Classic Poem

A vision strode before me toward the west,
What time the day let drop its golden shield —
A giant form with sun-illumined face:
His hue was like the last dull bar that falls
At eve athwart the hill-tops. From his brow,
A plume of many colours 'gainst the sky
Blazed like a torch-flame. In his tawny hand
A mighty bow he bore — so tall, its top
Flamed in the sun-down, while the low extreme
Trailed the dusk dews, unseen, along the vale.
His eyes were deep, cavernous, unsubdued —
So deep, a curse seemed crouching in their depth —
And bent with fixed and melancholy stare;
The sun a target to his arrowy sight.
He took no note of where his footsteps fell —
No sound of tread, no rustle in the grass
Ran herald to his coming — all was soft
And noiseless as the owlet's wing. His lips
Were set in uncomplaining firmness; his right hand
Grasped, as with joy, the trophies at his girdle.
From his huge breast no word of sadness broke —
Not even a sigh to startle the calm hour!
And yet not voiceless was the air; small sounds,
Faint murmurs, delicate whisperings and low songs —
The cadence of invisible choirs, perchance,
Of aboriginal elves, which fly the haunts
Of pallid Saxons as a child a ghost; —
A choral sorrow, as if leaves and flowers,
The sprites of wood and stream and water-fall,
Were pouring out a burthen of despair,
Filling the ear of twilight, rose and rose,
Thrilled to the faint stars brightening overhead,
And fell and fell, until the deep lake heard
The shy nymphs answering from their caves forlorn.

CHORUS.

I.

O, mighty spirit, flying, ever flying!
We are the woodlands — hearken to our wail!
Our poplars trembling and our maples sighing,
Our great oaks bowing, as before a gale,
Our pines all sorrowing and our aspens dying,
Our sycamores with terror growing pale,
Ah mourn thy flight. Oh! turn to their embraces,
Nor let the sunshine gloat upon their vacant places!

II.

O, mighty spirit, speeding, ever speeding!
We are the hills and valleys thou hast loved!
Here rest your sires, their dead hearts freshly bleeding
Beneath thy flight, while they lie unremoved!
Above their shrines dull foreign herds are feeding,
And glides the grating ploughshare unreproved.
Oh! turn again — repel the foe's advance —
Rebuild your midnight fires, and weave your warlike dance!

III.

O, mighty spirit, fading, ever fading!
We are the springs and brooklets, rivers, lakes! —
We miss your maidens — miss your children wading
Along our sands and pebbles; and where breaks
Our lightest ripple now, it dies upbraiding
The lonely marge, and every fountain aches!
Your light canoes lie warping on the shore,
Half-buried in the sand! Oh! turn to us once more!

CHORUS OF ALL

O, mighty spirit, flying, ever flying!
Thou wilt not stay and smile on us again:
Our hopes are ashes, and our hearts are dying,
Our garlands are transmuted to a chain;
Our necks beneath the conquerors are lying,
The toiling yoke succeeds thy peaceful reign!
The clouds have ta'en thee! We have looked our last,
And mournful memory now alone can bring the past.

The song was ended and the shade was gone,
Lost in the fiery forests of the sun.
But often since, as Eve her mantle drew
O'er her chaste bosom, stepping from her cave,
Where all the day she nods above her urn
Of dews and perfume, sentried by her owl —
The muse has watched in the departing west
Mid visionary landscapes rivers, lakes,
O'er purple prairies, and through golden woods,
This flying shadow with his blazing bow
And flashing arrows, flaming as they flew,
Chasing the deer whose antlers mid the stars
Flung up the lustre of the dying day;
Or o'er the fallen bison saw him stand,
His red foot glowing in its gorgeous mane.
Such was the vision and its flight: and when
All this had passed — the shadow and the song —
A lovelier music to the spiritual ear
Swelled through the starry air and filled the vale, —
Sounds which seemed born in heaven, and poured
From out the constellations in the East.
Scarce sweeter were the melodies, methinks,
Heard by the shepherds on far Bethlehem's plain,
What time the flocks, waked by the midnight dawn,
Greeting the fancied advent of the day,
Arose, their fleeces dripping fresh with dew,
And cropt the wet grass in the amber light
Of that one star which ushered in a morn
That circles all the years, and, brightening, sheds
Its radiance through the ages.

CHORUS OF SPIRITS.

FIRST SPIRIT .

I am the fairest spirit breathed from God —
Not mine the praise, but His —
And where my foot-prints sanctify the sod
There peaceful plenty is.
Hail, happy land! your ancient night is through —
Receive us and be blest!
From this celestial urn of holy dew
I here baptize the West!

SECOND SPIRIT

I am the child of her whose voice but now
Made musical the air;
I bring the laurel which shall bind your brow,
I come to place it there.
I bring the sword so tempered in the glow
Of Courage, Truth, and Right,
Its keen edge severs at one steady blow
The tyrant's chain of might!
Unsheathed still let it gleam athwart the land,
The light of peace or ire;
Its flash shall be as lightning in your hand —
Its stroke, a bolt of fire!
I bring the buds of future centuries
To bloom upon your breast —
They hold the dews of Freedom — and with these
I here baptize the West!

THIRD SPIRIT .

I am that spirit born in Paradise,
When man's first parents erred,
And the deep judgment thundered from the skies
The dread commanding word.
I walked with them through far and thorny lands.
In desert realms unknown,
And taught them toil, until their tender hands
Were tawny as my own.
I bring the axe, the sickle, and the plow,
Whose use alone gives rest —
And with the dews which fell from Adam's brow,
I here baptize the West!

FOURTH SPIRIT .

I am that spirit who, in ages gone,
No certain shelter found;
But here, at last, I hail the peaceful dawn,
And bless the sacred ground.
Mine was the name the joyous angels sung,
To cheer the shepherd's ear;
And with that Star I into being sprung,
And with that Star am here.
And with this palm-branch, plucked from off the stem
Of Heaven's own tree of rest,
And dipped in dews which fell o'er Bethlehem,
I, too, baptize the West!

The chorus died; and presently the sound
Of falling forests, and the woodman's blow.
Of miliwheels labouring in the stream, replied,
With one loud voice, to welcome in the band;
Then all was silent as befits the night.