Poems | Page 5

as
the sun,--the vales
Stretching in pensive quietness between;
The
venerable woods--rivers that move
In majesty, and the complaining

brooks
That make the meadows green; and, poured round all,
Old
ocean's gray and melancholy waste,--
Are but the solemn decorations
all
Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun,
The planets, all the
infinite host of heaven,
Are shining on the sad abodes of death,

Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread
The globe are but a
handful to the tribes
That slumber in its bosom.--Take the wings
Of
morning--and the Barcan desert pierce,
Or lose thyself in the
continuous woods
Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound,

Save his own dashings--yet--the dead are there:
And millions in those
solitudes, since first
The flight of years began, have laid them down

In their last sleep--the dead reign there alone.
So shalt thou
rest---and what, if thou withdraw
Unheeded by the living, and no
friend
Take note of thy departure? All that breathe
Will share thy
destiny. The gay will laugh
When thou art gone, the solemn brood of
care
Plod on, and each one as before will chase
His favourite
phantom; yet all these shall leave
Their mirth and their employments,
and shall come,
And make their bed with thee. As the long train
Of
ages glide away, the sons of men,
The youth in life's green spring,
and he who goes
In the full strength of years, matron, and maid,

And the sweet babe, and the gray-headed man,--
Shall one by one be
gathered to thy side,
By those, who in their turn shall follow them.
So live, that when thy summons comes to join
The innumerable
caravan, that moves
To that mysterious realm, where each shall take

His chamber in the silent halls of death,
Thou go not like the
quarry-slave at night,
Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and
soothed
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave,
Like one who
wraps the drapery of his couch
About him, and lies down to pleasant
dreams.
THE YELLOW VIOLET.
When beechen buds begin to swell,
And woods the blue-bird's warble
know,
The yellow violet's modest bell
Peeps from the last year's

leaves below.
Ere russet fields their green resume,
Sweet flower, I love, in forest
bare,
To meet thee, when thy faint perfume
Alone is in the virgin
air.
Of all her train, the hands of Spring
First plant thee in the watery
mould,
And I have seen thee blossoming
Beside the snow-bank's
edges cold.
Thy parent sun, who bade thee view
Pale skies, and chilling moisture
sip,
Has bathed thee in his own bright hue,
And streaked with jet
thy glowing lip.
Yet slight thy form, and low thy seat,
And earthward bent thy gentle
eye,
Unapt the passing view to meet,
When loftier flowers are
flaunting nigh.
Oft, in the sunless April day,
Thy early smile has stayed my walk;

But midst the gorgeous blooms of May,
I passed thee on thy humble
stalk.
So they, who climb to wealth, forget
The friends in darker fortunes
tried.
I copied them--but I regret
That I should ape the ways of
pride.
And when again the genial hour
Awakes the painted tribes of light,

I'll not o'erlook the modest flower
That made the woods of April
bright.
INSCRIPTION FOR THE ENTRANCE TO A WOOD.
Stranger, if thou hast learned a truth which needs
No school of long
experience, that the world
Is full of guilt and misery, and hast seen

Enough of all its sorrows, crimes, and cares,
To tire thee of it, enter
this wild wood
And view the haunts of Nature. The calm shade


Shall bring a kindred calm, and the sweet breeze
That makes the
green leaves dance, shall waft a balm
To thy sick heart. Thou wilt
find nothing here
Of all that pained thee in the haunts of men
And
made thee loathe thy life. The primal curse
Fell, it is true, upon the
unsinning earth,
But not in vengeance. God hath yoked to guilt
Her
pale tormentor, misery. Hence, these shades
Are still the abodes of
gladness; the thick roof
Of green and stirring branches is alive
And
musical with birds, that sing and sport
In wantonness of spirit; while
below
The squirrel, with raised paws and form erect,
Chirps merrily.
Throngs of insects in the shade
Try their thin wings and dance in the
warm beam
That waked them into life. Even the green trees
Partake
the deep contentment; as they bend
To the soft winds, the sun from
the blue sky
Looks in and sheds a blessing on the scene.
Scarce less
the cleft-born wild-flower seems to enjoy
Existence, than the winged
plunderer
That sucks its sweets. The massy rocks themselves,
And
the old and ponderous trunks of prostrate trees
That lead from knoll
to knoll a causey rude
Or bridge the sunken brook, and their dark
roots,
With all their earth upon them, twisting high,
Breathe fixed
tranquillity. The rivulet
Sends forth glad sounds, and tripping o'er its
bed
Of pebbly sands, or leaping down the rocks,
Seems, with
continuous laughter, to rejoice
In its own being. Softly tread the
marge,
Lest from her midway perch thou scare the wren
That dips
her bill in water. The cool wind,
That stirs the stream in play, shall
come to thee,
Like one that loves thee nor will let thee pass

Ungreeted, and shall give its light