns bright roses flung.

Aye, and as Justice cursed the ground, She stole behind, unheard, unseen— And while the curses fell around, She scattered seeds of joy between.

And thus, as evils sprung to light, And spread, like weeds, their poisons wide, Fresh healing plants came blooming bright, And stood, to check them, side by side.

And now, though Eden blooms afar, And man is exiled from its bowers, Still mercy steals through bolt and bar, And brings away its choicest flowers.

The very toil, the thorns of care, That Heaven in wrath for sin imposes, By mercy changed, no curses are— One brings us rest, the other roses.

Thus joy is linked with every woe— Each cup of ill its pleasure brings; The rose is crushed, but then, you know, The sweeter fragrance from it springs.

If justice throw athwart our way, A deepening eve of fear and sorrow, Hope, like the moon, reflects the ray Of the bright sun that shines to-morrow.

And mercy gilds with stars the night; Sweet music plays through weeping willows; The blackest cave with gems is bright, And pearls illume the ocean billows.

The very grave, though clouds may rise, And shroud it o'er with midnight gloom, Unfolds to faith the deep blue skies, That glorious shine beyond the tomb.



The Mountain Stream.

One summer morn, while yet the thrilling lay, Of the dew-loving lark was full and strong, Trampling the wild flowers in my careless way, Up the steep mountain-side I strode along— My only guide, a brook whose joyous song, Seemed like a boy's light-hearted roundelay, As down it rushed, the leafy bowers among, Scattering o'er bud and bloom its pearly spray— A beauteous semblance of life's opening day.

And looking back to that all-gladdening morn, When I was free and sportive as the stream— When roses blushed with no suspected thorn, And fancy's sunlight gilded every dream— While hope yet shed its sweet delusive beam, And disappointment still delayed to warn— With fond regret, I still pursued the theme— With clambering step still up the steep was borne, Too sad to smile, too pleased perchance to mourn.

And now I stood beside that rivulet's spring, That came unbidden with a bubbling bound— And stealing forth, a gentle trembling thing, It seemed an infant fearing all around— Yet clinging to its mother's breast—the ground. But soon it bolder grew, and with a wing It went: its carol was a joyous sound, Making the silent woods responsive ring, And the far forest-echoes, sighing, sing.

And now I stood upon the mountain's height— Like a wide map, the landscape lay unrolled— There could I trace that rivulet's path of light, From the steep mountain to the sea of gold; Now leaping o'er the rocks like chamois bold,— Now like a crouching hare concealed from sight,— Now hid beneath the willow's bowering fold, As if they sought to stay its arrowy flight, Then give it forth again more swift and bright.

'Twas changeful—beautiful; now dark, now fair— A tale of life, from childhood to the tomb— Its birth-place near the skies, in mountain air, Where wild flowers throw around their sweet perfume, Like the blest thoughts that often brightly bloom, At home, beneath a mother's culturing care— Its form now hid in shadows, such as gloom Our downward way—its grave in ocean, where It mingles with the wave—a dweller there!

And though that stream be hidden from the view, 'Tis yet preserved 'neath ocean's briny crest: That wide eternity of waves is true— And as the planets anchored in their rest, The sparkling streamlet lives; and while unblest, The land-wave stagnant lingers—there the blue Tide holds the river stainless in its breast— An image still of life, that sparkles through The starry deep of heaven, for ever new.

THE END