Poems | Page 9

to
the sky.
A WALK AT SUNSET.
When insect wings are glistening in the beam
Of the low sun, and
mountain-tops are bright,
Oh, let me, by the crystal valley-stream,

Wander amid the mild and mellow light;
And while the wood-thrush
pipes his evening lay,
Give me one lonely hour to hymn the setting

day.
Oh, sun! that o'er the western mountains now
Goest down in glory!
ever beautiful
And blessed is thy radiance, whether thou
Colourest
the eastern heaven and night-mist cool,
Till the bright day-star vanish,
or on high
Climbest and streamest thy white splendours from
mid-sky.
Yet, loveliest are thy setting smiles, and fair,
Fairest of all that earth
beholds, the hues
That live among the clouds, and flush the air,

Lingering and deepening at the hour of dews.
Then softest gales are
breathed, and softest heard
The plaining voice of streams, and
pensive note of bird.
They who here roamed, of yore, the forest wide,
Felt, by such charm,
their simple bosoms won;
They deemed their quivered warrior, when
he died,
Went to bright isles beneath the setting sun;
Where winds
are aye at peace, and skies are fair,
And purple-skirted clouds curtain
the crimson air.
So, with the glories of the dying day,
Its thousand trembling lights
and changing hues,
The memory of the brave who passed away

Tenderly mingled;--fitting hour to muse
On such grave theme, and
sweet the dream that shed
Brightness and beauty round the destiny of
the dead.
For ages, on the silent forests here,
Thy beams did fall before the red
man came
To dwell beneath them; in their shade the deer
Fed, and
feared not the arrow's deadly aim.
Nor tree was felled, in all that
world of woods,
Save by the beaver's tooth, or winds, or rush of
floods.
Then came the hunter tribes, and thou didst look,
For ages, on their
deeds in the hard chase,
And well-fought wars; green sod and silver
brook
Took the first stain of blood; before thy face
The warrior

generations came and passed,
And glory was laid up for many an age
to last.
Now they are gone, gone as thy setting blaze
Goes down the west,
while night is pressing on,
And with them the old tale of better days,

And trophies of remembered power, are gone.
Yon field that gives
the harvest, where the plough
Strikes the white bone, is all that tells
their story now.
I stand upon their ashes in thy beam,
The offspring of another race, I
stand,
Beside a stream they loved, this valley stream;
And where
the night-fire of the quivered band
Showed the gray oak by fits, and
war-song rung,
I teach the quiet shades the strains of this new tongue.
Farewell! but thou shalt come again--thy light
Must shine on other
changes, and behold
The place of the thronged city still as night--

States fallen--new empires built upon the old--
But never shalt thou
see these realms again
Darkened by boundless groves, and roamed by
savage men.
HYMN TO DEATH.
Oh! could I hope the wise and pure in heart
Might hear my song
without a frown, nor deem
My voice unworthy of the theme it tries,--

I would take up the hymn to Death, and say
To the grim power:
The world hath slandered thee
And mocked thee. On thy dim and
shadowy brow
They place an iron crown, and call thee king
Of
terrors, and the spoiler of the world,
Deadly assassin, that strik'st
down the fair,
The loved, the good--that breathest on the lights
Of
virtue set along the vale of life,
And they go out in darkness. I am
come,
Not with reproaches, not with cries and prayers,
Such as
have stormed thy stern, insensible ear
from the beginning. I am come
to speak
Thy praises. True it is, that I have wept
Thy conquests, and
may weep them yet again:
And thou from some I love wilt take a life


Dear to me as my own. Yet while the spell
Is on my spirit, and I
talk with thee
In sight of all thy trophies, face to face,
Meet is it that
my voice should utter forth
Thy nobler triumphs; I will teach the
world
To thank thee.--Who are thine accusers?--Who?
The
living!--they who never felt thy power,
And know thee not. The
curses of the wretch
Whose crimes are ripe, his sufferings when thy
hand
Is on him, and the hour he dreads is come,
Are writ among thy
praises. But the good--
Does he whom thy kind hand dismissed to
peace,
Upbraid the gentle violence that took off
His fetters, and
unbarred his prison cell?
Raise then the hymn to Death. Deliverer!
God hath anointed thee to
free the oppressed
And crush the oppressor. When the armed chief,

The conqueror of nations, walks the world,
And it is changed beneath
his feet, and all
Its kingdoms melt into one mighty realm--
Thou,
while his head is loftiest and his heart
Blasphemes, imagining his
own right hand
Almighty, thou dost set thy sudden grasp
Upon him,
and the links of that strong chain
That bound mankind are crumbled;
thou dost break
Sceptre and crown, and beat his throne to dust.

Then the earth shouts with gladness, and her tribes
Gather within
their ancient bounds again.
Else had the mighty of the olden time,

Nimrod,