Classic Poem

'Twas in the drowsy Moon of Falling Leaves,
And waning summer gave a softer glow,
And apples dropped, and hosts of yellow sheaves
Were bravely tented where Pocantico

Devolves his lazy waters through the nave
Of sunny hills, and past the silent peak
That casts a somber shadow o'er the cave
Of Maqua, Wizard of the Wecquaesgeek—

When, up the winding way from Hudson's shore,
Came Doktor Nebelhut, the German Sage,
To sound the fountains of forbidden lore
In mystic council with the Forest Mage.

Above the Wizard's portal, huge and hard,
A balanced crag had worn itself a place
When rocked by winter tempests—deeply scarred
With dumb inscriptions of a vanished race;

And long that rugged sentinel had viewed
The sylvan peace of Hudson's rolling glades,
The River's breadth of silver solitude,
The furrowed grandeur of his Palisades.

Within the crypt discoursed the Sages twain,
In fellowship of craft and eager zest
As if from one deep chalice they would drain
The mingled wizardry of East and West—

Of charms to bring the butter to the churn,
Of spells to call the red deer from the wold,
Love philters, incantations to discern
The haunted hiding-place of pirate gold;

Dark, awful runes that might not be expressed,
Dread weirds, the thought of which is deadly sin!
And now the Doktor drew from out his vest
A quaintly fashioned pouch of cobra-skin.

“This holds,” said he, “a leaf that giveth calm—
Yea, even as thy fragrant-fuming weed—
But, blent with mandragora's potent balm
And soothing essence of the poppy-seed,

“When I do blow its azure vapor forth
In melting wreaths, o'er valley, plain, and hill,
Who breathes it—east or west or south or north—
Shall droop in childlike slumber at my will!”

The Red Man's cheek was wrinkled in a smile:
“A mighty medicine, O Friend, is thine!
And dare I tell to thee the simple wile
We learn amid the whispers of the pine?

“Then hear!—The willow's ruddy bark I burn
Within my pipe. Upon the coal I fling
These russet seedlets, brushed from plumes of fern
In moonlight by the howlet's velvet wing.

“Within the bowl the crimson sparkle gleams!
Upon the air the hazy fillets rise!
Who scents that cloud shall drowse in wondrous dreams,
While I shall walk unseen of mortal eyes!”

Then half in pique, “Well spoke!” the Doktor said,
“My swarthy Brother!—Prithee, let us show
Our magic's force!” The Wizard bowed his head.
The pipes were lit; and upward-rolling slow

From creamy meerschaum, waif of Græcia's wave,
And dark red sandstone dug of prairie fells,
The heavy incense filled the narrow cave,
And outward surging, veiled the golden dells.

Throughout the vale, where'er that vapor crept,
The busy farmer dozed beside his wain;
The housewife in the dairy sighed, and slept;
The fisher let his line unheeded strain;

The bronze-limbed hunter slacked his arching bow;
The deer forgot to leap, the hawk to fly;
The lilies drooped; the hemlock nodded low,
And every aster closed its purple eye.

Of them that wrought the marvel?—Strange their plight!
In vain they strove against the magic hest!
Till, smiling each to each a long “Good-night,”
They closed their eyes in twice-enchanted rest.

And e'en the sentry boulder knew the charm;
Awhile it quivered like a blade of grass,
Then, sliding softly as a sleeper's arm,
It sealed the cavern with its granite mass.

Around that cave the leafy creepers cling,
Above its roof in summer, roses blow;
And o'er the mossy portal, in the spring
The dogwood pours its avalanche of snow.

And still they doze—the necromantic twain,
While from their pipes the witching fumes arise;
And still, when Indian Summer bows the grain,
That eery vapor dims the tender skies.

And still the valley lies beneath a spell;
And wondrous clouds and visions they do know
Who loiter in the dream-enchanted dell
That hears the murmur of Pocantico.