The Traveller in Africa
A Dramatic Sketch
A Forest. Night.
Alone, amidst the interminable forest!—
Where shall I seek for aid! my weary limbs,
Torn by the briars, and wasted with fatigue,
Refuse to bear me further.
Horrid night!
Black, rayless, midnight reigns; and the thick dew
Distils its baleful drops upon my head.
And, hark! the topmost branches of the trees,
With dismal moan, now louder and more near,
Shake in the rushing wind! It comes, it comes!—
The dread tornado!—is there no escape!—
What howl is that, which echoes from afar?
The frightful yell comes nearer——
Mighty Heaven!
No friendly torch, no watchfire near, to keep
The savage foe at bay!—my cries alone,
My frantic cries of agony, have power
To scare the fell hyena from his prey!
The torrent sweeps along—a swelling river
Rolls, dashes at my feet! I dare not climb
Yon palm for safety, lest the huge black ants
Fix on and sting me into madness. Ha!
That crash has fell'd the loftiest of the wood,
The stately cotton-tree, that could withstand
A thousand storms;—whose high, projecting stems,
Twisting in many folds impenetrable,
Twin'd with convoluvi and parasites,
Spread their broad barrier, and forbade approach.
'Tis fallen now—its purple blossoms crush'd—
And that stupendous form, which once could yield
A fainting army shelter, is laid low.
I dare not linger—yet I fear to fly.—
I hear the human-monster's piercing howl,
The fierce Ingrena, sporting with the storm,
Like its presiding demon. He approaches—
And, as he comes, he tears the branches down,
And arms himself for slaughter. I am lost!
His wild eyes see me by the lightning's flash—
One moment, and I perish!—Oh, no! no!
That desp'rate leap has saved me, and the coil
Of the huge Boa holds my shrieking foe!
A thousand deaths surround me—and I yield.—
No more at eve, beneath the ganian's shade,
My brave companions, shall we meet, to tell
Of toils and dangers past: no more recall
The lovely verdure of our native vales,
When, listening to the crown-bird's cheerful note,
So like our own wild wand'ring bird of spring,
That fancy gives us back our homes again.
My lov'd, lost home!—and must I perish here!—
Oh! were I now amidst the burning sands,
So the bright sun once more might shine on me,
Although in all his scorching fierceness, yet
There might be hope I should escape his beams;
Or, were I on the brink of some broad river,
Where the gaunt crocodile pursued my steps,
So I had light to view mine enemy,
There might be some hope: but here no light can come!
The blast
Bears shouts upon its wings—new terrors still
Come thronging to o'erwhelm me! Gracious Heaven!
Those well-known sounds, those voices! and my name
Echoing through all the forest!—I am saved!—
Here, here, my friends! rush onward, ye are come
In time to see me die!
poem by Louisa Stuart Costello
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Related quotes
Sonnet – Amidst
Amidst pitch -black darkness, God shows a light;
Amidst a Forest thick, He shows a way;
Amidst black clouds, He brings a moonlit night;
Amidst sorrows, God gives a happy day.
Amidst the desert, Oasis God shows;
Amidst the stormy Sea, He brings calm;
Amidst much strife, He opens newer doors;
Amidst much hopelessness, a helping palm.
Amidst tempest, God shows a bright light-house;
Amidst the glaciers, much sought-after peak;
Amidst our solitude, He gives a spouse;
Amidst the ravines deep, the lost lamb meek.
Amidst the chaos, God ushers new hope,
Amidst the gloom, He gives the church a Pope.
poem by John Celes
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Storm-Music
O Music hast thou only heard
The laughing river, the singing bird,
The murmuring wind in the poplar-trees,--
Nothing but Nature's melodies?
Nay, thou hearest all her tones,
As a Queen must hear!
Sounds of wrath and fear,
Mutterings, shouts, and moans,
Madness, tumult, and despair,
All she has that shakes the air
With voices fierce and wild!
Thou art a Queen and not a dreaming child,--
Put on thy crown and let us hear thee reign
Triumphant in a world of storm and strain!
Echo the long-drawn sighs
Of the mounting wind in the pines;
And the sobs of the mounting waves that rise
In the dark of the troubled deep
To break on the beach in fiery lines.
Echo the far-off roll of thunder,
Rumbling loud
And ever louder, under
The blue-black curtain of cloud,
Where the lightning serpents gleam.
