The sweet bird's song become a hollow sound;
And the breeze, murmuring indivisibly,
Preserved its solemn murmur most distinct
From many a note of many a waterfall
And the brook's chatter; 'mid whose islet stones
The dingy kidling with its tinkling bell
Leaped frolicsome, or old romantic goat
Sat, his white beard slow waving. I moved on
In low and languid mood: for I had found
That outward forms, the loftiest, still receive
Their finer influence from the life within:
Fair ciphers else: fair, but of import vague
Or unconcerning, where the heart not finds
History or prophecy of friend, or child,
Or gentle maid, our first and early love,
Or father, or the venerable name
Of our adored country! O thou Queen,
Thou delegated Deity of Earth,
O dear, dear England! how my longing eye
Turned westward, shaping in the steady clouds
Thy sands and high white cliffs!
Filled with the thought of thee this heart was proud, Yea, mine eye swam with tears: that all the view
From sovran Brocken, woods and woody hills,
Floated away, like a departing dream,
Feeble and dim! Stranger, these impulses
Blame thou not lightly; nor will I profane,
With hasty judgment or injurious doubt,
That man's sublimer spirit, who can feel
That God is everywhere! the God who framed
Mankind to be one mighty family,
Himself our Father, and the world our home.
WHY curls the blue smoke o'er the trees?
What words are borne upon the breeze?
Some cottage in yon lonely glen
Lies nestled from the eyes of men;
Unconsciously we've wandered near
Some rural play-place, for I hear
The sound in which my heart rejoices,—
The melody of infant voioes.
Alas! in that green nook we see
No dwelling-place of industry;
No dame, intent on household cares,
The neat but frugal meal prepares:
No sire, his labor o'er, will come
To brighten and to share her home;
No children from their mother learn
An honest way their bread to earn.
The gipsies, wild and wandering race,
Are masters of the sylvan chase:
Beneath the boughs their tents they raise,
Upon the turf their fagots blaze:
In coarse profusion they prepare
The feast obtained,-how, when, and where?
While swarthy forms, with clamor loud,
Around the smoking cauldron crowd.
Forth trips a laughing dark-eyed lass,
To intercept us as we pass;
Upon your right hand let her look,
And there she'll read, as in a book,
Your future fortune; and reveal
The joy or woe you're doomed to feel:
Your course of love she will unfold,
you the picture dare behold!
IT is the last survivor of a race
Strong in their forest-pride when I was young.
I can remember when, for miles around,
In place of those smooth meadows and corn fields,
There stood ten thousand tall and stately trees,
Such as had braved the winds of March, the bolt
Sent by the summer lightning, and the snow
Heaping for weeks their boughs. Even in the depth
Of hot July the glades were cool; the grass,
Yellow and parched elsewhere, grew long and fresh.
Shading wild strawberries and violets,
Or the lark's nest; and overhead the dove
Had her lone dwelling, paying for her home
With melancholy songs; and scarce a beech
Was there without a honeysuckle linked
Around, with its red tendrils and pink flowers;
Or girdled by a brier rose, whose buds
Yield fragrant harvest for the honey-bee.
There dwelt the last red deer, those antlered kings. But this is as a dream,—the plough has passed Where the stag bounded, and the day has looked
On the green twilight of the forest trees.
This oak has no companion!
ALAS for the Oak of our Fathers, that stood
In its beauty, the glory and pride of the wood!
It grew and it flourished for many an age,
And many a tempest wreaked on it its rage;
But when its strong branches were bent with the blast,
It struck its root deeper, and flourished more fast.
Its head towered on high and its branches spread round:
For its roots had struck deep, and its heart was sound; The bees o'er its honey-dewed foliage played,
And the beasts of the forest fed under its shade.
The Oak of our Fathers to Freedom was dear;
Its leaves were her crown, and its wood was her
Alas for the Oak of our Fathers, that stood
In its beauty, the glory and pride of the wood!
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