Classic Poem

Again thy winds are roaring in the wood,
Dark featured Autumn, and their waking might,
Tossing the deep green foliage like a flood,
Rends the first pale leaves in their stormy flight
The eyes meet sadness wheresoe'er they light;
Deep is the dark blue tincture, from the sky,
Cast o'er the valleys; the far mountain's height
Shrouds in the tempest's frowning majesty
Its rills, that roar and foam, while all is silence nigh.

Call now the memory of the merry morn,
When sparrows bickering in the eaves above,
Rooks in the elm tops, lambs upon the lawn,
One full, glad clamour of a world of love
Roused thee, the sky all gleaming, forth to rove:
Go now, retrace those summer walks again;
For if thy soul true tenderness would prove,
And feel a joy more inward, 'twill be when
Thou view'st these scenes all sad, but lovelier far than then.

This is the moment when proud Nature stands
As if to weep the sentence, heard but now,
Which dooms her glories; but not long her hands
Droop in despair; a smile relumes her brow,
And lo! she scatters o'er the forest bough,
And over earth and air, a charm so deep,
That though no frolic smiles these scenes allow,
Far nobler thoughts the heart's pure feelings keep;
And beauty's deepest sense is caught through eyes that weep.

So does the good man, when his feet have pass'd
A course of calm contentment, hear within,
Stunn'd and alarm'd, the voice of death at last;
Frail nature trembling not — from sense of sin,
And that but for a moment — then begin
Faith's last proud promises with glory rife —
Then lights eternal radiance — nought to win;
All is accomplish'd; conqueror in the strife,
Bliss buoys the victor-spirit to immortal life.

Thy glories, Autumn, bright'ning as they die,
Lead the awed bosom into thoughts like these;
Dead is that spirit, senseless is that eye,
That thus they prompt not, thus they cannot please,
Inspiring, midst their gloom, yet softer reveries.
Ah! who has witness'd, as he wander'd by,
The cottage fire among the withering trees,
And felt no triumph, or indulged no sigh
For love's warm tranquil home of taste and harmony.

Oh! that the spirit of domestic love,
That hallow'd, tender, yet familiar thing,
That, like an angel dropping from above,
Broods o'er its objects with the softest wing
That ever traversed earth; — oh! that the sting
Should ever reach her fair uncover'd breast
From those she would protect; for nought can wring
Her from the chosen station of her rest
That all besides can do, dark, trait'rous, and unblest.

But whether cloud or sunshine there has been
Upon your dwelling, still she smiled as gay
As, on a gloomy autumn, you have seen
The sun shine out through clouds of dark array,
And lighting up a sweet spot far away —
A little, lovely heaven, amidst a scene
All sad and cold — a little, happy day,
Midst storms and darkness, shining and serene,
As if some spirits of heaven there did awhile convene.

Oh! let the world pass even as it will!
Be full of courtesy, and full of guile;
Be kind, be cruel, seeming good, yet ill;
Let men be trait'rous, vengeful, and let vile
Hate and detraction, stabbing as they smile,
Assail you sorely; midst surrounding strife,
Let but this hovering angel guard the while
The forms of parent, brother, sister, wife,
And thou hast all the balm, the weal, and wealth of life.

For she will build a barrier that no foe
Can make a breach in, and her gentle eye
Will light a sheen, that even pain and woe
Can only brighten; she will softly dry
Each tear with a warm kiss, and every sigh
Repay with dear affection; she will trace
A magic circle 'neath the wildest sky,
Round which may ruin frown, and envy pace,
Yet still that spot shall be Hope's dearest dwelling-place.

And thou, O God! whose ever open hands
Have shed upon us the rich light of love,
The light of that religion which commands
To love each other, as ourselves we love;
Oh! which of all thy blessings from above
Hast thou sent down, like that celestial chain,
Which brightens with afflictions, and is clove
Asunder by no shock of mortal pain,
No, not a world's whole might can sever it in twain!

How witness ye, my brothers — how watch ye
Beauty's last revel in your distant land?
Oh! could I wing my spirit, and might be
Camp'd with you on some mighty mountain's stand,
Pointing the glories out, with eager-hand,
Of lake stupendous, cataract sublime,
Primeval forests, rivers on whose strand
The Indian roams no more — but Europe's crime
Plants, with self-exiled sons, proud realms of future time.

Sigh ye now fondly for your distant home,
As eastern skies with morning's glories glow?
Or press ye onward, wond'ring as ye roam,
Those awful solitudes that hear the flow
Of vast Ohio, where the buffalo,
The nimble deer, and sluggish bear abide;
Where tree-frogs croak, and mock-birds, as ye go,
Chant merrily, and flow'ry kalmias hide
The desert's deadly brood, that 'neath their foliage glide?

God speed your wanderings! In those realms where men
Who fly from tyranny's detested lair
Will see no horrors in the monster's den,
If man be not the monster lurking there,
God speed your wand'rings! for the souls ye bear
Into that wild of freedom will be free!
Souls of God's noblest fashion — souls that share
The proud-eyed visions of your ancestry,
Who saw no blessing where they saw not liberty.