Echo the moaning
Of the forest in its sleep
Like a giant groaning
In the torment of a dream.
Now an interval of quiet
For a moment holds the air
In the breathless hush
Of a silent prayer.
Then the sudden rush
Of the rain, and the riot
Of the shrieking, tearing gale
Breaks loose in the night,
With a fusillade of hail!
Hear the forest fight,
With its tossing arms that crack and clash
In the thunder's cannonade,
While the lightning's forked flash
Brings the old hero-trees to the ground with a crash!
Hear the breakers' deepening roar,
Driven like a herd of cattle
In the wild stampede of battle,
Trampling, trampling, trampling, to overwhelm the shore!
Is it the end of all?
Will the land crumble and fall?
Nay, for a voice replies
Out of the hidden skies,
"Thus far, O sea, shalt thou go,
So long, O wind, shalt thou blow:
Return to your bounds and cease,
And let the earth have peace!"
O Music, lead the way--
The stormy night is past,
Lift up our hearts to greet the day,
And the joy of things that last.
The dissonance and pain
That mortals must endure,
Are changed in thine immortal strain
To something great and pure.
True love will conquer strife,
And strength from conflict flows,
For discord is the thorn of life
And harmony the rose.
poem by Henry Van Dyke
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How hard for me, the splendor of this crown and robe
-- How hard for me, the splendor of this crown and robe,
amidst my shame --
-- In stony Troezen will be an infamous calamity,
the royal staircase will grow red with disgrace,
. . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . .
and for the mother in love,
the black sun will rise.
-- O, if hate would boil in my breast --
but see, the admission itself
has fallen from my lips.
-- Phedre burns in a black flame
in broad daylight.
The funeral torch fumes
in broad white daylight.
Dread your mother, Hippolytus:
Phedre -- night -- watche s over you
in broad white day.
-- I have stained the sun with black love . . .
Death from a bottle will cool my ardor --
. . . . . . . . . . . . . .
-- We are afraid, we do not dare
relieve the king's grief.
Wounded by Theseus, night
fell upon him. But we,
with a funeral song bringing home the dead,
will pacify the black sun
of wild and sleepless passion.
poem by Osip Emilevich Mandelstam
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All Quiet along the Potomac
ALL quiet along the Potomac," they say,
"Except, now and then, a stray picket
Is shot, as he walks on his beat to and fro,
By a rifleman hid in the thicket.
'Tis nothing—a private or two now and then
Will not count in the news of the battle;
Not an officer lost—only one of the men
Moaning out all alone the death-rattle."
* * * * *
All quiet along the Potomac to-night,
Where the soldiers lie peacefully dreaming;
Their tents, in the rays of the clear autumn moon
Or the light of the watch-fire, are gleaming.
A tremulous sigh of the gentle night-wind
Through the forest-leaves softly is creeping,
While stars up above, with their glittering eyes,
Keep guard, for the army is sleeping.
There's only the sound of the lone sentry's tread
As he trams form the rock to the fountain,
And thinks of the two in the low trundle-bed
Far away in the cot on the mountain.
His musket falls slack; his face, dark and grim,
Grows gentle with memories tender
As he mutters a prayer for the children asleep—
For their mother; may Heaven defend her!
The moon seems to shine just as brightly as then,
That night when the love yet unspoken
Leaped up to his lips—when low-murmured vows
Were pledged to be ever unbroken.
Then drawing his sleeve roughly over his eyes,
He dashes off tears that are welling,
And gathers his gun closer up to its place,
As if to keep down the heart-swelling.
He passes the fountain, the blasted pine tree,
The footstep is lagging and weary;
Yet onward he goes through the broad belt of light,
Toward the shade of the forest so dreary.
Hark! was it the night-wind that rustled the leaves?
Was it moonlight so wondrously flashing?
It looked like a rifle—"Ha! Mary, good-bye!"
The red life-blood is ebbing and plashing.
All quiet along the Potomac to-night,
No sound save the rush of the river;
While soft falls the dew on the face of the dead—
The picket's off duty for ever!
poem by Ethel Lynn Beers from All Quiet along the Potomac and other poems (1879)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Spectral Horseman
What was the shriek that struck Fancy's ear
As it sate on the ruins of time that is past?
Hark! it floats on the fitful blast of the wind,
And breathes to the pale moon a funeral sigh.
