FIRST MEETING OF THE OLD AND NEW WORLD, 1492. She comes! she comes! with her white sails spread, With her banners proudly streaming, With a haughty brow, and an eye of dread, And who is she, 'mid these island shades, Who hastes from the depth of her forest glades Her glance heeds not the gathering storm; In its simple joy it blesses, And the grasp of her hand is as free and warm As the wealth of her ebon tresses. But the gold of her rivers shall turn to dust, Yes, many a pitying eye must weep O'er the Old World's shameful story: At the scourge which she raised o'er her sister's sleep, H. W. LONGFELLOW. WOODS IN WINTER. WHEN winter winds are piercing chill, And through the whitethorn blows the gale, With solemn feet I tread the hill, That over-brows the lonely vale. O'er the bare upland, and away Through the long reach of desert woods, The embracing sunbeams chastely play, And gladden these deep solitudes. On the gray maple's crusted bark Its tender shoots the hoar-frost nips; Whilst in the frozen fountain-hark !— His piercing beak the bittern dips. Where, twisted round the barren oak, Where, from their frozen urns, mute springs Shrilly the skater's iron rings, And voices fill the woodland side. Alas! how changed from the fair scene, But still wild music is abroad, Pale, desert woods, within your crowd; And gathered winds, in hoarse accord, Amid the vocal reeds pipe loud. Chill airs, and wintry winds, my ear I hear it in the opening year— I listen, and it cheers me long. THE SPIRIT OF POETRY. THERE isa quiet spirit in these woods, That dwells where'er the gentle south wind blowsWhere, underneath the whitethorn, in the glade, The wild flowers bloom, or, kissing the soft air, The leaves above their sunny palms outspread. Slips down through moss-grown stones with endless laughter, And frequent, on the everlasting hills, Its feet go forth, when it doth wrap itself In all the dark embroidery of the storm, And shouts the stern, strong wind. And here, amid The silent majesty of these deep woods, Its presence shall uplift thy thoughts from earth, As to the sunshine and the pure bright air Their tops the green trees lift. Hence gifted bards Have ever loved the calm and quiet shades. In many a lazy syllable repeating And this is the sweet spirit that doth fill The world; and, in these wayward days of youth, As a bright image of the light and beauty We worship in our dreams, and the soft hues The heaven of April, with its changing light, Her hair Was as the summer tresses of the trees, When twilight makes them brown, and on her cheek Blushed all the richness of an autumn sky, With its ever-shifting beauty. Then her breath It was so like the gentle air of spring, As, from the morning's dewy flowers, it comes Full of their fragrance, that it was a joy To have it round us-and her silver voice Was the rich music of a summer bird, Heard in the still night, with its passionate cadence. |