Classic Poem

I.

The voices of the forest! Hear the tale
Whisper'd, at moments, by the fitful breeze,
That sighing, with a sad but soothing wail,
Makes sweetest music with the tall old trees;
And blends, with feeling of the dawning hour,
Musings of solemn thought and saddest power.

II.

Such was the birth, the mother-birth, which sung
The morning of creation: — even so strange,
The first, fresh accents of the infant tongue
Of nature, moaning through her varied range —
Wild in her desert loneliness of place,
Ere yet she knew her last and noblest race.

III.

Thus moan'd the winds among the giant trees,
That had no other homage — thus, from far,
Came the deep voices of the sullen seas,
Striving 'gainst earth, and with themselves at war; —
Night craved the sun, and chaos from her keep
Groan'd with the oppression of her sightless sleep.

IV.

And, in the language of their infant lack,
They tell their story with each rising dawn;
You hear them when the hour is cold and black,
Ere yet the feet of day imprint the lawn;
When the faint streakings of the light are seen,
O'er eastern heights, through darkest groves of green.

V.

Each day renews the birth of thousand days,
Even from the dawn of time: — even now I see,
Amid the gloom that gathers on my gaze,
Gray distant gleams that shoot up momently —
And hark! a sudden voice — the voice of might,
That hail'd, from infant life, the blessing birth of light.

VI.

The morning grows around me! Shafts of gray,
Like sudden arrows from the eastern bow,
Rise, through the distant forests, to a ray,
And light the heavens, and waken earth below; —
The rill that murmur'd sadly, now sings out,
Leaping, through trembling leaves, with free and gladsome shout.

VII.

I see a glitter on yon glossy leaf,
Where hangs a silent dew-drop. Hark! a bird
Shrieks out, as if he felt some sudden grief,
His sleep, perchance, by dream of danger stirr'd:
Wings rustle in the thicket — other eyes
Behold, where, ray on ray, the wings of morning rise.

VIII.

And now the dawn, with eye of glancing gray,
Comes singing into sight. The trees stand forth,
As singly striving for her brightest ray;
And, countless voices, from the awakening earth,
Clamor full-throated joys: — a flapping wing
Prepares, in yonder copse, to take his morning spring.

IX.

A sudden life is round me with the light,
Voices and wings are in the woods and air;
Broad vistas open to my travelling sight,
And hills arise, and valleys wondrous fair —
Even while I gaze, a sudden shaft of fire
Makes yon tall pine blaze up, like some proud city spire.

X.

Oh, beautiful! most beautiful! the things
I see around me; — lovelier still to thought,
The fancies, welling from a thousand springs,
The presence of these images hath brought;
The visions of the past are mine this hour,
And, in my heart, the pride of an o'ermastering power —

XI.

A power that could create, and from the dead
Draw life and gather accents. There are spells,
Known to the unerring thought, which freely shed
Light round the groping footstep, when rebels
The o'ercautious reason, and the instinct fear
Shrinks from its own huge shadow — they are here!

XII.

This is a spot — if there have ever been,
As ancient story tells, in legends sooth,
Such forms as are not earthly, earthward seen,
Having strange shapes of beauty and of youth —
Then do I ween that this should be the spot
Where they should come, — and yet I see them not.

XIII.

Yet have I pray'd their presence with a tongue
Of song, and a warm fancy that could take,
From many-voiced expression as she sung,
Her winged words of music, and awake
True echoes of her strain to win my quest,
And woo the coming of each spirit-guest.

XIV.

Yet did they come not, though my willing thought
Grew captive to my wild and vain desire;
And in my heart meet pliancy was wrought,
To raise the forms, in seeming, I require; —
And in this truant worship I've bow'd down,
Since first night's shadows fell and made the forests brown.

XV.

And sure no fitter spot had spirit sought,
For the soft-falling of star-pacing feet;
This is the holiest wood, with flowers inwrought,
Having fresh odors of mosTheavenly sweet;
Nor in the daylight's coming, then, do these
Cathedral shadows fly, that lurk behind the trees.

XVI.

The wild beast burrows not beneath our hill,
Nor hide these leaves one serpent. Gentlest doves
Brood in the pines at evening, seldom still,
With murmur through the night, of innocent loves:
And I have shaken, with no boyish trust,
From my own human feet, the base and selfish dust.

XVII.

And fancy hath been with me, to beguile
The stubborn reason into faith, and show
The subtle shapes from fairy-land, that while,
In gamesome dance, the wasted hours below;
Meet lawn of green and purple here is spread,
By nature's liberal hand for fay's fantastic tread.

XVIII.

And memories of old song, the solemn strains
Of bards, that gave themselves to holiest thought,
And gloried in their wild, poetic pains,
Were in my heart; and my rapt soul was fraught
With faith in what they feign'd, until my blood
Grew tremulously strong beneath my hopeful mood.

XIX.

And when the dark hours came, the twiring stars
Seem'd eyes, that darted on me keenest fires;
Earth had her voice, and promised, through her bars,
To burst the bondage set on free desires —
And not a breath that stirr'd the flowers, but seem'd
The shadowy whisper from some shape I dream'd.

XX.

Yet vainly have I waited! — not in vain!
What though no fairy won me with her song,
And beckoning finger — 'twas a nobler strain
That struck the ear of thought, and fill'd it long
A mightier presence yet my soul o'erawed —
He was beside me: — I had been with God!