It is the Benshie's moan on the storm,
Or a shivering fiend that thirsting for sin,
Seeks murder and guilt when virtue sleeps,
Winged with the power of some ruthless king,
And sweeps o'er the breast of the prostrate plain.
It was not a fiend from the regions of Hell
That poured its low moan on the stillness of night:
It was not a ghost of the guilty dead,
Nor a yelling vampire reeking with gore;
But aye at the close of seven years' end,
That voice is mixed with the swell of the storm,
And aye at the close of seven years' end,
A shapeless shadow that sleeps on the hill
Awakens and floats on the mist of the heath.
It is not the shade of a murdered man,
Who has rushed uncalled to the throne of his God,
And howls in the pause of the eddying storm.
This voice is low, cold, hollow, and chill,
'Tis not heard by the ear, but is felt in the soul.
'Tis more frightful far than the death-daemon's scream,
Or the laughter of fiends when they howl o’er the corpse
Of a man who has sold his soul to Hell.
It tells the approach of a mystic form,
A white courser bears the shadowy sprite;
More thin they are than the mists of the mountain,
When the clear moonlight sleeps on the waveless lake.
More pale HIS cheek than the snows of Nithona,
When winter rides on the northern blast,
And howls in the midst of the leafless wood.
Yet when the fierce swell of the tempest is raving,
And the whirlwinds howl in the caves of Inisfallen,
Still secure mid the wildest war of the sky,
The phantom courser scours the waste,
And his rider howls in the thunder's roar.
O'er him the fierce bolts of avenging Heaven
Pause, as in fear, to strike his head.
The meteors of midnight recoil from his figure,
Yet the 'wildered peasant, that oft passes by,
With wonder beholds the blue flash through his form:
And his voice, though faint as the sighs of the dead,
The startled passenger shudders to hear,
More distinct than the thunder's wildest roar.
Then does the dragon, who, chained in the caverns
To eternity, curses the champion of Erin,
Moan and yell loud at the lone hour of midnight,
And twine his vast wreaths round the forms of the daemons;
Then in agony roll his death-swimming eyeballs,
Though 'wildered by death, yet never to die!
Then he shakes from his skeleton folds the nightmares,
Who, shrieking in agony, seek the couch
Of some fevered wretch who courts sleep in vain;
Then the tombless ghosts of the guilty dead
In horror pause on the fitful gale.
They float on the swell of the eddying tempest,
And scared seek the caves of gigantic...
Where their thin forms pour unearthly sounds
On the blast that sweets the breast of the lake,
And mingles its swell with the moonlight air.
poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley
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Fogie forest
The fog is all around me as the tree branches pass my head...
I am running in one direction don't know what's ahead...
I can still hear the water rushing from the river I had passed,
I don't know where I am headed I hope this doesn't last...
I feel like I have passed this place before,
I have seen this tree, and this river bank too.
I stop to hear the trees whisper to me,
One says go left or is it right?
I don't really know, either way it's always night...
I don't know why I was running,
But I have stopped for now...
The fog is getting thiker and I can't see my fingers right now...
I hope I get home soon,
Away from this foggy forest night, and my new cacoon...
poem by Alexandra Greif
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Poor Marguerite
Swift, o'er the wild and dreary waste
A NUT-BROWN GIRL was seen to haste;
Wide waving was her unbound hair,
And sun-scorch'd was her bosom bare;
For Summer's noon had shed its beams
While she lay wrapp'd in fev'rish dreams;
While, on the wither'd hedge-row's side,
By turns she slept, by turns she cried,
"Ah ! where lies hid the balsam sweet,
"To heal the wounds of MARGUERITE?"
Dark was her large and sunken eye
Which wildly gaz'd upon the sky;
And swiftly down her freckled face
The chilling dews began to pace:
For she was lorn, and many a day,
Had, all alone, been doom'd to stray,
And, many a night, her bosom warm,
Had throbb'd, beneath the pelting storm,
And still she cried, "the rain falls sweet,
"It bathes the wounds of MARGUERITE."
Her garments were by briars torn,
And on them hung full many a thorn;
A thistle crown, she mutt'ring twin'd,
Now darted on,--now look'd behind--
And here, and there, her arm was seen
Bleeding the tatter'd folds between;
Yet, on her breast she oft display'd
A faded branch, that breast to shade:
For though her senses were astray,
She felt the burning beams of day:
She felt the wintry blast of night,
And smil'd to see the morning light,
For then she cried, "I soon shall meet
"The plighted love of MARGUERITE."
