Feebler, yet subtler. He shall weave his snares, And spring them on thy careless steps, and clap His withered hands, and from their ambush call His hordes to fall upon thee. He shall send Quaint maskers, wearing fair and gallant forms To catch thy gaze, and uttering graceful words To charm thy ear; while his sly imps, by stealth, Twine round thee threads of steel, light thread on thread That grow to fetters; or bind down thy arms With chains concealed in chaplets Oh! not yet Mayst thou unbrace thy corslet, nor lay by Thy sword; nor yet, Ŏ Freedom! close thy lids In slumber; for thine enemy never sleeps, And thou must watch and combat till the day
Of the new earth and heaven. But wouldst thou rest Awhile from tumult and the frauds of men,
These old and friendly solitudes invite Thy visit. They, while yet the forest trees Were young upon the unviolated earth,
And yet the moss stains on the rock were new, Beheld thy glorious childhood, and rejoiced.
THE MAIDEN'S SORROW
SEVEN long years has the desert rain Dropped on the clods that hide thy face; Seven long years of sorrow and pain I have thought of thy burial-place.
Thought of thy fate in the distant west, Dying with none that loved thee near; They who flung the earth on thy breast Turned from the spot without a tear. There, I think, on that lonely grave, Violets spring in the soft May shower, There, in the summer breezes, wave Crimson phlox and moccasin flower.
There the turtles alight, and there
Feeds with her fawn the timid doe; There, when the winter woods are bare, Walks the wolf on the crackling snow.
Soon wilt thou wipe my tears away; All my task upon earth is done; My poor father, old and grey,
Slumbers beneath the churchyard stone.
In the dreams of my lonely bed, Ever thy form before me seems; All night long I talk with the dead,
All day long I think of my dreams.
This deep wound that bleeds and aches, This long pain, a sleepless pain- When the Father my spirit takes,
I shall feel it no more again.
THE RETURN OF YOUTH
My friend, thou sorrowest for thy golden prime, For thy fair youthful years too swift of flight ; Thou musest, with wet eyes, upon the time
Of cheerful hopes that filled the world with light,— Years when thy heart was bold, thy hand was strong, And quick the thought that moved thy tongue to speak,
And willing faith was thine, and scorn of wrong Summoned the sudden crimson to thy cheek. Thou lookest forward on the coming days,
Shuddering to feel their shadow o'er thee creep ; A path, thick set with changes and decays,
Slopes downward to the place of common sleep ; And they who walked with thee in life's first stage, Leave one by one thy side, and, waiting near, Thou seest the sad companions of thy age— Dull love of rest, and weariness and fear.
Yet grieve thou not, nor think thy youth is gone, Nor deem that glorious season e'er could die. Thy pleasant youth, a little while withdrawn, Waits on the horizon of a brighter sky; Waits, like the morn, that folds her wing and hides, Till the slow stars bring back her dawning hour; Waits, like the vanished spring, that slumbering bides Her own sweet time to waken bud and flower.
There shall he welcome thee, when thou shalt stand On his bright morning hills, with smiles more sweet Than when at first he took thee by the hand,
Through the fair earth to lead thy tender feet. He shall bring back, but brighter, broader still, Life's early glory to thine eyes again, Shall clothe thy spirit with new strength, and fill Thy leaping heart with warmer love than then.
Hast thou not glimpses, in the twilight here, Of mountains where immortal morn prevails? Comes there not, through the silence, to thine ear A gentle rustling of the morning gales; A murmur, wafted from that glorious shore, Of streams, that water banks for ever fair, And voices of the loved ones gone before, More musical in that celestial air?
THE sea is mighty, but a mightier sways
His restless billows. Thou, whose hands have scooped His boundless gulfs and built his shore, thy breath, That moved in the beginning o'er his face, Moves o'er it evermore. The obedient waves To its strong motion roll, and rise and fall. Still from that realm of rain thy cloud goes up, As at the first, to water the great earth, And keep her valleys green. A hundred realms
Watch its broad shadow warping on the wind And in the dropping shower, with gladness hear Thy promise of the harvest. I look forth Over the boundless blue, where joyously The bright crests of innumerable waves Glance to the sun at once, as when the hands Of a great multitude are upward flung In acclamation. I behold the ships Gliding from cape to cape, from isle to isle,
Or stemming toward far lands, or hastening home From the old world. It is thy friendly breeze That bears them, with the riches of the land, And treasure of dear lives, till, in the port, The shouting seaman climbs and furls the sail.
But who shall bide thy tempest, who shall face The blast that wakes the fury of the sea ? Oh God! thy justice makes the world turn pale, When on the armèd fleet, that royally
Bears down the surges, carrying war, to smite Some city, or invade some thoughtless realm, Descends the fierce tornado. The vast hulks Are whirled like chaff upon the waves; the sails Fly, rent like webs of gossamer; the masts Are snapped asunder; downward from the decks, Downward are slung, into the fathomless gulf, Their cruel engines; and their hosts, arrayed In trappings of the battle-field, are whelmed By whirlpools, or dashed dead upon the rocks. Then stand the nations still with awe, and pause, A moment, from the bloody work of war.
These restless surges eat away the shores Of earth's old continents; the fertile plain Welters in shallows, headlands crumble down, And the tide drifts the sea-sand in the streets Of the drowned city. Thou, meanwhile, afar In the green chambers of the middle sea, Where broadest spread the waters and the line
Sinks deepest, while no eye beholds thy work, Creator! thou dost teach the coral worm To lay his mighty reefs. From age to age, He builds beneath the waters, till, at last, His bulwarks overtop the brine, and check The long wave rolling from the southern pole To break upon Japan. Thou bidd'st the fires, That smoulder under ocean, heave on high The new-made mountains, and unlift their peaks, A place of refuge for the storm-driven bird. The birds and wafting billows plant the rifts With herb and tree; sweet fountains gush; sweet airs Ripple the living lakes that, fringed with flowers, Are gathered in the hollows. Thou dost look On thy creation and pronounce it good. Its valleys, glorious with their summer green, Praise thee in silent beauty, and its woods, Swept by the murmuring winds of ocean, join The murmuring shores in a perpetual hymn.
At noon the Hebrew bowed the knee And worshipped, while the husbandman withdrew From the scorched field, and the wayfaring man Grew faint, and turned aside by bubbling fount, Or rested in the shadow of the palm.
I, too, amid the overflow of day, Behold the power which wields and cherishes The frame of Nature. From this brow of rock That overlooks the Hudson's western marge,
I gaze upon the long array of groves,
The piles and gulfs of verdure drinking in The grateful heats. They love the fiery sun;
Their broadening leaves grow glossier, and their sprays
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