Puslapio vaizdai
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The gray barns looking from their hazy hills,

O'er the dun waters widening in the vales,

Sent down the air a greeting to the mills, Of the dull thunder of alternate flails.

All sights were mellowed, and all sounds subdued,

The hills seemed further and the stream sang low

10

As in a dream the distant woodman hewed His winter log, with many a muffled blow.

The embattled forests, erewhile armed with gold,

Their banners bright with every martial hue,

Now stood, like some sad, beaten host of old,

Withdrawn afar in Time's remotest blue.

On sombre wings the vulture tried his flight;

The dove scarce heard his sighing mate's complaint;

And, like a star slowly drowning in the light,

The village church vane seemed to pale and faint.

20

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Plied the swift wheel, and with her joyless mien

Sat like a fate, and watched the flying thread.

She had known Sorrow-He had walked with her.

Oft supped, and broke the ashen crust, And in the dead leaves still she heard the stir

Of his thick mantle trailing in the dust. While yet her cheek was bright with summer bloom,

Her country summoned, and she gave her all;

And twice, war bowed to her his sable plume

Regave the sword to rust upon the wall.

60

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"Sometimes-could it be fancy?—I have felt

The presence of a spirit who might speak;

As down in lowly reverence I knelt,

Its very breath hath kissed my burning cheek;

But I in vain have hushed my own to hear A wing or whisper stir the silent air!"

1 The most elaborate performance in the edition of 1860, indeed the longest poem Timrod ever wrote, is called "A Vision of Poesy." Its purpose is to show, in the subtle development of a highly gifted imaginative nature, the true laws which underlie and determine the noblest uses of the poetical faculty. (P. H. Hayne's Introduction to the edition of 1873.)

XXXIII

Is not the breeze articulate? Hark! Oh, hark!

A distant murmur, like a voice of floods; And onward sweeping slowly through the dark,

Bursts like a call the night-wind from

the woods!

10

Low bow the flowers, the trees fling loose their dreams,

And through the waving roof a fresher moonlight streams.

XXXIV

"Mortal!"-the word crept slowly round the place

As if that wind had breathed it! From no star

Streams that soft lustre on the dreamer's face.

Again a hushing calm! while faint and far

The breeze goes calling onward through the night.

Dear God! what vision chains that widestrained sight?

XXXV

Over the grass and flowers, and up the slope

Glides a white cloud of mist, self-moved and slow,

20

That, pausing at the hillock's moonlit cope, Swayed like a flame of silver; from below

The breathless youth with beating heart beholds

A mystic motion in its argent folds.

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