Across the waste of printless snow,
All day the NUT-BROWN GIRL would go;
And when the winter moon had shed
Its pale beams on the mountain's head,
She on a broomy pillow lay
Singing the lonely hours away;
While the cold breath of dawnlight flew
Across the fields of glitt'ring dew:--
Swift o'er the frozen lake she past
Unmindful of the driving blast,
And then she cried "the air is sweet--
"It fans the breast of MARGUERITE."
The weedy lane she Iov'd to tread
When stars their twinkling lustre shed;
While from the lone and silent Cot
The watchful Cur assail'd her not,
Though at the beggar he would fly,
And fright the Trav'ller passing by:
But she, so kind and gentle seem'd,
Such sorrow in her dark eyes beam'd,
That savage fierceness could not greet
With less than love,--POOR MARGUERITE!
Oft, by the splashy brook she stood
And sung her Song to the waving wood;
The waving wood, in murmurs low,
Fill'd up the pause of weary woe;
Oft, to the Forest tripp'd along
And inly humm'd her frantic Song;
Oft danc'd mid shadows Ev'ning spread
Along the whisp'ring willow-bed.
And wild was her groan,
When she climb'd, alone--
The rough rock's side,
While the foaming tide,
Dash'd rudely against the sandy shore,
And the lightning flash'd mid the thunder's roar.
And many a time she chac'd the fly,
And mock'd the Beetle, humming by;
And then, with loud fantastic tone
She sang her wild strain, sad--alone.
And if a stranger wander'd near
Or paus'd the frantic Song to hear,
The burthen she would soft repeat,
"Who comes to soothe POOR MARGUERITE?
And why did she with sun-burnt breast,
So wander, and so scorn to rest?
Why did the NUT-BROWN MAIDEN go
O'er burning plains and wastes of snow?
What bade her fev'rish bosom sigh,
And dimm'd her large and hazle eye?
What taught her o'er the hills to stray
Fearless by night, and wild by day?
What stole the hour of slumber sweet--
From the scorch'd brain of MARGUERITE.
Soon shalt thou know; for see how lorn
She climbs the steep of shaggy thorn--
Now on the jutting cliff she stands,
And clasps her cold,--but snow-white hands.
And now aloud she chaunts her strain
While fiercely roars the troublous main.
Now the white breakers curling shew
The dread abyss that yawns below,
And still she sighs, "the sound is sweet,
"It seems to say, POOR MARGUERITE!"
"Here will I build a rocky shed,
"And here I'll make my sea-weed bed;
"Here gather, with unwearied hands--
"The orient shells that deck the sands.
"And here will I skim o'er the billows so high,
"And laugh at the moon and the dark frowning sky.
"And the Sea-birds, that hover across the wide main,
"Shall sweep with their pinions, the white bounding plain.--
"And the shivering sail shall the fierce tempest meet,
"Like the storm, in the bosom of POOR MARGUERITE!
"The setting Sun, with golden ray,
"Shall warm my breast, and make me gay.
"The clamours of the roaring Sea
"My midnight serenade shall be!
"The Cliff that like a Tyrant stands
"Exulting o'er the wave lash'd sands,
"With its weedy crown, and its flinty crest,
"Shall, on its hard bosom, rock me to rest;
"And I'll watch for the Eagle's unfledg'd brood,
"And I'll scatter their nest, and I'll drink their blood;
"And under the crag I will kneel and pray
"And silver my robe, with the moony ray:
"And who shall scorn the lone retreat
"Which Heaven has chose, for MARGUERITE?
"Here, did the exil'd HENRY stray
"Forc'd from his native land, away;
"Here, here upon a foreign shore,
"His parents, lost, awhile deplore;
"Here find, that pity's holy tear
"Could not an alien wand'rer chear;
"And now, in fancy, he would view,
"Shouting aloud, the rabble crew--
"The rabble crew, whose impious hands
"Tore asunder nature's bands!--
"I see him still,--He waves me on!
"And now to the dark abyss he's gone--
"He calls--I hear his voice, so sweet,--
"It seems to say--POOR MARGUERITE!"
