I.
Ye winds, ye unseen currents of the air, Softly ye played a few brief hours ago;Ye bore the murmuring bee; ye tossed the hair O'er maiden cheeks, that took a fresher glow;Ye rolled the round white cloud through depths of blue;Ye shook from shaded flowers the lingering dew;Before you the catalpa's blossoms flew, Light blossoms, dropping on the grass like snow.
II.
How are ye changed! Ye take the cataract's sound; Ye take the whirlpool's fury and its might;The mountain shudders as ye sweep the ground; The valley woods lie prone beneath your flight.The clouds before you shoot like eagles past;The homes of men are rocking in your blast;Ye lift the roofs like autumn leaves, and cast, Skyward, the whirling fragments out of sight.
III.
The weary fowls of heaven make wing in vain, To escape your wrath; ye seize and dash them dead.Against the earth ye drive the roaring rain; The harvest-field becomes a river's bed;And torrents tumble from the hills around,Plains turn to lakes, and villages are drowned,And wailing voices, midst the tempest's sound, Rise, as the rushing waters swell and spread.
IV.
Ye dart upon the deep, and straight is heard A wilder roar, and men grow pale, and pray;Ye fling its floods around you, as a bird Flings o'er his shivering plumes the fountain's spray.See! to the breaking mast the sailor clings;Ye scoop the ocean to its briny springs,And take the mountain billow on your wings, And pile the wreck of navies round the bay.
V.
Why rage ye thus?—no strife for liberty Has made you mad; no tyrant, strong through fear,Has chained your pinions till ye wrenched them free, And rushed into the unmeasured atmosphere;For ye were born in freedom where ye blow;Free o'er the mighty deep to come and go;Earth's solemn woods were yours, her wastes of snow, Her isles where summer blossoms all the year.
VI.
O ye wild winds! a mightier Power than yours In chains upon the shore of Europe lies;The sceptred throng, whose fetters he endures, Watch his mute throes with terror in their eyes:And armed warriors all around him stand,And, as he struggles, tighten every band,And lift the heavy spear, with threatening hand, To pierce the victim, should he strive to rise.
VII.
Yet oh, when that wronged Spirit of our race Shall break, as soon he must, his long-worn chains,And leap in freedom from his prison-place, Lord of his ancient hills and fruitful plains,Let him not rise, like these mad winds of air,To waste the loveliness that time could spare,To fill the earth with wo, and blot her fair Unconscious breast with blood from human veins.
VIII.
But may he like the spring-time come abroad, Who crumbles winter's gyves with gentle might,When in the genial breeze, the breath of God, Come spouting up the unsealed springs to light;Flowers start from their dark prisons at his feet,The woods, long dumb, awake to hymnings sweet,And morn and eve, whose glimmerings almost meet, Crowd back to narrow bounds the ancient night.
THE OLD MAN'S COUNSEL.°
Among our hills and valleys, I have knownWise and grave men, who, while their diligent handsTended or gathered in the fruits of earth,Were reverent learners in the solemn schoolOf nature. Not in vain to them were sentSeed-time and harvest, or the vernal showerThat darkened the brown tilth, or snow that beatOn the white winter hills. Each brought, in turn,Some truth, some lesson on the life of man,Or recognition of the Eternal mindWho veils his glory with the elements.
One such I knew long since, a white-haired man,Pithy of speech, and merry when he would;A genial optimist, who daily drewFrom what he saw his quaint moralities.Kindly he held communion, though so old,With me a dreaming boy, and taught me muchThat books tell not, and I shall ne'er forget.
The sun of May was bright in middle heaven,And steeped the sprouting forests, the green hillsAnd emerald wheat-fields, in his yellow light.Upon the apple-tree, where rosy budsStood clustered, ready to burst forth in bloom,The robin warbled forth his full clear noteFor hours, and wearied not. Within the woods,Whose young and half transparent leaves scarce castA shade, gay circles of anemonesDanced on their stalks; the shadbush, white with flowers,Brightened the glens; the new-leaved butternutAnd quivering poplar to the roving breezeGave a balsamic fragrance. In the fieldsI saw the pulses of the gentle windOn the young grass. My heart was touched with joyAt so much beauty, flushing every hourInto a fuller beauty; but my friend,The thoughtful ancient, standing at my side,Gazed on it mildly sad. I asked him why.
"Well mayst thou join in gladness," he replied,"With the glad earth, her springing plants and flowers,And this soft wind, the herald of the greenLuxuriant summer. Thou art young like them,And well mayst thou rejoice. But while the flightOf seasons fills and knits thy spreading frame,It withers mine, and thins my hair, and dimsThese eyes, whose fading light shall soon be quenchedIn utter darkness. Hearest thou that bird?"
I listened, and from midst the depth of woodsHeard the love-signal of the grouse, that wearsA sable ruff around his mottled neck;Partridge they call him by our northern streams,And pheasant by the Delaware. He beat'Gainst his barred sides his speckled wings, and madeA sound like distant thunder; slow the strokesAt first, then fast and faster, till at lengthThey passed into a murmur and were still.
"There hast thou," said my friend, "a fitting typeOf human life. 'Tis an old truth, I know,But images like these revive the powerOf long familiar truths. Slow pass our daysIn childhood, and the hours of light are longBetwixt the morn and eve; with swifter lapseThey glide in manhood, and in age they fly;Till days and seasons flit before the mindAs flit the snow-flakes in a winter storm,Seen rather than distinguished. Ah! I seemAs if I sat within a helpless barkBy swiftly running waters hurried onTo shoot some mighty cliff. Along the banksGrove after grove, rock after frowning rock,Bare sands and pleasant homes, and flowery nooks,And isles and whirlpools in the stream, appearEach after each, but the devoted skiffDarts by so swiftly that their imagesDwell not upon the mind, or only dwellIn dim confusion; faster yet I sweepBy other banks, and the great gulf is near.
"Wisely, my son, while yet thy days are long,And this fair change of seasons passes slow,Gather and treasure up the good they yield--All that they teach of virtue, of pure thoughtsAnd kind affections, reverence for thy GodAnd for thy brethren; so when thou shalt comeInto these barren years, thou mayst not bringA mind unfurnished and a withered heart."
Long since that white-haired ancient slept—but still,When the red flower-buds crowd the orchard bough,And the ruffed grouse is drumming far withinThe woods, his venerable form againIs at my side, his voice is in my ear.