When insect wings are glistening in the beam Of the low sun, and mountain-tops are bright, Oh, let me, by the crystal valley-stream, Wander amid the mild and mellow light; And while the wood-thrush pipes his evening lay, Give me one lonely hour to hymn the setting day.

Oh, sun! that o'er the western mountains now Go'st down in glory! ever beautiful And blessed is thy radiance, whether thou Colorest the eastern heaven and night-mist cool, Till the bright day-star vanish, or on high Climbest and streamest thy white splendors from mid-sky.

Yet, loveliest are thy setting smiles, and fair, Fairest of all that earth beholds, the hues, That live among the clouds, and flush the air, Lingering and deepening at the hour of dews.

Then softest gales are breathed, and softest heard The plaining voice of streams, and pensive note of bird.

They who here roamed, of yore, the forest wide, Felt, by such charm, their simple bosoms won; They deemed their quivered warrior, when he died, Went to bright isles beneath the setting sun; Where winds are aye at peace, and skies are fair, And purple-skirted clouds curtain the crimson air.

So, with the glories of the dying day, Its thousand trembling lights and changing hues, The memory of the brave who pa.s.sed away Tenderly mingled;--fitting hour to muse On such grave theme, and sweet the dream that shed Brightness and beauty round the destiny of the dead.

For ages, on the silent forests here, Thy beams did fall before the red man came To dwell beneath them; in their shade the deer Fed, and feared not the arrow's deadly aim.

Nor tree was felled, in all that world of woods, Save by the beaver's tooth, or winds, or rush of floods.

Then came the hunter tribes, and thou didst look, For ages, on their deeds in the hard chase, And well-fought wars; green sod and silver brook Took the first stain of blood; before thy face The warrior generations came and pa.s.sed, And glory was laid up for many an age to last.

Now they are gone, gone as thy setting blaze Goes down the west, while night is pressing on, And with them the old tale of better days, And trophies of remembered power, are gone.

Yon field that gives the harvest, where the plough Strikes the white bone, is all that tells their story now.

I stand upon their ashes in thy beam, The offspring of another race, I stand, Beside a stream they loved, this valley-stream; And where the night-fire of the quivered band Showed the gray oak by fits, and war-song rung, I teach the quiet shades the strains of this new tongue.

Farewell! but thou shalt come again--thy light Must shine on other changes, and behold The place of the thronged city still as night-- States fallen--new empires built upon the old-- But never shalt thou see these realms again Darkened by boundless groves, and roamed by savage men.

HYMN TO DEATH.

Oh! could I hope the wise and pure in heart Might hear my song without a frown, nor deem My voice unworthy of the theme it tries,-- I would take up the hymn to Death, and say To the grim power, The world hath slandered thee And mocked thee. On thy dim and shadowy brow They place an iron crown, and call thee king Of terrors, and the spoiler of the world, Deadly a.s.sa.s.sin, that strik'st down the fair, The loved, the good--that breathest on the lights Of virtue set along the vale of life, And they go out in darkness. I am come, Not with reproaches, not with cries and prayers, Such as have stormed thy stern, insensible tar From the beginning; I am come to speak Thy praises. True it is, that I have wept Thy conquests, and may weep them yet again, And thou from some I love wilt take a life Dear to me as my own. Yet while the spell Is on my spirit, and I talk with thee In sight of all thy trophies, face to face, Meet is it that my voice should utter forth Thy n.o.bler triumphs; I will teach the world To thank thee. Who are thine accusers?--Who?

The living!--they who never felt thy power, And know thee not. The curses of the wretch Whose crimes are ripe, his sufferings when thy hand Is on him, and the hour he dreads is come, Are writ among thy praises. But the good-- Does he whom thy kind hand dismissed to peace, Upbraid the gentle violence that took off His fetters, and unbarred his prison-cell?

Raise then the hymn to Death. Deliverer!

G.o.d hath anointed thee to free the oppressed And crush the oppressor. When the armed chief, The conqueror of nations, walks the world, And it is changed beneath his feet, and all Its kingdoms melt into one mighty realm-- Thou, while his head is loftiest and his heart Blasphemes, imagining his own right hand Almighty, thou dost set thy sudden grasp Upon him, and the links of that strong chain Which bound mankind are crumbled; thou dost break Sceptre and crown, and beat his throne to dust.

