Far, far away, where sunsets weave

Their golden tissues o'er the scene,

And distant glaciers, dimly heave,

Like trailing ghosts, their peaks between—

Where, at the Rocky Mountain's base,

Arkansas, yet an infant, lingers,

A while the drifting leaves to chase,

Like laughing youth, with playful fingers—

There Nature, in her childhood, wrought

'Mid rock and rill, with leaf and flower,

A vale more beautiful than thought

E'er gave to favored fairy's bower:

And in that hidden hermitage,

Of forest, river, lake, and dell,—

While Time himself grew gray and sage,

The lone Enchantress loved to dwell.

Ages have flown,—the vagrant gales

Have swept that lonely land; the flowers

Have nodded to the breeze; the vales,

Long, long, have sheltered in their bowers,

The forest minstrels; and the race

Of mastodons hath come and gone;

And with the stream of time, the chase

Of bubbling life hath swept the lawn,

Unmarked, save that the bedded clay,

Tells where some giant sleeper lies;

And wrinkled cliffs, tottering and gray,

Whisper of crumbled centuries.

Yet there the valley smiles; the tomb

Of ages is a garden gay,

And wild flowers freshen in their bloom,

As from the sod they drink decay.

And creeping things of every hue,

Dwell in this savage Eden-land,

And all around it blushes new,

As when it rose at God's command.

Untouched by man, the forests wave,

The floods pour by, the torrents fall,

And shelving cliff and shadowy cave,

Hang as bold nature hung them all!

The hunter's wandering foot hath wound,

To this far scene, perchance like mine,

And there a Forest Dreamer found,

Who walks the dell with spectral mien.

Youthful his brow, his bearing high—

Yet writhed his lip, and all subdued,

The fire that once hath lit his eye.

Wayward and sullen oft his mood;

But he perchance may deign to tell,

As he hath told to me, his tale,

In words like these,—while o'er the dell,

The autumn twilight wove its veil.

"Stranger! these woods are wild and drear;

These tangled paths are rough and lone;

These dells are full of things of fear,

And should be rather shunned than known.

Then turn thy truant foot away,

And seek afar the cultured glade,

Nor dare with reckless step to stray,

'Mid these lone realms of fear and shade!

You go not, and you seek to hear,

Why one like me should idly roam,

'Mid scenes like these, so dark, so drear—

These rocks my bed, these woods my home?

"One crime hath twined with serpent coil

Around my heart its fatal fold;

And though my struggling bosom toil,

To heave the monster from its hold—

It will not from its victim part.

By day or night, in down or dell,

Where'er I roam, still, still my heart

Is pressed by that sad serpent spell.

Aye, as the strangling boa clings

Around his prey with fatal grasp,

And as he feels each struggle, wrings

His victim with a closer clasp;

Nor yet till every pulse is dumb,

And every fluttering spasm o'er,

Releases, what, in death o'ercome,

Can strive or struggle now no more;

So is my wrestling spirit wrung,

By that one deep and deadly sin,

That will not, while I live, be flung,

From its sad work of woe within.

"My native hills are far away,

Beneath a soft and sunny sky;

Green as the sea, the forests play,

'Mid the fresh winds that sweep them by.

I loved those hills, I loved the flowers,

That dashed with gems their sunny swells,

And oft I fondly dreamed for hours,

By streams within those mountain dells.

I loved the wood—each tree and leaf,

In breeze or blast, to me was fair,

And if my heart was touched with grief,

I always found a solace there.

My parents slumbered in the tomb;

But thrilling thoughts of them came back,

And seemed within my breast to bloom.

As lone I ranged the forest track.

The wild flowers rose beneath my feet

Like memories dear of those who slept,

And all around to me was sweet,

Although, perchance, I sometimes wept.

I wept, but not, oh not in sadness,

And those bright tears I would not smother,

For less they flowed in grief than gladness,

So blest the memory of my mother.

And she was linked, I know not why,

With leaves and flowers, and landscapes fair

And all beneath the bending sky,

As if she still were with me there.

The echo bursting from the dell,

Recalled her song beside my bed;

The hill-side with its sunny swell,

Her bosom-pillow for my head.

The breathing lake at even-tide,

When o'er it fell the down of night,

Seemed the sweet heaven, which by her side,

I found in childhood's dreams of light:

And morning, as it brightly broke,

And blessed the hills with joyous dyes,

Was like her look, when first I woke,

And found her gazing in my eyes.

