THE RANGER. hill and hollow heir web of play. Martha cries, her eyelids wetting; 207 "Foul and false the words you say !" "Martha Mason, hear to reason! With the mournful pine-trees sighing, Turns my heart, forever trying Some new hope for each new day. "When the shadows veil the meadows, And the sunset's golden ladders Sink from twilight's walls of gray, Fades the fond, delusive seeming, "When the growing dawn is showing, And the barn-yard cock is crowing, And the horned moon pales away: Then I hush the thought, and say, Look up, Martha! worn and swarthy, "Robert!" "Martha !" all they say. Noon of night is noon of day! Quench the timber's fallen embers, Hoary rime and chilly spray. When the bridal bells shall say: "Hope and pray, trust alway; Life is sweeter. love is dearer. LATER POEMS. 1856-57. THE LAST WALK IN AUTUMN. I. And that the vernal-seeming breeze Mocked faded grass and leafless trees, I might have dreamed of summer as I lay, O'ER the bare woods, whose out- Watching the fallen leaves with the soft stretched hands Plead with the leaden heavens in vain, I see, beyond the valley lands, The sea's long level dim with rain. Around me all things, stark and dumb, Seem praying for the snows to come, And, for the summer bloom and greenness gone, With winter's sunset lights and dazzling morn atone. II. Along the river's summer walk, The withered tufts of asters nod; And trembles on its arid stalk The hoar plume of the golden-rod. And on a ground of sombre fir, And azure-studded juniper, The silver birch its buds of purple shows, And scarlet berries tell where bloomed the sweet wild-rose ! III. With mingled sound of horns and bells, A far-heard clang, the wild geese fly, Storm-sent, from Arctic moors and fells, Like a great arrow through the sky, Two dusky lines converged in one, Chasing the southward-flying sun; While the brave snow-bird and the hardy jay Call to them from the pines, as if to bid them stay. IV. I passed this way a year ago: The wind blew south; the noon of day Was warm as June's; and save that snow Flecked the low mountains far away, wind at play. THE LAST WALK IN AUTUMN. And he who wanders widest lifts No more of beauty's jealous veils Than he who from his doorway sees The miracle of flowers and trees, Feels the warm Orient in the noonday air, And from cloud minarets hears the sunset call to prayer! IX. The eye may well be glad, that looks Where Pharpar's fountains rise and fall; But he who sees his native brooks Laugh in the sun, has seen them all. The marble palaces of Ind Rise round him in the snow and wind; From his lone sweetbrier Persian Hafiz smiles, And Rome's cathedral awe is in his woodland aisles. X. And thus it is my fancy blends The near at hand and far and rare ; And while the same horizon bends Above the silver-sprinkled hair Which flashed the light of morning skies On childhood's wonder-lifted eyes, Within its round of sea and sky and field, Earth wheels with all her zones, the Kosmos stands revealed. XI. And thus the sick man on his bed, The toiler to his task-work bound, Behold their prison-walls outspread, Their clipped horizon widen round! While freedom-giving fancy waits, Like Peter's angel at the gates, The power is theirs to baffle care and pain, To bring the lost world back, and make it theirs again! XII. What lack of goodly company, When masters of the ancient lyre Obey my call, and trace for me Their words of mingled tears and fire! I talk with Bacon, grave and wise, I read the world with Pascal's eyes; And priest and sage, with solemn brows austere, And poets, garland-bound, the Lords of Thought, draw near. XIII. 209 How conscious seems the frozen sod And beechen slope whereon they trod ! The oak-leaves rustle, and the dry grass bends Beneath the shadowy feet of lost or absent friends. XVIII. Then ask not why to these bleak hills The mocking spring's perpetual loss. Could I not feel thy soil, New England, at my feet! XIX. At times I long for gentler skies, And bathe in dreams of softer air, Than classic halls where Priestcraft And Learning wears the chains of Thy glad Thanksgiving, gathering in Or holidays of slaves who laugh and dance in chains. XXIII. And sweet homes nestle in these dales, And perch along these wooded swells; And, blest beyond Arcadian vales, They hear the sound of Sabbath bells! Here dwells no perfect man sublime, Nor woman winged before her time, But with the faults and follies of the race, But homesick tears would fill the eyes Old home-bred virtues held their not That saw the Cross without the Bear. The pine must whisper to the palm, The north-wind break the tropic calm; And with the dreamy languor of the Line, The North's keen virtue blend, and strength to beauty join. XX. Better to stem with heart and hand Of God's occasions drifting by! XXI. Home of my heart! to me more fair Than gay Versailles or Windsor's halls, The painted, shingly town-house where The freeman's vote for Freedom falls! The simple roof where prayer is made, Than Gothic groin and colonnade; The living temple of the heart of man, Than Rome's sky-mocking vault, or many-spired Milan ! XXII. More dear thy equal village schools, unhonored place. XXIV. Here manhood struggles for the sake to sneer. XXV. Then let the icy north-wind blow Yon slanting lines of rain transform. Young hearts shall hail the drifted cold, As gayly as I did of old; And I, who watch them through the frosty pane, Unenvious, live in them my boyhood o'er again. XXVI. And I will trust that He who heeds The life that hides in mead and wold, Who hangs yon alder's crimson beads, And stains these mosses green and gold, BURIAL OF BARBOUR. Will still, as He hath done, incline His gracious care to me and mine; Grant what we ask aright, from wrong debar, And, as the earth grows dark, make brighter every star! XXVII. I have not seen, I may not see, 211 "God wills it here our rest shall be, Our years of wandering o'er, O sacred flowers of faith and hope, Ye bloom on many a birchen slope, My hopes for man take form in Behind the sea-wall's rugged length, act, But God will give the victory In due time; in that faith I act. And he who sees the future sure, The baffling present may endure, And bless, meanwhile, the unseen Hand that leads The heart's desires beyond the halting step of deeds. XXVIII. And thou, my song, I send thee forth, Where harsher songs of mine have flown ; Go, find a place at home and hearth Where'er thy singer's name is known; Revive for him the kindly thought Of friends; and they who love him not, Touched by some strain of thine, perchance may take The hand he proffers all, and thank him for thy sake. THE MAYFLOWERS. The trailing arbutus, or mayflower, grows abundantly in the vicinity of Plymouth, and was the first flower that greeted the Pilgrims after their fearful winter. SAD Mayflower! watched by winter stars, What had she in those dreary hours, In common with the wild-wood flowers, Yet, "God be praised!" the Pilgrim said, Who saw the blossoms peer Above the brown leaves, dry and dead, "Behold our Mayflower here!" Unchanged, your leaves unfold, Like love behind the manly strength Of the brave hearts of old. So live the fathers in their sons, Its rocky strength with flowers. The Pilgrim's wild and wintry day Our Freedom's struggling cause. But warmer suns erelong shall bring Afresh the flowers of God! BURIAL OF BARBOUR. BEAR him, comrades, to his grave; Never over one more brave Shall the prairie grasses weep, In the ages yet to come, When the millions in our room, What we sow in tears, shall reap. Bear him up the icy hill, As his noble heart, below, One more look of that dead face, One more kiss, O widowed one! That his work shall yet be done. Patience, friends! The eye of God Every path by Murder trod |