'Tis a bleak wild hill,—but green and brightIn the summer warmth and the mid-day light;There's the hum of the bee and the chirp of the wren,And the dash of the brook from the alder glen;There's the sound of a bell from the scattered flock,And the shade of the beech lies cool on the rock,And fresh from the west is the free wind's breath,--There is nothing here that speaks of death.
Far yonder, where orchards and gardens lie,And dwellings cluster, 'tis there men die.They are born, they die, and are buried near,Where the populous grave-yard lightens the bier;For strict and close are the ties that bindIn death the children of human-kind;Yea, stricter and closer than those of life,--'Tis a neighbourhood that knows no strife.They are noiselessly gathered—friend and foe--To the still and dark assemblies below:Without a frown or a smile they meet,Each pale and calm in his winding-sheet;In that sullen home of peace and gloom,Crowded, like guests in a banquet-room.
Yet there are graves in this lonely spot,Two humble graves,—but I meet them not.I have seen them,—eighteen years are past,Since I found their place in the brambles last,--The place where, fifty winters ago,An aged man in his locks of snow,And an aged matron, withered with years,Were solemnly laid!—but not with tears.For none, who sat by the light of their hearth,Beheld their coffins covered with earth;Their kindred were far, and their children dead,When the funeral prayer was coldly said.
Two low green hillocks, two small gray stones,Rose over the place that held their bones;But the grassy hillocks are levelled again,And the keenest eye might search in vain,'Mong briers, and ferns, and paths of sheep,For the spot where the aged couple sleep.
Yet well might they lay, beneath the soilOf this lonely spot, that man of toil,And trench the strong hard mould with the spade,Where never before a grave was made;For he hewed the dark old woods away,And gave the virgin fields to the day;And the gourd and the bean, beside his door,Bloomed where their flowers ne'er opened before;And the maize stood up; and the bearded ryeBent low in the breath of an unknown sky.
'Tis said that when life is ended here,The spirit is borne to a distant sphere;That it visits its earthly home no more,Nor looks on the haunts it loved before.But why should the bodiless soul be sentFar off, to a long, long banishment?Talk not of the light and the living green!It will pine for the dear familiar scene;It will yearn, in that strange bright world, to beholdThe rock and the stream it knew of old.
'Tis a cruel creed, believe it not!Death to the good is a milder lot.They are here,—they are here,—that harmless pair,In the yellow sunshine and flowing air,In the light cloud-shadows that slowly pass,In the sounds that rise from the murmuring grass.They sit where their humble cottage stood,They walk by the waving edge of the wood,And list to the long-accustomed flowOf the brook that wets the rocks below.Patient, and peaceful, and passionless,As seasons on seasons swiftly press,They watch, and wait, and linger around,Till the day when their bodies shall leave the ground.
THE CONJUNCTION OF JUPITER AND VENUS.°
I would not always reason. The straight pathWearies us with its never-varying lines,And we grow melancholy. I would makeReason my guide, but she should sometimes sitPatiently by the way-side, while I tracedThe mazes of the pleasant wildernessAround me. She should be my counsellor,But not my tyrant. For the spirit needsImpulses from a deeper source than hers,And there are motions, in the mind of man,That she must look upon with awe. I bowReverently to her dictates, but not lessHold to the fair illusions of old time--Illusions that shed brightness over life,And glory over nature. Look, even now,Where two bright planets in the twilight meet,Upon the saffron heaven,—the imperial starOf Jove, and she that from her radiant urnPours forth the light of love. Let me believe,Awhile, that they are met for ends of good,Amid the evening glory, to conferOf men and their affairs, and to shed downKind influence. Lo! they brighten as we gaze,And shake out softer fires! The great earth feelsThe gladness and the quiet of the time.Meekly the mighty river, that infoldsThis mighty city, smooths his front, and farGlitters and burns even to the rocky baseOf the dark heights that bound him to the west;And a deep murmur, from the many streets,Rises like a thanksgiving. Put we henceDark and sad thoughts awhile—there's time for themHereafter—on the morrow we will meet,With melancholy looks, to tell our griefs,And make each other wretched; this calm hour,This balmy, blessed evening, we will giveTo cheerful hopes and dreams of happy days,Born of the meeting of those glorious stars.
Enough of drought has parched the year, and scaredThe land with dread of famine. Autumn, yet,Shall make men glad with unexpected fruits.The dog-star shall shine harmless: genial daysShall softly glide away into the keenAnd wholesome cold of winter; he that fearsThe pestilence, shall gaze on those pure beams,And breathe, with confidence, the quiet air.
Emblems of power and beauty! well may theyShine brightest on our borders, and withdrawTowards the great Pacific, marking outThe path of empire. Thus, in our own land,Ere long, the better Genius of our race,Having encompassed earth, and tamed its tribes,Shall sit him down beneath the farthest west,By the shore of that calm ocean, and look backOn realms made happy.
Light the nuptial torch,And say the glad, yet solemn rite, that knitsThe youth and maiden. Happy days to themThat wed this evening!—a long life of love,And blooming sons and daughters! Happy theyBorn at this hour,—for they shall see an ageWhiter and holier than the past, and goLate to their graves. Men shall wear softer hearts,And shudder at the butcheries of war,As now at other murders.
Hapless Greece!Enough of blood has wet thy rocks, and stainedThy rivers; deep enough thy chains have wornTheir links into thy flesh; the sacrificeOf thy pure maidens, and thy innocent babes,And reverend priests, has expiated allThy crimes of old. In yonder mingling lightsThere is an omen of good days for thee.Thou shalt arise from midst the dust and sitAgain among the nations. Thine own armShall yet redeem thee. Not in wars like thineThe world takes part. Be it a strife of kings,--Despot with despot battling for a throne,--And Europe shall be stirred throughout her realms,Nations shall put on harness, and shall fallUpon each other, and in all their boundsThe wailing of the childless shall not cease.Thine is a war for liberty, and thouMust fight it single-handed. The old worldLooks coldly on the murderers of thy race,And leaves thee to the struggle; and the new,--I fear me thou couldst tell a shameful taleOf fraud and lust of gain;—thy treasury drained,And Missolonghi fallen. Yet thy wrongsShall put new strength into thy heart and hand,And God and thy good sword shall yet work out,For thee, a terrible deliverance.