"Nature became my idol; wood,

Wave, wilderness,—I loved them all;

I loved the forest and the solitude,

That brooded o'er the waterfall,—

I loved the autumn winds that flew

Between the swaying boughs at night,

And from their whispers fondly drew

Wild woven dreams of lone delight.

I loved the stars, and musing sought

To read them in their depths of blue—

My fancy spread her sail of thought,

And o'er that sea of azure flew.

Hovering in those blest paths afar,

The wheeling planets seem to trace,

My spirit found some islet-star,

And chose it for its dwelling-place.

I loved the morn, and ere the lay

Of plaintive meadow-lark began,

'Mid dewy shrubs I tore my way,

Up the wild crag where waters ran.

I listened to the babbling tide,

And thought of childhood's merry morn,—

I listened to the bird that tried

Prelusive airs, amid the thorn.

And then I went upon my way;

Yet ere the sunrise kissed my cheek,

I stood upon the forehead gray

Of some lone mountain's dizzy peak.

A ruddy light was on the hill,

But shadows in the valley slept;

A white mist rested o'er the rill,

And shivering leaves with tear-drops wept.

The sun came up, and nature woke,

As from a deep and sweet repose;

From every bush soft music broke,

And blue wreaths from each chimney rose.

From the green vale that lay below.

Full many a carol met my ear;

The boy that drove the teeming cow.

And sung or whistled in his cheer;

The dog that by his master's side,

Made the lone copse with echoes ring:

The mill that whirling in the tide,

Seemed with a droning voice to sing;

The lowing herd, the bleating flock,

And many a far-off murmuring wheel:

Each sent its music up the rock,

And woke my bosom's echoing peal.

"And thus my early hours went o'er:

Each scene and sound but gave delight;

Or if I grieved, 'twas like the shower,

That comes in sunshine, brief and bright.

My heart was like the summer lake,

A mirror in some valley found,

Whose depths a mimic world can make

More beautiful than that around.

The wood, the slope, the rocky dell,

To others dear, were dearer yet

To me; for they would fondly dwell

Mirrored in memory; and set

In the deep azure of my dreams

At night, how sweet they rose to view!

How soft the echo, and the streams,

How swift their laughing murmurs flew!

And when the vision broke at morn,

The music in my charmed ear,

As of some fairy's lingering horn,—

My native hills, how soft, how dear!

"So passed my boyhood; 'twas a stream

Of frolic flow, 'mid Nature's bowers;

A ray of light—a golden dream—

A morning fair—a path of flowers!

But now another charm came o'er me:

The ocean I had never seen;

Yet suddenly it rolled before me,

With all its crested waves of green!

Soft sunny islands, far and lone,

Where the shy petrel builds her nest;

Deep coral caves to mermaids known—

These were my visions bright and blest.

Oh! how I yearned to meet the tide,

And hear the bristling surges sweep;

To stand the watery world beside,

And ponder o'er the glorious deep!

I bade my home adieu, and bent

My eager footsteps toward the shore,

And soon my native hills were blent,

With the pale sky that arched them o'er.

Four days were passed, and now I stood

Upon a rock that walled the deep:

Before me rolled the boundless flood,

A glorious dreamer in its sleep.

'Twas summer morn, and bright as heaven;

And though I wept, I was not sad,

For tears, thou knowest, are often given

When the overflowing heart is glad.

Long, long I watched the waves, whose whirls

Leaped up the rocks, their brows to kiss,

And dallied with the sea-weed curls,

That stooped and met, as if in bliss.

Long, long I listened to the peal,

That whispered from the pebbly shore,

And like a spirit seemed to steal

In music to my bosom's core.

And now I looked afar, and thought

The sea a glad and glorious thing;

And fancy to my bosom brought

Wild dreams upon her wizard wing—

Her wing that stretched o'er spreading waves,

And chased the far-off flashing ray,

Or hovering deep in twilight caves,

Caught the lone mermaid at her play.

"And thus the sunny day went by,

And night came brooding o'er the seas;

A thick cloud swathed the distant sky,

And hollow murmurs filled the breeze.

The white gull screaming, left the rock,

And seaward bent its glancing wing,

While heavy waves, with measured shock,

Made the dun cliff with echoes ring.

