So Golden Dell we name the place,
And aye may heaven's serenest face,
Dream o'er it with a smile of
THERE's nothing great or bright, thou glorious Fall,
Thou may'st not to the fancy's sense recall-
The thunder-riven cloud, the lightning's leap,
The stirring of the chambers of the deep;
Earth's emerald green, and many-tinted dyes,
The fleecy whiteness of the upper skies;
The tread of armies thickening as they come,
The boom of cannon and the beat of drum ;
The brow of beauty and the form of grace,
The passion and the prowess of our race;
The song of Homer in its loftiest hour,
The unresisted sweep of Roman power,
Britannia's trident on the azure sea,
America's young shout of liberty!
Oh, may the wars that madden in thy deeps
There spend their rage, nor climb the encircling steeps;
And, till the conflict of thy surges cease,
The nations on thy bank repose in peace.
OUTSIDE the village, by the public road,
I know a dried-up fountain overgrown
With herbs, the haunt of legendary toad
And grass, by nature sown.
The ancient beggar limps along the road
At thirsty noon, and rests him by its brink;
The dusty pedlar lays aside his load,
And pauses there to drink.
And there the village children come to play,
When busy parents work in shop and field;
The swallows, too, find there the loamy clay,
When 'neath the eaves they build.
When cows at eve come crooning home, the boy
Leaves them to drink, while his mechanic skill
Within the brook sets up, with inward joy,
His tiny water-mill.
And when the night is hush'd in summer sleep,
And rest has come to labourer and team,
I hear the runnel through the long grass creep,
As 'twere a whispering dream.
STRIKE the tent! the sun has risen; not a vapour streaks the dawn,
And the frosted prairie brightens to the westward, far and wan:
Prime afresh the trusty rifle-sharpen well the hunting spear,
For the frozen sod is trembling, and a noise of hoofs I hear!
Fiercely stamp the tethered horses, as they snuff the morning's fire, Their impatient heads are tossing, as they neigh with keen desire. Strike the tent! the saddles wait us-let the bridle reins be slack, For the prairie's distant thunder has betrayed the bison's track.
See! a dusky line approaches: hark, the onward surging roar,
Like the din of wintry breakers on a sounding wall of shore !
Dust and sand behind them whirling, snort the foremost of the van,
And their stubborn horns are clashing through the crowded caravan.
Now the storm is down upon us : let the maddened horses go!
We shall ride the living whirlwind, though a hundred leagues it blow!
Tho' the cloudy manes should thicken, and the red eyes' angry glare
Lighten round us as we gallop through the sand and rushing air!
Myriad hoofs will scar the prairie, in our wild resistless race,
And a sound, like mighty waters, thunder down the desert space;
Yet the rein may not be tightened, nor the rider's eye look back-
Death to him whose speed should slacken, on the maddened bison's track.
Now the trampling herds are threaded, and the chase is close and warm
For the giant bull that gallops in the edges of the storm:
Swiftly hurl the whissing lasso-swing your rifles as we run :
See the dust is red behind him-shout, my comrades, he is won!
Look not on him as he staggers-'tis the last shot he will need!
More shall fall among his fellows, ere we run the mad stampede-
Ere we stem the brinded breakers, while the wolves, a hungry pack,
Howl around each grim-eyed carcase on the bloody Bison track!
BAYARD TAYLOR.
ALL green and bright the valley
As the summer sun shone fair;
There was gold upon the swelling slopes,
And golden was the air.
A peaceful halo lay on all :
The yellow corn that swayed
To every random breath of wind,
A gentle whispering made.
A sudden trampling sounded,
And down the valley came
An army, glancing-splendid,
With banners like to flame;
And met another army
Where the streamlet winds about ;
And there they fought till darkness fell,
And one was put to rout.
Oh, in that peaceful valley
Was mourning many a day;
The corn, all sodden red in blood,
Ungarnered long time lay;
It was a piteous sight to see
Where war had had full sway:
The dead not buried out of sight,
Nor the blood-stains washed away.
the ravage stern
Slow laid his softening hand;
And though you still can see the signs
Of battle on the land,
Soft daisies grow around the shot
And splinters of spent shell; And cannon hidden half in grass,
The tale can clearly tell.
And children often singing, sit
Upon the cannon there,
And string their necklaces, and dress
Each other sweetly fair:
And as I see them oft I muse
On blessed Nature's way,
That brings a beauty from such ill,
Destruction, and decay.
|