68
SUMMER ON THE LAKES.
the region where it was born, where it belongs. The evening of our return to Chicago the sunset was of a splendor and calmness beyond any we saw at the West. The twilight that succeeded was equally beautiful; soft, pathetic, but just so calm. When afterwards I learned this was the evening of Allston's death, it seemed to me as if this glorious pageant was not without connection with that event; at least, it inspired similar emotions, — a heavenly gate closing a path adorned with shows well worthy Paradise. Farewell, ye soft and sumptuous solitudes!
| Ye fairy distances, ye lordly woods, |
| Haunted by paths like those that Poussin knew, |
| When after his all gazers eyes he drew; |
| I go, — and if I never more may steep |
| An eager heart in your enchantments deep, |
| Yet ever to itself that heart may say, |
| Be not exacting; thou hast lived one day; |
| Hast looked on that which matches with thy mood, |
| Impassioned sweetness of full being's flood, |
| Where nothing checked the bold yet gentle wave, |
| Where nought repelled the lavish love that gave. |
| A tender blessing lingers o'er the scene, |
| Like some young mother's thought, fond, yet serene, |
| And through its life new-born our lives have been. |
| Once more farewell, — a sad, a sweet farewell; |
| And, if I never must behold you more, |
| In other worlds I will not cease to tell |
| The rosary I here have numbered o'er; |
