Above the pines the moon was slowly drifting, The river sang below; The dim Sierras, far beyond, uplifting Their minarets of snow. The roaring camp-fire, with rude humor, painted The ruddy tints of health On haggard face and form that drooped and fainted In the fierce race for wealth; Till one arose, and from his pack’s scant treasure A hoarded volume drew, And cards were dropped from hands of listless leisure To hear the tale anew; And then, while round them shadows gathered faster, And as the firelight fell, He read aloud the book wherein the Master Had writ of “Little Nell.” Perhaps ’twas boyish fancy,—for the reader Was youngest of them all,— But as he read, from clustering pine and cedar A silence seemed to fall; The fir-trees, gathering closer in the shadows, Listened in every spray, While the whole camp with “Nell” on English meadows Wandered, and lost their way. And so, in mountain solitudes, o’ertaken As by some spell divine— Their cares drop from them, like the needles shaken From out the gusty pine. Lost is that camp, and wasted all its fire;— And he who wrought that spell? Ah, towering pine and stately Kentish spire, Ye have one tale to tell! Lost is that camp! but let its fragrant story Blend with the breath that thrills With hop-vines’ incense all the pensive glory That fills the Kentish hills. And on that grave where English oak and holly And laurel wreaths entwine, Deem it not all a too presumptuous folly, This spray of Western pine! |
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