How changed the scene! The glassy deep

That slumbered in its resting-place,

And seeming in its morning sleep

To woo me to its soft embrace,

Now wakened, was a fearful thing,—

A giant with a scowling form,

Who from his bosom seemed to fling

The blackened billows to the storm.

The wailing winds in terror gushed

From the swart sky, and seemed to lash

The foaming waves, which madly rushed

Toward the tall cliff with headlong dash.

Upward the glittering spray was sent,

Backward the growling surges whirled,

And splintered rocks by lightnings rent,

Down thundering midst the waves were hurled.

I trembled, yet I would not fly;

I feared, yet loved, the awful scene;

And gazing on the sea and sky,

Spell-bound I stood the rocks between.

"'Twas strange that I, a mountain boy,

A lover of green fields and flowers,—

One, who with laughing rills could toy,

And hold companionship for hours,

With leaves that whispered low at night,

Or fountains bubbling from their springs,

Or summer winds, whose downy flight,

Seemed but the sweep of angel wings:—

'Twas strange that I should love the clash

Of ocean in its maddest hour,

And joy to see the billows dash

O'er the rent cliff with fearful power.

'Twas strange,—but I was nature's own,

Unchecked, untutored; in my soul

A harp was set that gave its tone

To every touch without control.

The zephyr stirred in childhood warm,

Thoughts like itself, as soft and blest;

And the swift fingers of the storm

Woke its own echo in my breast.

Aye, and the strings that else had lain

Untouched, and to myself unknown,

Within my heart, gave back the strain

That o'er the sea and rock was thrown.

Yes, and wild passions, which had slept

Within their cradle, as the waves

At morning by the winds unswept,

Rippling within their infant caves—

Now, wakened into billows, rose,

And held communion with the storm:

I saw the air and ocean close

In deadly struggle; marked the form

Of the dun cloud with misty wing,

That wrestled with the giant main;

I saw the racing billows spring

Like lions leaping from the plain;

I saw the surf that upward threw

Gray pyramids of foam to heaven;

I heard the battle-cry that flew

Along the cliff, as though t'were given

To cheer the elemental war;

I heard the wild bird screaming near;

I felt the rock beneath me jar,

As if the granite thrilled with fear;

I saw, I heard,—yet in my heart

The cloud, the cliff, the billow seemed

As of myself an imaged part,—

Things I had seen, or oft had dreamed;

And in my ear, the thundering tide

Was music, and the ocean's moan

An echo of my spirit, wide

As the wave, and stormy as its own.

"So passed my morning dreams away,

Like birds that shun a wintry cloud,

And phantom visions, grim and gray,

Came mist-like from the watery shroud:

Prophetic visions of the deep,

Emblems of those within the breast,

Which, summoned from their shadowy sleep,

Ride on the storm by passion pressed!

In ghastly shapes they rose to view,

All gibbering from their crystal caves,

As if some horrid mirth they drew

From the wild uproar of the waves.

With beckoning hands they seemed to urge

My footsteps down the dizzy way,

To join their train upon the surge,

And dance with them amidst the spray:

And such the madness of my brain,

That I was fain to seek the throng;

To meet and mingle on the main,

With their mad revelry and song.

One step, and down the dizzy cliff,

My form had to the waters swung,

But gliding in a wreathy skiff,

That o'er the crested billows hung,

A white form like my mother seemed

To shine a moment on my eye;—

With warning look the vision gleamed,

Then vanished upward to the sky!

"I left the thundering tide, and sought

Once more the mountain and the stream;

But long the wrestling ocean wrought

Within my bosom: as a dream

My boyhood vanished, and I woke

Startled to manhood's early morn;

No father's hand my pride to yoke,

No mother's angel voice to warn.

No,—and the gentle vision, lost,

That once could curb my wayward will,

And lull my bosom passion-tossed,

With one soft whisper, "Peace, be still!"—

That vision, spurned by manhood's pride,

Came down from heaven to me no more,

And I was launched without a guide,

To be a wreck on passion's shore.

Alas! the giddy bark at sea,

'Mid waves that woo it down to death,

From helm and compass wafted free,

The toy of every tempest's breath,—

Is but a type of him who goes,

Trusting to nature, on the tide

Of life, where breezy passion blows,

To whelm the adventurer in his pride.

