III.

Fill up the bowl from the brook that glides Where the fireflies light the brake; A ruddier juice the Briton hides In his fortress by the lake. Build high the fire, till the panther leap From his lofty perch in flight, And we'll strenghten our weary arms with sleep For the deeds of to-morrow night.

A PRESENTIMENT.

"Oh father, let us hence--for hark, A fearful murmur shakes the air. The clouds are coming swift and dark:-- What horrid shapes they wear! A winged giant sails the sky; Oh father, father, let us fly!"

"Hush, child; it is a grateful sound, That beating of the summer shower; Here, where the boughs hang close around, We'll pass a pleasant hour, Till the fresh wind, that brings the rain, Has swept the broad heaven clear again."

"Nay, father, let us haste--for see, That horrid thing with horned brow,-- His wings o'erhang this very tree, He scowls upon us now; His huge black arm is lifted high; Oh father, father, let us fly!"

"Hush, child;" but, as the father spoke, Downward the livid firebolt came, Close to his ear the thunder broke, And, blasted by the flame, The child lay dead; while dark and still, Swept the grim cloud along the hill.

THE CHILD'S FUNERAL.°

Fair is thy site, Sorrento, green thy shore, Black crags behind thee pierce the clear blue skies; The sea, whose borderers ruled the world of yore, As clear and bluer still before thee lies.

Vesuvius smokes in sight, whose fount of fire, Outgushing, drowned the cities on his steeps; And murmuring Naples, spire o'ertopping spire, Sits on the slope beyond where Virgil sleeps.

Here doth the earth, with flowers of every hue, Heap her green breast when April suns are bright, Flowers of the morning-red, or ocean-blue, Or like the mountain frost of silvery white.

Currents of fragrance, from the orange tree, And sward of violets, breathing to and fro, Mingle, and wandering out upon the sea, Refresh the idle boatsman where they blow.

Yet even here, as under harsher climes, Tears for the loved and early lost are shed; That soft air saddens with the funeral chimes, Those shining flowers are gathered for the dead.

Here once a child, a smiling playful one, All the day long caressing and caressed, Died when its little tongue had just begun To lisp the names of those it loved the best.

The father strove his struggling grief to quell, The mother wept as mothers use to weep, Two little sisters wearied them to tell When their dear Carlo would awake from sleep.

Within an inner room his couch they spread, His funeral couch; with mingled grief and love, They laid a crown of roses on his head, And murmured, "Brighter is his crown above."

They scattered round him, on the snowy sheet, Laburnum's strings of sunny-coloured gems, Sad hyacinths, and violets dim and sweet, And orange blossoms on their dark green stems.

And now the hour is come, the priest is there; Torches are lit and bells are tolled; they go, With solemn rites of blessing and of prayer, To lay the little corpse in earth below.

The door is opened; hark! that quick glad cry; Carlo has waked, has waked, and is at play; The little sisters laugh and leap, and try To climb the bed on which the infant lay.

And there he sits alone, and gayly shakes In his full hands, the blossoms red and white, And smiles with winking eyes, like one who wakes From long deep slumbers at the morning light.

THE BATTLE-FIELD.

Once this soft turf, this rivulet's sands, Were trampled by a hurrying crowd, And fiery hearts and armed hands Encountered in the battle cloud.

Ah! I never shall the land forget How gushed the life-blood of her brave-- Gushed, warm with hope and courage yet, Upon the soil they fought to save.

Now all is calm, and fresh, and still, Alone the chirp of flitting bird, And talk of children on the hill, And bell of wandering kine are heard.

No solemn host goes trailing by The black-mouthed gun and staggering wain; Men start not at the battle-cry, Oh, be it never heard again!

Soon rested those who fought; but thou Who minglest in the harder strife For truths which men receive not now Thy warfare only ends with life.

A friendless warfare! lingering long Through weary day and weary year. A wild and many-weaponed throng Hang on thy front, and flank, and rear.

Yet nerve thy spirit to the proof, And blench not at thy chosen lot. The timid good may stand aloof, The sage may frown--yet faint thou not.

Nor heed the shaft too surely cast, The foul and hissing bolt of scorn; For with thy side shall dwell, at last, The victory of endurance born.

Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again; The eternal years of God are hers; But Error, wounded, writhes with pain, And dies among his worshippers.

Yea, though thou lie upon the dust, When they who helped thee flee in fear, Die full of hope and manly trust, Like those who fell in battle here.

Another hand thy sword shall wield, Another hand the standard wave, Till from the trumpet's mouth is pealed The blast of triumph o'er thy grave.

THE FUTURE LIFE.

How shall I know thee in the sphere which keeps The disembodied spirits of the dead, When all of thee that time could wither sleeps And perishes among the dust we tread?

For I shall feel the sting of ceaseless pain If there I meet thy gentle presence not; Nor hear the voice I love, nor read again In thy serenest eyes the tender thought.

Will not thy own meek heart demand me there? That heart whose fondest throbs to me were given? My name on earth was ever in thy prayer, Shall it be banished from thy tongue in heaven?

In meadows fanned by heaven's life-breathing wind, In the resplendence of that glorious sphere, And larger movements of the unfettered mind, Wilt thou forget the love that joined us here?

The love that lived through all the stormy past, And meekly with my harsher nature bore, And deeper grew, and tenderer to the last, Shall it expire with life, and be no more?

A happier lot than mine, and larger light, Await thee there; for thou hast bowed thy will In cheerful homage to the rule of right, And lovest all, and renderest good for ill.

For me, the sordid cares in which I dwell, Shrink and consume my heart, as heat the scroll; And wrath has left its scar--that fire of hell Has left its frightful scar upon my soul.

Yet though thou wear'st the glory of the sky, Wilt thou not keep the same beloved name, The same fair thoughtful brow, and gentle eye, Lovelier in heaven's sweet climate, yet the same?

Shalt thou not teach me, in that calmer home, The wisdom that I learned so ill in this-- The wisdom which is love--till I become Thy fit companion in that land of bliss?

THE DEATH OF SCHILLER.°

'Tis said, when Schiller's death drew nigh, The wish possessed his mighty mind, To wander forth wherever lie The homes and haunts of human-kind.

Then strayed the poet, in his dreams, By Rome and Egypt's ancient graves; Went up the New World's forest streams, Stood in the Hindoo's temple-caves;

Walked with the Pawnee, fierce and stark, The sallow Tartar, midst his herds, The peering Chinese, and the dark False Malay uttering gentle words.

How could he rest? even then he trod The threshold of the world unknown; Already, from the seat of God, A ray upon his garments shone;--

Shone and awoke the strong desire For love and knowledge reached not here, Till, freed by death, his soul of fire Sprang to a fairer, ampler sphere.

Then--who shall tell how deep, how bright The abyss of glory opened round? How thought and feeling flowed like light, Through ranks of being without bound?

THE FOUNTAIN.°

Fountain, that springest on this grassy slope, Thy quick cool murmur mingles pleasantly, With the cool sound of breezes in the beach, Above me in the noontide. Thou dost wear No stain of thy dark birthplace; gushing up From the red mould and slimy roots of earth, Thou flashest in the sun. The mountain air, In winter, is not clearer, nor the dew That shines on mountain blossom. Thus doth God Bring, from the dark and foul, the pure and bright.

This tangled thicket on the bank above Thy basin, how thy waters keep it green! For thou dost feed the roots of the wild vine That trails all over it, and to the twigs Ties fast her clusters. There the spice-bush lifts Her leafy lances; the viburnum there, Paler of foliage, to the sun holds up Her circlet of green berries. In and out The chipping sparrow, in her coat of brown, Steals silently, lest I should mark her nest.

Not such thou wert of yore, ere yet the axe Had smitten the old woods. Then hoary trunks Of oak, and plane, and hickory, o'er thee held A mighty canopy. When April winds Grew soft, the maple burst into a flush Of scarlet flowers. The tulip-tree, high up, Opened, in airs of June, her multitude Of golden chalices to humming-birds And silken-winged insects of the sky.

Frail wood-plants clustered round thy edge in Spring. The liverleaf put forth her sister blooms Of faintest blue. Here the quick-footed wolf, Passing to lap thy waters, crushed the flower Of sanguinaria, from whose brittle stem The red drops fell like blood. The deer, too, left Her delicate foot-print in the soft moist mould, And on the fallen leaves. The slow-paced bear, In such a sultry summer noon as this, Stopped at thy stream, and drank, and leaped across.

