Blooms of the Berry Part 9

The wigwams glimmer in night's settling waves, And, wildly clad, around the camp-fire's glow Sit long-haired chieftains 'mid their wily braves, Each grasping his war-bow.

But now yon boat on fading waters fades; The ostrich-feathered clouds have lost their light, And from the West, like somber sachem shades, Gallop the shades of night.

The broad Ohio wavers 'neath the stars, And many murmurs whisper 'mid the woods-- Tumultuous mournings of dead warriors For their lost solitudes.

And like a silver curl th' Ohio lies Among the earth's luxuriance of hair; Majestic as she met the red man's eyes-- As beautiful and fair.

No marvel that the warrior's love waxed flame Fighting for thee, Kentucky, till he wound Inseparably 'round thee that old name Of dark and b.l.o.o.d.y ground!

But peace to those wild braves whose bones are thine!

And peace to those rude pioneers whose moon Of glory rose, 'mid stars of lesser s.h.i.+ne, In name of Daniel Boone!

"Peace! peace!" the lips of all thy forests roar; The rivers mutter peace unto thy strand: Thy past is dead, and let us name thee o'er, THE HOSPITABLE LAND!

THE OHIO FALLS.

Here on this jutting headland, where the trees Spread a dusk carpet for the sun to cast And count his golden guineas on, we'll stay; For hence is the best prospect of the Falls, Whose roar no more astounds the startled ear, As when we bent and marked it from the bridge Seething beneath and bounding like a steed-- A tameless steed with mane of flying spray-- Between the pillars rising sheer above.

But mark how soft its clamor now is grown, Incessant rush like that of vernal groves When, like some sweet surprise, a wand'ring wind, Precursor of the coming rain, rides down From a gray cloud and sets their leafy tongues A-gabbing of the fresh, impending shower.

There runs the dam, and where its dark line cuts The river's sheen, already you may see The ripples glancing to the fervid sun, As if the waves had couched a hundred spears And tossed a hundred plumes of fleecy foam In answer to the challenge of the Falls, Blown on his bugle from the battlements Of his subaqueous city's rocky walls.

And now you see their maddened coursers charge, Hear wavy hoof-strokes on the jagged stones, That pave the pathway of the current, beat, While billowing they ride to ringing lists, With shout and yell, and toss their hundred plumes, And shock their riply spears in tournament Upon the opposing billows' s.h.i.+ning s.h.i.+elds.

Now sinks a pennon, but 'tis raised again; There falls or breaks a spear or sparkling sword; A shattered helmet flies in flakes of foam And on the frightened wind hisses away: And o'er it all you hear the sound, the roar Of waves that fall in onset or that strive.

On, on they come, a beautiful, mad troop!

On, on, along the sandy banks that fling Red pebble-freckled arms far out to stay The riotous waves that ride and hurl along In casque and s.h.i.+eld and wind their wat'ry horns.

And there where thousand oily eddies whirl, And turn and turn like busy wheels of steel, Is the Big Eddy, whose deep bottom none As yet have felt with sounding plummet-line.

Like a huge giant, wily in its strength, The Eddy lies; and bending from the sh.o.r.e The spotted sycamores have looked and looked, Watching his motions as a school boy might A sleeping serpent coiled upon his path.

So long they've watched that their old backs have grown Hump'd, gnarl'd, and crooked, nor seem they this to heed, But gaze and gaze, and from the glossy waves Their images stare back their wonderment.

Mayhap they've seen the guardian Genius lie At its dark bottom in an oozy cave Of shattered rock, rec.u.mbent on his mace Of mineral; his locks of dripping green Circling a crown of ore; his fishy eyes Dull with the monotony of his aqueous realms.

But when the storm's abroad and smites the waves With stinging lashes of the myriad rain, Or scars with thunder some ancestral oak, Sire of a forest, then he wakes in wrath, And on the dark foundations of the stream Stands monarch of the flood in iron crown, And murmurs till the tempest fiends above Stand stark with awe, and all the eddy breaks To waves like those whose round and murky bulks.

Ribbed white with foam, wallow like battened swine Along yon ridge of ragged rock o'erstrewn With petrifactions of Time's earliest dawn; Mollusks and trilobites and honey-combs Of coral white; and here and there a ma.s.s Of what seems writhing reptiles there convolved, And in one moment when the change did come, Which made and unmade continents and seas, That teemed and groaned with dire monstrosities, Had froze their glossy spines to sable stones.

There where uprises a dun knoll o'erstrewn With black and rotten stumps in the mid river, Erst rose an island green and beautiful With willows, beeches, dappled sycamores; Corn Island, on whose rich and fertile soil The early pioneers a colony Attempted once to found, ere ever this Fair "City of the Falls"--now echoing to The tingling bustle of its busy trade-- Was dreamed of. Here the woodman built His rude log cabin; here he sowed his maize; Here saw it ta.s.sel 'neath the Summer's smile, And glance like ranks of feathered Indians thro'

The misty vistas of the broken woods; Here reaped and sheaved its wealth of ivory ears When Autumn came like a brown Indian maid Tripping from the pink sunset o'er the hills, That blushed for love and cast beneath her feet Untold of gold in leaves and yellow fruit.

