  UNTAMEDTHERE was a time on this fair continent When all things throve in spacious peacefulness. The prosperous forests unmolested stood, For where the stalwart oak grew, there it lived Long ages, and then died among its kind. The hoary pines—those ancients of the earth, Brimful of legends of the early world— Stood thick on their own mountains unsubdued. And all things else illumined by the sun, Inland, or by the lifted wave, had rest. The passionate or calm pageants of the skies No artist drew; but in the auburn west Innumerable faces of fair cloud Vanished in silent darkness with the day. The prairie realm—vast ocean's paraphrase— Rich in wild grasses numberless, and flowers Unnamed save in mute Nature's inventory, No civilized barbarian trenched for gain. And all that flowed was sweet and uncorrupt: The rivers and their tributary streams, Undammed, wound on forever, and gave up Their lonely torrents of weird gulfs of sea, And ocean wastes unshadowed by a sail. And all the wild life of this western world Knew not the fear of man; yet in those woods ... There lived a soul more wild than barbarous; A tameless soul—the sunburnt savage free— Free, and untainted by the greed of gain: Great Nature's man content with Nature's food. WE fear not the thunder, we fear not the rain, For our stems are stout and long; Or the growling winds, though they blow amain, For our roots are great and strong; Our voice is eternal, our song sublime, And its theme is the days of yore— Back thousands of years of misty time, When we first grew old and hoar! Deep down in the crevice our roots were hid, And our limbs were thick and green Ere Cheops had builded his pyramid, Or the Sphinx's form was seen. Whole forests have risen within our ken, Which withered upon the plain; And cities, and race after race of men, Have risen and sunk again. We commune with the stars thro' the paly night, For we love to talk with them; The wind is our harp, and the marvellous light Of the moon our diadem. Like the murmur of ocean our branches stir When the night air whispers low; Like the voices of ocean our voices are, When the hurtling tempests blow. We nod to the sun ere the glimmering morn Prints her sandals on the mere; We part with the sun when the stars are borne By the silvery waters clear. And when lovers are breathing a thousand vows, With their hearts and cheeks aglow, We chant a love strain 'mid our breezy boughs, Of a thousand years ago! We stand all aloof, for the giant's strength Craveth naught from lesser powers; 'Tis the shrub that loveth the fertile ground, But the sturdy rock is ours! We tower aloft where the hunters lag By the weary mountain side, By the jaggy cliff, by the grimy crag, And the chasms yawning wide. When the great clouds march in a mountain heap, By the light of the dwindled sun, We steady our heads 'gainst their misty sweep, And accost them one by one. Then our limbs they jostle in thunder-mirth, And the storm-fires flash again; But baffled and weary they sink to earth, And the monarch-stems remain. The passage of years doth not move us much, And Time himself grows old Ere we bow to his flight, or feel his touch In our "limbs of giant mould." And the dwarfs of the wood, by decay oppressed, With our laughter grim we mock; For the burden of age doth lightly rest On the ancient forest folk. Cold Winter, who filches the flying leaf, And steals the floweret's sheen, Can injure us not, or work us grief, Or make our tops less green. And Spring, who awakens her sleeping train By meadow, and hill, and lea, Brings no new life to our old domain, Unfading, stern, and free. Sublime in our solitude, changeless, vast, While men build, work, and save, We mock—for their years glide away to the past, And we grimly look on their grave. Our voice is eternal, our song sublime, For its theme is the days of yore— Back thousands of years of misty time, When we first grew old and hoar. IT comes! This strange bird from a distant clime Has fled with arrowy speed on fluttering wing. From the sweet south, all sick of revelling, It wanders hitherward to rest a time, And taste the hardy flora of the west. And now, O joy! the urchins hear the mirth Of its light wings, and crouch unto the earth In watchful eagerness, contented, blest. Bird of eternal summers! thou dost wake, Whene'er thou comest and where'er thou art, A new born gladness in my swelling heart. Go, gentle flutterer, my blessing take! Less like a bird thou hast appeared to me Than some sweet fancy in old poesy. OFT I have met her In openings of the woods and pleasant ways, Where flowers beset her, And hanging branches crowned her head with bays. Oft have I seen her walk Through flower-decked fields unto the oaken pass, Where lay the slumbery flock, Swoln with much eating of the tender grass. Oft have I seen her stand By wandering brooks o'er which the willows met; Or where the meadow-land Balmed the soft air with dew-mist drapery wet. Much patting of the wind Had bloomed her cheek with color of the rose; Rare beauty was entwined With locks and looks in movement or repose.... The floriage of the spring And summer coronals were hers in trust, Till came the winter-king To droop their sweetness into native dust.... The dingle and the glade, The brown-ribbed mountains, and tall, talking trees Seemed fairer while she stayed, And drank of their dim meanings and old ease.... And chiefly she did love To soothe the widow's ruth and orphan's tear; With counsel from above, Alleviating woe, allaying fear.... There was a quiet grace In all her actions, tokening gentleness, Yet firm intent to trace The paths of duty leading up to bliss.... She thought of One who bore The awful burden of the world's despair— What could she give Him more Than blameless thoughts, a simple life and fair? She was and is, for still She lives and moves upon the grass-green earth, And, as of old, doth fill Her heart with peace, still mingling tears with mirth. O, could we find her out, And learn of her this wildering maze to tread! And, eased of every doubt, Let deadly passions linger with the dead!... |
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