Poems of Nature, Poems Subjective and Reminiscent and Religious Poems, Complete






THE FROST SPIRIT

     He comes,—he comes,—the Frost Spirit comes
          You may trace his footsteps now
     On the naked woods and the blasted fields and the
          brown hill's withered brow.
     He has smitten the leaves of the gray old trees
          where their pleasant green came forth,
     And the winds, which follow wherever he goes,
          have shaken them down to earth.

     He comes,—he comes,—the Frost Spirit comes!
          from the frozen Labrador,
     From the icy bridge of the Northern seas, which
          the white bear wanders o'er,
     Where the fisherman's sail is stiff with ice, and the
          luckless forms below
     In the sunless cold of the lingering night into
          marble statues grow

     He comes,—he comes,—the Frost Spirit comes
          on the rushing Northern blast,
     And the dark Norwegian pines have bowed as his
          fearful breath went past.
     With an unscorched wing he has hurried on,
          where the fires of Hecla glow
     On the darkly beautiful sky above and the ancient
          ice below.

     He comes,—he comes,—the Frost Spirit comes
          and the quiet lake shall feel
     The torpid touch of his glazing breath, and ring to
          the skater's heel;
     And the streams which danced on the broken
          rocks, or sang to the leaning grass,
     Shall bow again to their winter chain, and in
          mournful silence pass.
     He comes,—he comes,—the Frost Spirit comes!
          Let us meet him as we may,
     And turn with the light of the parlor-fire his evil
          power away;
     And gather closer the circle round, when that
          fire-light dances high,
     And laugh at the shriek of the baffled Fiend as
          his sounding wing goes by!

     1830.

THE MERRIMAC.

     "The Indians speak of a beautiful river, far to the south,
     which they call Merrimac."—SIEUR. DE MONTS, 1604.
     Stream of my fathers! sweetly still
     The sunset rays thy valley fill;
     Poured slantwise down the long defile,
     Wave, wood, and spire beneath them smile.
     I see the winding Powow fold
     The green hill in its belt of gold,
     And following down its wavy line,
     Its sparkling waters blend with thine.
     There's not a tree upon thy side,
     Nor rock, which thy returning tide
     As yet hath left abrupt and stark
     Above thy evening water-mark;
     No calm cove with its rocky hem,
     No isle whose emerald swells begin
     Thy broad, smooth current; not a sail
     Bowed to the freshening ocean gale;
     No small boat with its busy oars,
     Nor gray wall sloping to thy shores;
     Nor farm-house with its maple shade,
     Or rigid poplar colonnade,
     But lies distinct and full in sight,
     Beneath this gush of sunset light.
     Centuries ago, that harbor-bar,
     Stretching its length of foam afar,
     And Salisbury's beach of shining sand,
     And yonder island's wave-smoothed strand,
     Saw the adventurer's tiny sail,
     Flit, stooping from the eastern gale;
     And o'er these woods and waters broke
     The cheer from Britain's hearts of oak,
     As brightly on the voyager's eye,
     Weary of forest, sea, and sky,
     Breaking the dull continuous wood,
     The Merrimac rolled down his flood;
     Mingling that clear pellucid brook,
     Which channels vast Agioochook
     When spring-time's sun and shower unlock
     The frozen fountains of the rock,
     And more abundant waters given
     From that pure lake, "The Smile of Heaven,"
     Tributes from vale and mountain-side,—
     With ocean's dark, eternal tide!

     On yonder rocky cape, which braves
     The stormy challenge of the waves,
     Midst tangled vine and dwarfish wood,
     The hardy Anglo-Saxon stood,
     Planting upon the topmost crag
     The staff of England's battle-flag;
     And, while from out its heavy fold
     Saint George's crimson cross unrolled,
     Midst roll of drum and trumpet blare,
     And weapons brandishing in air,
     He gave to that lone promontory
     The sweetest name in all his story;
     Of her, the flower of Islam's daughters,
     Whose harems look on Stamboul's waters,—
     Who, when the chance of war had bound
     The Moslem chain his limbs around,
     Wreathed o'er with silk that iron chain,
     Soothed with her smiles his hours of pain,
     And fondly to her youthful slave
     A dearer gift than freedom gave.

     But look! the yellow light no more
     Streams down on wave and verdant shore;
     And clearly on the calm air swells
     The twilight voice of distant bells.
     From Ocean's bosom, white and thin,
     The mists come slowly rolling in;
     Hills, woods, the river's rocky rim,
     Amidst the sea—like vapor swim,
     While yonder lonely coast-light, set
     Within its wave-washed minaret,
     Half quenched, a beamless star and pale,
     Shines dimly through its cloudy veil!

     Home of my fathers!—I have stood
     Where Hudson rolled his lordly flood
     Seen sunrise rest and sunset fade
     Along his frowning Palisade;
     Looked down the Appalachian peak
     On Juniata's silver streak;
     Have seen along his valley gleam
     The Mohawk's softly winding stream;
     The level light of sunset shine
     Through broad Potomac's hem of pine;
     And autumn's rainbow-tinted banner
     Hang lightly o'er the Susquehanna;
     Yet wheresoe'er his step might be,
     Thy wandering child looked back to thee!
     Heard in his dreams thy river's sound
     Of murmuring on its pebbly bound,
     The unforgotten swell and roar
     Of waves on thy familiar shore;
     And saw, amidst the curtained gloom
     And quiet of his lonely room,
     Thy sunset scenes before him pass;
     As, in Agrippa's magic glass,
     The loved and lost arose to view,
     Remembered groves in greenness grew,
     Bathed still in childhood's morning dew,
     Along whose bowers of beauty swept
     Whatever Memory's mourners wept,
     Sweet faces, which the charnel kept,
     Young, gentle eyes, which long had slept;
     And while the gazer leaned to trace,
     More near, some dear familiar face,
     He wept to find the vision flown,—
     A phantom and a dream alone!

     1841.

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