A BRIGHTER DAY.

FROM THE SPANISH.

Harness the impatient Years, O Time! and yoke them to the imperial car; For, through a mist of tears, The brighter day appears, Whose early blushes tinge the hills afar.

A brighter day for thee, O realm! whose glorious fields are spread between The dark-blue Midland Sea And that immensity Of Western waters which once hailed thee queen!

The fiery coursers fling Their necks aloft, and snuff the morning wind, Till the fleet moments bring The expected sign to spring Along their path, and leave these glooms behind.

Yoke them, and yield the reins To Spain, and lead her to the lofty seat; But, ere she mount, the chains Whose cruel strength constrains Her limbs must fall in fragments at her feet.

A tyrant brood have wound About her helpless limbs the steely braid, And toward a gulf profound They drag her, gagged and bound, Down among dead men's bones, and frost and shade.

O Spain! thou wert of yore The wonder of the realms; in prouder years Thy haughty forehead wore, What it shall wear no more, The diadem of both the hemispheres.

To thee the ancient Deep Revealed his pleasant, undiscovered lands; From mines where jewels sleep, Tilled plain and vine-clad steep, Earth's richest spoil was offered to thy hands.

Yet thou, when land and sea Sent thee their tribute with each rolling wave, And kingdoms crouched to thee, Wert false to Liberty, And therefore art thou now a shackled slave.

Wilt thou not, yet again, Put forth the sleeping strength that in thee lies, And snap the shameful chain, And force that tyrant train To flee before the anger in thine eyes?

Then shall the harnessed Years Sweep onward with thee to that glorious height Which even now appears Bright through the mist of tears, The dwelling-place of Liberty and Light.

_October_, 1867.

AMONG THE TREES.

Oh ye who love to overhang the springs, And stand by running waters, ye whose boughs Make beautiful the rocks o'er which they play, Who pile with foliage the great hills, and rear A paradise upon the lonely plain, Trees of the forest, and the open field!

Have ye no sense of being? Does the air, The pure air, which I breathe with gladness, pa.s.s In gushes o'er your delicate lungs, your leaves, All unenjoyed? When on your winter's sleep The sun shines warm, have ye no dreams of spring?

And when the glorious spring-time comes at last, Have ye no joy of all your bursting buds, And fragrant blooms, and melody of birds To which your young leaves shiver? Do ye strive And wrestle with the wind, yet know it not?

Feel ye no glory in your strength when he, The exhausted Bl.u.s.terer, flies beyond the hills, And leaves you stronger yet? Or have ye not A sense of loss when he has stripped your leaves, Yet tender, and has splintered your fair boughs?

Does the loud bolt that smites you from the cloud And rends you, fall unfelt? Do there not run Strange shudderings through your fibres when the axe Is raised against you, and the shining blade Deals blow on blow, until, with all their boughs, Your summits waver and ye fall to earth?

Know ye no sadness when the hurricane Has swept the wood and snapped its st.u.r.dy stems Asunder, or has wrenched, from out the soil, The mightiest with their circles of strong roots, And piled the ruin all along his path?

Nay, doubt we not that under the rough rind, In the green veins of these fair growths of earth, There dwells a nature that receives delight From all the gentle processes of life, And shrinks from loss of being. Dim and faint May be the sense of pleasure and of pain, As in our dreams; but, haply, real still.

Our sorrows touch you not. We watch beside The beds of those who languish or who die, And minister in sadness, while our hearts Offer perpetual prayer for life and ease And health to the beloved sufferers.

But ye, while anxious fear and fainting hope Are in our chambers, ye rejoice without.

The funeral goes forth; a silent train Moves slowly from the desolate home; our hearts Are breaking as we lay away the loved, Whom we shall see no more, in their last rest, Their little cells within the burial-place.

Ye have no part in this distress; for still The February sunshine steeps your boughs And tints the buds and swells the leaves within; While the song-sparrow, warbling from her perch, Tells you that spring is near. The wind of May Is sweet with breath of orchards, in whose boughs The bees and every insect of the air Make a perpetual murmur of delight, And by whose flowers the humming-bird hangs poised In air, and draws their sweets and darts away.

The linden, in the fervors of July, Hums with a louder concert. When the wind Sweeps the broad forest in its summer prime, As when some master-hand exulting sweeps The keys of some great organ, ye give forth The music of the woodland depths, a hymn Of gladness and of thanks. The hermit-thrush Pipes his sweet note to make your arches ring; The faithful robin, from the wayside elm, Carols all day to cheer his sitting mate; And when the autumn comes, the kings of earth, In all their majesty, are not arrayed As ye are, clothing the broad mountain-side And spotting the smooth vales with red and gold; While, swaying to the sudden breeze, ye fling Your nuts to earth, and the brisk squirrel comes To gather them, and barks with childish glee, And scampers with them to his hollow oak.

