Classic Poem

The Farewell

XVII.

" Stranger, farewell! The deepening eve doth warn,
And the mild moonlight beckons thee away;
And, ere the lingering night shall melt to morn,
Let thy swift foot across the prairie stray.
Nay, tempt me not! for I alone am cast,
A wretch from all I used to grieve or bless;
And doomed to wail and wander here at last,
Am deeply wedded to the wilderness.
Thy hand again shall feel the thrilling grasp
Of friendship — and thine ear shall catch the tone
Of joyous kindred; and thine arm shall clasp,
Perchance, some gentle bosom to thine own.
Oh God! 'tis right — for he hath never torn,
With his own daring hand the thread of life —
He ne'er hath stolen thy privilege, or borne
A fellow mortal down in murderous strife!

XVIII.

" Stranger, farewell! these woods shall be my home,
And here shall be my grave! My hour is brief,
But while it lasts, it is my task to roam,
And read of Heaven from nature's open leaf.
And though I wander from my race away,
As some lone meteor, dim and distant, wheels
In wintry banishment, where but a ray
Of kindred stars in timid twilight steals —
Still will I catch the light that faintly falls
Through my leaf-latticed window of the skies,
And I will listen to the voice that calls
From heaven, where the wind stricken forest sighs.
And I will read of dim Creation's morn,
From the deep archives of these mossy hills —
On wings of wizard thought, my fancy, borne
Back by the whispers of these pouring rills,
Shall read the unwritten record of the land —
For God, unwitnessed here hath walked the dell,
These cliffs have quivered at his loud command,
These waters blushed, where his deep shadow fell!
And at his bidding, 'mid these solitudes,
The ebb and flow of life have poured their waves,
Till Time, the hoary sexton of these woods,
Despairing, broods o'er the uncounted graves.
And warrior tribes have come from some far land,
And made these mountains echo with their cry —
And they have mouldered — and their mighty hand
Hath writ no record on the earth or sky!
And 'mid the awful stillness of their grave,
The forest oaks have flourished; and the breath
Of years hath swept their races, wave on wave,
As ages fainted on the shores of death.
The tumbling cliff perchance hath thundered deep,
Like a rough note of music in the song
Of centuries, and the whirlwind's crushing sweep,
Hath ploughed the forest with its furrows strong.
And though these legends, like the eddying leaves
Of autumn, scattered by the whirlwind's breath,
Are borne away where dim Oblivion weaves
Her shroud, within the rayless halls of death;
Still with a prophet gaze I'll thread my way,
And wake the giant spectres of the tomb;
With fancy's wand I'll chase the phantoms gray,
And burst the shadowy seal that shrouds their doom.
Thus shall the past its misty lore unfold,
And bid my soul on nature's ladder rise,
Till I shall meet some clasping hand, whose hold
Shall draw my homesick spirit to the skies.

XIX.

" Farewell! the thread of sympathy that tied
My heart to man is sundered, and I go
To hold communion with the shades that glide,
Wherever forests wave, or waters flow.
And when my fluttering heart shall faint and fail,
These limbs shall totter to some hollow cave,
Where the poor Dreamer's dream shall cease. The gale
Shall gather music from the wood and wave,
And pour it in my dying ear; the wing
Of busy zephyrs to the flowers shall go,
And from them all their sweetest odors bring,
To soothe, perchance, their fainting lover's woe.
My sinking soul shall catch the dreamy sound
Of far-off waters, murmuring to their doom,
And eddying winds, from distant mountains bound,
Shall come to sing a requiem round my tomb.
The breeze shall o'er me weave a leafy shroud,
And I shall slumber in the shadowy dell —
Till God shall rend the spirit's darkling cloud,
And give it wings of light Stranger, Farewell!