Thus, wild she sung! when on the sand
She saw her long lost HENRY, stand:
Pale was his cheek, and on his breast
His icy hand he, silent, prest;
And now the Twilight shadows spread
Around the tall cliff's weedy head;
Far o'er the main the moon shone bright,
She mark'd the quiv'ring stream of light--
It danc'd upon the murm'ring wave
It danc'd upon--her HENRY'S Grave!
It mark'd his visage, deathly pale,--
His white shroud floating in the gale;
His speaking eyes--his smile so sweet
That won the love--of MARGUERITE!
And now he beckon'd her along
The curling moonlight waves among;
No footsteps mark'd the slanting sand
Where she had seen her HENRY stand!
She saw him o'er the billows go--
She heard the rising breezes blow;
She shriek'd aloud ! The echoing steep
Frown'd darkness on the troubled deep;
The moon in cloudy veil was seen,
And louder howl'd the night blast keen!--
And when the morn, in splendour dress'd,
Blush'd radiance on the Eagle's nest,
That radiant blush was doom'd to greet--
The lifeless form --of MARGUERITE!
poem by Mary Darby Robinson
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The Picket Guard
"ALL quiet along the Potomac to-night!"
Except here and there a stray picket
Is shot, as he walks on his beat, to and fro,
By a rifleman hid in the thicket.
'Tis nothing! a private or two now and then
Will not count in the news of a battle;
Not an officer lost, only one of the men
Moaning out, all alone, the death rattle.
All quiet along the Potomac to-night!
Where the soldiers lie peacefully dreaming;
And their tents in the rays of the clear autumn moon,
And the light of their camp-fires are gleaming.
A tremulous sigh, as a gentle night-wind
Through the forest leaves slowly is creeping;
While the stars up above, with their glittering eyes,
Keep guard o'er the army sleeping.
There's only the sound of the lone sentry's tread
As he tramps from the rock to the fountain,
And thinks of the two on the low trundel bed,
Far away, in the cot on the mountain.
His musket falls slack, his face, dark and grim,
Grows gentle with memories tender,
As he mutters a prayer for the children asleep,
And their mother—"may heaven defend her!"
The moon seems to shine forth as brightly as then—
That night, when the love, yet unspoken,
Leaped up to his lips, and when low-murmured vows
Were pledged to be ever unbroken.
Then drawing his sleeve roughly over his eyes,
He dashes off tears that are welling;
And gathers the gun closer up to his breast
As if to keep down his heart's swelling.
He passes the fountain, the blasted pine-tree,
And his footstep is lagging and weary;
Yet onward he goes, through the broad belt of light,
Towards the shades of the forest so dreary.
Hark! was it the night-wind that rustled the leaves?
Was it the moonlight so wondrously flashing?
It looked like a rifle: "Ha! Mary, good-by!"
And his life-blood is ebbing and plashing.
"All quiet along the Potomac to-night!"
No sound save the rush of the river;
While soft falls the dew on the face of the dead,
And the picket's off duty forever!
poem by Ethel Lynn Beers from All Quiet along the Potomac and other poems (1879)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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I Am
I am a tree,
Amongst many,
Growing in the backwoods,
As a person lost in a world of millions-
I stand proudly, and
Strong against the wind,
Bearing flowers in the spring and
Leaves, so green in the summertime…
In the autumn my foliage
Transforms to oranges, reds and browns an then fall,
Leaving me barren in the wintertime,
The storms that arrive so unexpectedly, I fear-
And even more so,
The forest fires that rage and that I have no power to stop-
Losing my branches, when lightening strikes I fear,
Or losing myself in an upsurge of flames-
I never know when my life could end,
Or when I would become none but a
Pile of sticks or logs
To which someone could light a match-
I am a tree, amongst many,
Though in some ways stronger than the others,
I am a special one, bearing flowers of a different color and
Branches that appear thinner and weaker
Than surrounding trees,
Though mine have yet to fall-
Someday a hurricane shall sweep through the forest and
Every tree shall be fallen to the wind-
Though I shall remain standing alone-
Fires may burn and storms shall come and go-
But my greatest fear is that
I shall never grow tall and scrape the magnificent blue sky,
Where angels sing and stars scintillate, and
That glorious sunrises and sets-
So much like those people who are angry and are
Always in the darkness-
It hurts sometimes to be special, even though unique-
As everyone fears those that are different-
Even if one is none but a tree, for
A tree that is different could be harmful and inevitably-
Someone will cut you down- and the flowers that once adorned you
Shall perish and be forgotten…
poem by Claudia Krizay
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The Strange Lady
The summer morn is bright and fresh, the birds are darting by,
As if they loved to breast the breeze that sweeps the cool dear sky;
Young Albert, in the forest's edge, has heard a rustling sound
An arrow slightly strikes his hand and falls upon the ground.
