  [Image unavailable.] Mrs. Moodie By the purple haze that lies On the distant rocky height, By the deep blue of the skies, By the smoky amber light, Through the forest arches streaming, Where Nature on her throne sits dreaming, And the sun is scarcely gleaming, Through the cloudless snowy white,— Winter’s lovely herald greets us, Ere the ice-crowned giant meets us. A mellow softness fills the air,— No breeze on wanton wings steals by, To break the holy quiet there, Or make the waters fret and sigh, Or the yellow alders shiver, That bend to kiss the placid river, Flowing on and on forever; But the little waves are sleeping, O’er the pebbles slowly creeping, That last night were flashing, leaping, Driven by the restless breeze, In lines of foam beneath yon trees. Dress’d in robes of gorgeous hue, Brown and gold with crimson blent; The forest to the waters blue Its own enchanting tints has lent;— In their dark depths, life-like glowing, We see a second forest growing, Each pictured leaf and branch bestowing A fairy grace to that twin wood, Mirror’d within the crystal flood. ’Tis pleasant now in forest shades; The Indian hunter strings his bow, To track through dark entangling glades The antler’d deer and bounding doe,— Or launch at night the birch canoe, To spear the finny tribes that dwell On sandy bank, in weedy cell, Or pool, the fisher knows right well— Seen by the red and vivid glow Of pine-torch at his vessel’s bow. This dreamy Indian summer-day, Attunes the soul to tender sadness; We love—but joy not in the ray— It is not summer’s fervid gladness, But a melancholy glory, Hovering softly round decay, Like swan that sings her own sad story, Ere she floats in death away. The day declines, what splendid dyes, In fleckered waves of crimson driven, Float o’er the saffron sea that lies Glowing within the western heaven! Oh, it is a peerless even! See, the broad red sun has set, But his rays are quivering yet Through Nature’s vale of violet, Streaming bright o’er lake and hill, But earth and forest lie so still, It sendeth to the heart a chill; We start to check the rising tear— ’Tis beauty sleeping on her bier. —Susannah Moodie. |
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