Poems of Sentiment and Imagination/Forest Spirits
FOREST SPIRITS; OR, THE WOODS OF THE WEST.
Know ye the shades that inhabit our woods,
The spirits that dwell in their deep solitudes?
Have ye not heard them away in the shade,
And listened with awe to the sounds that they made?
And have ye not trembled with fear, when alone
Ye have heard in the forest their low solemn tone?
Have ye not heard, when the tempest was nigh,
Their voice in the wood like a mortal's wild cry?
And did ye not hear, when the storm was allayed,
Their low wailing sigh stealing out o'er the glade?
'Twas the voices of spirits—I know where they dwell,
And oft have I listened the tales that they tell.
Far away, in the forest's impervious gloom,
Where the birds never sing, and the flowers never bloom,
Where the darkness is deep as the midnight can be,
And the owl hoots all day in his horrible glee;
Where the snake and the lizard crawl over the mould,
And feast in the darkness, the damp, and the cold—
It is here that the spirits that shriek and that moan,
Retreat when the wrath of the tempest hath gone.
And the tales that they tell are of wrath and of blood;
Of the fight on the plain, and the chase on the flood;
Of the whoop, and the yell, and the death of the brave,
And of woman's wild wail o'er the warrior's grave;
O their voice is as wild as the ocean-bird's cry,
As it shrieks o'er the wave, and rings up to the sky!
But in the deep shade of the violet dells,
Are the spirits that tell us of lovers' farewells;
And we hear them at night when the flower-oping breeze
Just rustles the boughs of the leaf-laden trees.
They tell of the love of the dark forest maid,
Of the words that were said 'neath the willow-bough's shade;
Of the anger of rivals, the challenge to fight,
Of the death of the brave, and the funeral rite;
Of the maiden's mad sorrow; and whispering wild,
They tell of the grief of the chief for his child—
That beneath the lake's waters, so dark and so deep,
The maiden sank down to her visionless sleep.
And the girls of the forest at evening brought flowers,
The fairest that grew in their wild woodland bowers,
And scattered them over the lake's silver breast,
And chanted a dirge that the spirit might rest.
But 'twas whispered the maiden came up from the wave,
To ramble at eve with her warrior brave;
And the spirits that dwell in the woods caught the tone
Of the maiden's low wail and the warrior's moan;
And still at this hour, when the breeze wanders by,
Breathe out in the forest their low mournful cry.
Have you not been where the silver beech flingeth
Its arms o'er the spot where the wood-fountain springeth?
Where the fern and the wild-flower bend o'er its brim
To gaze on their shadows so dark and so dim;
Where the moss like a carpet of velvet is spread,
And its roots are inwove with the bright golden thread;
Where the wintergreen berries like ruby-drops shine,
And the turf is embroidered with wild cypress vine;
Where the brave olden trees, towering up to the blue,
Let scarcely a glimpse of the golden day through;
Where the light is as soft as the orange-tree's bloom,
And the birds rarely sing, overpowered with perfume?
It was here that the tawny-browed queen of the wood
Came to dream of her love in the dim solitude:
And the spirits that watched o'er her slumbers repeat
In their low silver voices, so clear and so sweet,
A thousand soft murmurs, the tones of her love,
Like the gush of a fountain, the coo of a dove;
O their voice is as thrilling, their accent as wild,
As the heart and the dream of the dark forest child!
Know ye the spirits that dwell by the river
That rolleth its flood to the ocean forever;
That rusheth and roareth from mountain to plain,
'Till its thunder is lost in a sullen complain?
Have ye not stood where the torrent was breaking
Its tide on the rocks, till each echo awaking,
Hath joined in the chorus with torrent and river,
And lengthened the anthem forever and ever?
Have ye not been where the rivulet leapeth
On through the shade where the willow-bough weepeth,
Glancing along in its beautiful motion,
Till the river hath borne it away to the ocean?
Ah, there are spirits by brooklet and river,
Where the giant trees grow or the frail flowers quiver,
In the glen and the dell, by the lake and the fountain,
In the shadowy wood, on the pine-covered mountain—
Not a spot where the foot of the while man can tread,
But spirits are whispering tales of the dead.
Proud forests! ye stately old woods of the West,
In what glorious hues are your aged boughs drest!
How bravely ye stand in your gorgeous pride,
Decked out in the robes that old autumn hath dyed;
Yet my heart hath grown sadder by gazing on ye,
And list'ning the voices that sigh from each tree,
For they tell of the red man—the child of the wood—
And his form seems to rise in the dim solitude;
And now when the autumn winds sigh through the trees,
His voice haunts my ear with each swell of the breeze;
I hear his low call, and his step stealing by,
The twang of the bow, and the bird's sudden cry—
A thousand wild murmurings tremble in air,
And startle my spirit with thrillings of fear;
Yet I love the wild music for breathing the tone
Of ages gone by, and of races long flown.
Old forests! ye stand in your majesty yet,
Bearing proudly the seal by the Deity set;
First temples of God—where His presence still seems
To tremble like visions of angels in dreams;
Would that never thine echoes might wake to repeat
The voice of the white man, the tread of his feet;
For the shades which inhabit shall flee from thy dells,
And the shelter be torn from thy wild-springing wells;
And thy shadowy recesses, dim as the night,
Shall be oped to the glare of the summer-day's light;
And thy soft mossy glades, by the wood-blossom starred,
By the tramp of his footsteps be stricken and marred.
Where the pride of thy bosom now towers to the skies,
Shall a temple of fame in the future arise;
And man in the pride of his strength shall erase
Of the forest's wild grandeur each lingering trace.
Columbia's forests! how proudly ye wave
O'er the white man's domain, and the Indian's grave;
Yet do ye not mourn that the sons of thy shade
Have been driven away from the homes they had made?
Do not the wild spirits in glade, glen, and dell,
Echo mournfully over the Indian's farewell?
Or is it the farewell to man's first abode,
Murmuring still from thy branches, great wind-harp of God?