The Knickerbocker Gallery/A Vision of the Housatonic
A Vision of the Housatonic.
EPILOGUE TO A LECTURE ON WORDSWORTH.
Come, spread your wings as I spread mine, And leave the crowded hallFor where the eyes of twilight shine O'er evening's western wall.
These are the pleasant Berkshire hills, Each with its leafy crown;Hark! from their sides a thousand rills Come singing sweetly down.
A thousand rills; they leap and shine, Strained through the mossy nooks,Till, clasped in many a gathering twine, They swell a hundred brooks.
A hundred brooks; and still they run With ripple, shade, and gleam,Till, clustering all their braids in one, They flow a single stream.
A bracelet, spun from mountain mist, A silvery sash unwound,With ox-bow curve and sinuous twist, It writhes to reach the Sound.
This is my bark; a pigmy's ship; Beneath a child it rolls;Fear not; one body makes it dip, But not a thousand souls.
Float we the grassy banks between; Without an oar we glide;The meadows, sheets of living green, Unroll on either side.
Come, take the book we love so well, And let us read and dreamWe see whate'er its pages tell, And sail an English stream.
Up to the clouds the lark has sprung, Still trilling as he flies;The linnet sings as there he sung; The unseen cuckoo cries:
And daisies strew the banks along, And yellow kingcups shine,With cowslips, and a primrose throng, And humble celandine.
Ah foolish dream! when Nature nursed Her daughter in the West,Europe had drained one fountain first; She bared her other breast.
On the young planet's orient shore Her morning hand she tried,Then turned the broad medallion o'er And stamped the sunset side.
Take what she gives; her pine's tall stem; Her elm with drooping spray;She wears her mountain diadem Still in her own proud way.
Look on the forest's ancient kings, The hemlock's towering pride;Yon trunk had thrice a hundred rings, And fell before it died.
Nor think that Nature saves her bloom And slights her new domain;For us she wears her court costume; Look on its queenly train!
The lily with the sprinkled dots, Brands of the noontide beam;The cardinal, and the blood-red spots, Its double in the stream,
As if some wounded eagle's breast. Slow throbbing o'er the plain,Had left its airy path impressed In drops of scarlet rain.
And hark! and hark! the woodland rings; There thrilled the thrush's soul:And look! and look! those lightning wings— The fire-plumed oriole!
Above, the hen-hawk swims and swoops, Flung from the bright blue sky;Below, the robin hops and whoops His little Indian cry.
The beetle on the wave has brought A pattern all his own,Shaped like the razor-breasted yacht To England not unknown!
Beauty runs virgin in the woods, Robed in her rustic green,And oft a longing thought intrudes, As if we might have seen
Her every finger's every joint Kinged with some golden line;Poet whom Nature did anoint! Had our young home been thine.
Yet think not so; old England's blood Runs warm in English veins,But wafted o'er the icy flood Its better life remains;
Our children know each wild-wood smell, The bayberry and the fern,The man who does not know them well Is all too old to learn.
Be patient; Love has long been grown; Ambition waxes strong,And Heaven is asking time alone To mould a child of song.
When Fate draws forth the mystic lot The chosen bard that calls,No eye will be upon the spot Where the bright token falls,
Perchance the blue Atlantic's brink, The broad Ohio's gleam,Or where the panther stoops to drink Of wild Missouri's stream:
Where winter clasps with glittering ice Katahdin's silver chains,Or Georgia's flowery paradise Unfolds its blushing plains:
But know that none of ancient earth Can bring the sacred fire;He drinks the wave of Western birth That rules the Western lyre!