A lovely woman from the wood comes suddenly in sight;
Her merry eye is full and black, her cheek is brown and bright;
She wears a tunic of the blue, her belt with beads is strung,
And yet she speaks in gentle tones, and in the English tongue.
"It was an idle bolt I sent, against the villain crow;
Fair sir, I fear it harmed thy hand; beshrew my erring bow!"
"Ah! would that bolt had not been spent, then, lady, might I wear
A lasting token on my hand of one so passing fair!"
"Thou art a flatterer like the rest, but wouldst thou take with me
A day of hunting in the wilds, beneath the greenwood tree,
I know where most the pheasants feed, and where the red-deer herd,
And thou shouldst chase the nobler game, and I bring down the bird."
Now Albert in her quiver lays the arrow in its place,
And wonders as he gazes on the beauty of her face:
'Those hunting-grounds are far away, and, lady, 'twere not meet
That night, amid the wilderness, should overtake thy feet."
"Heed not the night, a summer lodge amid the wild is mine,
'Tis shadowed by the tulip-tree, 'tis mantled by the vine;
The wild plum sheds its yellow fruit from fragrant thickets nigh,
And flowery prairies from the door stretch till they meet the sky.
"There in the boughs that hide the roof the mock-bird sits and sings,
And there the hang-bird's brood within its little hammock swings;
A pebbly brook, where rustling winds among the hopples sweep,
Shall lull thee till the morning sun looks in upon thy sleep."
Away, into the forest depths by pleasant paths they go,
He with his rifle on his arm, the lady with her bow,
Where cornels arch their cool dark boughs o'er beds of wintergreen,
And never at his father's door again was Albert seen.
That night upon the woods came down a furious hurricane,
With howl of winds and roar of streams and beating of the rain;
The mighty thunder broke and drowned the noises in its crash;
The old trees seemed to fight like fiends beneath the lightning-flash.
Next day, within a mossy glen, mid mouldering trunks were found
The fragments of a human form, upon the bloody ground;
White bones from which the flesh was torn, and locks of glossy hair;
They laid them in the place of graves, yet wist not whose they were.
And whether famished evening wolves had mangled Albert so,
Or that strange dame so gay and fair were some mysterious foe,
Or whether to that forest lodge, beyond the mountains blue,
He went to dwell with her, the friends who mourned him never knew.
poem by William Cullen Bryant
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Wind
ACROSS the barren moors the wild, wild wind
Went sweeping on, and with his sobs and shrieks
Filled the still night, and tore the woof of clouds
Through which the moon did shed her cold clear light.
From age to age a houseless wanderer he--
Neither of heaven, nor yet of earth, but doomed
For evermore to waver 'twixt the two:--
Begging the moon with moans to take him up
Into her charmèd calm; now with a wail,
Piteous and low, beseeching that the earth
Might fold him to her bosom, but in vain!
A lonely outcast, frenzied does he storm
Wildly from land to land, from sea to sea,
Driving the clouds before him, ploughing up
The shaking sod, splitting the tow'ring masts,
And laying low the oaks of thousand years.
But I that night ne'er closed an eye in sleep,
For I did see him wand'ring o'er the moor--
A giant phantom lost in midnight gloom,
Flitting a restless shadow 'twixt the earth
And round orbed moon; loose tattered folds of clouds,
Ragged with ages, swept behind, as he
With Titan strides did bridge the rocky chasms;
Oh how he sobbed and shrieked, and howled and roared,
Torn with eternal hunger after home.
So roars the lion from Numidian peaks,
Swaying his manèd head from side to side,
As low, then loud and louder swell his tones,
Till big with horror thro' the forest lone
They roll towards the plain, curdling the blood
Of flocks and herds returning to the fold.
So howls the famished wolf across the waste
Siberian snows, with glare of restless eyes,
Making a hideous brilliance in the dark.
