Aye--and the mind, by inspiration taught, Like nature's pupil feels a Presence near, Which bids the bosom tremble with the thought That He who came from Teman hath been here![B]

IV.

What thronging fancies crowd upon the soul, As from these heights the Giant Stream we trace, And wander with its waters as they roll From hence, to their far ocean dwelling-place-- Marking its birth in this bleak frigid zone, Its conquering march to yonder tropic sh.o.r.e, The boundless valley which it makes its own, With thousand tribute rivers as they pour!

No cla.s.sic page its story to reveal; No nymph, or naad, sporting in its glades; No banks encrimsoned with heroic steel; And haunted yet by dim poetic shades-- Its annals linger in the eternal rock, h.o.a.ry with centuries; in cataracts that sing To the dull ear of ages; in the shock Of plunging glaciers that madly fling, The forest like a flight of spears, aloft: In wooded vales that spread beyond the view; In boundless prairies, blooming fair and soft; In mantling vines that teem with cl.u.s.ters blue; And as the sunny south upon us breathes-- In orange groves that scent the balmy air, And tempt soft summer with its fragrant wreaths, Throughout the year to be a dweller there.

V.

These of the past their whispered lore unfold, And fertile fancy with its wizard art, May weave wild legends, as the seers of old Made G.o.ds and heroes into being start.

Perchance some mystic mound may wake the spell: A crumbled skull--a spear--a vase of clay Within its bosom half the tale may tell-- And all the rest 'tis fancy's gift to say.

Alas! that ruthless science in these days, To its stern crucible hath brought at last, The cherished shapes that all so fondly gaze Upon us from the dim poetic past!

Else might these moonlit prairies show at dawn, The dew-swept circle of the elfin dance-- These woodlands teem with sportive fay and faun-- These grottoes glimmer with sweet Echo's glance.

Perchance a future Homer might have wrought From out the scattered wreck of ages fled, Some long lost Troy, where mighty heroes fought, And made the earth re-echo with their tread!

VI.

It may not be, for though these scenes are fair, As fabled Arcady--the sylph and fay, And all their gentle kindred, shun the air, Where car and steamer make their stormy way.

Perchance some Cooper's magic art may wake The sleeping legends of this mighty vale, And twine fond memories round the lawn and lake, Where Warrior fought or Lover told his tale: And when the Red Man's form hath left these glades, And memory's moonlight o'er his story streams, From their dim graves shall rise heroic shades, And fill the fancy with romantic dreams.

Then, in the city's gorgeous squares shall rise The chiselled column to the admiring view-- To mark the spot where some stern Black Hawk lies, Whom ages gone, our glorious grandsires slew!

[Ill.u.s.tration: The Indian Lovers]

VII.

Dim shadows these that come at Fancy's call-- Yet deeper scenes before the Patriot rise, As fate's stern prophet lifts the fearful pall, And shows the future to his straining eyes.

Oh! shall that vision paint this glorious vale With happy millions o'er its bosom spread-- Or ghastly scenes where battle taints the gale With brother's blood by brother's weapon shed?

Away, ye phantom fears--the scene is fair, Down the long vista of uncounted years; Bright harvests smile, sweet meadows scent the air, And peaceful plenty o'er the scene appears.

The village rings with labor's jocund laugh, The hoyden shout around the school-house door, The old man's voice, as bending o'er his staff, He waxes valiant in the tales of yore: Far tapering spires from teeming cities rise, The sabbath bell comes stealing on the air, A holy anthem seeks the bending skies, And earth and heaven seem fondly blended there!

Aye--and beyond, where distance spreads its blue, Down the unfolding vale of future time, A glorious vision rises on the view, And wakes the bosom with a hope sublime.

Majestic Stream! at dim Creation's dawn, Thou wert a witness of that glorious birth-- And thy proud waters still shall sweep the lawn When Peace shall claim dominion of the earth.

Here in this vale for mighty empire made, Perchance the glorious flag shall be unfurled, And violence and wrong and ruin fade, Before its conquering march around the world!

[Footnote A: We are told by the Geographers that the Missouri, which rises in the glaciers of the Rocky Mountains, is properly the head stream of the Mississippi, and it is thus regarded in these lines. In this view, the Mississippi is the longest river in the world.]

[Footnote B: Habakkuk iii. 3.]

[Ill.u.s.tration: Vignette]

The Two Windmills.

[Ill.u.s.tration: The Two Windmills]

Two neighbors, living on a hill, Had each--and side by side--a mill.

The one was Jones,--a thrifty wight-- Whose mill in every wind went right.

The storm and tempest vainly spent Their rage upon it--round it went!

E'en when the summer breeze was light, The whirling wings performed their flight; And hence a village saying rose-- "As sure as Jones's mill, it goes."

Not so with neighbor Smith's--close by; Full half the time it would not ply: Save only when the wind was west, Still as a post it stood at rest.

By every tempest it was battered, By every thundergust 'twas shattered; Through many a rent the rain did filter; And, fair or foul, 'twas out of kilter; And thus the saying came at last-- "Smith's mill is made for folks that fast."

Now, who can read this riddle right?

Two mills are standing on a height-- One whirling brisk, whate'er the weather, The other, idle, weeks together!

Come, gentle reader, lend thine ear, And thou the simple truth shalt hear; And mark,--for here the moral lurks,-- Smith held to faith, but not to works; While Jones believed in both, and so, By faith and practice, made it go!

Smith prayed, and straight sent in his bill, Expecting Heaven to tend his mill; And grumbled sore, whene'er he found That wheels ungreased would not go round.

Not so with Jones--for, though as prayerful, To grease his wheels he e'er was careful, And healed, with ready st.i.tch, each rent That ruthless time or tempest sent; And thus, by works, his faith expressed, Good neighbor Jones by Heaven was blessed.

The Ideal and the Actual.

My boat is on the bounding tide, Away, away from surge and sh.o.r.e; A waif upon the wave I ride, Without a rudder or an oar.

Blow as ye list, ye breezes, blow-- The compa.s.s now is nought to me; Flow as ye will, ye billows, flow, If but ye bear me out to sea.

Yon waving line of dusky blue, Where care and toil oppress the heart-- To thee I bid a long adieu, And smile to feel that thus we part.

There let the sweating ploughman toil, The yearning miser count his gain, The fevered scholar waste his oil, But I am bounding o'er the main!

How fresh these breezes to the brow-- How dear this freedom to the soul; Bright ocean, I am with thee now, So let thy golden billows roll!

But stay--what means this throbbing brain-- This heaving chest--these pulses quick?

Oh, take me to the land again, _For I am very, very sick!_

The Golden Dream.

In midnight dreams the Wizard came, And beckoned me away-- With tempting hopes of wealth and fame, He cheered my lonely way.

He led me o'er a dusky heath, And there a river swept, Whose gay and gla.s.sy tide beneath, Uncounted treasure, slept.

The wooing ripples lightly dashed Around the cherished store, And circling eddies brightly flashed Above the yellow ore.

I bent me o'er the deep smooth stream, And plunged the gold to get,-- But oh! it vanished with my dream-- And I got dripping wet!