Then the earth shouts with gladness, and her tribes Gather within their ancient bounds again.

Else had the mighty of the olden time, Nimrod, Sesostris, or the youth who feigned His birth from Libyan Ammon, smitten yet The nations with a rod of iron, and driven Their chariot o'er our necks. Thou dost avenge, In thy good time, the wrongs of those who know No other friend. Nor dost thou interpose Only to lay the sufferer asleep, Where he who made him wretched troubles not His rest--thou dost strike down his tyrant too.

Oh, there is joy when hands that held the scourge Drop lifeless, and the pitiless heart is cold.

Thou too dost purge from earth its horrible And old idolatries;--from the proud fanes Each to his grave their priests go out, till none Is left to teach their worship; then the fires Of sacrifice are chilled, and the green moss O'ercreeps their altars; the fallen images c.u.mber the weedy courts, and for loud hymns, Chanted by kneeling mult.i.tudes, the wind Shrieks in the solitary aisles. When he Who gives his life to guilt, and laughs at all The laws that G.o.d or man has made, and round Hedges his seat with power, and shines in wealth,-- Lifts up his atheist front to scoff at Heaven, And celebrates his shame in open day, Thou, in the pride of all his crimes, cutt'st off The horrible example. Touched by thine, The extortioner's hard hand foregoes the gold Wrung from the o'er-worn poor. The perjurer, Whose tongue was lithe, e'en now, and voluble Against his neighbor's life, and he who laughed And leaped for joy to see a spotless fame Blasted before his own foul calumnies, Are smit with deadly silence. He, who sold His conscience to preserve a worthless life, Even while he hugs himself on his escape, Trembles, as, doubly terrible, at length, Thy steps o'ertake him, and there is no time For parley, nor will bribes unclench thy grasp.

Oft, too, dost thou reform thy victim, long Ere his last hour. And when the reveller, Mad in the chase of pleasure, stretches on, And strains each nerve, and clears the path of life Like wind, thou point'st him to the dreadful goal, And shak'st thy hour-gla.s.s in his reeling eye, And check'st him in mid course. Thy skeleton hand Shows to the faint of spirit the right path, And he is warned, and fears to step aside.

Thou sett'st between the ruffian and his crime Thy ghastly countenance, and his slack hand Drops the drawn knife. But, oh, most fearfully Dost thou show forth Heaven's justice, when thy shafts Drink up the ebbing spirit--then the hard Of heart and violent of hand restores The treasure to the friendless wretch he wronged.

Then from the writhing bosom thou dost pluck The guilty secret; lips, for ages sealed, Are faithless to their dreadful trust at length, And give it up; the felon's latest breath Absolves the innocent man who bears his crime; The slanderer, horror-smitten, and in tears, Recalls the deadly obloquy he forged To work his brother's ruin. Thou dost make Thy penitent victim utter to the air The dark conspiracy that strikes at life, And aims to whelm the laws; ere yet the hour Is come, and the dread sign of murder given.

Thus, from the first of time, hast thou been found On virtue's side; the wicked, but for thee, Had been too strong for the good; the great of earth Had crushed the weak for ever. Schooled in guile For ages, while each pa.s.sing year had brought Its baneful lesson, they had filled the world With their abominations; while its tribes, Trodden to earth, imbruted, and despoiled, Had knelt to them in worship; sacrifice Had smoked on many an altar, temple-roofs Had echoed with the blasphemous prayer and hymn: But thou, the great reformer of the world, Tak'st off the sons of violence and fraud In their green pupilage, their lore half learned-- Ere guilt had quite o'errun the simple heart G.o.d gave them at their birth, and blotted out His image. Thou dost mark them flushed with hope, As on the threshold of their vast designs Doubtful and loose they stand, and strik'st them down.

