In climes of the east has the olive been sung,
And the grape been the theme of their lays; But for thee shall a harp of the backwoods be strung, Thou bright, ever beautiful maize !
Afar in the forest the rude cabins rise,
And send up their pillars of smoke,
And the tops of their columns are lost in the skies, O'er the heads of the cloud-kissing oak;
At length Indian summer, the lovely, doth come, With its blue frosty nights, and days still, When distinctly clear sounds the waterfall's hum, And the sun smokes ablaze on the hill!
A dim veil hangs over the landscape and flood, And the hills are all mellowed in haze, While Fall, creeping on like a monk 'neath his hood Plucks the thick-rustling wealth of the maize.
Near the skirt of the grove, where the sturdy arm And the heavy wains creak to the barns large and gray, swings
The axe till the old giant sways,
And echo repeats every blow as it rings, Shoots the green and the glorious maize ! There buds of the buckeye in spring are the first, And the willow's gold hair then appears, And snowy the cups of the dogwood that burst By the red bud, with pink-tinted tears. And striped the bolls which the poppy holds up For the dew, and the sun's yellow rays,
And brown is the pawpaw's shade-blossoming cup, In the wood, near the sun-loving maize!
When through the dark soil the bright steel of the
Turns the mould from its unbroken bed
Where the treasure securely we hold,
Housed safe from the tempest, dry-sheltered away,
Our blessing more precious than gold! And long from this manna that springs from the sod Shall we gratefully give him the praise, The source of all bounty, our Father and God, Who sent us from heaven the maize !
The ploughman is cheered by the finch on the bough, And whirled it like sleet on the wanderer's cheek;
And the blackbird doth follow his tread. And idle, afar on the landscape descried, The deep-lowing kine slowly graze, And nibbling the grass on the sunny hillside Are the sheep, hedged away from the maize. With spring-time and culture, in martial array It waves its green broadswords on high, And fights with the gale, in a fluttering fray,
And the sunbeams, which fail from the sky;
It strikes its green blades at the zephyrs at noon, And at night at the swift-flying fays,
Who ride through the darkness the beams of the
Through the spears and the flags of the maize !
When the summer is fierce still its banners are green, Each warrior's long beard groweth red,
It carried a shiver everywhere
From the unleafed boughs and pastures bare; The little brook heard it and built a roof 'Neath which he could house him, winter-proof All night by the white stars' frosty gleams He groined his arches and matched his beams; Slender and clear were his crystal spars As the lashes of light that trim the stars : He sculptured every summer delight In his halls and chambers out of sight; Sometimes his tinkling waters slipt Down through a frost-leaved forest-crypt, Long, sparkling aisles of steel-stemmed trees, Bending to counterfeit a breeze; Sometimes the roof no fretwork knew But silvery mosses that downward grew Sometimes it was carved in sharp relief
His emerald-bright sword is sharp-pointed and keen, With quaint arabesques of ice-fern leaf;
And golden his tassel-plumed head.
Sometimes it was simply smooth aud clear
As a host of armed knights set a monarch at naught, For the gladness of heaven to shine through, and here That defy the day-god to his gaze,
And, revived every morn from the battle that's fought, Fresh stand the green ranks of the maize !
But brown comes the autumn, and sear grows the corn,
And the woods like a rainbow are dressed, And but for the cock and the noontide horn Old time would be tempted to rest. The humming bee fans off a shower of gold From the mullein's long rod as it sways, And dry grow the leaves which protecting infold The ears of the well-ripened maize !
He had caught the nodding bulrush tops And hung them thickly with diamond drops, Which crystalled the beams of moon and sun, And made a star of every one.
Within the hall are song and laughter,
The cheeks of Christmas grow red and jolly, And sprouting is every corbel and rafter
With the lightsome green of ivy and holly; Through the deep gulf of the chimney wide Wallows the yule-log's roaring tide; The broad flame-pennons droop and flap
And belly and tug as a flag in the wind;
Like a locust shrills the imprisoned sap, Hunted to death in its galleries blind; And swift little troops of silent sparks, Now pausing, now scattering away as in fear, Go threading the soot-forest's tangled darks Like herds of startled deer.
