Now the vapor, hot and damp,
Shed by day's expiring lamp,
Through the misty ether spreads
Every ill the white man dreads;
Fiery fever's thirsty thrill,
Fitful ague's shivering chill!

Hark! I hear the traveller's song,
As he winds the woods along;—
Christian, 't is the song of fear;
Wolves are round thee, night is near,
And the wild thou dar'st to roam—
Think, 't was once the Indian's home!

Hither, sprites, who love to harm,
Wheresoe'er you work your charm,
By the creeks, or by the brakes,
Where the pale witch feeds her snakes,

Now, fie on foolish love! It not befits
Or man or woman know it;
Love was not meant for people in their wits,
And they that fondly show it
Betray the straw and feathers in their brain,
And shall have Bedlam for their pain.
If single love be such a curse,
To marry is to make it ten times worse.

Not mine to draw the cloth-yard shaft
From straining palm to thrilling ear;
Then launch it through the monster's hulk,
One thrust, from front to rear.

Mine is the Bushman's tiny bow,
Whose wounds the foeman hardly feels;
He laughs, and lifts his hand to smite,
Then suddenly he reels.

Three then came forward out of darkness, one
An old man bearded, his old eyes red with weeping,
A peasant, with hard hands. ‘Come now,’ he said,
‘And see the road, for which our people die.
Twelve miles of road we've made, a little only,
Westward winding. Of human blood and stone
We build; and in a thousand years will come
Beyond the hills to sea.’

I went with them,
Taking a lantern, which upon their faces
Showed years and grief; and in a time we came
To the wild road which wound among wild hills
Westward; and so along this road we stooped,

All Nature dies! wide over hill and plain,
The forests brown and withered meet the eye;
The flowers are gone, the birds will not remain,
The grass, so green of late, is pale and dry.
But what is Nature's death, though, far and wide
Thou see'st the emblems of her sure decay,
To Man's; to whom, in soul, thou art allied;
And who but now, unnoticed, passed away!
Daily he passes; in the lowly shed,
In the high palace, 'neath the open sky;
No world-wide symbols mark that He is dead,
No gorgeous splendor draws thy wondering eye;

I FIND an old deserted nest,
Half-hidden in the underbrush:
A withered leaf, in phantom jest,
Has nestled in it like a thrush
With weary, palpitating breast.

I muse as one in sad surprise
Who seeks his childhood's home once more,
And finds it in a strange disguise
Of vacant rooms and naked floor,
With sudden tear-drops in his eyes.

An empty nest! It used to bear
A happy burden, when the breeze
Of summer rocked it, and a pair
Of merry tattlers told the trees
What treasures they had hidden there.

Though I think I'd like to go to France
France is too far away;
I would at least put on a new jacket
and go on a carefree trip
When the train takes a mountain path
I would lean on an aquamarine window
and think alone of happy things
on a May morning when eastern clouds gather
leaving myself to my heart with fresh young grass flaring.

I will not call it Spring for me
Till every leaf I've seen,
And every springing blade of grass,
Has its last touch of green;
Till every blossom I can count,
Upon the budding bough;
Then will I call it spring for me,
I cannot see it now.

I will not call the Summer come,
Till every blade shall fall
Beneath the mower's swinging scythe,
The low grass and the tall;
Till where each red and white bud stood,
Hangs fruit for autumn's hand;
But yet I cannot say 'tis here,
And I will waiting stand.

I will not say that Autumn's hour

This is the forest primeval.
This the spruce with the glorious plume
That grew in the forest primeval.

This is the lumberman big and browned
Who felled the spruce tree to the ground
That grew in the forest primeval.

This is the man with the paper mill
Who bought the pulp that paid the bill
Of the husky lumberjack who chopped
The lofty spruce and its branches lopped
That grew in the forest primeval.

This is the publisher bland and rich
Who bought the roll of paper which
Was made by the man with the paper mill

This beauty made me dream there was a time
Long past and irrecoverable, a clime
Where any brook so radiant racing clear
Through buttercup and kingcup bright as brass
But gentle, nourishing the meadow grass
That leans and scurries in the wind, would bear
Another beauty, divine and feminine,
Child to the sun, a nymph whose soul unstained
Could love all day, and never hate or tire,
A lover of mortal or immortal kin.

And yet, rid of this dream, ere I had drained
Its poison, quieted was my desire
So that I only looked into the water,