The Grateful Indian Part 17

When winter winds are piercing chill And through the hawthorn blows the gale, With solemn feet I tread the hill, That overbrows the lonely vale.

O'er the bare upland, and away Through the long reach of desert woods, The embracing sunbeams chastely play, And gladden these deep solitudes.

Where, twisted round the barren oak, The summer vine in beauty clung, And summer winds the stillness broke, The crystal icicle is hung.

Where, from their frozen urns, mute springs Pour out the river's gradual tide, Shrilly the skater's iron rings, And voices fill the woodland side.

Alas! how changed from the fair scene, When birds sang out their mellow lay, And winds were soft, and woods were green, And the song ceased not with the day.

But still wild music is abroad, Pale, desert woods! within your crowd; And gathering winds, in hoa.r.s.e accord, Amid the vocal reeds pipe loud.

Chill airs and wintry winds! my ear Has grown familiar with your song; I hear it in the opening year-- I listen, and it cheers me long.

HYMN OF THE MORAVIAN NUNS OF BETHLEHEM, AT THE CONSECRATION OF PULASKI'S BANNER.

When the dying flame of day Through the chancel shot its ray, Far the glimmering tapers shed Faint light on the cowled head; And the censer burning swung, Where, before the altar, hung The blood-red banner, that with prayer Had been consecrated there.

And the nuns' sweet hymn was heard the while, Sung low in the dim, mysterious aisle.

"Take thy banner! May it wave Proudly o'er the good and brave; When the battle's distant wail Breaks the sabbath of our vale, When the clarion's music thrills To the hearts of these lone hills, When the spear in conflicts shakes, And the strong lance s.h.i.+vering breaks.

"Take thy banner! and, beneath The battle-cloud's encircling wreath, Guard it!--till our homes are free!

Guard it!--G.o.d will prosper thee!

In the dark and trying hour, In the breaking forth of power, In the rush of steeds and men, His right hand will s.h.i.+eld thee then.

"Take thy banner! But, when night Closes round the ghastly fight, If the vanquished warrior bow, Spare him!--By our holy vow, By our prayers and many tears, By the mercy that endears, Spare him!--he our love hath shared!

Spare him!--as thou wouldst be spared!

"Take thy banner! and if e'er Thou shouldst press the soldier's bier, And the m.u.f.fled drum should beat To the tread of mournful feet, Then this crimson flag shall be Martial cloak and shroud for thee."

The warrior took that banner proud, And it was his martial cloak and shroud!

SUNRISE ON THE HILLS.

I stood upon the hills, when heaven's wide arch Was glorious with the sun's returning march, And woods were brightened, and soft gales Went forth to kiss the sun-clad vales.

The clouds were far beneath me;--bathed in light They gathered mid-way round the wooded height, And, in their fading glory, shone Like hosts in battle overthrown, As many a pinnacle, with s.h.i.+fting glance, Through the grey mist thrust up its shattered lance, And rocking on the cliff was left The dark pine blasted, bare, and cleft, The veil of cloud was lifted, and below Glowed the rich valley, and the river's flow Was darkened by the forest's shade, Or glistened in the white cascade; Where upward, in the mellow blush of day, The noisy bittern wheeled his spiral way.

I heard the distant waters dash, I saw the current whirl and flash-- And richly, by the blue lake's silver beach, The woods were bending with a silent reach, Than o'er the vale, with gentle swell, The music of the village bell Came sweetly to the echo-giving hills; And the wild horn, whose voice the woodland fills, Was ringing to the merry shout, That faint and far the glen sent out, Where, answering to the sudden shot, thin smoke, Through thick-leaved branches, from the dingle broke.

If thou art worn and hard beset With sorrows, that thou wouldst forget, If thou wouldst read a lesson, that will keep Thy heart from fainting and thy soul from sleep, Go to the woods and hills!--No tears Dim the sweet look that Nature wears.

THE SPIRIT OF POETRY.

There is a quiet spirit in these woods, That dwells where'er the gentle south wind blows; Where, underneath the whitethorn, in the glade, The wild flowers bloom, or, kissing the soft air, The leaves above their sunny palms outspread.

With what a tender and impa.s.sioned voice It fills the nice and delicate ear of thought, When the fast-ushering star of morning comes O'er-riding the grey hills with golden scarf; Or when the cowled and dusky-sandalled Eve, In mourning weeds, from out the western gate, Departs with silent pace! That spirit moves In the green valley, where the silver brook, From its full laver, pours the white cascade; And, babbling low amid the tangled woods, Slips down through moss-grown stones with endless laughter.

And frequent, on the everlasting hills, Its feet go forth, when it doth wrap itself In all the dark embroidery of the storm, And shouts the stern, strong wind. And here, amid The silent majesty of these deep woods, Its presence shall uplift thy thoughts from earth, As to the suns.h.i.+ne and the pure, bright air Their tops the green trees lift. Hence gifted bards Have ever loved the calm and quiet shades.

