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Yet whenever I cross the river

On its bridge with wooden piers, Like the odour of brine from the ocean

Comes the thought of other years.

And I think how many thousands

Of care-encumbered men,
Each bearing his burden of sorrow,

Have crossed the bridge since then.

I see the long procession

Still passing to and fro,
The young heart hot and restless,

And the old subdued and slow !

And for ever, and for ever,

As long as the river flows,
As long as the heart has passions,

As long as life has woes ;

The moon and its broken reflection

And its shadows shall appear, As the symbol of love in heaven,

And its wavering image here.

TO THE DRIVING CLOUD. GLOOMY and dark art thou, O chief of the

mighty Omawhaws ; Gloomy and dark, as the driving cloud, whose

name thou hast taken! Wrapt in thy scarlet blanket, I see thee stalk

through the city's Narrow and populous streets, as once by the

margin of rivers Stalked those birds unknown, that have left

us only their footprints. What, in a few short years, will remain of thy

race but the footprints ?

How canst thou walk in these streets, who

hast trod the green turf of the prairies ? How canst thou breathe in this air, who hast

breathed the sweet air of the mountains ? Ah! 'tis in vain that with lordly looks of dis

dain thou dost challenge Looks of dislike in return, and question these

walls and these pavements,

Claiming the soil for thy hunting grounds,

while down-trodden millions Starve in the garrets of Europe, and cry from

its caverns that they, too, Have been created heirs of the earth, and

claim its division ! Back, then, back to thy woods in the regions

west of the Wabash! There as a monarch thou reignest. In autumn

the leaves of the maple Pave the floors of thy palace halls with gold,

and in summer Pine-trees waft through its chambers the

odorous breath of their branches. There thou art strong and great, a hero, a

tamer of horses ! There thou chasest the stately stag on the

banks of the Elkhorn. Or by the roar of the Running-Water, or

where the Omawhaw Calls thee, and leaps through the wild ravine

like a brave of the Blackfeet ! Hark! what murmurs arise from the heart of

those mountainous deserts ?

Is it the cry of the foxes and crows, or the

mighty Behemoth, Who, unharmed, on his tusks once caught

the bolts of the thunder, And now lurks in his lair to destroy the race

of the red man? Far more fatal to thee and thy race than the

crows and the foxes, Far more fatal to thee and thy race than the

tread of Behemoth, Lo ! the big thunder-canoe, that steadily

breasts the Missouri's Merciless current! and yonder, afar on the

prairies, the campfires Gleam through the night; and the cloud of

dust in the gray of the day break Marks not the buffalo's track, nor the Man

dan's dexterous horse-race ; It is a caravan, whitening the desert where

dwell the Camanches ! Ha! how the breath of those Saxons and Celts,

like the blast of the east-wind, Drifts evermore to the west the scanty smokes

of thy wigwams!


In the ancient town of Bruges,
In the quaint old Flemish city,
As the evening shades descended,
Low and loud and sweetly blended,
Low at times and loud at times,
Changing like a poet's rhymes,
Rang the beautiful wild chimes
From the Belfry in the market
Of the ancient town of Bruges.

Then, with deep sonorous clangour
Calmly answering their sweet anger,
When the wrangling bells had ended
Slowly struck the clock eleven,
And, from out the silent heaven,
Silence on the town descended.
Silence, silence everywhere,
On the earth and in the air,

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