FAR, in the forest’s heart, unknown | |
| Except to sun and breeze, | |
| Where Solitude her dreaming throne | |
| Has held for centuries; | |
| Chronicled by the rings and moss | 5 |
| That tell the flight of years across | |
| The seamed and columned trees, | |
| This lovely streamlet glides along | |
| With tribute of eternal song! | |
| |
| Now, stealing through its thickets deep | 10 |
| In which the wood-duck hides; | |
| Now, picturing in its basin sleep | |
| Its green, pool-hollowed sides; | |
| Here, through the pebbles slow it creeps, | |
| There, in some wild abyss it sweeps, | 15 |
| And, foaming, hoarsely chides: | |
| Then slides so still, its gentle swell | |
| Scarce ripples round the lily’s bell. | |
| |
| Nature, in her autumnal dress | |
| Magnificent and gay, | 20 |
| Displays her brightest loveliness, | |
| Though nearest her decay; | |
| The sky is spread in silvery sheen, | |
| With breaks of tenderest blue between, | |
| Through which the timid ray | 25 |
| Struggles in faintest, meekest glow, | |
| And rests in dreamy hues below. | |
| |
| The southwest airs of ladened balm | |
| Come breathing sweetly by, | |
| And wake, amid the forest’s calm, | 30 |
| One quick and shivering sigh, | |
| Shaking, but dimpling not the glass | |
| Of this smooth streamlet, as they pass, | |
| They scarcely wheel on high | |
| The thistle’s downy, silver star, | 35 |
| To waft its pendent seed afar. | |
| |
| Sleep-like the silence, by the lapse | |
| Of waters only broke, | |
| And the woodpecker’s fitful taps | |
| Upon the hollow oak; | 40 |
| And, mingling with the insect hum, | |
| The beatings of the partridge drum, | |
| With now and then a croak, | |
| As, on his flapping wing, the crow | |
| O’er passes, heavily and slow. | 45 |
| |
| A foliage world of glittering dyes | |
| Gleams brightly on the air, | |
| As though a thousand sunset skies, | |
| With rainbows, blended there; | |
| Each leaf an opal, and each tree | 50 |
| A bower of varied brilliancy, | |
| And all one general glare | |
| Of splendor that o’erwhelms the sight | |
| With dazzling and unequalled light. | |
| |
| Rich gold with gorgeous crimson, here, | 55 |
| The birch and maple twine, | |
| The beech its orange mingles near, | |
| With emerald of the pine; | |
| And even the humble bush and herb | |
| Are glowing with those tints superb, | 60 |
| As though a scattered mine | |
| Of gems upon the earth were strown, | |
| Flashing with radiance, each its own. | |
| |
| All steeped in that delicious charm | |
| Peculiar to our land, | 65 |
| That comes, ere Winter’s frosty arm | |
| Knits Nature’s icy band; | |
| The purple, rich, and glimmering smoke, | |
| That forms the Indian Summer’s cloak, | |
| When, by soft breezes fanned, | 70 |
| For a few precious days he broods | |
| Amid the gladdened fields and woods. | |
| |
| The squirrel chatters merrily, | |
| The nut falls ripe and brown, | |
| And, gem-like, from the jewelled tree | 75 |
| The leaf comes fluttering down; | |
| And restless in his plumage gay, | |
| From bush to bush loud screams the jay, | |
| And on the hemlock’s crown | |
| The sentry pigeon guards from foe | 80 |
| The flock that dots the woods below. | |
| |
| See! on this edge of forest lawn, | |
| Where sleeps the clouded beam, | |
| A doe has led her spotted fawn | |
| To gambol by the stream; | 85 |
| Beside yon mullein’s braided stalk | |
| They hear the gurgling voices talk, | |
| While, like a wandering gleam, | |
| The yellow-bird dives here and there, | |
| A feathered vessel of the air. | 90 |
| |
| On, through the rampart walls of rock, | |
| The waters pitch in white, | |
| And high, in mist, the cedars lock | |
| Their boughs, half lost to sight | |
| Above the whirling gulf,—the dash | 95 |
| Of frenzied floods, that vainly lash | |
| Their limits in their flight, | |
| Whose roar the eagle, from his peak, | |
| Responds to with his angriest shriek. | |
| |
| Stream of the wilds! the Indian here, | 100 |
| Free as thy chainless flow, | |
| Has bent against thy depths his spear, | |
| And in thy woods his bow,— | |
| The beaver built his dome; but they, | |
| The memories of an earlier day,— | 105 |
| Like those dead trunks, that show | |
| What once were mighty pines,—have fled | |
| With Time’s unceasing, rapid tread. | |
| |
