Dusky sparrows in a crowd, Every one to his hole in the wall, Here weave your chamber weather-proof, To man, as to a lubber friend, And, generous, teach his awkward race Poets praise that hidden wine Hid in milk we drew At the barrier of Time, When our life was new. We had eaten fairy fruit, We were quick from head to foot, We a pine-grove did prefer Could with gods on mallows dine, Note of horn in valleys heard None can tell how sweet, How virtuous, the morning air; Every accent vibrates well; Not alone the wood-bird's call, Or shouting boys that chase their ball, And the joiner's hammer-beat, Take tones from groves they wandered through Or flutes which passing angels blew. All grating discords melt, No dissonant note is dealt, And though thy voice be shrill Like rasping file on steel, Such is the temper of the air, Echo waits with art and care, So by remote Superior Lake, And by resounding Mackinac, When northern storms the forest shake, Note by note all sounds that grate, Strangely wrought from barking waves, Hears pealing from the panther's cave Soft on the south-wind sleeps the haze : So on thy broad mystic van Heart of bird the man's heart seeking; Under Morn's unlifted lid, Islands looming just beyond The dim horizon's utmost bound; Who can, like thee, our raos unbraid. Or taunt us with our hope decayed? Making the splendor of the air, The morn and sparkling dew, a snare? Thy genius, wiles and blandishment? There is no orator prevails To beckon or persuade Like thee the youth or maid: Thy birds, thy songs, thy brooks, thy gales, Thy blooms, thy kinds, Thy echoes in the wilderness, Soothe pain, and age, and love's distress, Fire fainting will, and build heroic minds. For thou, O Spring! canst renovate An energy that searches thorough From Chaos to the dawning morrow; Into all our human plight, The soul's pilgrimage and flight; In city or in solitude, Step by step, lifts bad to good, Without halting, without rest, Lifting Better up to Best; Planting seeds of knowledge pure, Through earth to ripen, through heaven endure. THE ADIRONDACS. A JOURNAL. DEDICATED TO MY FELLOW-TRAVELLERS IN AUGUST, 1858. Wise and polite, and if I drew Their several portraits, you would own Nor Boccace in Decameron. WE crossed Champlain to Keeseville with our friends, The Adirondac lakes. At Martin's Beach We chose our boats; each man a boat and guide, Next morn, we swept with oars the Saranac, With skies of benediction, to Round Lake, Where all the sacred mountains drew around us, Taháwus, Seaward, MacIntyre, Baldhead, |