But the wind without was eager and sharp,
Of Sir Launfal's gray hair it makes a harp, And rattles and rings The icy strings,
Singing, in dreary monotone,
A Christmas carol of its own,
Whose burden still, as he might guess,
Was-"Shelterless, shelterless, shelterless!" The voice of the seneschal flared like a torch As he shouted the wanderer away from the porch, And he sat in the gateway and saw all night The great hall-fire, so cheery and bold, Through the window slits of the castle old, Build out its piers of ruddy light
Against the drift of the cold.
There was never a leaf on bush or tree, The bare boughs rattled shudderingly; The river was dumb and could not speak, For the weaver winter its shroud had spun ; A single crow on the tree-top bleak
From his shining feathers shed off the cold sun; Again it was morning, but shrunk and cold, As if her veins were sapless and old,
And she rose up decrepitly
For a last dim look at earth and sea.
T is the midnight hour:-the beauteous sea,
The gracious mistress of the main
Hath now an undisturbed reign,
And from her silent throne looks down,
As upon children of her own,
On the waves that lend their gentle breast In gladness for her couch of rest!
PRING, with that nameless pathos in the air Which dwells with all things fair,
Spring, with her golden suns and silver rain, Is with us once again.
Out in the lonely woods the jasmine burns Its fragrant lamps, and turns
Into a royal court with green festoons The banks of dark lagoons.
In the deep heart of every forest tree The blood is all aglee,
And there's a look about the leafless bowers,
As if they dreamed of flowers.
Yet still on every side we trace the hand
Of winter in the land,
Save where the maple reddens on the lawn, Flushed by the season's dawn;
Or where, like those strange semblances we find That age to childhood bind,
The elm puts on, as if in nature's scorn,
The brown of autumn corn.
As yet the turf is dark, although you know That, not a span below,
A thousand germs are groping through the gloom, And soon will burst their tomb.
Calm as the cloudless heaven, the heaven dis- In gardens you may note amid the dearth
The crocus breaking earth :
And near the snow-drop's tender white and green, The violet in its screen.
But many gleams and shadows needs must pass Along the budding grass,
And weeks go by, before the enamored south Shall kiss the rose's mouth.
Still there's sense of blossoms yet unborn
In the sweet airs of morn;
One almost looks to see the very street
Grow purple at his feet.
At times a fragrant breeze comes floating by,
And brings, you know not why,
A feeling as when eager crowds await Before a palace gate
Some wondrous pageant; and you scarce would start, If from a beech's heart
A blue-eyed Dryad, stepping forth, should say, "Behold me! I am May !"
HE cock has crowed. I hear the doors unbarred;
Down to the grass-grown porch my way I take,
And hear, beside the well within the yard, Full many an ancient, quacking, splashing drake, And gabbling goose, and noisy brood-hen-all Responding to yon strutting gobbler's call. The dew is thick upon the velvet grass,
The porch-rails hold it in translucent drops, And as the cattle from the enclosure pass,
Each one, alternate, slowly halts and crops The tall, green spears, with all their dewy load, Which grow beside the well-known pasture-road. A humid polish is on all the leaves-
The birds flit in and out with varied notes, The noisy swallows twitter 'neath the eaves, A partridge whistle through the garden floats, While yonder gaudy peacock harshly cries, As red and gold flush all the eastern skies.
Up comes the sun! Through the dense leaves a spot Of splendid light drinks up the dew; the brecze Which late made leafy music, dies; the day grows hot, And slumbrous sounds come from marauding bees: The burnished river like a sword-blade shines, Save where 't is shadowed by the solemn pines.
Over the farm is brooding silence now—
No reaper's song, no raven's clangor harsh, No bleat of sheep, no distant low of cow,
No croak of frogs within the spreading marsh, No bragging cock from littered farmyard crows,— The scene is steeped in silence and repose.
A trembling haze hangs over all the fields The panting cattle in the river stand, Seeking the coolness which its wave scarce yields; It seems a Sabbath through the drowsy land; So hushed is all beneath the summer's spell, I pause and listen for some faint church-bell.
The leaves are motionless, the song-birds mute; The very air seems somnolent and sick : The spreading branches with o'er-ripened fruit Show in the sunshine all their clusters thick, While now and then a mellow apple falls With a dull thud within the orchard's walls.
The sky has but one solitary cloud
Like a dark island in a sea of light;
The parching furrows 'twixt the corn-rows ploughed Seem fairly dancing in my dazzled sight, While over yonder road a dusty haze
Grows luminous beneath the sun's fierce blaze.
