There is much sweetness in thy fitful hymn, Heard in the drowsy watches of the night. Oft-times when all the village lights are out And the wide air is still, I hear thee chant Thy hollow dirge, like some recluse who takes His lodging in the wilderness of woods, And lifts his anthem when the world is still: And the dim, solemn night, that brings to man And to the herds, deep slumbers, and sweet dews To the red roses and the herbs, doth find No eye save thine a watcher in her halls.
I hear thee oft at midnight, when the Thrush
And the green, roving Linnet are at rest,
And the blithe, twittering Swallows have long ceased Their noisy note, and folded up their wings.
Far up some brook's still course, whose current
The forest's blackened roots, and whose green marge
Is seldom visited by human foot,
The lonely Heron sits, and harshly breaks
The Sabbath silence of the wilderness:
And you may find her by some reedy pool,
Or brooding gloomily on some time-stained rock, Beside some misty and far-reaching lake.
Most awful is thy deep and heavy boom, Grey watcher of the waters! thou art king Of the blue lake; and all the winged kind Do fear the echo of thine angry cry.
How bright thy savage eye! Thou lookest down And seest the shining fishes as they glide; And poising thy grey wing, thy glossy beak Swift as an arrow strikes its roving prey. Oft-times I see thee through the curling mist Dart, like a Spectre of the night, and hear Thy strange, bewildering call, like the wild scream Of one whose life is perishing in the sea.
And now would'st thou, O man! delight the ear With earth's delicious sounds, or charm the eye With beautiful creations? Then pass forth And find them midst those many-colored birds That fill the glowing woods. The richest hues Lie in their splendid plumage, and their tones Are sweeter than the music of the lute, Or the harp's melody, or the notes that gush So thrillingly from beauty's ruby lip.
I OFTEN come to this lonely place, And forget the stir of my restless race; Forget the woes of human life,
The bitter pang and the constant strife, angry word and the cruel taunt, The sight and the sound of guilt and want, And the frequent tear by the widow shed, When her infant asks in vain for bread. All these I put from my mind aside, And forget the offence of worldly pride.
It is said that the Spirits of buried men Oft come to this wicked world again; That the churchyard turf is often trod By the unlaid tenants of tomb and sod; That the midnight sea itself is swept, By those who have long beneath it slept.
And they say of this old, mossy wood, Whose hoary trunks have for ages stood, That every knoll and dim-lit glade Is haunted at night by its restless Shade.
It is told that an Indian King, whose name Hath perished long from the scroll of fame, And whose thousand warriors slumber low, In equal rest with the spear and bow, Was wont to pursue the fallow deer, And hold his feasts, and make merry here, And seek his repose in the noontide heat, By this noisy brook at my very feet- And here, at the close of his sternest strife, He finished his rude, and unquiet life.
It is said that on moonlight nights, the gleam Of his battle Spear flits o'er this stream: And they say there's a shiver along the grass Where the restless feet of the Spectre pass, And a rustle of leaves in the thicket's gloom When he nods his dusky eagle plume.
And, methinks, I have heard his war-horn bray, Like the call of waters far away;
And the arrow whistle along the glade
Where the chieftain's giant bones are laid.
And yonder, where the grey willows lave Their silvery tassels beneath the wave, By the hollow valley's lonely tide,
You may find the grave of a Suicide.
And 'tis said, at the noon of a dewy night,
When the hills are touched with the silver light, That a Spirit leans o'er that lonely turf,
Like a snowy wreath of the o'cean surf,
And a sound like a passionate mourner's cry, Will often startle the passer by.
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