Yet stay; for here are flowers and trees; Warm rays on cottage roofs are here, And laugh of girls, and hum of bees Here linger till thy waves are clear. Thou heedest not-thou hastest on; From steep to steep thy torrent falls, Till, mingling with the mighty Rhone, It rests beneath Geneva's walls. Rush on-but were there one with me That loved me, I would light my hearth Here, where with God's own majesty Are touched the features of the earth. By these old peaks, white, high, and vast, Still rising as the tempests beat, Here would I dwell, and sleep, at last, Among the blossoms at their feet. TO COLE, THE PAINTER, DEPARTING FOR EUROPE. A SONNET. THINE eyes shall see the light of distant skies: Such as on thine own glorious canvas lies; Rocks rich with summer garlands-solemn streamsSkies, where the desert eagle wheels and screams— Spring bloom and autumn blaze of boundless groves. Fair scenes shall greet thee where thou goest-fair, But different-everywhere the trace of men, Paths, homes, graves, ruins, from the lowest glen To where life shrinks from the fierce Alpine air, Gaze on them, till the tears shall dim thy sight, TO THE FRINGED GENTIAN. THOU blossom bright with autumn dew, Thou comest not when violets lean Nod o'er the ground-bird's hidden nest. Thou wait st late and com'st alone, When woods are bare and birds are flown, Then doth thy sweet and quiet eye A flower from its cerulean wall. I would that thus, when I shall see THE TWENTY-SECOND OF DECEMBER. WILD was the day; the wintry sea Moaned sadly on New-England's strand, When first the thoughtful and the free, They little thought how pure a light, With years, should gather round that day; How love should keep their memories bright, How wide a realm their sons should sway. Green are their bays; but greener still Shall round their spreading fame be wreathed, And regions, now untrod, shall thrill With reverence when their names are breathed. Till where the sun, with softer fires, The children of the pilgrim sires This hallowed day like us shall keep. HYMN OF THE CITY. Not in the solitude Alone may man commune with Heaven, or see Only in savage wood And sunny vale, the present Deity; Or only hear his voice Where the winds whisper and the waves rejoice. Even here do I behold Thy steps, Almighty!—here, amidst the crowd, With everlasting murmur deep and loud- 'Mongst the proud piles, the work of human kind. Thy golden sunshine comes From the round heaven, and on their dwellings lies, And lights their inner homes; For them thou fill'st with air the unbounded skies, And givest them the stores Of ocean, and the harvests of its shores. |