  WRITTEN AMONG THE BLUE-RIDGE MOUNTAINS. BY CHARLES CONSTANTINE PISE, D. D. Lo! it is evening: down the mountain's side The parting sun-beams slowly melt away: But, ere they fade, a lingering lustre shed, That loiters brilliant on the smiling peak. See how the horizon blushes—as the last Declining, lingering radiance of day Skirts the faint eves of heaven—while adown The desert mountain darkness glides apace, And steals the cottage from the inquiring eye! Hark! from the copse a plaintive murmur sighs, That seems to tell a tale of sympathy. 'Tis the lone rivulet, which lately saw And felt the sun-beams dancing on its bosom: Then o'er its gentle bed it stole in mirth, And as it flowed, chimed to the lovely scene. Ah! let me hie me to the twilight stream, To muse the solemn, silent hour away! But, as I move, upon the verge of heaven The full broad moon, amid a host of clouds, That stand like broken battlements afar, Unveils her silvery face, and gives a beam Resplendent, meek, and lovely as the hour. Sometimes the shaggy clouds inter her form, And leave me to myself and darkness—yet Anon she bursts her prison, and looks down, Like one that feels her consciousness and pride. Here, from this eminence that tops the rill, My eye goes wandering to the village nigh, Where many a taper glimmers: there, methinks, Contentment cheers the bosom—peace and mirth Entwine the heart, and give a charm to life. Where now is that tall spire, which lately gleamed Amid the bright reflections of the day! Ah! it hath vanished—shaded by the night, It rises up unseen, and each fair mansion, Save by the doubtful moon, is seen no more. Hushed is the voice of nature: to her nest The solitary bird hath gone—and naught Save the dark whip-poor-will is heard abroad. The meadow, but an hour ago alive With grazing flocks and herds, and echoing blithe The gentle music of the ploughman's whistle, Lies cheerless and asleep—a lonely waste! Still resting on this mossy rock, 'round which The night-winds moan, let me indulge my soul— For to my soul 'tis sweet to linger here. Turn up thine eye to yon bright vaults of heaven, All studded o'er with gems of light serene, That glimmer through the mistiness of night: See how they travel—their unceasing round Weaving harmonious—and rejoiced to do The will of their Creator: 'Ah!' they say— For, to the poet's ear they speak aloud— They say: 'proud man is but a reptile thing, Lowly and dark—and still with head erect, Presumes to challenge his almighty Lord, And dares disclaim allegiance to his will. Supremely lifted from those humble walks, To journey through interminable space, Stoop with submission to the hand that traced The pathway of our orbs, and love to twine A wreath of gratitude and praise to Him.' Such is the language which those stars address To melancholy man, while from the heath Accordant voices rise. Lo! it is night— Extinguished is the brilliant orb of day, And none is left, save those bright stars above, To cheer the solitary world. So thou, Unthinking man! shall one day see thy life Extinguished by the chilly touch of death. But still upon thy grave a light shall stream— And 'tis the torch of Hope enkindled there By meek Religion, to watch o'er thy dust, Which life again shall animate and warm. To-morrow, and the sun shall rise sublime, Painting the face of nature; and each scene, Tinged by its golden beams, shall glow and laugh, Fraught with new life: so thou shall lay thee down Within the midnight chambers of the tomb, And darkness shall encompass thee awhile; But then the light of Immortality, Bursting into the cold recess, shall shine, And wake thee from thy slumbers: thou shall rise, And, robed in never-fading glory, live, And rest thee on the bosom of thy God. |
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