That solitary cloud grows dark and wide, While distant thunder rumbles in the air- A fitful ripple break's the river's tide-
The lazy cattle are no longer there, But homeward come, in long procession slow, With many a bleat and many a plaintive low. Darker and wider spreading o'er the west,
Advancing clouds, each in fantastic form, And mirrored turrets on the river's breast,
Tell in advance the coming of a stormCloser and brighter glares the lightning's flash, And louder, nearer sounds the thunder's crash. The air of evening is intensely hot,
The breeze feels heated as it fans my browsNow sullen rain-drops patter down like shot, Strike in the grass, or rattle mid the boughs. A sultry lull, and then a gust again— And now I see the thick advancing rain!
It fairly hisses as it drives along,
And where it strikes breaks up in silvery spray
As if 't were dancing to the fitful song
Made by the trees, which twist themselves and sway In contest with the wind, that rises fast Until the breeze becomes a furious blast.
And now, the sudden, fitful storm has fled, The clouds lie piled up in the splendid west, In massive shadow tipped with purplish red, Crimson or gold. The scene is one of rest; And on the bosom of yon still lagoon
I see the crescent of the pallid moon.
SCENE IN A VERMONT WINTER.
IS a fearful night in the winter time,
As cold as it ever can be ;
The roar of the blast is heard like the chime Of the waves on an angry sea.
The moon is full; but her silver light The storm dashes out with its wings to-night; And over the sky from south to north Not a star is seen, as the wind comes forth In the strength of a mighty glee.
All day had the snow come down-all day As it never came down before; And over the hills, at sunset, lay
Some two or three feet, or more; The fence was lost, and the wall of stone; The windows blocked and the well-curbs gone; The haystack had grown to a mountain lift, And the wood-pile looked like a monster drift, As it lay by the farmer's door.
The night sets in on a world of snow,
While the air grows sharp and chill, And the warning roar of a fearful blow
Is heard on the distant hill;
And the norther, see! on the mountain peak
In his breath how the old trees writhe and shriek!
He shouts on the plain, ho-ho! ho-ho!
He drives from his nostrils the blinding snow, And growls with a savage will.
Such a night as this to be found abroad,
In the drifts and the freezing air,
Sits a shivering dog, in the field, by the road, With the snow in his shaggy hair.
He shuts his eyes to the wind and growls; He lifts his head, and moans and howls; Then crouching low, from the cutting sleet, His nose is pressed on his quivering feet
Pray, what does the dog do there?
A farmer came from the village plain- But he lost the traveled way;
And for hours he trod with might and main A path for his horse and sleigh;
But colder still the cold winds blew, And deeper still the deep drifts grew, And his mare, a beautiful Morgan brown, At last in her struggles floundered down, Where a log in a nollow lay.
In vain, with a neigh and a frenzied snort, She plunged in the drifting snow,
While her master urged, till his breath grew short, With a word and a gentle blow;
But the snow was deep, and the tugs were tight; His hands were numb and had lost their might; So he wallowed back to his half-filled sleigh, And strove to shelter himself till day,
With his coat and the buffalo.
He has given the last faint jerk of the rein, To rouse up his dying steed;
And the poor dog howls to the blast in vain, For help in his master's need.
For a while he strives with a wistful cry To catch a glance from his drowsy eye, And wags his tail if the rude winds flap The skirt of the buffalo over his lap,
And whines when he takes no heed.
The wind goes down and the storm is o'er- 'T is the hour of midnight, past; The old trees writhe and bend no more In the whirl of the rushing blast. The silent moon with her peaceful light Looks down on the hills with snow all white, And the giant shadow of Camel's Hump, The blasted pine and the ghostly stump, Afar on the plain are cast.
But cold and dead by the hidden log
Are they who came from the town- The man in his sleigh, and his faithful dog, And his beautiful Morgan brown-
In the wide snow desert, far and grand,
With his cap on his head and the reins in his hand— The dog with his nose on his master's feet,
And the mare half seen through the crusted sleet, Where she lay when she floundered down.
CHARLES GAMAGE EASTMAN.
VIEW FROM THE EUGANEAN HILLS,* NORTH ITALY.
