"And slight, withal, may be the things which bring Back on the heart the weight which it would fling Aside for ever-it may be a sound,
A tone of music, Summer eve, or Spring,
A flower-the wind-the ocean-which shall wound,
Striking the electric chain, wherewith we are darkly bound."
YES, it is haunted, this quiet scene,
Fair as it looks, and all softly green;
Yet fear thou not-for the spell is thrown,
And the might of the shadow, on me alone.
Are thy thoughts wandering to elves and fays,
And spirits that dwell where the water plays?
Oh! in the heart there are stronger powers,
That sway, though viewless, this world of ours!
Have I not lived 'midst these lonely dells,
And loved, and sorrow'd, and heard farewells,
And learn'd in my own deep soul to look,
And tremble before that mysterious book?
Have I not, under these whispering leaves,
Woven such dreams as the young heart weaves?
Shadows-yet unto which life seem❜d bound;
And is it not-is it not haunted ground?
Must I not hear what thou hearest not,
Troubling the air of the sunny spot?
Is there not something to rouse but me,
Told by the rustling of every tree?
Song hath been here-with its flow of thought,
Love with its passionate visions fraught;
Death-breathing stillness and sadness round-
And is it not-is it not haunted ground?
Are there no phantoms, but such as come
By night from the darkness that wraps the tomb?-
A sound, a scent, or a whispering breeze,
Can summon up mightier far than these!
But I may not linger amidst them here!
Lovely they are, and yet things to fear;
Passing and leaving a weight behind,
And a thrill on the chords of the stricken mind.
Away, away!—that my soul may soar
As a free bird of blue skies once more!
Here from its wing it may never cast
The chain by those spirits brought back from the past.
Doubt it not-smile not-but go thou, too,
Look on the scenes where thy childhood grew-
Where thou hast pray'd at thy mother's knee,
Where thou hast roved with thy brethren free;
Go thou, when life unto thee is changed,
Friends thou hast loved as thy soul, estranged;
When from the idols thy heart hath made,
Thou hast seen the colours of glory fade;
Oh! painfully then, by the wind's low sigh,
By the voice of the stream, by the flower-cup's dye,
By a thousand tokens of sight and sound,
Thou wilt feel thou art treading on haunted ground.
THE CHILD OF THE FORESTS.
(WRITTEN AFTER READING THE MEMOIRS OF JOHN HUNTER.)
Is not thy heart far off amidst the woods,
Where the red Indian lays his father's dust,
And, by the rushing of the torrent floods
To the Great Spirit, bows in silent trust?
Doth not thy soul o'ersweep the foaming main,
To pour itself upon the wilds again?
They are gone forth, the desert's warrior-race,
By stormy lakes to track the elk and roe;
But where art thou, the swift one in the chase,
With thy free footstep and unfailing bow?
Their singing shafts have reach'd the panther's lair,
And where art thou?-thine arrows are not there.
They rest beside their streams-the spoil is won—
They hang their spears upon the cypress bough;
The night-fires blaze, the hunter's work is done-
They hear the tales of old—but where art thou?
The night-fires blaze beneath the giant pine,
And there a place is fill'd that once was thine.
For thou art mingling with the city's throng,
And thou hast thrown thine Indian bow aside;
Child of the forests! thou art borne along,
E'en as ourselves, by life's tempestuous tide.
But will this be? and canst thou here find rest?
Thou hadst thy nurture on the desert's breast.
Comes not the sound of torrents to thine ear,
From the savannah-land, the land of streams?
Hear'st thou not murmurs which none else
Is not the forest's shadow on thy dreams?
They call-wild voices call thee o'er the main,
Back to thy free and boundless woods again.
Hear them not! hear them not!-thou canst not find
In the far wilderness what once was thine!
Thou hast quaff'd knowledge from the founts of mind,
And gathered loftier aims and hopes divine.
Thou know'st the soaring thought, the immortal strain
Seek not the deserts and the woods again!
In the full tide of melody and mirth
While joy's bright spirit beams from every eye, Forget not him, whose soul, though fled from earth, Seems yet to speak in strains that cannot die.
Forget him not, for many a festal hour,
Charm'd by those strains, for us has lightly flown, And memory's visions, mingling with their power, Wake the heart's thrill at each familiar tone.
Blest be the harmonist, whose well-known lays Revive life's morning dreams when youth is fled,
And, fraught with images of other days,
Recall the loved, the absent, and the dead.
His the dear art whose spells awhile renew
Hope's first illusions in their tenderest bloom-
Oh! what were life, without such moments threw
Bright gleams, "like angel-visits," o'er its gloom?
YES, thou hast met the sun's last smile
From the haunted hills of Rome;
By many a bright Ægean isle
Thou hast seen the billows foam.
From the silence of the Pyramid,
Thou hast watch'd the solemn flow
Of the Nile, that with its waters hid
The ancient realm below.
Thy heart hath burn'd, as shepherds sung
Some wild and warlike strain,
Where the Moorish horn once proudly rung
Through the pealing hills of Spain.
And o'er the lonely Grecian streams
Thou hast heard the laurels moan,
With a sound yet murmuring in thy dreams
Of the glory that is gone.
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