As o'er the verdant waste I guide my steed, Among the high rank grass that sweeps his sides The hollow beating of his footstep seems
A sacrilegious sound. I think of those Upon whose rest he tramples. Are they here- The dead of other days?—and did the dust Of these fair solitudes once stir with life And burn with passion? Let the mighty mounds That overlook the river, or that rise
In the dim forest crowded with old oaks, Answer. A race, that long has passed away, Built them;-a disciplined and populous race Heaped, with long toil, the earth, while yet the Was hewing the Pentelicus to forms Of symmetry, and rearing on its rock The glittering Parthenon. These ample fields Nourished their harvests, here their herds were fed When haply by their stalls the bison lowed, And bowed his maned shoulder to the yoke. All day this desert murmured with their toils, Till twilight blushed, and lovers walked, and wooed In a forgotten language, and old tunes, From instruments of unremembered form, Gave the soft winds a voice. The red man came- The roaming hunter tribes, warlike and fierce, And the mound-builders vanished from the earth. The solitude of centuries untold
Has settled where they dwelt. The prairie-wolf Hunts in their meadows, and his fresh-dug den Yawns by my path. The gopher mines the ground Where stood their swarming cities. All is gone- All-save the piles of earth that hold their bones-
The platforms where they worshipped unknown gods
The barriers which they builded from the soil To keep the foe at bay-till o'er the walls The wild beleaguerers broke, and, one by one,
The strongholds of the plain were forced, and heaped
With corpses. The brown vultures of the wood Flocked to those vast uncovered sepulchres,
And sat, unscared and silent, at their feast. Haply some solitary fugitive,
Lurking in marsh and forest, till the sense Of desolation and of fear became
Bitterer than death, yielded himself to die. Man's better nature triumphed then. Kind words Welcomed and soothed him; the rude conquerors Seated the captive with their chiefs; he chose A bride among their maidens, and at length Seemed to forget,—yet ne'er forgot,-the wife Of his first love, and her sweet little ones, Butchered, amid their shrieks, with all his race. Thus change the forms of being. Thus arise Races of living things, glorious in strength, And perish, as the quickening breath of God Fills them, or is withdrawn. The red man, too, Has left the blooming wilds he ranged so long, And, nearer to the Rocky Mountains, sought A wilder hunting-ground. The beaver builds No longer by these streams, but far away, On waters whose blue surface ne'er gave back The white man's face-among Missouri's springs, And pools whose issues swell the Oregan, He rears his little Venice. In these plains The bison feeds no more. Twice twenty leagues Beyond remotest smoke of hunter's camp, Roams the majestic brute, in herds that shake The earth with thundering steps-yet here I meet His ancient footprints stamped beside the pool.
Still this great solitude is quick with life. Myriads of insects, gaudy as the flowers They flutter over, gentle quadrupeds,
And birds, that scarce have learned the fear of
Are here, and sliding reptiles of the ground, Startlingly beautiful. The graceful deer Bounds to the wood at my approach. The bee, A more adventurous colonist than man, With whom he came across the eastern deep, Fills the savannas with his murmurings, And hides his sweets, as in the golden age, Within the hollow oak. I listen long To his domestic hum, and think I hear The sound of that advancing multitude_ [ground Which soon shall fill these deserts. From the Comes up the laugh of children, the soft voice Of maidens, and the sweet and solemn hymn Of Sabbath worshippers. The low of herds Blends with the rustling of the heavy grain Over the dark-brown furrows. All at once A fresher wind sweeps by, and breaks my dream, And I am in the wilderness alone.
SONG OF MARION'S MEN.
OUR band is few, but true and tried, Our leader frank and bold; The British soldier trembles When Marion's name is told. Our fortress is the good greenwood, Our tent the cypress-tree; We know the forest round us,
As seamen know the sea. We know its walls of thorny vines, Its glades of reedy grass,
Its safe and silent islands Within the dark morass. Wo to the English soldiery That little dread us near!
On them shall light at midnight A strange and sudden fear: When waking to their tents on fire They grasp their arms in vain, And they who stand to face us Are beat to earth again; And they who fly in terror deem A mighty host behind,
And hear the tramp of thousands Upon the hollow wind.
Then sweet the hour that brings release
From danger and from toil:"
We talk the battle over,
And share the battle's spoil.
The woodland rings with laugh and shout, As if a hunt were up,
And woodland flowers are gathered
To crown the soldier's cup,
With merry songs we mock the wind That in the pine-top grieves,
And slumber long and sweetly
On beds of oaken leaves.
Well knows the fair and friendly moon The band that Marion leads-
The glitter of their rifles,
The scampering of their steeds. 'Tis life to guide the fiery barb Across the moonlight plain; 'Tis life to feel the night-wind That lifts his tossing mane. A moment in the British camp- A moment-and away Back to the pathless forest,
Before the peep of day.
Grave men there are by broad Santee,
Grave men with hoary hairs,
THE ARCTIC LOVER,
Their hearts are all with Marion, For Marion are their prayers. And lovely ladies greet our band With kindliest welcoming, With smiles like those of summer, And tears like those of spring. For them we wear these trusty arms, And lay them down no more Till we have driven the Briton, For ever, from our shore.
GONE is the long, long winter night; Look, my beloved one!
How glorious, through his depths of light, Rolls the majestic sun!
The willows, waked from winter's death, Give out a fragrance like thy breath— The summer is begun!
"Ay, 'tis the long bright summer day: Hark, to that mighty crash! The loosened ice-ridge breaks away— The smitten waters flash.
Seaward the glittering mountain rides, While, down its green translucent sides, The foamy torrents dash.
See, love, my boat is moored for thee, By ocean's weedy floor- The petrel does not skim the sea
More swiftly than my oar.
We'll go, where, on the rocky isles, Her eggs the screaming sea-fowl piles Beside the pebbly shore.
« 前へ次へ » |