LAKE SUPERIOR.
Nor can the light canoes, that glide Across thy breast like things of air, Chase from thy lone and level tide
The spell of stillness reigning there.
Yet round this waste of wood and wave, Unheard, unseen, a spirit lives, That, breathing o'er each rock and cave, To all a wild, strange aspect gives.
The thunder-riven oak, that flings Its grisly arms athwart the sky, A sudden, startling image brings
To the lone traveler's kindled eye.
The gnarl'd and braided boughs, that show Their dim forms in the forest shade, Like wrestling serpents seen, and throw Fantastic horrors through the glade.
The very echoes round this shore
Have caught a strange and gibbering tone; For they have told the war-whoop o'er, Till the wild chorus is their own.
Wave of the wilderness, adieu!
Adieu, ye rocks, ye wilds and woods!
Roll on, thou element of blue,
And fill these awful solitudes!
Thou hast no tale to tell of man
GOD is thy theme. Ye sounding cavesWhisper of Him, whose mighty plan
Deems as a bubble all your waves!
WELL do I love those various harmonies That ring so gayly in Spring's budding woods, And in the thickets, and green, quiet haunts, And lonely copses of the Summer-time, And in red Autumn's ancient solitudes.
If thou art pain'd with the world's noisy stir, Or crazed with its mad tumults, and weigh'd down With any of the ills of human life;
If thou art sick and weak, or mournest at the loss Of brethren gone to that far-distant land
To which we all do pass, gentle and poor, The gayest and the gravest, all alike, Then turn into the peaceful woods, and hear The thrilling music of the forest birds.
How rich the varied choir! The unquiet finch Calls from the distant hollows, and the wren Uttereth her sweet and mellow plaint at times, And the thrush mourneth where the kalmia hangs Its crimson-spotted cups, or chirps, half hid Amid the lowly dogwood's snowy flowers, And the blue jay flits by, from tree to tree, And, spreading its rich pinions, fills the ear With its shrill-sounding and unsteady cry.
With the sweet airs of Spring, the robin comes, And in her simple song there seems to gush
A strain of sorrow when she visiteth
Her last year's wither'd nest. But when the gloom Of the deep twilight falls, she takes her perch
THE NOTES OF THE BIRDS.
Upon the red-stemm'd hazel's slender twig, That overhangs the brook, and suits her song To the slow rivulet's inconstant chime.
In the last days of Autumn, when the corn Lies sweet and yellow in the harvest field, And the gay company of reapers bind
The bearded wheat in sheaves, then peals abroad The blackbird's merry chant. I love to hear, Bold plunderer, thy mellow burst of song Float from thy watchplace on the mossy tree Close at the cornfield edge.
There is much sweetness in thy fitful hymn, Heard in the drowsy watches of the night. Ofttimes, when all the village lights are out, And the wide air is still, I hear thee chant Thy hollow dirge, like some recluse who takes His lodging in the wilderness of woods, And lifts his anthem when the world is still: And the dim, solemn night, that brings to man And to the herds deep slumbers, and sweet dews To the red roses and the herbs, doth find No eye, save thine, a watcher in her halls.
I hear thee oft, at midnight, when the thrush
And the green, roving linnet are at rest,
And the blithe, twittering swallows have long ceased Their noisy note, and folded up their wings.
Far up some brook's still course, whose current mines The forest's blacken'd roots, and whose green marge Is seldom visited by human foot,
The lonely heron sits, and harshly breaks
The Sabbath silence of the wilderness:
And you may find her by some reedy pool, Or brooding gloomily on the time-stain'd rock, Beside some misty and far-reaching lake.
Most awful is thy deep and heavy boom,
Gray watcher of the waters!
Thou art king Of the blue lake; and all the winged kind
Do fear the echo of thine angry cry.
How bright thy savage eye! Thou lookest down, And seest the shining fishes as they glide;
And, poising thy gray wing, thy glossy beak Swift as an arrow strikes its roving prey. Ofttimes I see thee, through the curling mist, Dart like a spectre of the night, and hear Thy strange, bewildering call, like the wild scream Of one whose life is perishing in the sea.
And now, wouldst thou, O man! delight the ear With earth's delicious sounds, or charm the eye With beautiful creations? Then pass forth, And find them mid those many-colour'd birds That fill the glowing woods. The richest hues Lie in their splendid plumage, and their tones Are sweeter than the music of the lute, Or the harp's melody, or the notes that gush So thrillingly from Beauty's ruby lip.
STOOP to my window, thou beautiful dove! Thy daily visits have touch'd my love! I watch thy coming, and list the note That stirs so low in thy mellow throat, And my joy is high
To catch the glance of thy gentle eye.
Why dost thou sit on the heated eaves,
And forsake the wood with its freshen'd leaves? Why dost thou haunt the sultry street,
When the paths of the forest are cool and sweet? How canst thou bear
This noise of people-this sultry air?
Thou alone of the feather'd race
Dost look unscared on the human face; Thou alone, with a wing to flee,
Dost love with man in his haunts to be; And "the gentle dove"
Has become a name for trust and love.
A holy gift is thine, sweet bird!
Thou 'rt named with childhood's earliest word! Thou'rt link'd with all that is fresh and wild In the prison'd thoughts of the city child, And thy glossy wings
Are its brightest image of moving things.
It is no light chance. Thou art set apart, Wisely by Him who has tamed thy heart, To stir the love for the bright and fair That else were seal'd in this crowded air; I sometimes dream
Angelic rays from thy pinions stream.
Come then, ever, when daylight leaves The page I read, to my humble eaves, And wash thy breast in the hollow spout, And murmur thy low sweet music out! I hear and see
Lessons of Heaven, sweet bird, in thee!
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