ANY a green isle needs must be In the deep wide sea of misery, Or the mariner, worn and wan, Never thus could voyage on Day and night, and night and day, Drifting on his dreary way, With the solid darkness black Closing round his vessel's track; Whilst above, the sunless sky, Big with clouds, hangs heavily, And behind, the tempest fleet Hurries on with lightning feet, Riving sail and cord and plank Till the ship has almost drank
Death from the o'erbrimming deep; And sinks down, down, like that sleep When the dreamer seems to be Weltering through eternity;
And the dim low line before Of a dark and distant shore Still recedes, as, ever still, Longing with divided will, But no power to seek or shun, He is ever drifted on O'er the unreposing wave To the haven of the grave.
Ay, many flowering islands lie In the waters of wide agony : To such a one this morn was led My bark, by soft winds piloted. -Mid the mountains Euganean
I stood listening to the pœan With which the legioned rooks did han The sun's uprise majestical: Gathering round with wings all hoar, Through the dewy mist they soar
Like gray shades, till the eastern heaven Bursts, and then, as clouds of even, Flecked with fire and azure, lie
In the unfathomable sky,
So their plumes of purple grain,
Starred with drops of golden rain,
*The lonely mountains which surround what was once the retreat, and is now the sepulchre, of Petrarch.
Gleam above the sunlight woods, As in silent multitudes
On the morning's fitful gale, Through the broken mist they sail; And the vapors cloven and gleaming Follow, down the dark steep streaming, Till all is bright and clear and still Round the solitary hill.
Beneath is spread like a green sea The waveless plain of Lombardy, Bounded by the vaporous air, Islanded by cities fair; Underneath day's azure eyes, Ocean's nursling, Venice, lies- A peopled labyrinth.of walls, Amphitrite's destined halls, Which her hoary sire now paves With his blue and beaming waves. Lo! the sun upsprings behind, Broad, red, radiant, half reclined On the level quivering line Of the waters crystalline ; And before that chasm of light, As within a furnace bright,
Column, tower, and dome, and spire Shine like obelisks of fire, Pointing with inconstant motion From the altar of dark ocean To the sapphire-tinted skies; As the flames of sacrifice
From the marble shrines did rise, As to pierce the dome of gold Where Apollo spoke of old.
Sun-girt city! thou hast been Ocean's child, and then his queen; Now is come a darker day, And thou soon must be his prey, If the power that raised thee here Hallow so thy watery bier. A less drear ruin then than now, With thy conquest-branded brow Stooping to the slave of slaves From thy throne among the waves, Wilt thou be when the sea-mew Flies, as once before it flew, O'er thine isles depopulate, And all is in its ancient state, Save where many a palace-gate With green sea-flowers overgrown Like a rock of ocean's own, Topples o'er the abandoned sea As the tides change sullenly. The fisher on his watery way Wandering at the close of day Will spread his sail and seize his oar Till he pass the gloomy shore, Lest thy dead should, from their sleep Bursting o'er the starlight deep,
Lead a rapid mask of death O'er the waters of his path.
Noon descends around me now; 'Tis the noon of autumn's glow, When a soft and purple mist, Like a vaporous amethyst, Or an air-dissolved star,
Mingling light and fragrance, far From the curved horizon's bound To the point of heaven's profound, Fills the overflowing sky;
And the plains that silent lie Underneath; the leaves unsodden Where the infant frost has trodden With his morning-wingèd feet, Whose bright print is gleaming yet; And the red and golden vines, Piercing with their trellised lines The rough, dark-skirted wilderness; The dun and bladed grass no less, Pointing from this hoary tower In the windless air; the flower Glimmering at my feet; the line Of the olive-sandalled Apennine In the south dimly islanded;
And the Alps, whose snows are spread High between the clouds and sun ; And of living things each one;
And my spirit, which so long Darkened this swift dream of song- Interpenetrated lie
By the glory of the sky; Be it love, light, harmony, Odor, or the soul of all
Which from heaven like dew doth fall, Or the mind which feeds this verse Peopling the lone universe.
Noon descends, and after noon Autumn's evening meets me soon, Leading the infantine moon And that one star, which to her Almost seems to minister Half the crimson light she brings From the sunset's radiant springs; And the soft dreams of the morn (Which like winged winds had borne To that silent isle, which lies Mid remembered agonies, The frail bark of this lone being) Pass, to other sufferers fleeing, And its ancient pilot, pain, Sits beside the helm again.
Other flowering isles must be In the sea of life and agony ; Other spirits float and flee O'er that gulf; even now, perhaps, On some rock the wild wave wraps,
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