There is an hour of sadness too
When o'er our joys that dread 'adieu'
Falls like a withering blast;
When hands are linked and fondly pressed,
With heaving sighs and throbbing breastThose traitors of the past.
When bitter thoughts arise so strong,
And kind affection lingers long
To meet the last farewell;'
When flowing tears are freely sent
From struggling souls, more eloquent
Than words, those thoughts to tell.
'Twas thus we parted-but a thrill Of joyful hope pervaded still
The grief-impassioned heart, Which told of brighter hours, to be From doubt and disappointment free, When bound in sweetest sympathy
We meet-but not to part.
WELL do I love those various harmonies
That ring so gaily in Spring's budding woods,
And in the thickets, and green, quiet haunts,
And lonely copses of the Summer-time,
And in red Autumn's ancient solitudes.
If thou art pained with the World's noisy stir
Or crazed with its mad tumults, and weighed down
With any of the ills of human life;
If thou art sick and weak, or mournest at the loss
Of brethren gone to that far-distant land
To which we all do pass, gentle and poor,
The gayest and the gravest, all alike—
Then turn into the peaceful woods, and hear
The thrilling music of the forest birds.
How rich the varied choir. The unquiet finch
Calls from the distant hollows, and the wren
Uttereth her sweet and mellow plaint at times,
And the thrush mourneth where the kalmia hangs
Its crimson-spotted cups, or chirps half hid
Amid the lowly dog-wood's snowy flowers,
And the blue Jay flits by, from tree to tree;
And spreading its rich pinions, fills the ear
With its shrill-sounding and unsteady cry.
With the sweet airs of Spring the Robin comes,
And in her simple song there seems to gush
A strain of sorrow when she visiteth
Her last year's withered nest. But when the gloom
Of the deep twilight falls, she takes her perch
Upon the red-stemmed hazel's slender twig
That overhangs the brook, and suits her song
To the slow rivulet's inconstant chime.
In the last days of Autumn, when the corn
Lies sweet and yellow in the harvest field,
And the gay company of reapers bind
The bearded wheat in sheaves, then peals abroad
The Blackbird's merry chant. I love to hear,
Bold plunderer! thy mellow burst of song
Float from thy watch-place on the mossy tree
Close at the corn-field edge.
There is much sweetness in thy fitful hymn,
Heard in the drowsy watches of the night.
Oft-times when all the village lights are out
And the wide air is still, I hear thee chant
Thy hollow dirge, like some recluse who takes
His lodging in the wilderness of woods,
And lifts his anthem when the world is still :
And the dim, solemn night, that brings to man
And to the herds, deep slumbers, and sweet dews
To the red roses and the herbs, doth find
No eye save thine a watcher in her halls.
I hear thee oft at midnight, when the Thrush
And the green, roving Linnet are at rest,
And the blithe, twittering Swallows have long ceased
Their noisy note, and folded up their wings.
Far up some brook's still course, whose current mines
The forest's blackened roots, and whose green marge Is seldom visited by human foot,
The lonely Heron sits, and harshly breaks
The Sabbath silence of the wilderness :
And you may find her by some reedy pool,
Or brooding gloomily on some time-stained rock,
Beside some misty and far-reaching lake.
Most awful is thy deep, and heavy boom
Grey watcher of the waters! thou art king
Of the blue lake; and all the winged kind
Do fear the echo of thine angry cry.
How bright thy savage eye! Thou lookest down,
And seest the shining fishes as they glide;
And poising thy grey wing, thy glossy beak
Swift as an arrow strikes its roving prey.
Oft-times I see thee through the curling mist
Dart, like a Spectre of the night, and hear
Thy strange, bewildering call, like the wild scream.
Of one whose life is perishing in the sea.
And now would'st thou, O man! delight the ear
With earth's delicious sounds, or charm the eye
With beautiful creations? Then pass forth
And find them midst those many-colored birds
That fill the glowing woods. The richest hues
Lie in their splendid plumage, and their tones
Are sweeter than the music of the lute,
Or the harp's melody, or the notes that gush
So thrillingly from beauty's ruby lip.
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