The forest depths, by foot unpressed, Are not more sinless than thy breast; The holy peace, that fills the air Of those calm solitudes, is there.

"I BROKE THE SPELL THAT HELD ME LONG."

I broke the spell that held me long, The dear, dear witchery of song.

I said, the poet's idle lore Shall waste my prime of years no more, For Poetry, though heavenly born, Consorts with poverty and scorn.

I broke the spell--nor deemed its power Could fetter me another hour.

Ah, thoughtless! how could I forget Its causes were around me yet?

For wheresoe'er I looked, the while, Was Nature's everlasting smile.

Still came and lingered on my sight Of flowers and streams the bloom and light, And glory of the stars and sun;-- And these and poetry are one.

They, ere the world had held me long, Recalled me to the love of song.

JUNE.

I gazed upon the glorious sky And the green mountains round, And thought that when I came to lie At rest within the ground, 'Twere pleasant, that in flowery June, When brooks send up a cheerful tune, And groves a joyous sound, The s.e.xton's hand, my grave to make, The rich, green mountain-turf should break.

A cell within the frozen mould, A coffin borne through sleet, And icy clods above it rolled, While fierce the tempests beat-- Away!--I will not think of these-- Blue be the sky and soft the breeze, Earth green beneath the feet, And be the damp mould gently pressed Into my narrow place of rest.

There through the long, long summer hours, The golden light should lie, And thick young herbs and groups of flowers Stand in their beauty by.

The oriole should build and tell His love-tale close beside my cell; The idle b.u.t.terfly Should rest him there, and there be heard The housewife bee and humming-bird.

And what if cheerful shouts at noon Come, from the village sent, Or songs of maids, beneath the moon With fairy laughter blent?

And what if, in the evening light, Betrothed lovers walk in sight Of my low monument?

I would the lovely scene around Might know no sadder sight nor sound.

I know that I no more should see The season's glorious show, Nor would its brightness shine for me, Nor its wild music flow; But if, around my place of sleep, The friends I love should come to weep, They might not haste to go.

Soft airs, and song, and light, and bloom Should keep them lingering by my tomb.

These to their softened hearts should bear The thought of what has been, And speak of one who cannot share The gladness of the scene; Whose part, in all the pomp that fills The circuit of the summer hills, Is that his grave is green; And deeply would their hearts rejoice To hear again his living voice.

A SONG OF PITCAIRN'S ISLAND.

Come, take our boy, and we will go Before our cabin-door; The winds shall bring us, as they blow, The murmurs of the sh.o.r.e; And we will kiss his young blue eyes, And I will sing him, as he lies, Songs that were made of yore: I'll sing, in his delighted ear, The island lays thou lov'st to hear.

And thou, while stammering I repeat, Thy country's tongue shalt teach; 'Tis not so soft, but far more sweet Than my own native speech: For thou no other tongue didst know, When, scarcely twenty moons ago, Upon Tahete's beach, Thou cam'st to woo me to be thine, With many a speaking look and sign.

I knew thy meaning--thou didst praise My eyes, my locks of jet; Ah! well for me they won thy gaze, But thine were fairer yet!

I'm glad to see my infant wear Thy soft blue eyes and sunny hair, And when my sight is met By his white brow and blooming cheek, I feel a joy I cannot speak.

Come, talk of Europe's maids with me, Whose necks and cheeks, they tell, Outshine the beauty of the sea, White foam and crimson sh.e.l.l.

I'll shape like theirs my simple dress, And bind like them each jetty tress, A sight to please thee well; And for my dusky brow will braid A bonnet like an English maid.

Come, for the soft low sunlight calls, We lose the pleasant hours; 'Tis lovelier than these cottage walls,-- That seat among the flowers.

And I will learn of thee a prayer, To Him who gave a home so fair, A lot so blest as ours-- The G.o.d who made, for thee and me, This sweet lone isle amid the sea.

THE FIRMAMENT.

Ay! gloriously thou standest there, Beautiful, boundless firmament!

That, swelling wide o'er earth and air, And round the horizon bent, With thy bright vault, and sapphire wall, Dost overhang and circle all.

Far, far below thee, tall gray trees Arise, and piles built up of old, And hills, whose ancient summits freeze In the fierce light and cold.

The eagle soars his utmost height, Yet far thou stretchest o'er his flight.

Thou hast thy frowns--with thee on high The storm has made his airy seat, Beyond that soft blue curtain lie His stores of hail and sleet.

Thence the consuming lightnings break, There the strong hurricanes awake.

Yet art thou prodigal of smiles-- Smiles, sweeter than thy frowns are stern.

Earth sends, from all her thousand isles, A shout at their return.

The glory that comes down from thee, Bathes, in deep joy, the land and sea.

The sun, the gorgeous sun is thine, The pomp that brings and shuts the day, The clouds that round him change and shine, The airs that fan his way.

Thence look the thoughtful stars, and there The meek moon walks the silent air.

The sunny Italy may boast The beauteous tints that flush her skies, And lovely, round the Grecian coast, May thy blue pillars rise.

I only know how fair they stand Around my own beloved land.

And they are fair--a charm is theirs, That earth, the proud green earth, has not, With all the forms, and hues, and airs, That haunt her sweetest spot.

We gaze upon thy calm pure sphere, And read of Heaven's eternal year.

Oh, when, amid the throng of men, The heart grows sick of hollow mirth, How willingly we turn us then Away from this cold earth, And look into thy azure breast, For seats of innocence and rest!

"I CANNOT FORGET WITH WHAT FERVID DEVOTION."

I cannot forget with what fervid devotion I worshipped the visions of verse and of fame; Each gaze at the glories of earth, sky, and ocean, To my kindled emotions, was wind over flame.

And deep were my musings in life's early blossom, Mid the twilight of mountain-groves wandering long; How thrilled my young veins, and how throbbed my full bosom, When o'er me descended the spirit of song!