Thus, as the seasons pa.s.s, ye keep alive The cheerfulness of Nature, till in time The constant misery which wrings the heart Relents, and we rejoice with you again, And glory in your beauty; till once more We look with pleasure on your varnished leaves, That gayly glance in sunshine, and can hear, Delighted, the soft answer which your boughs Utter in whispers to the babbling brook.

Ye have no history. I cannot know Who, when the hillside trees were hewn away, Haply two centuries since, bade spare this oak, Leaning to shade, with his irregular arms, Low-bent and long, the fount that from his roots Slips through a bed of cresses toward the bay-- I know not who, but thank him that he left The tree to flourish where the acorn fell, And join these later days to that far time While yet the Indian hunter drew the bow In the dim woods, and the white woodman first Opened these fields to sunshine, turned the soil And strewed the wheat. An unremembered Past Broods, like a presence, mid the long gray boughs Of this old tree, which has outlived so long The flitting generations of mankind.

Ye have no history. I ask in vain Who planted on the slope this lofty group Of ancient pear-trees that with spring-time burst Into such breadth of bloom. One bears a scar Where the quick lightning scored its trunk, yet still It feels the breath of Spring, and every May Is white with blossoms. Who it was that laid Their infant roots in earth, and tenderly Cherished the delicate sprays, I ask in vain, Yet bless the unknown hand to which I owe This annual festival of bees, these songs Of birds within their leafy screen, these shouts Of joy from children gathering up the fruit Shaken in August from the willing boughs.

Ye that my hands have planted, or have spared, Beside the way, or in the orchard-ground, Or in the open meadow, ye whose boughs With every summer spread a wider shade, Whose herd in coming years shall lie at rest Beneath your noontide shelter? who shall pluck Your ripened fruit? who grave, as was the wont Of simple pastoral ages, on the rind Of my smooth beeches some beloved name?

Idly I ask; yet may the eyes that look Upon you, in your later, n.o.bler growth, Look also on a n.o.bler age than ours; An age when, in the eternal strife between Evil and Good, the Power of Good shall win A grander mastery; when kings no more Shall summon millions from the plough to learn The trade of slaughter, and of populous realms Make camps of war; when in our younger land The hand of ruffian Violence, that now Is insolently raised to smite, shall fall Unnerved before the calm rebuke of Law, And Fraud, his sly confederate, shrink, in shame, Back to his covert, and forego his prey.

MAY EVENING.

The breath of Spring-time at this twilight hour Comes through the gathering glooms, And bears the stolen sweets of many a flower Into my silent rooms.

Where hast thou wandered, gentle gale, to find The perfumes thou dost bring?

By brooks, that through the wakening meadows wind, Or brink of rushy spring?

Or woodside, where, in little companies, The early wild-flowers rise, Or sheltered lawn, where, mid encircling trees, May's warmest sunshine lies?

Now sleeps the humming-bird, that, in the sun, Wandered from bloom to bloom; Now, too, the weary bee, his day's work done, Rests in his waxen room.

Now every hovering insect to his place Beneath the leaves hath flown; And, through the long night hours, the flowery race Are left to thee alone.

O'er the pale blossoms of the sa.s.safras And o'er the spice-bush spray, Among the opening buds, thy breathings pa.s.s, And come embalmed away.

Yet there is sadness in thy soft caress, Wind of the blooming year!

The gentle presence, that was wont to bless Thy coming, is not here.

Go, then; and yet I bid thee not repair, Thy gathered sweets to shed, Where pine and willow, in the evening air, Sigh o'er the buried dead.

Pa.s.s on to homes where cheerful voices sound, And cheerful looks are cast, And where thou wakest, in thine airy round, No sorrow of the past.

Refresh the languid student pausing o'er The learned page apart, And he shall turn to con his task once more With an encouraged heart.

Bear thou a promise, from the fragrant sward, To him who tills the land, Of springing harvests that shall yet reward The labors of his hand.

And whisper, everywhere, that Earth renews Her beautiful array, Amid the darkness and the gathering dews, For the return of day.

OCTOBER, 1866.

'Twas when the earth in summer glory lay, We bore thee to thy grave; a sudden cloud Had shed its shower and pa.s.sed, and every spray And tender herb with pearly moisture bowed.