Poems | Page 7

soft caress
Of
the fresh sylvan air, made me forget
The thoughts that broke my
peace, and I began
To gather simples by the fountain's brink,
And
lose myself in day-dreams. While I stood
In nature's loneliness, I was
with one
With whom I early grew familiar, one
Who never had a
frown for me, whose voice
Never rebuked me for the hours I stole

From cares I loved not, but of which the world
Deems highest, to
converse with her. When shrieked
The bleak November winds, and
smote the woods,
And the brown fields were herbless, and the shades,

That met above the merry rivulet,
Were spoiled, I sought, I loved
them still,--they seemed
Like old companions in adversity.
Still
there was beauty in my walks; the brook,
Bordered with sparkling
frost-work, was as gay
As with its fringe of summer flowers. Afar,

The village with its spires, the path of streams,
And dim receding
valleys, hid before
By interposing trees, lay visible
Through the
bare grove, and my familiar haunts
Seemed new to me. Nor was I
slow to come
Among them, when the clouds, from their still skirts,

Had shaken down on earth the feathery snow,
And all was white. The
pure keen air abroad,
Albeit it breathed no scent of herb, nor heard

Love-call of bird, nor merry hum of bee,
Was not the air of death.
Bright mosses crept
Over the spotted trunks, and the close buds,

That lay along the boughs, instinct with life,
Patient, and waiting the
soft breath of Spring,
Feared not the piercing spirit of the North.

The snow-bird twittered on the beechen bough,
And 'neath the
hemlock, whose thick branches bent
Beneath its bright cold burden,
and kept dry

A circle, on the earth, of withered leaves,
The
partridge found a shelter. Through the snow
The rabbit sprang away.
The lighter track
Of fox, and the racoon's broad path, were there,

Crossing each other. From his hollow tree,
The squirrel was abroad,
gathering the nuts
Just fallen, that asked the winter cold and sway

Of winter blast, to shake them from their hold.

But Winter has yet brighter scenes,--he boasts
Splendours beyond
what gorgeous Summer knows;
Or Autumn with his many fruits, and
woods
All flushed with many hues. Come when the rains
Have
glazed the snow, and clothed the trees with ice;
While the slant sun of
February pours
Into the bowers a flood of light. Approach!
The
incrusted surface shall upbear thy steps,
And the broad arching
portals of the grove
Welcome thy entering. Look! the massy trunks

Are cased in the pure crystal; each light spray,
Nodding and tinkling
in the breath of heaven,
Is studded with its trembling water-drops,

That stream with rainbow radiance as they move.
But round the
parent stem the long low boughs
Bend, in a glittering ring, and
arbours hide
The glassy floor. Oh! you might deem the spot
The
spacious cavern of some virgin mine,
Deep in the womb of
earth--where the gems grow,
And diamonds put forth radiant rods and
bud
With amethyst and topaz--and the place
Lit up, most royally,
with the pure beam
That dwells in them. Or haply the vast hall
Of
fairy palace, that outlasts the night,
And fades not in the glory of the
sun;--
Where crystal columns send forth slender shafts
And
crossing arches; and fantastic aisles
Wind from the sight in brightness,
and are lost
Among the crowded pillars. Raise thine eye,--
Thou
seest no cavern roof, no palace vault;
There the blue sky and the
white drifting cloud
Look in. Again the wildered fancy dreams
Of
spouting fountains, frozen as they rose,
And fixed, with all their
branching jets, in air,
And all their sluices sealed. All, all is light;

Light without shade. But all shall pass away
With the next sun. From
numberless vast trunks,
Loosened, the crashing ice shall make a
sound
Like the far roar of rivers, and the eve

Shall close o'er the
brown woods as it was wont.
And it is pleasant, when the noisy streams
Are just set free, and
milder suns melt off
The plashy snow, save only the firm drift
In
the deep glen or the close shade of pines,--
'Tis pleasant to behold the
wreaths of smoke
Roll up among the maples of the hill,
Where the

shrill sound of youthful voices wakes
The shriller echo, as the clear
pure lymph,
That from the wounded trees, in twinkling drops,
Falls,
mid the golden brightness of the morn,
Is gathered in with brimming
pails, and oft,
Wielded by sturdy hands, the stroke of axe
Makes the
woods ring. Along the quiet air,
Come and float calmly off the soft
light clouds,
Such as you see in summer, and the winds
Scarce stir
the branches. Lodged in sunny cleft,
Where the cold breezes come
not, blooms alone
The little wind-flower, whose just opened eye
Is
blue as the spring heaven it gazes at--
Startling the loiterer in the
naked groves
With unexpected beauty, for the time
Of blossoms
and green leaves is yet afar.
And ere it comes, the encountering winds
shall oft
Muster their wrath again, and rapid clouds
Shade heaven,
and bounding on the frozen earth
Shall fall their volleyed stores
rounded like hail,
And white like snow, and the loud North again

Shall buffet the vexed forest in his rage.
THE WEST WIND.
Beneath the forest's skirts I rest,
Whose branching pines rise dark and