But thou hast histories that stir the heart With deeper feeling; while I look on thee They rise before me. I behold the scene Hoary again with forests; I behold The Indian warrior, whom a hand unseen Has smitten with his death-wound in the woods, Creep slowly to thy well-known rivulet, And slake his death-thirst. Hark, that quick fierce cry That rends the utter silence; 'tis the whoop Of battle, and a throng of savage men With naked arms and faces stained like blood, Fill the green wilderness; the long bare arms Are heaved aloft, bows twang and arrows stream; Each makes a tree his shield, and every tree Sends forth its arrow. Fierce the fight and short, As is the whirlwind. Soon the conquerors And conquered vanish, and the dead remain Mangled by tomahawks. The mighty woods Are still again, the frighted bird comes back And plumes her wings; but thy sweet waters run Crimson with blood. Then, as the sun goes down, Amid the deepening twilight I descry Figures of men that crouch and creep unheard, And bear away the dead. The next day's shower Shall wash the tokens of the fight away.

I look again--a hunter's lodge is built, With poles and boughs, beside thy crystal well, While the meek autumn stains the woods with gold, And sheds his golden sunshine. To the door The red man slowly drags the enormous bear Slain in the chestnut thicket, or flings down The deer from his strong shoulders. Shaggy fells Of wolf and cougar hang upon the walls, And loud the black-eyed Indian maidens laugh, That gather, from the rustling heaps of leaves, The hickory's white nuts, and the dark fruit That falls from the gray butternut's long boughs.

So centuries passed by, and still the woods Blossomed in spring, and reddened when the year Grew chill, and glistened in the frozen rains Of winter, till the white man swung the axe Beside thee--signal of a mighty change. Then all around was heard the crash of trees, Trembling awhile and rushing to the ground, The low of ox, and shouts of men who fired The brushwood, or who tore the earth with ploughs. The grain sprang thick and tall, and hid in green The blackened hill-side; ranks of spiky maize Rose like a host embattled; the buckwheat Whitened broad acres, sweetening with its flowers The August wind. White cottages were seen With rose-trees at the windows; barns from which Came loud and shrill the crowing of the cock; Pastures where rolled and neighed the lordly horse, And white flocks browsed and bleated. A rich turf Of grasses brought from far o'ercrept thy bank, Spotted with the white clover. Blue-eyed girls Brought pails, and dipped them in thy crystal pool; And children, ruddy-cheeked and flaxen-haired, Gathered the glistening cowslip from thy edge.

Since then, what steps have trod thy border! Here On thy green bank, the woodmann of the swamp Has laid his axe, the reaper of the hill His sickle, as they stooped to taste thy stream. The sportsman, tired with wandering in the still September noon, has bathed his heated brow In thy cool current. Shouting boys, let loose For a wild holiday, have quaintly shaped Into a cup the folded linden leaf, And dipped thy sliding crystal. From the wars Returning, the plumed soldier by thy side Has sat, and mused how pleasant 'twere to dwell In such a spot, and be as free as thou, And move for no man's bidding more. At eve, When thou wert crimson with the crimson sky, Lovers have gazed upon thee, and have thought Their mingled lives should flow as peacefully And brightly as thy waters. Here the sage, Gazing into thy self-replenished depth, Has seen eternal order circumscribe And bind the motions of eternal change, And from the gushing of thy simple fount Has reasoned to the mighty universe.

Is there no other change for thee, that lurks Among the future ages? Will not man Seek out strange arts to wither and deform The pleasant landscape which thou makest green? Or shall the veins that feed thy constant stream Be choked in middle earth, and flow no more For ever, that the water-plants along Thy channel perish, and the bird in vain Alight to drink? Haply shall these green hills Sink, with the lapse of years, into the gulf Of ocean waters, and thy source be lost Amidst the bitter brine? Or shall they rise, Upheaved in broken cliffs and airy peaks, Haunts of the eagle and the snake, and thou Gush midway from the bare and barren steep?

THE WINDS.