Choice Specimens of American Literature, and Literary Reader Part 68

Two thousand feet in air it stands Betwixt the bright and shaded lands, Above the regions it divides And borders with its furrowed sides.

The seaward valley laughs with light Till the round sun o'erhangs this height; But then, the shadow of the crest No more the plains that lengthen west Enshrouds, yet slowly, surely creeps Eastward, until the coolness steeps A darkling league of tilth and wold, And chills the flocks that seek their fold.

Not like those ancient summits lone, Mont Blanc on his eternal throne,-- The city-gemmed Peruvian, peak,-- The sunset portals landsmen seek, Whose train, to reach the Golden Land, Crawls slow and pathless through the sand,-- Or that whose ice-lit beacon guides The mariner on tropic tides, And flames across the Gulf afar, A torch by day, by night a star,-- Not thus to cleave the outer skies.

Does my serener mountain rise.

Nor aye forget its gentle birth Upon the dewey, pastoral earth.

But ever, in the noonday light, Are scenes whereof I love the sight,-- Broad pictures of the lower world Beneath my gladdened eyes unfurled.

Irradiate distances reveal Fair nature wed to human weal; The rolling valley made a plain; Its chequered squares of gra.s.s and grain; The silvery rye, the golden wheat, The flowery elders where they meet,-- Ay, even the springing corn I see, And garden haunts of bird and bee; And where, in daisied meadows, s.h.i.+nes The wandering river through its vines, Move, specks at random, which I know Are herds a-grazing to and fro.

[Footnote 98: Was born in Connecticut but has long resided in New York, where he has combined an active business life with literary pursuits--a favorite contributor to that magazines.]

=_John James Piatt,[99] 1835-._=

From "Landmarks and other Poems."

=_424._= LONG AGO.

Though for the soul a lovely Heaven awaits, Through years of woe, The Paradise with angels in its gates Is Long Ago.

The heart's lost Home! Ah, thither winging ever, In silence, show Vanis.h.i.+ng faces! but they vanish never In Long Ago!

Ye toil'd through desert sands to reach To-morrow, With footsteps slow, Poor Yesterdays! Immortal gleams ye borrow In Long Ago.

The world is dark: backward our thoughts are yearning, Our eyes o'erflow: Sweet Memories, angels to our tears returning, Leave Long Ago.

We climb: child-roses to our knees are climbing, From valleys low; To call us back, dear birds and brooks are rhyming In Long Ago.

Hands clasp'd, tears shed, sad songs are sung!--the fair Beloved ones, lo!

s.h.i.+ne yonder, through the angel gates of air, In Long Ago.

[Footnote 99: Of Western birth and education. His verse though somewhat crude, has a flow of tenderness and freshness.]

=_Celia Thaxter,[100] 1835-._=

From The Atlantic Monthly.

=_425._= "REGRET."

Softly Death touched her, and she pa.s.sed away, Out of this glad, bright world she made more fair; Sweet as the apple blossoms, when in May, The orchards flush, of summer grown aware.

All that fresh delicate beauty gone from sight, That gentle, gracious presence felt no more!

How must the house be emptied of delight!

What shadows on the threshold she pa.s.sed o'er!

She loved me. Surely I was grateful, yet I could not give her back all she gave me,-- Ever I think of it with vain regret, Musing upon a summer by the sea:

Remembering troops of merry girls who pressed About me, clinging arms and tender eyes, And love, light scent of roses. With the rest She came to fill my heart with new surprise.

The day I left them all and sailed away, While o'er the calm sea, 'neath the soft gray sky They waved farewell, she followed me to say Yet once again her wistful, sweet "good by."

At the boat's bow she drooped; her light green dress Swept o'er the skiff in many a graceful fold, Her glowing face, bright with a mute caress, Crowned with her lovely hair of shadowy gold:

And tears she dropped into the crystal brine For me, unworthy, as we slowly swung Free of the mooring. Her last look was mine, Seeking me still the motley crowd among.

O tender memory of the dead I hold So precious through the fret and change of years!

Were I to live till Time itself grew old, The sad sea would be sadder for those tears.

[Footnote 100: A native of New Hamps.h.i.+re; long resident on the Isles of Shoals, and remarkable for her vivid pictures of ocean life, in both prose and verse.]

=_Theophilus H. Hill.[101] 1836-._=

From "The Song of the b.u.t.terfly."

=_426._=

When the shades of evening fall, Like the foldings of a pall,-- When the dew is on the flowers, And the mute, unconscious hours, Still pursue their noiseless flight Through the dreamy realms of night, In the shut or open rose Ah, how sweetly I repose!

And Diana's starry train, Sweetly scintillant again, Never sleep while I repose On the petals of the rose.

Sweeter couch hath who than I?

Quoth the brilliant b.u.t.terfly.

Life is but a summer day, Gliding languidly away; Winter comes, alas! too soon,-- Would it were forever June!

Yet though brief my flight may be, Fun and frolic still for me!

When the summer leaves and flowers, Now so beautiful and gay, In the cold autumnal showers, Droop and fade, and pine away, Who would not prefer to die?

What were life to _such as I_?

Quoth the flaunting b.u.t.terfly.

[Footnote 101: Born in North Carolina; in the intervals of his law practice has published a volume of poems.]

=_Thomas Hailey Aldrich.[102] 1836-._=

From his "Poems."

=_427._= THE CRESCENT AND THE CROSS.