Classic Poem

Has Spring returned to give a golden close
To old October's few, fast-fleeting hours?
A genial radiance through the calm air glows,
So lately stirred with fitful winds and showers.
It seemeth Spring, albeit too tame and still, —
Scentless the field, and verdureless the tree;
But the sweet Robin, at his cheerful will,
On the bare orchard-bough, or cottage sill,
Pours from his ruddy throat a song of tender glee.

My thoughts are dwarfed, for lack of light and room, —
Feeble the fluttering pulses in my breast;
My fancies dim, and voiceless as the tomb, —
My laggard limbs unstrung, my brain oppressed.
Come forth, my staff, — lie there, my peaceful books, —
Sleep at thy fountain, idle pen, awhile;
Nature invites me, with her kindliest looks,
To pleasant pathways, and to peaceful nooks, —
My very heart leaps up, and kindles at her smile.

Once more, once more, ere Winter lowers and storms,
And the last wreath of waning Autumn rends,
I go to commune with those awful forms;
The hoary hills, my old familiar friends;
Through devious tracks my eager footsteps stray,
Where well-springs shine, where restless funnels sound;
The dead leaves linger on my lonely way, —
Crowd into hollows — with the breezes play, —
Rush in a rustling race, and eddy round and round.

Where buxom mother, rosy babe in arms,
Smiles in the sunshine at her cottage door,
My feet press on, by grey and quiet farms,
Up the wild lane that seeks the swarthy moor;
Still on, while backward fades the distant town, —
Town of tumultuous toil, and churlish care;
On, o'er the springy heath-lands, waste and brown,
Till the dark shoulders and defiant crown
Of Buckton's barren steep loom in the smokeless air.

Halt, hurrying foot! pause, panting heart! for here
Bursts into ken the valley's glorious length;
Hill, hamlet, woodland, river, rock, appear
Blent in harmonious loveliness and strength;
There lofty Haridge lifts his dusky crest
Above his stalwart brethren of the vale;
There gloomy Warmton heaves his fir-clad breast;
In yon sharp crags stands Olderman confessed,
Stern wooer of the sun, and scorner of the gale!

Before me, single in his solemn pride,
Majestic Buckton swelleth towards the sky,
His belt of dwarf-oak reddening on his side,
Flinging a flush of beauty on the eye
Up, listless foot! up, languid heart! I came
To sit upon his forehead, bald and dun!
Down the rough slopes, o'er the meandering Tame,
Through dreamy wood-haunts, yet unknown to fame,
Bravely and briefly speed, until the goal be won.

'Tis done! and lo, far towering o'er my head,
The sullen giant stands! with strenuous bound,
Trampling the heather with determined tread,
I grasp his locks, and gaze triumphant round.
Oh! what a draught of gladness in the breeze!
Oh! what a feast of glory in the scene!
Moorlands, and mountain tops, and clustering trees, —
Hamlets and fanes, homes of luxurious ease, —
Grandeur and gentle grace, with countless charms between!

Like seething cauldron fuming in the air,
Our city sits on the horizon's rim,
Staining with lurid gloom what else were fair,
Making the brightness of the sunset dim
A place of wildering energy and din,
And dauntless effort, is yon wondrous town,
Of cares and curses, wretchedness and sin;
Yet hath she noble hearts, brave souls, within,
Pure and prolific minds, that make her world-renown.

No cloud, save heaven's, no strife, no clangour here;
No shallow friends; no deep and desperate foes;
The spot is Nature's, undefiled and clear,
Where all is sweetness, beauty, and repose;
No sound, save that of tuneful streams and rills,
Whose hum floats upward as they fall and fret,
Or plaintive bleat of sheep upon the hills,
Or solemn sigh of swooping wind, that fills
The chambers of the soul with music God hath set.

A change has come: some wandering clouds have kissed
The rugged features of my mountain friend,
And I am mantled in a silvery mist,
Rolling in waves that idly break and blend;
Yet all beneath lies tranquillised and bright,
Bathed in the tender glow of evening hours;
The windows twinkle in the level light,
The sombre woods grow golden to the sight,
And like a " burnished snake " the rambling river gleams.

Behold! the rainbow's many-clouded arch
Springs from the vale, and sweeps the skies above,
A splendid path, where angel-shapes might march
Sublimely earthward, messengers of Love!
Oh! glorious spectacle! oh! sacred sign,
By matchless Mercy unto mortals given!
How Noah must have loved thy hues divine,
When first o'er Ararat he saw thee shine,
Limned by the hand of God upon the front of heaven!

In beauteous fragments breaks the bow away,
Whilst envious shadows creep about the West;
The rain is spent, spent is the hurrying day,
And all things lean most lovingly to rest:
Leaving old Buckton to the winds and stars,
Downward with staggering steps I seek the plains;
And as I homeward muse, no discord jars
The music of my mind, no world-thought mars
The vision of delight which in my spirit reigns.

Ye who in crowded town, o'ertoiled, o'erspent,
For bread's sake cling to desk, forge, wheel, and loom,
Come, when the law allows , and let the bent
Of your imprisoned minds have health and room;
So ye may gaze upon the free and fair,
Receive fresh vigour from the mountain sod;
So ye may doff the chrysalis of care
In the pure element of mountain air,
And on the wings of thought draw nearer unto God!