Classic Poem

The season comes when, from her three-month's trance.
The Earth awakes: already her deep heart
Begins to stir, and send its life abroad.
On slopes, which lie adjacent to the sun,
The snows grow thin and vanish, and the air
Is scented with the odours of the mould;
For there the Spring, with warm and delicate feet,
Fresh from her hidden caverns of perfume,
Walks in the noon to wake the early flowers.
Here the first bird begins the woodland's song;
But in yon maple grove, where genial airs
Are earliest to blow, and last to leave,
A louder voice is heard. The augur there
Passes from tree to tree, and deals the wound
Whence flows the saccharine crystal into troughs,
Propt at the great trunks' feet; while overhead
The squirrel swings, and looks in wonder down.
And now begins the pleasurable toil
Which tends the sugar camp. The fire is built:
All day the smoke rolls through the antique boughs,
All night the blaze illumes the forest-depths!
And there the giant cauldron seethes and steams,
Until the simple alchemy bestows
The dusky syrup which, in cooling jars,
Transmutes, and gives the granulated mass;
Or often, poured in shallow depths, contracts
To marble smoothness, waxen to the eye,
Hard to the tooth, delicious to the taste,
Dearer to childhood than a Christmas-toy.
It is the spring-time. Down yon woodland path
A lovely picture glides between the trees,
Taking its way unto the chapel-door.
Gay garments, and soft fluttering robes of white,
Charm the calm sunshine, while the swelling hymn
The slow procession chants, ascends the air,
And, unimpeded, passes into heaven.
Behold the pastor leads the sacred way,
Then Arthur and Olivia. Look again!
How beautiful the maiden's downcast eyes,
With drooping lids that hold the happy tears!
A hallowed dream-light floats o'er all her form;
The snowy vesture rustles at her feet,
With pleasant music, as of whispering leaves
Her golden hair, the veil but half-way hides,
Sparkles with April's choicest violets,
By loving fingers plucked from sunniest spots,
While yet the morn was red. Her parents next,
Pale and disheartened with the trying year,
Follow, with Master Ethan at their side:
And not the memory of the long disease,
The want of comforts, and the weakening toil
Which their slow feet betray, can check the light
Of pleasure springing to their languid eyes.
And after these, upon her mother's arm,
Comes Amy, with weak trembling steps, her cheeks
Glowing, as fits the occasion; but, alas!
It is the fiery rose that fever gives,
Which, but a few hours hence, shall be consumed,
And leave the hue of ashes there instead!
Then follows the whole glad community;
And presently the sanctuary-door
Receives the line, and silence reigns without.
Here while we rest, in quiet musing held,
And gaze upon the empty cabin-homes—
Where one stands waiting, with warm glowing arms,
For those we shall no more behold as two,
But bound together in that golden bond
Which, to the trusting heart, scarce death can break—
Let contemplation view the future scene.
Afar the woods before the vision fly—
Swift as a shadow o'er the meadow grass
Chased by the sunshine—and a realm of farms
O'erspreads the country wide; where many a spire
Springs in the valleys, and on distant hills,—
The watch-towers of the land. Here quiet herds
Shall crop the ample pasture, and on slopes
Doze through the summer noon. While every beast
Which prowls, a terror to the frontier fold,
Shall only live in some remembered tale,
Told by Tradition in the lighted hall,
When the red grate usurps the wooded hearth.
Here shall the city spread its noisy streets,
And groaning steamers chafe along the wharves;
While hourly o'er the plain, with streaming plume,
Like a swift herald bringing news of peace,
The rattling train shall fly; and from the East—
E'en from the Atlantic to the new-found shores
Where far Pacific rolls, in storm or rest,
Washing his sands of gold—the arrowy track
Shall stretch its iron bond through all the land.
Then these interior plains shall be as they
Which hear the ocean roar. And northern lakes
Shall bear their produce, and return them wealth;
And Mississippi, father of the floods,
Perform their errands to the Mexic Gulf,
And send them back the tropic bales and fruits.
Then shall the generations musing here,
Dream of the troublous days before their time;
And antiquaries point the very spot
Where rose the first rude cabin, and the space
Where stood the forest-chapel with its graves,
And where the earliest marriage rites were said
Here, in the middle of the nation's arms,
Perchance the mightiest inland mart shall spring.
Here the great statesman from the ranks of toil
May rise, with judgment clear, as strong as wise;
And, with a well-directed patriot-blow,
Reclinch the rivets in our union-bands,
Which tinkering knaves have striven to set ajar!
Here shall, perchance, the mighty bard be born,
With voice to sweep and thrill the nation's heart,
Like his own hand upon the corded harp.
His songs shall be as precious girths of gold,
Reaching through all the quarters of the land,
Inlaid so deep within the country's weal,
That they shall hold when heavier bands shall fail,
Eaten by rust, or broke by traitor blows.
Heaven speed his coming! he is needed now!
He wisely spake who said, “let me but sing
The songs, and let who will enact the laws.”
There are whose lips are touched with living fire:
In this great moment are they silent now?
Lift up your foreheads, O, ye glorious few,
Exalt your laurels in the gusty air!
And, like brave heralds on a windy hill,
Let your clear voices as a bugle ring!
The wild time needs you. There are trembling hearts
To strengthen and assure; and there are tongues,
Uttering they know not what, that should be drowned.
And babbling lips that should be filled with song,
Lest they breathe treason unaware. Who dares,
Like that bad angel which dismembered Heaven,
Stand forth, and, with “disunion” on his lips,
Earn endless infamy? None are so base.
Or if he lives—the world on land and sea
Hides many monsters—let his villain tongue,
In its proclaiming, struck with palsy, cleave—
Cleave to the roof, as with a ten years drought,
And rot to ashes in the traitor's throat!
And may his arm which lifts the severing sword,
Be lightning-shivered ere it gives the blow!
And on his brow be branded these black words:
“Behold the Iscariot of his native land!”
Then drive him forth in all his impotence—
The wide earth's exile—an abhorred show!
O thou, my country, may the future see
Thy shape majestic stand supreme as now,
And every stain which mars thy starry robe,
In the white sun of truth, be bleached away!
Hold thy grand posture with unswerving mien,
Firm as a statue proud of its bright form,
Whose purity would daunt the vandal-hand
In fury raised to shatter! From thine eye
Let the clear light of freedom still dispread
The broad, unclouded, stationary noon!
Still with thy right hand on the fasces lean,
And with the other point the living source
Whence all thy glory comes; and where unseen,
But still all-seeing, the great patriot-souls,
Whose swords and wisdom left us thus enriched,
Look down and note how we fulfil our trust!
Still hold beneath thy fixed and sandal'd foot
The broken sceptre and the tyrant's gyves;
And let thy stature shine above the world,
A form of terror and of loveliness!