Yes, for the smoothest lake hath waves

Within its bosom, which will rise

And revel when the tempest raves;

The cloud will come o'er gentlest skies;

And not a favored spot on earth,

The furrowing ploughman finds, but there

The rank and ready weeds have birth,

Sown by the winds to mock his care.

'Tis thus with every human heart;

The seeds of ill are scattered wide,

And flaunting flowers of vice will start

Thick o'er the soil they seek to hide.

Aye, and the gentleness of youth,

That seems some hill-side sown with flowers,

Odorous, as if with budding truth,

Shoots into wild fantastic bowers.

The spark for ever tends to flame;

The ray that quivers in the plash

Of yonder river, is the same

That feeds the lightning's ruddy flash.

The summer breeze that fans the rose,

Or eddies down some flowery path,

Is but the infant gale that blows

To-morrow with the whirlwind's wrath.

And He alone, who wields the storm,

And bids the arrowy lightning play,

Can guide the heart, when wild and warm,

It springs on passion's wing away!

One angel minister is sent,

To guard and guide us to the sky,

And still Her sheltering wing is bent,

Till manhood rudely throws it by.

Oh, then with mad disdain we spurn

A mother's gentle teaching; throw

Her bosom from us, and we burn,

To rush in freedom, where the glow

Of pleasure lights the dancing wave:

We launch the bark, we woo the gale,

And reckless of the darkling grave

That yawns below, we speed the sail!

"Stranger! a murderer stands before thee!

To tell the guilty tale were vain—

It is enough—the curse is o'er me—

And I am but a wandering Cain.

What boots it that the world bestows,

For deeds of death its honors dear?

The blood that from the duel flows,

Will cry to heaven, and heaven will hear!

Thou shalt not kill!' 'Twas deeply traced

In living stone, and thunder-sealed;

It cannot be by man effaced,

Or fashion's impious act repealed.

And though we seek with thin deceit,

To blind Jehovah's piercing gaze,

Call murder, honor,—can we cheat

The Omniscient with a specious phrase?

Alas! 'tis adding crime to crime,

To veil the blood our hands have spilt,

And seek by words of softening chime,

To lend blest virtue's charm to guilt.

Oh, no! in vain the world may give

The fearful deed a gentle name—

I slew my friend, and now I live

To feel perdition's glowing flame.

His missile cut the upward air—

Mine, winged with murder won its way,

Straight to his manly bosom,—there

He fell, unconscious as the clay!

One thrill of triumph through me swept,—

But, as I gazed upon his brow,

A chilling horror o'er me crept,—

And I am what thou seest now!

"Stranger,—thy bosom cannot know

The desolation of the soul,

When the rough, gale hath ceased to blow,

Yet o'er it bids the billow roll.

A helmless wreck upon the tide—

An earthquake's ruin wrapped in gloom—

A gnarled oak blasted in its pride—

Are feeble emblems of my doom.

There is a tongue in every leaf,

A sigh in every tossing tree—

A murmur in each wave; of grief

They whisper, and they speak to me.

Nature hath many voices—strings

Of varied melody: and oft

Lone spirits come on breezy wings,

To wake their music sad or soft.

But in the wilderness, where Heaven

Is the wrapt listener, the tone

Is ever mournful: there is given,

A chorus for the skies, alone.

At night, when the pale moonlight falls

O'er prairies, sleeping like a grave,

And glorious through these mountain halls,

Pours in a flood its silvery wave—

I climb the cliff, and hear the song,

That o'er the breast of stillness steals:

I hear the cataract thundering strong

From far; I hear the wave that peals

Along the lone lake's pebbly shore;

I hear the sweeping gust that weaves

The tree tops, and the winds that pour

In rippling lapses through the leaves.

And as the diapason sweeps

Across the breast of night, the moan

Of wolves upon the spirit creeps,

Lending the hymn a wilder tone.

The panther's wail, the owlet's scream,

The whippoorwill's complaining song,

Blend with the cataract's solemn theme,

And the wild cadences prolong.

And often when the heart is chilled

By the deep harmony, the note

Of some light-hearted bird is trilled

Upon the breeze. How sweet its throat!

Yet, as a gem upon the finger

Of a pale corse, deepens the gloom,

By its bright rays that laugh and linger

In the dread bosom of the tomb;

So doth the note of that wild bird,

Sadden the anthem of the hills,

And my hushed bosom, spirit-stirred,

With lonelier desolation thrills.