Alas! I little thought that the stern power, Whose fearful praise I sang, would try me thus Before the strain was ended. It must cease-- For he is in his grave who taught my youth The art of verse, and in the bud of life Offered me to the Muses. Oh, cut off Untimely! when thy reason in its strength, Ripened by years of toil and studious search, And watch of Nature's silent lessons, taught Thy hand to practise best the lenient art To which thou gavest thy laborious days, And, last, thy life. And, therefore, when the earth Received thee, tears were in unyielding eyes And on hard cheeks, and they who deemed thy skill Delayed their death-hour, shuddered and turned pale When thou wert gone. This faltering verse, which thou Shalt not, as wont, o'erlook, is all I have To offer at thy grave--this--and the hope To copy thy example, and to leave A name of which the wretched shall not think As of an enemy's, whom they forgive As all forgive the dead. Rest, therefore, thou Whose early guidance trained my infant steps-- Rest, in the bosom of G.o.d, till the brief sleep Of death is over, and a happier life Shall dawn to waken thine insensible dust.

Now thou art not--and yet the men whose guilt Has wearied Heaven for vengeance--he who bears False witness--he who takes the orphan's bread, And robs the widow--he who spreads abroad Polluted hands in mockery of prayer, Are left to c.u.mber earth. Shuddering I look On what is written, yet I blot not out The desultory numbers; let them stand, The record of an idle revery.

THE Ma.s.sACRE AT SCIO.

Weep not for Scio's children slain; Their blood, by Turkish falchions shed, Sends not its cry to Heaven in vain For vengeance on the murderer's head.

Though high the warm red torrent ran Between the flames that lit the sky, Yet, for each drop, an armed man Shall rise, to free the land, or die.

And for each corpse, that in the sea Was thrown, to feast the scaly herds, A hundred of the foe shall be A banquet for the mountain-birds.

Stern rites and sad shall Greece ordain To keep that day along her sh.o.r.e, Till the last link of slavery's chain Is shattered, to be worn no more.

THE INDIAN GIRL'S LAMENT.

An Indian girl was sitting where Her lover, slain in battle, slept; Her maiden veil, her own black hair, Came down o'er eyes that wept; And wildly, in her woodland tongue, This sad and simple lay she sung:

"I've pulled away the shrubs that grew Too close above thy sleeping head, And broke the forest-boughs that threw Their shadows o'er thy bed, That, shining from the sweet southwest, The sunbeams might rejoice thy rest.

"It was a weary, weary road That led thee to the pleasant coast, Where thou, in his serene abode, Hast met thy father's ghost; Where everlasting autumn lies On yellow woods and sunny skies.

"'Twas I the broidered mocsen made, That shod thee for that distant land; 'Twas I thy bow and arrows laid Beside thy still cold hand; Thy bow in many a battle bent, Thy arrows never vainly sent.

"With wampum-belts I crossed thy breast, And wrapped thee in the bison's hide, And laid the food that pleased thee best, In plenty, by thy side, And decked thee bravely, as became A warrior of ill.u.s.trious name.

"Thou'rt happy now, for thou hast pa.s.sed The long dark journey of the grave, And in the land of light, at last, Hast joined the good and brave; Amid the flushed and balmy air, The bravest and the loveliest there.

"Yet, oft to thine own Indian maid Even there thy thoughts will earthward stray-- To her who sits where thou wert laid, And weeps the hours away, Yet almost can her grief forget, To think that thou dost love her yet.

"And thou, by one of those still lakes That in a shining cl.u.s.ter lie, On which the south wind scarcely breaks The image of the sky, A bower for thee and me hast made Beneath the many-colored shade.

"And thou dost wait and watch to meet My spirit sent to join the blessed, And, wondering what detains my feet From that bright land of rest, Dost seem, in every sound, to hear The rustling of my footsteps near."

ODE FOR AN AGRICULTURAL CELEBRATION.

Far back in the ages, The plough with wreaths was crowned; The hands of kings and sages Entwined the chaplet round; Till men of spoil disdained the toil By which the world was nourished, And dews of blood enriched the soil Where green their laurels flourished.

--Now the world her fault repairs-- The guilt that stains her story; And weeps her crimes amid the cares That formed her earliest glory.

The proud throne shall crumble, The diadem shall wane, The tribes of earth shall humble The pride of those who reign; And War shall lay his pomp away;-- The fame that heroes cherish, The glory earned in deadly fray Shall fade, decay, and perish.

Honor waits, o'er all the earth, Through endless generations, The art that calls her harvest forth, And feeds th' expectant nations.