COME to these lonely woods to die alone?
It seems not many days since thou wast heard,
From out the mists of spring, with thy shrill note,
Calling upon thy mates-and their clear answers.
The earth was brown, then; and the infant leaves
Had not put forth to warm them in the sun,
Or play in the fresh air of heaven. Thy voice,
Shouting in triumph, told of winter gone,
And prophesying life to the seal'd ground, ·
Did make me glad with thoughts of coming beauties.
And now they're all around us ;-offspring bright
Of earth-a mother, who, with constant care,
Doth feed and clothe them all.-Now o'er her fields,
In blessed bands, or single, they are gone,
Or by her brooks they stand, and sip the stream;
Or peering o'er it-vanity well feign'd-
In quaint approval seem to glow and nod
At their reflected graces. Morn to meet,
They in fantastic labours pass the night,
Catching its dews, and rounding silvery drops
To deck their bosoms. There, on high, bald trees,
From varnish'd cells some peep, and the old boughs
Make to rejoice and dance in warmer winds,
Over my head the winds and they make music;
And, grateful, in return for what they take,
Bright hues and odours to the air they give.
Thus mutual love brings mutual delight—
Brings beauty, life;-for love is life; hate, death,
THE DYING RAVEN.
Thou Prophet of so fair a revelation— Thou who abodest with us the winter long, Enduring cold or rain, and shaking oft,
From thy dark mantle, falling sleet or snow
Thou, who with purpose kind, when warmer days
Shone on the earth, mid thaw and steam, camest forth
From rocky nook, or wood, thy priestly cell,
To speak of comfort unto lonely man
Didst say to him-though seemingly alone
Mid wastes and snows, and silent, lifeless trees,
Or the more silent ground-it was not death,
But nature's sleep and rest, her kind repair;
That Thou, albeit unseen, didst bear with him
The winter's night, and, patient of the day,
And cheer'd by hope, (instinct divine in Thee,)
Waitedst return of summer.
Thou Priest of Nature, Priest of God, to man!
Thou spokest of faith (than instinct no less sure),
Of spirits near him though he saw them not:
Thou badest him ope his intellectual eye,
And see his solitude all populous:
Thou show'dst him Paradise, and deathless flowers;
And didst him pray to listen to the flow
Preacher to man's spirit!
Emblem of Hope! Companion! Comforter!
Thou faithful one! is this thine end? "Twas thou,
When summer birds were gone, and no form seen
In the void air, who camest, living and strong,
On thy broad, balanced pennons, through the winds.
And of thy long enduring, this the close!
Thy kingly strength, thou conqueror of storms,
Thus low brought down.
The year's mild, cheering dawn
Upon thee shone a momentary light.
The gales of spring upbore thee for a day,
And then forsook thee. Thou art fallen now;
And liest among thy hopes and promises—
Beautiful flowers, and freshly-springing blades,
Gasping thy life out.
Here for thee the grass
Tenderly makes a bed; and the young buds
In silence open their fair, painted folds—
To ease thy pain, the one-to cheer thee, these.
But thou art restless: and thy once keen eye
Is dull and sightless now. New blooming boughs,
Needlessly kind, have spread a tent for thee.
Thy mate is calling to the white, piled clouds,
And asks for thee. They answer give no back.
As I look up to their bright, angel faces,
Intelligent and capable of voice
They seem to me.
Comes ominous.
Silence or sound.
Their silence to my soul
The same to thee, doom'd bird,
For thee there is no sound,
No silence.-Near thee stands the shadow, Death ;-
And now he slowly draws his sable veil
Over thine eyes; thy senses softly lulls
Into unconscious slumbers. The airy call
Thou'lt hear no longer; 'neath sun-lighted clouds,
With beating wing, or steady poise aslant,
Wilt sail no more. Around thy trembling claws
Droop thy wings' parting feathers. Spasms of death
Are on thee.
Laid thus low by age? Or is't All-grudging man has brought thee to this end? Perhaps the slender hair, so subtly wound Around the grain God gives thee for thy food, Has proved thy snare, and makes thine inward pain.
I needs must mourn for thee. For I-who have No fields, nor gather into garners-I
Bear thee both thanks and love, not fear nor hate.
And now, farewell! The falling leaves, ere long, Will give thee decent covering. Till then, Thine own black plumage, that will now no more Glance to the sun, nor flash upon my eyes, Like armour of steel'd knight of Palestine, Must be thy pall. Nor will it moult so soon As sorrowing thoughts on those borne from him, fade In living man.
Who scoffs these sympathies,
Makes mock of the divinity within ;
Nor feels he gently breathing through his soul,
The universal spirit.-Hear it cry,
"How does thy pride abase thee, man, vain man!
How deaden thee to universal love,
And joy of kindred with all humble things-
God's creatures all !"
He who the lily clothes in simple glory,
He who doth hear the ravens cry for food,
Hath on our hearts, with hand invisible,
In signs mysterious, written what alone
Our hearts may read.-Death bring thee rest, poor bird.
THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS.
THE melancholy days are come,
The saddest of the year,
Of wailing winds, and naked woods,
And meadows brown and sear.
Heap'd in the hollows of the grove,
The wither'd leaves lie dead;
They rustle to the eddying gust,
And to the rabbit's tread.
The robin and the wren are flown,
And from the shrubs the jay,
And from the wood-top calls the crow,
Through all the gloomy day.
Where are the flowers, the fair
That lately sprang and stood In brighter light and softer airs,
A beauteous sisterhood?
Alas! they all are in their graves;
The gentle race of flowers
Are lying in their lowly beds,
With the fair and good of ours.
The rain is falling where they lie,
But the cold November rain
Calls not from out the gloomy earth,
The lovely ones again.
The wind-flower and the violet,
They perish'd long ago,
And the brier-rose and the orchis died,
Amid the summer glow;
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