Classic Poem

Believe him not, that rhyming, rakish Roman,
Who swore so roundly that a lover's quarrel
Between one Phaebus and some thick-shod woman,
First caused to sprout the leaflets of the laurel!

Why, long ago, — ere his Deucalion floated
Upon that freshet, which was so surprising
In that small world where every rill is noted,
As if it were a Mississippi rising:

Yes, long ere then, on A LLEGHAN 's bright mountains,
Na-nabozho had seen the laurel growing,
With berries glassed in Adirondach fountains,
Or cup mist-filled near Niagara's flowing:

A crimped and dainty cup, whose timid flushing
Tinted the creamy hue of lips so shrinking,
He thought at first some sentient thing was blushing,
To be thus caught from such a caldron thinking.

Plants then had tongues, — if we believe old story,
As told by red men under forest branches, —
(Who still insist they hear that language hoary,
Ere mountain-woods descend in avalanches.)

Plants then had tongues, and in their careless tattle,
Each painted creature on its footstalk swaying,
Beguiled the loitering hunter, with their prattle,
Secrets of Nature and old Earth betraying.

And once, they said, when Earth seemed fully freighted
With pearly cup, and star, and tufted blossom,
A Mohawk youth, with spirit all unmated,
On old Ta-ha-was flung his weary bosom.

He knew not, could not, comprehend the feeling
That kept him mute oppressed with thought unuttered,
That wild, wild sense of loveliness o'erstealing
Which urged his pent soul forth on wing unfettered.

Despairing and bewildered in his sorrow,
He pressed with quivering lip the hollow mountain,
As he its giant hardihood would borrow,
Its free-voiced rushing wind and chainless fountain.

This for a savage to be sure was tender, —
Whose hottest passion chiefly for the chase is:
And when his native soil refused to render
Aught of response to her wild son's embraces, —

He breathed into the ground vague thoughts of power,
The yearnings of a soul in silence hidden;
Beneath the midnight sky in that lone hour,
Thought found a language by itself unbidden!

Then, with no human eye its birth beholding,
No fostering plaudit human hands bestowing,
First to the dew its glossy leaves unfolding,
Sprouted the Laurel, from its own heart growing.

And still that type of native genius telleth,
On barren rock, or lonely woodland bower,
Not in approval , but in Utterance dwelleth
The Poet's craving, and the Poet's power.