No bird-song floated down the hill, The tangled bank below was still;
No rustle from the birchen stem, No ripple from the water's hem.
The dusk of twilight round us grew, We felt the falling of the dew;
For, from us, ere the day was done, The wooded hills shut out the sun.
But on the river's farther side We saw the hill-tops glorified,--
A tender glow, exceeding fair, A dream of day without its glare.
With us the damp, the chill, the gloom With them the sunset's rosy bloom;
While dark, through willowy vistas seen, The river rolled in shade between.
From out the darkness where we trod, We gazed upon those bills of God,
Whose light seemed not of moon or sun.
We spake not, but our thought was one.
We paused, as if from that bright shore Beckoned our dear ones gone before;
And stilled our beating hearts to hear The voices lost to mortal ear!
Sudden our pathway turned from night; The hills swung open to the light;
Through their green gates the sunshine showed, A long, slant splendor downward flowed.
Down glade and glen and bank it rolled; It bridged the shaded stream with gold;
And, borne on piers of mist, allied The shadowy with the sunlit side!
"So," prayed we, "when our feet draw near The river dark, with mortal fear,
"And the night cometh chill with dew, O Father! let Thy light break through!
"So let the hills of doubt divide, So bridge with faith the sunless tide!
"So let the eyes that fail on earth On Thy eternal hills look forth;
"And in Thy beckoning angels know The dear ones whom we loved below!"
1880.
MOUNTAIN PICTURES.
I. FRANCONIA FROM THE PEMIGEWASSET
Once more, O Mountains of the North, unveil Your brows, and lay your cloudy mantles by And once more, ere the eyes that seek ye fail, Uplift against the blue walls of the sky Your mighty shapes, and let the sunshine weave Its golden net-work in your belting woods, Smile down in rainbows from your falling floods, And on your kingly brows at morn and eve Set crowns of fire! So shall my soul receive Haply the secret of your calm and strength, Your unforgotten beauty interfuse My common life, your glorious shapes and hues And sun-dropped splendors at my bidding come, Loom vast through dreams, and stretch in billowy length From the sea-level of my lowland home!
They rise before me! Last night's thunder-gust Roared not in vain: for where its lightnings thrust Their tongues of fire, the great peaks seem so near, Burned clean of mist, so starkly bold and clear, I almost pause the wind in the pines to hear, The loose rock's fall, the steps of browsing deer.
The clouds that shattered on yon slide-worn walls And splintered on the rocks their spears of rain Have set in play a thousand waterfalls, Making the dusk and silence of the woods Glad with the laughter of the chasing floods, And luminous with blown spray and silver gleams, While, in the vales below, the dry-lipped streams Sing to the freshened meadow-lands again.
So, let me hope, the battle-storm that beats The land with hail and fire may pass away With its spent thunders at the break of day, Like last night's clouds, and leave, as it retreats, A greener earth and fairer sky behind, Blown crystal-clear by Freedom's Northern wind!
II. MONADNOCK FROM WACHUSET.
I would I were a painter, for the sake Of a sweet picture, and of her who led, A fitting guide, with reverential tread, Into that mountain mystery. First a lake Tinted with sunset; next the wavy lines Of far receding hills; and yet more far, Monadnock lifting from his night of pines His rosy forehead to the evening star.
Beside us, purple-zoned, Wachuset laid His head against the West, whose warm light made His aureole; and o'er him, sharp and clear, Like a shaft of lightning in mid-launching stayed, A single level cloud-line, shone upon By the fierce glances of the sunken sun, Menaced the darkness with its golden spear!
So twilight deepened round us. Still and black The great woods climbed the mountain at our back; And on their skirts, where yet the lingering day On the shorn greenness of the clearing lay, The brown old farm-house like a bird's-nest hung.
With home-life sounds the desert air was stirred The bleat of sheep along the hill we heard, The bucket plashing in the cool, sweet well, The pasture-bars that clattered as they fell; Dogs barked, fowls fluttered, cattle lowed; the gate Of the barn-yard creaked beneath the merry weight Of sun-brown children, listening, while they swung, The welcome sound of supper-call to hear; And down the shadowy lane, in tinklings clear, The pastoral curfew of the cow-bell rung.
Thus soothed and pleased, our backward path we took, Praising the farmer's home. He only spake, Looking into the sunset o'er the lake, Like one to whom the far-off is most near: "Yes, most folks think it has a pleasant look; I love it for my good old mother's sake, Who lived and died here in the peace of God!"
The lesson of his words we pondered o'er, As silently we turned the eastern flank Of the mountain, where its shadow deepest sank, Doubling the night along our rugged road: We felt that man was more than his abode,-- The inward life than Nature's raiment more; And the warm sky, the sundown-tinted hill, The forest and the lake, seemed dwarfed and dim Before the saintly soul, whose human will Meekly in the Eternal footsteps trod, Making her homely toil and household ways An earthly echo of the song of praise Swelling from angel lips and harps of seraphim.
1862.
THE VANISHERS.
Sweetest of all childlike dreams In the simple Indian lore Still to me the legend seems Of the shapes who flit before.
Flitting, passing, seen and gone, Never reached nor found at rest, Baffling search, but beckoning on To the Sunset of the Blest.
From the clefts of mountain rocks, Through the dark of lowland firs, Flash the eyes and flow the locks Of the mystic Vanishers!
And the fisher in his skiff, And the hunter on the moss, Hear their call from cape and cliff, See their hands the birch-leaves toss.
Wistful, longing, through the green Twilight of the clustered pines, In their faces rarely seen Beauty more than mortal shines.
Fringed with gold their mantles flow On the slopes of westering knolls; In the wind they whisper low Of the Sunset Land of Souls.
Doubt who may, O friend of mine!
Thou and I have seen them too; On before with beck and sign Still they glide, and we pursue.
More than clouds of purple trail In the gold of setting day; More than gleams of wing or sail Beckon from the sea-mist gray.
Glimpses of immortal youth, Gleams and glories seen and flown, Far-heard voices sweet with truth, Airs from viewless Eden blown;
Beauty that eludes our grasp, Sweetness that transcends our taste, Loving hands we may not clasp, Shining feet that mock our haste;
Gentle eyes we closed below, Tender voices heard once more, Smile and call us, as they go On and onward, still before.
Guided thus, O friend of mine Let us walk our little way, Knowing by each beckoning sign That we are not quite astray.
Chase we still, with baffled feet, Smiling eye and waving hand, Sought and seeker soon shall meet, Lost and found, in Sunset Land.