4524068Poems — A Morning walk in JuneMary Caroline Denver
A MORNING WALK IN JUNE.
I will walk far into the pleasant woods This balmy morning, and beneath the shade Of one old beech that, in these solitudes Without a compeer stands, where oft I've strayed And listened to the song the wild birds made; There will I sit me down, where I can see The dew-drops glisten on the mossy glade, All undisturbed as yet, except by me, For I can trace my steps even to this green old tree.
The sun hath not yet risen, yet the hum Of distant voices stirs the air around; Already nearer, nearer doth it come; I'll rise, and wander where the busy sound Will not disturb mine ear; yon rising mound I'll cross, and enter the opposing dell, Where many wild sweet-scented flowers are found, Decking the earth's dark bosom passing well; But first I will remove this slow snail's curious shell
From oat my path; thou strange slow-moving thing, Securely hid from the devouring hawk, Who sails above on broad and venturous wing, Thou shalt be my companion in my walk, And I will hold with thee some curious talk About thyself, thy structure, coiled and small; Why thou art found alike on beetling rock, In the low vale, or by the waterfall,— Why thou wast made thus strange, why thou wast made at all.
If for some great and unrepented sin, An angel were condemned in this low guise To wander through the world, an humbled thing, Creeping on earth, who mounted once the skies, Fluttering his wings in gales of paradise,— Methinks the punishment were surely great, Enough for any crime. Thy hornèd eyes Thou, melancholy thing! raisest elate, As if thou wast indeed once of a high estate.
Even such is man!—When at the lowest ebb Of fallen fortune, and a ruined name, Even when he's most entangled in the web Of dark dishonor, obloquy and shame, He'll still point men to the heights wherefrom he came, And idly boast of other days than these, As if his father's or his former fame, O'erwhelmed by later, blacker infamies, Could make him other than the guilty thing he is.
Poor creeping thing! perhaps, if thou couldst speak, Thou wouldst tell many a tale of piteous woe; Perchance, in thy wild fancies, vainly seek For other than thou seemest, mean and low, Scarce animate with life;—say, is it so? And canst thou be contented thus to go, Crawling beneath the feet of one like me, Who, made of clay, doth still aspire to know The secrets of the -skies, and fain would be Admitted to the realms where shines the galaxy?
But if thou art contented, I'll not call Thee abject, nor insult thy lowly state; Thou dost not mount the car of fame, to fall Therefrom, despised, degraded, desolate, The pride, the scorn, the mockery of fate, Like thy reviler, man; who, did he see A God above, would strive to be His mate. Would match himself even with the Deity, With that Power uncreate, Who made both him and thee!
How beautiful this morning is! how calm! All nature smiles serenely, free from care; The zephyrs dip their wings in wells of balm, And waft their fragrance through the ambient air. The earth how green, the heavens, O, how fair! A glorious frame, around a gem made bright With His own smile whose eye is everywhere; Open thy heart, man! and let its light Pierce through the misty gloom that shrouds thy soul in night!
