Classic Poem

Many days have never made
Me forget that oak's green shade
Under which, in Autumn fair,
While October gilt the air,
Madeline was musing lone
On a cold and mossy stone.
Below her feet the river ran
Like the fleeting hopes of Man;
Around, the unshorn grasses high,
O'er her head the deep blue sky;
Best of all was Madeline,
Gypsy figure, tall and fine.
Yes, and she was Nature's child:
Airs and skies to her were mild;
Never breeze her thoughts perturbed,
Never storm her cheek disturbed.

In her skiff she glided o'er
Foaming crests that swiftly bore
Her to the many-wooded shore;
In her bark, far o'er the tide,
Madeline would smoothly glide
On the wild and whirling wave,
In blasts that 'gainst the islands rave,
Madeline swept 'neath the sky—
Born of Nature, but more high.

Child of grace, to Nature dear,
Be the sky her broad compeer!
Lists her song the sighing wood,
Where she like a statue stood,
But with low and heartfelt voice.

That could bid my soul rejoice;
Be her light yon star so keen,
Pure and distant, Heaven's Queen;
Let the sea, the boundless sea,
Her perpetual anthem be,
While the gray gull wets his wing
To the green waves' murmuring,
And the white beach lines the shore
In its sandy curvature.

Sinful cities not in her
Could a feeble passion stir;
Filled with love, her lyric eye
Gave its figure to the sky;
Like a lyre, her heart obeyed
Whispers of the forest shade,

Buds she sang, and fresh spring flowers,
Birds that carolled in her bowers,
And the lonely, sorrowing sea,
Still she sang its lullaby.
Slave to each impulsive hour,
How could I resist her power?
Or not kneel and worship there,
When she tinged the Autumn air
With her joy or with her pain—
Lit the chill October rain
O'er the low and sullen hill
(Outlined, if the hour were still,
By some leaden cloud behind)
With its scanty grasses lined,
Serely russet, as the day,
Hermit-like, went out in gray.

Muse of the Island, pure and free!
Spirit of the sapphire sea!
How can I forget the time
We went wandering in our prime,
And beneath the tall pine-trees
Felt the tearful Autumn breeze?

Hope had I of lofty fame
To embalm a poet's name,
In some grandly festive measure
Fitliest for a nation's pleasure:
Thus it was I dreamed at first—
Madeline! thy beauty nursed
In me finer thought and feeling,
To myself my heart revealing.

Ghost of wishes dead and gone,
Haunting hopes still limping on,—
Echoes from a sunken land
Falling on a desert strand,—
Cold content and broken plan—
Still the boy lives in the man!