For them there was an eloquent voice in all The sylvan pomp of woods, the golden sun, The flowers, the leaves, the river on its way, Blue skies, and silver clouds, and gentle winds-- The swelling upland, where the sidelong sun Aslant the wooded slope, at evening, goes-- Groves, through whose broken roof the sky looks in, Mountain, and shattered cliff, and sunny vale, The distant lake, fountains,--and mighty trees, In many a lazy syllable, repeating Their old poetic legends to the wind.

And this is the sweet spirit, that doth fill The world; and, in these wayward days of youth, My busy fancy oft embodies it, As a bright image of the light and beauty That dwell in nature,--of the heavenly forms We wors.h.i.+p in our dreams, and the soft hues That stain the wild bird's wing, and flush the clouds When the sun sets. Within her eye The heaven of April, with its changing light, And when it wears the blue of May, is hung, And on her lip the rich, red rose. Her hair Is like the summer tresses of the trees, When twilight makes them brown, and on her cheek Blushes the richness of an autumn sky, With ever-s.h.i.+fting beauty. Then her breath, It is so like the gentle air of spring, As, from the morning's dewy flowers, it comes Full of their fragrance, that it is a joy To have it round us,--and her silver voice Is the rich music of a summer bird, Heard in the still night, with its pa.s.sionate cadence.

BURIAL OF THE MINNISINK.

On sunny slope and beechen swell The shadowed light of evening fell: And, where the maple's leaf was brown, With soft and silent lapse came down The glory, that the wood receives, At sunset, in its brazen leaves.

Far upward in the mellow light Rose the blue hills. One cloud of white, Around a far uplifted cone, In the warm blush of evening shone; An image of the silver lakes, By which the Indian's soul awakes.

But soon a funeral hymn was heard Where the soft breath of evening stirred The tall, grey forest; and a band Of stern in heart, and strong in hand, Came winding down beside the wave, To lay the red chief in his grave.

They sang, that by his native bowers He stood, in the last moon of flowers, And thirty snows had not yet shed Their glory on the warrior's head; But, as the summer fruit decays, So died he in those naked days.

A dark cloak of the roebuck's skin Covered the warrior, and within Its heavy folds the weapons, made For the hard toils of war, were laid; The cuira.s.s, woven of plaited reeds, And the broad belt of sh.e.l.ls and beads.

Before, a dark-haired virgin train Chanted the death-dirge of the slain; Behind, the long procession came Of h.o.a.ry men and chiefs of fame, With heavy hearts, and eyes of grief, Leading the war-horse of their chief.

Stripped of his proud and martial dress, Uncurbed, unreined, and riderless, With darting eye, and nostril spread, And heavy and impatient tread, He came; and oft that eye so proud Asked for his rider in the crowd.

They buried the dark chief, they freed Beside the grave his battle steed; And swift an arrow cleaved its way To his stern heart! One piercing neigh Arose,--and, on the dead man's plain, The rider grasps his steed again.

CHAPTER EIGHT.

TRANSLATIONS.

KING CHRISTIAN. A NATIONAL SONG OF DENMARK. FROM THE DANISH OF JOHANNES EVALD.

King Christian stood by the lofty mast In mist and smoke; His sword was hammering so fast, Through Gothic helm and brain it pa.s.sed; Then sank each hostile hulk and mast, In mist and smoke.

"Fly!" shouted they, "fly, he who can!

Who braves of Denmark's Christian The stroke?"

Nils Juel gave heed to the tempest's roar, Now is the hour!

He hoisted his blood-red flag once more, And smote upon the foe full sore, And shouted loud, through the tempest's roar, "Now is the hour!"

"Fly!" shouted they, "for shelter fly!

Of Denmark's Juel who can defy The power?"

North Sea! a glimpse of Wessel rent Thy murky sky!

Then champions to thine arms were sent; Terror and Death glared where he went; From the waves was heard a wail, that rent Thy murky sky!

From Denmark, thunders Tordenskiold, Let each to Heaven commend his soul, And fly!

Path to the Dane to fame and might!

Dark-rolling wave!

Receive thy friend, who, scorning flight, Goes to meet danger with despite, Proudly as thou the tempest's might, Dark-rolling wave!

And amid pleasures and alarms, And war and victory, he thine arms My grave!

Nils Juel was a celebrated Danish Admiral, and Peder Wessel, a Vice-Admiral, who for his great prowess received the popular t.i.tle of Torden-skiold, or _Thunder-s.h.i.+eld_, in childhood he was a tailor's apprentice, and rose to his high rank before the age of twenty-eight, when he was killed in a duel.

THE CELESTIAL PILOT. FROM DANTE'S PURGATORIO, II.

And now, behold! as at the approach of morning Through the gross vapours, Mars grows fiery red Down in the west upon the ocean floor.