The flocks pursue their southern | Like some tanned reaper in his hour of ease, When all the fields are lying brown and bare. The gray barns looking from their. hazy hills O'er the dim waters widening in the vales, Sent down the air a greeting to the mills, On the dull thunder of alternate flails. All sights were mellowed, and all sounds subdued, The hills seemed farther, and the streams sang low, As in a dream the distant woodman hewed His winter log with many a muffled blow. The embattled forests, erewhile armed in gold, Their banners bright with every martial hue, Now stood, like some sad beaten host of old, Withdrawn afar in Time's remotest blue. On slumbrous wings the vulture held his flight; The dove scarce heard his sighing mate's complaint; And like a star slow drowning in the light, The village church-vane seemed to pale and faint. The sentinel cock upon the hill-side crew Crew thrice, and all was stiller than before, Silent till some replying warder blew His alien horn, and then was heard no more. Where erst the jay, within the elm's tall crest, Made garrulous trouble round her unfledged young, And where the oriole hung her swaying nest. By every light wind like a censer swung: The flowers by delicate fingers wove | Who, in their glowing robes of death less thought, Strode knee-deep through Parnassian flowers and dew. The hot sands gleam around me, and I thirst, The wayside springs have sunk into themselves; And even the little blossoms which they nursed Have vanished from their side, like faithless elves. Whence lead the sandy courses of these rills? Do they foretell a mightier stream at hand, With voice triumphant, worthy of these hills? Where are thy rivers, oh, my native land? A few brave souls have sparkled into sight, With living flashes of celestial art; Souls who might flood the world with new delight, Keep sealed the deepest fountains of the heart. Oh for a cloud to oversweep the West, And with a deluge burst these deeper springs, A voiceful cloud, with grandeur in its breast, And lightning on its far-impending wings. Oh for one mighty heart and fearless hand! For such, methinks, my country, is thy due, The embodied spirit of his forest land, Who, scorning not the old, shall sing the new. Here will I rest until the day declines, A voiceless pilgrim toward the land of song; And, like a sentinel, catch the herald signs Of him whose coming hath been stayed too long. A CUP OF WINE TO THE OLD A frosty rime o'erspread his chin, And all his hair went gray; His crown has fallen to his feet, And withers where he stands, While some invisible horror shakes The old man by the hands. Oh, woo him from his cloud of grief And from his dream of woes; And bid the old year dash his beard With wine before he goes. |