THE LUMBERMEN.
WILDLY round our woodland quarters Sad-voiced Autumn grieves; Thickly down these swelling waters Float his fallen leaves.
Through the tall and naked timber, Column-like and old, Gleam the sunsets of November, From their skies of gold.
O'er us, to the southland heading, Screams the gray wild-goose; On the night-frost sounds the treading Of the brindled moose.
Noiseless creeping, while we're sleeping, Frost his task-work plies; Soon, his icy bridges heaping, Shall our log-piles rise.
When, with sounds of smothered thunder, On some night of rain, Lake and river break asunder Winter's weakened chain, Down the wild March flood shall bear them To the saw-mill's wheel, Or where Steam, the slave, shall tear them With his teeth of steel.
Be it starlight, be it moonlight, In these vales below, When the earliest beams of sunlight Streak the mountain's snow, Crisps the boar-frost, keen and early, To our hurrying feet, And the forest echoes clearly All our blows repeat.
Where the crystal Ambijejis Stretches broad and clear, And Millnoket's pine-black ridges Hide the browsing deer Where, through lakes and wide morasses, Or through rocky walls, Swift and strong, Penobscot passes White with foamy falls;
Where, through clouds, are glimpses given Of Katahdin's sides,-- Rock and forest piled to heaven, Torn and ploughed by slides!
Far below, the Indian trapping, In the sunshine warm; Far above, the snow-cloud wrapping Half the peak in storm!
Where are mossy carpets better Than the Persian weaves, And than Eastern perfumes sweeter Seem the fading leaves; And a music wild and solemn, From the pine-tree's height, Rolls its vast and sea-like volume On the wind of night;
Make we here our camp of winter; And, through sleet and snow, Pitchy knot and beechen splinter On our hearth shall glow.
Here, with mirth to lighten duty, We shall lack alone Woman's smile and girlhood's beauty, Childhood's lisping tone.
But their hearth is brighter burning For our toil to-day; And the welcome of returning Shall our loss repay, When, like seamen from the waters, From the woods we come, Greeting sisters, wives, and daughters, Angels of our home!
Not for us the measured ringing From the village spire, Not for us the Sabbath singing Of the sweet-voiced choir, Ours the old, majestic temple, Where God's brightness shines Down the dome so grand and ample, Propped by lofty pines!
Through each branch-enwoven skylight, Speaks He in the breeze, As of old beneath the twilight Of lost Eden's trees!
For His ear, the inward feeling Needs no outward tongue; He can see the spirit kneeling While the axe is swung.
Heeding truth alone, and turning From the false and dim, Lamp of toil or altar burning Are alike to Him.
Strike, then, comrades! Trade is waiting On our rugged toil; Far ships waiting for the freighting Of our woodland spoil.
Ships, whose traffic links these highlands, Bleak and cold, of ours, With the citron-planted islands Of a clime of flowers; To our frosts the tribute bringing Of eternal heats; In our lap of winter flinging Tropic fruits and sweets.
Cheerly, on the axe of labor, Let the sunbeams dance, Better than the flash of sabre Or the gleam of lance!
Strike! With every blow is given Freer sun and sky, And the long-hid earth to heaven Looks, with wondering eye!
Loud behind us grow the murmurs Of the age to come; Clang of smiths, and tread of farmers, Bearing harvest home!
Here her virgin lap with treasures Shall the green earth fill; Waving wheat and golden maize-ears Crown each beechen hill.
Keep who will the city's alleys Take the smooth-shorn plain'; Give to us the cedarn valleys, Rocks and hills of Maine!
In our North-land, wild and woody, Let us still have part Rugged nurse and mother sturdy, Hold us to thy heart!
Oh, our free hearts beat the warmer For thy breath of snow; And our tread is all the firmer For thy rocks below.
Freedom, hand in hand with labor, Walketh strong and brave; On the forehead of his neighbor No man writeth Slave!
Lo, the day breaks! old Katahdin's Pine-trees show its fires, While from these dim forest gardens Rise their blackened spires.
Up, my comrades! up and doing!
Manhood's rugged play Still renewing, bravely hewing Through the world our way!
1845.
THE SHIP-BUILDERS
THE sky is ruddy in the east, The earth is gray below, And, spectral in the river-mist, The ship's white timbers show.
Then let the sounds of measured stroke And grating saw begin; The broad-axe to the gnarled oak, The mallet to the pin!
Hark! roars the bellows, blast on blast, The sooty smithy jars, And fire-sparks, rising far and fast, Are fading with the stars.
All day for us the smith shall stand Beside that flashing forge; All day for us his heavy hand The groaning anvil scourge.
From far-off hills, the panting team For us is toiling near; For us the raftsmen down the stream Their island barges steer.
Rings out for us the axe-man's stroke In forests old and still; For us the century-circled oak Falls crashing down his hill.
Up! up! in nobler toil than ours No craftsmen bear a part We make of Nature's giant powers The slaves of human Art.
Lay rib to rib and beam to beam, And drive the treenails free; Nor faithless joint nor yawning seam Shall tempt the searching sea.
Where'er the keel of our good ship The sea's rough field shall plough; Where'er her tossing spars shall drip With salt-spray caught below; That ship must heed her master's beck, Her helm obey his hand, And seamen tread her reeling deck As if they trod the land.
Her oaken ribs the vulture-beak Of Northern ice may peel; The sunken rock and coral peak May grate along her keel; And know we well the painted shell We give to wind and wave, Must float, the sailor's citadel, Or sink, the sailor's grave.
Ho! strike away the bars and blocks, And set the good ship free!
Why lingers on these dusty rocks The young bride of the sea?
Look! how she moves adown the grooves, In graceful beauty now!
How lowly on the breast she loves Sinks down her virgin prow.
God bless her! wheresoe'er the breeze Her snowy wing shall fan, Aside the frozen Hebrides, Or sultry Hindostan!
Where'er, in mart or on the main, With peaceful flag unfurled, She helps to wind the silken chain Of commerce round the world!
Speed on the ship! But let her bear No merchandise of sin, No groaning cargo of despair Her roomy hold within; No Lethean drug for Eastern lands, Nor poison-draught for ours; But honest fruits of toiling hands And Nature's sun and showers.
Be hers the Prairie's golden grain, The Desert's golden sand, The clustered fruits of sunny Spain, The spice of Morning-land!
Her pathway on the open main May blessings follow free, And glad hearts welcome back again Her white sails from the sea 1846.
THE DROVERS.
THROUGH heat and cold, and shower and sun, Still onward cheerly driving There's life alone in duty done, And rest alone in striving.
But see! the day is closing cool, The woods are dim before us; The white fog of the wayside pool Is creeping slowly o'er us.
The night is falling, comrades mine, Our footsore beasts are weary, And through yon elms the tavern sign Looks out upon us cheery.
The landlord beckons from his door, His beechen fire is glowing; These ample barns, with feed in store, Are filled to overflowing.
From many a valley frowned across By brows of rugged mountains; From hillsides where, through spongy moss, Gush out the river fountains; From quiet farm-fields, green and low, And bright with blooming clover; From vales of corn the wandering crow No richer hovers over;
Day after day our way has been O'er many a hill and hollow; By lake and stream, by wood and glen, Our stately drove we follow.