Occasional Poems | Page 5

fresco, hi his troubled sleep,?His prison-walls with gladness.
We know the world is rich with streams?Renowned in song and story,?Whose music murmurs through our dreams?Of human love and glory?We know that Arno's banks are fair,?And Rhine has castled shadows,?And, poet-tuned, the Doon and Ayr?Go singing down their meadows.
But while, unpictured and unsung?By painter or by poet,?Our river waits the tuneful tongue?And cunning hand to show it,--?We only know the fond skies lean?Above it, warm with blessing,?And the sweet soul of our Undine?Awakes to our caressing.
No fickle sun-god holds the flocks?That graze its shores in keeping;?No icy kiss of Dian mocks?The youth beside it sleeping?Our Christian river loveth most?The beautiful and human;?The heathen streams of Naiads boast,?But ours of man and woman.
The miner in his cabin hears?The ripple we are hearing;?It whispers soft to homesick ears?Around the settler's clearing?In Sacramento's vales of corn,?Or Santee's bloom of cotton,?Our river by its valley-born?Was never yet forgotten.
The drum rolls loud, the bugle fills?The summer air with clangor;?The war-storm shakes the solid hills?Beneath its tread of anger;?Young eyes that last year smiled in ours?Now point the rifle's barrel,?And hands then stained with fruits and flowers?Bear redder stains of quarrel.
But blue skies smile, and flowers bloom on,?And rivers still keep flowing,?The dear God still his rain and sun?On good and ill bestowing.?His pine-trees whisper, "Trust and wait!"?His flowers are prophesying?That all we dread of change or fate?His live is underlying.
And thou, O Mountain-born!--no more?We ask the wise Allotter?Than for the firmness of thy shore,?The calmness of thy water,?The cheerful lights that overlay,?Thy rugged slopes with beauty,?To match our spirits to our day?And make a joy of duty.?1861.
REVISITED.
Read at "The Laurels," on the Merrimac, 6th month, 1865.
The roll of drums and the bugle's wailing?Vex the air of our vales-no more;?The spear is beaten to hooks of pruning,?The share is the sword the soldier wore!
Sing soft, sing low, our lowland river,?Under thy banks of laurel bloom;?Softly and sweet, as the hour beseemeth,?Sing us the songs of peace and home.
Let all the tenderer voices of nature?Temper the triumph and chasten mirth,?Full of the infinite love and pity?For fallen martyr and darkened hearth.
But to Him who gives us beauty for ashes,?And the oil of joy for mourning long,?Let thy hills give thanks, and all thy waters?Break into jubilant waves of song!
Bring us the airs of hills and forests,?The sweet aroma of birch and pine,?Give us a waft of the north-wind laden?With sweethrier odors and breath of kine!
Bring us the purple of mountain sunsets,?Shadows of clouds that rake the hills,?The green repose of thy Plymouth meadows,?The gleam and ripple of Campton rills.
Lead us away in shadow and sunshine,?Slaves of fancy, through all thy miles,?The winding ways of Pemigewasset,?And Winnipesaukee's hundred isles.
Shatter in sunshine over thy ledges,?Laugh in thy plunges from fall to fall;?Play with thy fringes of elms, and darken?Under the shade of the mountain wall.
The cradle-song of thy hillside fountains?Here in thy glory and strength repeat;?Give us a taste of thy upland music,?Show us the dance of thy silver feet.
Into thy dutiful life of uses?Pour the music and weave the flowers;?With the song of birds and bloom of meadows?Lighten and gladden thy heart and ours.
Sing on! bring down, O lowland river,?The joy of the hills to the waiting sea;?The wealth of the vales, the pomp of mountains,?The breath of the woodlands, bear with thee.
Here, in the calm of thy seaward, valley,?Mirth and labor shall hold their truce;?Dance of water and mill of grinding,?Both are beauty and both are use.
Type of the Northland's strength and glory,?Pride and hope of our home and race,--?Freedom lending to rugged labor?Tints of beauty and lines of grace.
Once again, O beautiful river,?Hear our greetings and take our thanks;?Hither we come, as Eastern pilgrims?Throng to the Jordan's sacred banks.
For though by the Master's feet untrodden,?Though never His word has stilled thy waves,?Well for us may thy shores be holy,?With Christian altars and saintly graves.
And well may we own thy hint and token?Of fairer valleys and streams than these,?Where the rivers of God are full of water,?And full of sap are His healing trees!
"THE LAURELS"
At the twentieth and last anniversary.
FROM these wild rocks I look to-day?O'er leagues of dancing waves, and see?The far, low coast-line stretch away?To where our river meets the sea.
The light wind blowing off the land?Is burdened with old voices; through?Shut eyes I see how lip and hand?The greeting of old days renew.
O friends whose hearts still keep their prime,?Whose bright example warms and cheers,?Ye teach us how to smile at Time,?And set to music all his years!
I thank you for sweet summer days,?For pleasant memories lingering long,?For joyful meetings, fond delays,?And ties of friendship woven strong.
As for the last time, side by side,?You tread the paths familiar grown,?I reach across the severing tide,?And blend my farewells with your own.
Make room, O river of our home!?For