Classic Poem

When comes the eve—and in these antique woods
Eve comes before its time, and the deep night
With double darkness falls—then springs the blaze
Of crackling camp-fires; while the astonished trees,
Half-lighted, stand and murmur their surprise
To others crowding in the shade behind;
And many a bird with fascinated wonder,
And stealthy beast, with wide unwinking stare
And fixed amazement, gaze with silent fear,
Till night is robbed of half its dreary noise.
There stands the pastor mid his little flock,
And opes the wonted volume; while beside,
Young Arthur holds the flaming torch of pine,
Where all draw round and hearken till the close.
Then suddenly the evening hymn is given,
Thrilling the leaves with pleasure where it floats,
And, for the first, this ancient forest hears
The melody of well-accorded souls
Breathing of Christian peace; while Desolation,
Pained with prophetic music, stands withdrawn,
Like some lone Indian, last of all his tribe,
Drooping upon his unstrung bow. Then prayer
And silence rule the camp. Near by—perchance
An arrow-shot beyond—there is a rock
Which overlooks the stream; the ripples break
About its giant foot, and from its brow
The light vines, growing many a season down,
Trail their long fingers o'er the shadowy pool.
To gain its top, and wait the rising moon,
Which, large and flaming as a chariot-wheel,
Now rolls among the eastern stars, with joy
The lovers pass, and muse upon the scene.
And fancy tells how this exalted spot
Hath been, in its oblivion of years,
The happy altar where young love hath tamed
The savage heart, until the wild soul felt
The tranquil pleasure which 'tis ours to know
Beside the Christian hearth. Or here, perchance,
In desperate hour, some Indian maid, forlorn,
Hath to the midnight flung her streaming hair,—
Plunged, like the pleiad, to be known no more.
Around, below, the world is silent, dark,
Or waked by wild, uncomprehended sounds,
Making the solitude more lone; as when
Some star-led watcher, on a noiseless deck,
Hears the far waves communing with themselves.
Speechless they rest, and gaze into the sky
On that white path of splendour, like the track
Left by a vessel on the midnight sea—
Foamy, phosphorent, nebulous and strange—
The highway of the universe, perchance,
And populous with mightier worlds than this.
From out the dusk of that deep silent wood,
They pore upon the heavens with wandering thought—
More 'wildered as it wanders through the maze
And intricate bright tangle of the stars—
Until each soul recoils into itself,
Amazed, confounded, shrinking with a sigh,—
Which sigh, interpreted aright, proclaims
“How great, eternal, boundless and sublime!
And we, how frail and insignificant!—
The merest dust upon the wings of time,
Which a rude breath, or the destroyer's finger,
Dislodges, and we pass and know not where!”
Oh, man, in thy most proud and pompous hour—
Or in the feast among the costly bowls—
Or throned upon ambition's dizzy top,
Where slaves, unto your slightest bidding, fly
As leaves before a gust—go boldly forth,
And look upon the silence of the stars;
And though your frame be armoured up in gold,
Your great soul mailed in pride, their quiet light
Shall dwindle you to nothing where you stand;
Your arrogant spirit be a point so small,
That you shall tremble lest that God's own eye
Shall not discern you, fluttering in the dust,
And leave you there, eternally forgot!
But where two souls are, and, with love between,
Not self-reliant all; but each on each
Leaning reciprocal, and both on God;
Not long the gloom of the primeval wood,
Or the profounder melancholy shade
Pervading space, can overveil their hearts:
For so divine a sentiment is theirs,
The soul dilates where others only shrink,
And, as with angels' eyes, sees all things through
The mellow, purple light of Paradise,
Making a dawn where others feel the dark.