Classic Poem

In the darkness of my room, at the dusky noon of night,
I sat and mus'd o'er other years that were supremely bright,
No flame of lamp, no blaze of fire, to cheer the midnight gloom;
No spark of star, no beam of moon, the darkness to illume.
Yet as adown Time's corridors, I turned a wistful eye
All shades of darkness vanish'd from landscape and from sky.

I saw as in a gallery, the portraits on the wall;
The features and the forms I knew, and each I could recall;
As memory's magic wand I wav'd, the ghosts of other days,
The apparitions of the past, were present to my gaze.

Like landscape paintings I beheld each old familiar scene
Where we had trod the meadows or track'd the woodlands green.
We climb'd the breezy upland, we plung'd in bosky dell,
In summer groves, or where the leaves of russet Autumn fell.

In hemlock solitudes where roam'd the wild deer-herds of Maine,
Where stately stag and tawny doe held undisputed reign;
Where drum-beat of the partridge and woodcock's lonely cry
Were heard in piny forests, or where the brook swept by.

And where the Adirondacks their wastes immense extend,
Where blue the mountain summits with the horizon blend,
And sparkling stream and crystal lake like gems the vales inlay,
There, well equipp'd with rod and gun, we lov'd to take our way.

And where sequester'd prairies of Illinois outspread,
Those measureless green pastures where thick the grouse-flocks fed,
Where myriads of wild pigeons and coveys of brown quail
Fill'd grove and plain, there oft we lov'd to follow on the trail.

We saw again in fancy, old ocean's reefs and bar,
Each shelly cove and sandspit, outstretching gray and far,
Where oft we lay in little boat at ambush for the flight
Of dusky brant or honking goose, from daydawn till the night.

And oft where reedy marshes and league-long meadows spread,
And plover-call and curlew-cry were resonant o'erhead
There oft amid those screaming flocks, to deal out death we came,
And home return'd with sumptuous spoil of migratory game.

And when the winter days had come, and sports of field were o'er,
And gun and rod and dog dismiss'd, we sought our homes once more;
We lov'd to sit by fireside, there to enjoy again,
In genial talk, the thrilling sports of wood and wave and plain.

Cale Loring, of old Boston, the prince of fowlers rare,
Can I forget our royal sport, our hunts beyond compare?
Forget our “Cypress,” “Acorn,” in these recording rhymes,
Well known in thy old sanctum, O Spirit of the Times .

Tall son of York! kind Porter! who might forget thy name?
What memories fond do brighten at mention of thy fame!
So genial in thy presence, so cultur'd in thy mind,
Giant in size and strength, as woman soft and kind.

Nor may such names as Roosevelt, Ned Buntline, Clarke, and Scott,
Sibley and Picton, Foster, Wilkes, and Anthon be forgot;
All brethren of the rod and gun—and, chiefest among all,
Frank Forester! What scenes those names recall!

Dear Herbert! who so brilliant, so versatile as thou?
Whether in smiling mood or with a clouded brow,
So earnest in the field where flew the birds of air,
Or where the trout and salmon flash'd in the summer glare.

These portraits of old faces, these pictures of the Past,
Glow ever in my mind, to fade they will be last;
But, alas! the heavy shadow of the grave has clos'd fore'er
O'er many that we cherish'd, so precious and so dear.