Classic Poem

The Moonlit Prairie

XIV.

" Stranger, — thy bosom cannot know
The desolation of the soul,
When the rough, gale hath ceased to blow,
Yet o'er it bids the billow roll.
A helmless wreck upon the tide —
An earthquake's ruin wrapped in gloom —
A gnarled oak blasted in its pride
Are feeble emblems of my doom.
There is a tongue in every leaf,
A sigh in every tossing tree —
A murmur in each wave; of grief
They whisper, and they speak to me.
Nature hath many voices — strings
Of varied melody: and oft
Lone spirits come on breezy wings,
To wake their music sad or soft.
But in the wilderness, where Heaven
Is the wrapt listener, the tone
Is ever mournful: there is given,
A chorus for the skies, alone.
At night, when the pale moonlight falls
O'er prairies, sleeping like a grave,
And glorious through these mountain halls,
Pours in a flood its silvery wave —
I climb the cliff, and hear the song,
That o'er the breast of stillness steals:
I hear the cataract thundering strong
From far; I hear the wave that peals
Along the lone lake's pebbly shore;
I hear the sweeping gust that weaves
The tree tops, and the winds that pour
In rippling lapses through the leaves.
And as the diapason sweeps
Across the breast of night, the moan
Of wolves upon the spirit creeps,
Lending the hymn a wilder tone.
The panther's wail, the owlet's scream,
The whippoorwill's complaining song,
Blend with the cataract's solemn theme,
And the wild cadences prolong.
And often when the heart is chilled
By the deep harmony, the note
Of some light-hearted bird is trilled
Upon the breeze. How sweet its throat!
Yet, as a gem upon the finger
Of a pale corse, deepens the gloom,
By its bright rays that laugh and linger
In the dread bosom of the tomb;
So doth the note of that wild bird,
Sadden the anthem of the hills,
And my hushed bosom, spirit-stirred,
With lonelier desolation thrills.

XV.

" You bid me pray? aye, I have prayed!
Each cliff and cave, each rock and glen,
Have heard my ardent lips invade
The ear of Heaven, — again, again.
And in the secret hour of night,
When all-revealing darkness brings
Its brighter world than this of light —
My spirit, borne on wizard wings,
Hath won its upward way afar,
And ranged the shoreless sea of dreams —
Hath touched at many a wheeling star
That shines beyond these solar beams;
And on the trackless deep of thought,
Like Him, who found this Western World,
'Mid doubt and storm my passage wrought,
Till weary fancy's wing was furled —
And, as the sky-bent eagle, borne
Down by the lightning blast of heaven,
So was my outcast spirit torn,
And backward to its dwelling driven.
Yet not in vain, perchance, my tears,
My penitence, my patient prayer,
For, softened with the flow of years,
My breast is lightened of its care.
And once at night when meteors flew
Down on their glittering wings from heaven,
My mother's spirit met my view,
Whispering of peace and sin forgiven!
Yet, though my lip to thee confess,
My wrestling bosom's sweet relief,
Think not I count my crime the less,
That pitying Heaven hath soothed my grief.
No — yon wild rose hath sweet perfume
To scatter on this desert air;
Yet, hid beneath its fragrant bloom,
Sharp thorns are set, the flesh to tear.
And thus, repentance, while it brings
Forgiveness to the broken heart,
Still leaves contrition's thousand stings
To waken sorrow with their smart.

XVI.

" Such is my story — this my home, —
And I the monarch of the dell —
Above my head, the forest dome, —
Around, the battlements that swell
To heaven, and make my castle strong.
My messengers are winds that lave
Far reedy shores, and bring me song,
Blent with the murmurs of the wave.
And birds of every rainbow hue,
The antelope, and timid deer,
The wild goat mingling with the blue
Of heaven on yonder rock, are here.
And oft at morn, the mocking-bird
Doth greet me with its sweetest lay;
The wood-dove, where the bush is stirred,
Looks from its cover on my way.
I would not break the spider's thread, —
The buzzing insect dances free;
I crush no toad beneath my tread, —
The lizard crawls in liberty!
I harm no living thing; my sway
Of peace hath soothed the grumbling bear, —
The wolf walks by in open day,
And fawns upon me from his lair.
Aye, and my heart hath bowed so low,
I gather in this solitude,
Joy from the love that seems to flow
From these brute tenants of the leafy wood. "