16 AN APRIL DAY.-AUTUMN.-WOODS IN WINTER. EARLIER POEMS [These poems were written for the most part during my college life, and all of them before the age of nineteen. Some have found their way into schools, and seem to be successful. Others lead a vagabond and precarious existence in the corners of newspapers; or have changed their names and run away to seek their fortune beyond the sea. I say, with the Bishop of Avranches on a similar occasion: "I cannot be displeased to see these children of mine, which I have neglected, and almost exposed, brought from their wanderings in lanes and alleys, and safely lodged, in order to go forth into the world together in a more decorous garb."] AN APRIL DAY. WHEN the warm sun, that brings I love the season well, When forest glades are teeming with bright Nor dark and many-folded clouds foretell From the earth's loosened mould The softly-warbled song Comes from the pleasant woods, and colored wings When the bright sunset fills Lifts up her purple wing, and in the vales O what a glory doth this world put on He shall so hear the solemn hymn that Death The silver woods with light, the green slope throws To his long resting-place without a tear. And wide the upland glows. And when the eve is born, In the blue lake the sky, o'er-reaching far, Inverted in the tide Stand the gray rocks, and trembling shadows And the fair trees look over, side by side, Sweet April! many a thought Is wedded unto thee, as hearts are wed; AUTUMN. WITH What a glory comes and goes the year! There is a beautiful spirit breathing now WOODS IN WINTER. WHEN winter winds are piercing chill, O'er the bare upland, and away Where, twisted round the barren oak, The summer vine in beauty clung, Where, from their frozen urns, mute springs Shrilly the skater's iron rings, And voices fill the woodland side. Alas! how changed from the fair scene, But still wild music is abroad, Pale, desert woods! within your crowd; Chill airs and wintry winds! my ear I hear it in the opening year, WHEN the dying flame of day The crimson banner, that with prayer Had been consecrated there. And the nuns' sweet hymn was heard the while, Sung low, in the dim, mysterious aisle. "Take thy banner! May it wave, "Take thy banner! and, beneath The battle-cloud's encircling wreath, "Take thy banner! But when night Spare him! he our love hath shared! "Take thy banner! and if e'er Thou shouldst press the soldier's bier, The warrior took that banner proud, SUNRISE ON THE HILLS. I STOOD upon the hills, when heaven's wide arch Like hosts in battle overthrown, As many a pinnacle, with shifting glance, Through the gray mist thrust up its shattered lance, And rocking on the cliff was left The dark pine blasted, bare, and cleft. The veil of cloud was lifted, and below Glowed the rich valley, and the river's flow Or glistened in the white cascade; I heard the distant waters dash, I saw the current whirl and flash, 18 THE SPIRIT OF POETRY.-BURIAL OF THE MINNISINK, Came sweetly to the echo-giving hills; Is like the summer tresses of the trees, cheek And the wild horn, whose voice the woodland fills, When twilight makes them brown, and on her broke. If thou art worn and hard beset If thou wouldst read a lesson, that will keep Blushes the richness of an autumn sky, THE SPIRIT OF POETRY. THERE is a quiet spirit in these woods, And frequent, on the everlasting hills, amid And here, The silent majesty of these deep woods, bards Have ever loved the calm and quiet shades. Mountain, and shattered cliff, and sunny vale, Their old poetic legends to the wind. And this is the sweet spirit, that doth fill The world; and, in these wayward days of youth, As a bright image of the light and beauty That stain the wild bird's wing, and flush the BURIAL OF THE MINNISINK. ON sunny slope and beechen swell, Far upward in the mellow light In the warm blush of evening shone; By which the Indian's soul awakes. But soon a funeral hymn was heard Where the soft breath of evening stirred The tall, gray forest; and a band Of stern in heart, and strong in hand, Came winding down beside the wave, To lay the red chief in his grave. They sang, that by his native bowers He stood, in the last moon of flowers, And thirty snows had not yet shed Their glory on the warrior's head; But, as the summer fruit decays, So died he in those naked days. A dark cloak of the roebuck's skin Covered the warrior, and within Its heavy folds the weapons, made For the hard toils of war, were laid; The cuirass, woven of plaited reeds, And the broad belt of shells and beads. Before, a dark-haired virgin train Stripped of his proud and martial dress, They buried the dark chief; they freed Beside the grave his battle steed; And swift an arrow cleaved its way To his stern heart! One piercing neigh Arose, and, on the dead man's plain, The rider grasps his steed again. TRANSLATIONS. [Don Jorge Manrique, the author of the following poem, flourished in the last half of the fifteenth century. He followed the profession of arms, and died on the field of battle. Mariana, in his History of Spain, makes honorable mention of him, as being present at the siege of Uclés; and speaks of him as "a youth of estimable qualities, who in this war gave brilliant proofs of his valor. He died young; and was thus cut off from long exercising his great virtues, and exhibiting to the world the light of his genius, which was already known to fame." He was mortally wounded in a skirmish near Cañavete, in the year 1479. The name of Rodrigo Manrique, the father of the poet, Conde de Paredes and Maestre de Santiago, is well known in Spanish history and song. He died in 1476; according to Mariana, in the town of Uclés; but, according to the poem of his son, in Ocaña. It was his death that called forth the poem upon which rests the literary reputation of the younger Manrique. In the language of his historian, Don Jorge Manrique, in an elegant Ode, full of poetic beauties, rich embellishments of genius, and high moral reflections, mourned the death of his father as with a funeral hymn." This praise is not exaggerated. The poem is a model in its kind. Its conception is solemn and beautiful; and, in accordance with it, the style moves on,-calm, dignified, and majestic.] How, in the onward course of time, The landmarks of that race sublime Were swept away! Some, the degraded slaves of lust, Prostrate and trampled in the dust, Shall rise no more; Others, by guilt and crime, maintain The scutcheon, that, without a stain, Their fathers bore. Wealth and the high estate of pride, Bid not the shadowy phantoms stay, These gifts in Fortune's hands are found; No rest the inconstant goddess knows, Even could the hand of avarice save Let none on such poor hopes rely; Earthly desires and sensual lust Are passions springing from the dust, But, in the life beyond the tomb, The pleasures and delights, which mask But the fleet coursers of the chase, |