Whittiers Complete Poems, vol 2 | Page 5

I am yours, and ye are mine.
Life's burdens fall, its discords cease,?I lapse into the glad release?Of Nature's own exceeding peace.
O welcome calm of heart and mind!?As falls yon fir-tree's loosened rind?To leave a tenderer growth behind,
So fall the weary years away;?A child again, my head I lay?Upon the lap of this sweet day.
This western wind hath Lethean powers,?Yon noonday cloud nepenthe showers,?The lake is white with lotus-flowers!
Even Duty's voice is faint and low,?And slumberous Conscience, waking slow,?Forgets her blotted scroll to show.
The Shadow which pursues us all,?Whose ever-nearing steps appall,?Whose voice we hear behind us call,--
That Shadow blends with mountain gray,?It speaks but what the light waves say,--?Death walks apart from Fear to-day!
Rocked on her breast, these pines and I?Alike on Nature's love rely;?And equal seems to live or die.
Assured that He whose presence fills?With light the spaces of these hills?No evil to His creatures wills,
The simple faith remains, that He?Will do, whatever that may be,?The best alike for man and tree.
What mosses over one shall grow,?What light and life the other know,?Unanxious, leaving Him to show.
II. EVENING.?Yon mountain's side is black with night,?While, broad-orhed, o'er its gleaming crown?The moon, slow-rounding into sight,?On the hushed inland sea looks down.
How start to light the clustering isles,?Each silver-hemmed! How sharply show?The shadows of their rocky piles,?And tree-tops in the wave below!
How far and strange the mountains seem,?Dim-looming through the pale, still light?The vague, vast grouping of a dream,?They stretch into the solemn night.
Beneath, lake, wood, and peopled vale,?Hushed by that presence grand and grave,?Are silent, save the cricket's wail,?And low response of leaf and wave.
Fair scenes! whereto the Day and Night?Make rival love, I leave ye soon,?What time before the eastern light?The pale ghost of the setting moon
Shall hide behind yon rocky spines,?And the young archer, Morn, shall break?His arrows on the mountain pines,?And, golden-sandalled, walk the lake!
Farewell! around this smiling bay?Gay-hearted Health, and Life in bloom,?With lighter steps than mine, may stray?In radiant summers yet to come.
But none shall more regretful leave?These waters and these hills than I?Or, distant, fonder dream how eve?Or dawn is painting wave and sky;
How rising moons shine sad and mild?On wooded isle and silvering bay;?Or setting suns beyond the piled?And purple mountains lead the day;
Nor laughing girl, nor bearding boy,?Nor full-pulsed manhood, lingering here,?Shall add, to life's abounding joy,?The charmed repose to suffering dear.
Still waits kind Nature to impart?Her choicest gifts to such as gain?An entrance to her loving heart?Through the sharp discipline of pain.
Forever from the Hand that takes?One blessing from us others fall;?And, soon or late, our Father makes?His perfect recompense to all!
Oh, watched by Silence and the Night,?And folded in the strong embrace?Of the great mountains, with the light?Of the sweet heavens upon thy face,
Lake of the Northland! keep thy dower?Of beauty still, and while above?Thy solemn mountains speak of power,?Be thou the mirror of God's love.?1853.
THE FRUIT-GIFT.
Last night, just as the tints of autumn's sky?Of sunset faded from our hills and streams,?I sat, vague listening, lapped in twilight dreams,?To the leaf's rustle, and the cricket's cry.
Then, like that basket, flush with summer fruit,?Dropped by the angels at the Prophet's foot,?Came, unannounced, a gift of clustered sweetness,?Full-orbed, and glowing with the prisoned beams?Of summery suns, and rounded to completeness?By kisses of the south-wind and the dew.?Thrilled with a glad surprise, methought I knew?The pleasure of the homeward-turning Jew,?When Eshcol's clusters on his shoulders lay,?Dropping their sweetness on his desert way.
I said, "This fruit beseems no world of sin.?Its parent vine, rooted in Paradise,?O'ercrept the wall, and never paid the price?Of the great mischief,--an ambrosial tree,?Eden's exotic, somehow smuggled in,?To keep the thorns and thistles company."?Perchance our frail, sad mother plucked in haste?A single vine-slip as she passed the gate,?Where the dread sword alternate paled and burned,?And the stern angel, pitying her fate,?Forgave the lovely trespasser, and turned?Aside his face of fire; and thus the waste?And fallen world hath yet its annual taste?Of primal good, to prove of sin the cost,?And show by one gleaned ear the mighty harvest lost.?1854.
FLOWERS IN WINTER
PAINTED UPON A PORTE LIVRE.
How strange to greet, this frosty morn,?In graceful counterfeit of flowers,?These children of the meadows, born?Of sunshine and of showers!
How well the conscious wood retains?The pictures of its flower-sown home,?The lights and shades, the purple stains,?And golden hues of bloom!
It was a happy thought to bring?To the dark season's frost and rime?This painted memory of spring,?This dream of summer-time.
Our hearts are lighter for its sake,?Our fancy's age renews its youth,?And dim-remembered fictions take?The guise of--present truth.
A wizard of the Merrimac,--?So old ancestral legends say,?Could call green leaf and blossom back?To frosted stem and spray.
The dry logs of the cottage wall,?Beneath his touch, put out their leaves?The clay-bound swallow, at his call,?Played round the icy eaves.
The settler saw his oaken flail?Take bud, and bloom before his eyes;?From frozen pools