Here lived the pioneer and here he died, And mingled his rough dust with the raw earth Of that long isle which now disparted stands, And nothing save a bed of limestone rock,-- Where in the quarry you may see the blast Spout heavenward the dust and dirt and stone, And flap and pound its echoes 'round the hills Like giant strokes of some huge airy hammer,-- And that lone mound of stumpy earth to show That there once stood an isle as rich and fair As any isle that rises up to kiss The sun and dream in tropic seas of balm.

There lies the other half of what was once Corn Island; a broad channel flows between.

And this low half, mantled with a dwarf growth Of what was once high brakes and forest land, Goose Island now is named. In the dim morn, Ere yet the East a.s.sumes her faintest blush.

Here may you hear the melancholy snipe Piping, or see her paddling in the pools That splash the low bed of the rocky isle.

Once here the Indian stole in natural craft From brush to brush, his head plumes like a bird Flutt'ring and nodding 'mid the undergrowth; In his brown hand the pliant, polished bow, And at his back his gaudy quiver filled With tufted arrows headed with blue flint.

And while the deep flamingo colored West Flamed on his ruddy cheek its airy fire, Strung his quick bow and thro' the gray wild goose, That rose with clamor from the rushy pool, Launched a fleet barb, crested with quills--perchance Plucked yestere'en from its dead mate's gray wing To decorate the painted shaft that should Dabble to-day their white in its mate's blood;-- It falling, gasping at its moccasined feet, Its wild life breathed away, while the glad brave Whooped to the sunset, and yon faint blue hills Answered his exultation with a whoop.

THE RUINED MILL.

There is the ruined water-mill With its rotten wheel, that stands as still As its image that sleeps in the gla.s.sy pool Where the water snake coils dim and cool In the flaky light of the setting sun Showering his gold in bullion.

And the languid daisies nod and s.h.i.+ne By the trickling fall in a starry line; The drowsy daisies with eyes of gold-- Large as the eyes of a queen of old Dreaming of revels by day and night-- Coyly o'erdropped with lashes white.

The hawk sails high in the sleepy air, The buzzard on wings as strong and fair Circles and stoops 'neath the lazy cloud, And crows in the wood are cawing aloud.

Will ye enter with me this ruined mill When the shades of night its chambers fill, Stand and lurk in the heavy dark Like scowling fiends, each eye a spark, A spark of moonlight shot thro' gloom?

While a moist, rank, stifling, dead perfume Of rotting timbers and rotting grain, And roofs all warped with the sun and rain Makes of the stagnant air a cell, In the haunted chambers broods like a spell?

A spell that makes the awed mind run To the thoughts of a hidden skeleton, A skeleton ghastly and livid and lank 'Neath the mossy floors in a cellar dank, Grinning and glow'ring, moisture wet, In its hollow eyes a mad regret.

Or with me enter when the evening star In the saffron heaven is sparkling afar, In all its glory of light divine, Like a diamond bathed in kingly wine.

Or when the heavens hang wild and gray, And the chilly clouds are hurrying away Like the driven leaves of an Autumn day; When the night-rain sounds on the sodden roof, And the spider lulls in his dusty woof; When the wet wind whines like a hound that's lashed, 'Round the crazy angles strongly dashed, Or wails in a cranny--'tis she who plays On her airy harp sad, olden lays, And sings and moans in a room above Of a vague despair and a blighted love.

You will see her sit on the shattered sill, Her sable tresses dropped loose at will; And down in the West 'neath the storm's black bank A belt of wild green, cold, livid, and lank, And a crescent moon, like a demon's barque, Into the green dips a horn from the dark, While a lurid light of ghoulish gold On the eldrich creature falls strangely cold.

Her insane eyes bulge mad with desire, And her face's beauty is darkly dire; For she sees in the pool, that solidly lies 'Neath the mill's great wheel and the stormy skies, Her murdered lover lie faint and white, A haunting horror, a loadstone's might Drawing and dragging her soul from its seat To the glimmering ice of his ghastly feet.

FROST.

White artist he, who, breezeless nights, From tingling stars jocosely whirls, A harlequin in spangled tights, His wand a pot of pounded pearls.

The field a hasty pallet; for, In thin or thick, with daub and streak, It stretches from the barn-gate's bar To the bleached ribbon of the creek.

A great geometer is he; For, on the creek's diaphanous silk, Sphere, cone, and star exquisitely He's drawn in crystal lines of milk.

Most delicate, his talent keen On cas.e.m.e.nt panes he lavishes, In many a Lilliputian scene Of vague white hives and milky bees,

That sparkling in still swarms delight, Or bow the jeweled bells of flowers;-- Of dim, deep landscapes of the night, Hanging down limpid domes quaint showers

Of feathery stars and meteors Above an upland's glimmering ways, Where gambol 'neath the feverish stars The erl-king and the fleecy fays.

Or last, one arabesque of ferns, Chrysanthemums and mistletoe, And death-pale roses bunched in urns That with an innate glory glow.

In leafless woodlands saturnine, Where reckless winds, like goblins mad, Screech swinging in each barren vine, His wags.h.i.+p shapes a lesson sad:

When slyly touched by his white hand Of Midas-magic, forests old Dariuses of pomp then stand Barbaric-crowned with living gold....

Patrician state, plebeian blood Soon foster sybarites, and they, Squand'ring their riches, wood by wood, Die palsied wrecks debauched and gray.

INVOCATION.