Now worn away, the wild wind's voice would die
Fainting with its excess; then draw a sigh--
Sounding far off, and then a soughing wail,
A roar, a shriek, to pierce the ears of night;
So on and on, through all the livelong night;
And all the livelong night I tossed about;
His stormy voice, it would not let me rest,
But woke an echo in me, rolling on
Over my boundless waste of soul, till all
The weary longings and the phantoms wild,
The cravings with their thirst unquenchable,
The doubts--dark looming in the nether mists,
Rose up in tumult, shrieking with one voice:
'Is there no goal? shall we for aye and aye
Be hurried restlessly through endless space?
Oh has the storm no nest? the soul no home?
And the foundation stone of all my being
Shook, and a flood, brackish with tears unshed,
Surged o'er and o'er me.--Tortured I arose,
Went to the open casement, and looked out.--
There was a lull.--Upon the gravelled talks
And smooth-cut sward, patches of moonlight lay;
The clouds were swept away; and sharp and clear
The trees did cast their shadows on the ground.
Weird-like and moonlit the wan brood of night
Did flit adown the ridges of the moors,
Up from the river, and from out the trees,
Gliding with noiseless movements in and out
The pale moonlight, making my flesh to creep;
And sick with fear I turned me to my rest--
But not to sleep, for he on dewèd wings
Had shyly fled before the moaning wind,
Who now arose again in all his strength,
And tore along, blasting the peace of night;
And the old clock did toll the weary hours,
As one by one night dropped them from her lap,
And weary, wearily I counted them,
With burning eyes and with a burning brain.
But, lo!
What golden touch falls on the curtain now?
Up from my bed I spring--I look, I see
A trembling light gleam faintly in the east,
A trembling light, while all around is dark;
It grows, it deepens into liquid gold
And glowing orange and vermilion bright;
It spreads along in billowy ripples, like
A glittering ocean when the tide rolls in.
Smiling, it greets the mist-enshrouded earth,
And draws her up with hill and tree and field,
Driving the host of pris'ning fogs to flight,
That brooding vengeance fly behind the hills,
And gath'ring force from night, swoop in one mass
Of densest black across the swooning earth.
Trees weep, and long drawn sighs float here and there;
Have shadows then wiped out the golden light?
See! see! the strangling cloud
Sinks back; pierced by the arrow of the dawn,
Her blood--it trickles on the grass, and all
The vague wan children of the night, they fly
In dire confusion westward. . . . Hark! oh hark!
The lovely morn now blows his silver horn,
And like a lavish prodigal he strews
Red roses, thick as sands on amber shores
Along heaven's eastern floor: for now the sun,
The radiant conqueror of the night, steps forth
Upon the gorgeous path, with dazzling shield,
Greeted by pealing chants as he begins
His grand triumphal march: hills, vales, and streams,
Laugh glowing up to him; the heavy tears
Wept through the night, now sparkle on the grass
Like orient pearls, well knowing that the sun
Will kiss them all away; the merry birds
Shake out their plumage wet with drops, and flit
In airy gambols twitt'ring to and fro;
The flowers smile again, and shyly play
With morning rays.
But in the west, a white mist like a dream
With languid rooks, floats o'er the winding stream,
And wearied out, the wind, a phantom, strides
On with the faded moon and flick'ring star,
Towards the hazy stretch of western moors;
His strong voice dying slowly as he goes.
But by my side a radiant spirit stood,
A sunbeam, whispering, with a smile, 'Behold!
After the darkness still there falls a light;
After the storm a trancèd calm there falls.
There is a light; yea, and there is a rest!'
And all the weary and the restless gusts
That had been shaking at my roots of being
Were lulled, a silence came, and dewy sleep
Fell on my burning eyes and burning brain.
poem by Mathilde Blind
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The Oak And The Broom
A Pastoral
I
HIS simple truths did Andrew glean
Beside the babbling rills;
A careful student he had been
Among the woods and hills.
One winter's night, when through the trees
The wind was roaring, on his knees
His youngest born did Andrew hold:
And while the rest, a ruddy quire,
Were seated round their blazing fire,
This Tale the Shepherd told.
II
'I saw a crag, a lofty stone
As ever tempest beat!
Out of its head an Oak had grown,
A Broom out of its feet.
The time was March, a cheerful noon--
The thaw-wind, with the breath of June,
Breathed gently from the warm south-west:
When, in a voice sedate with age,
This Oak, a giant and a sage,
His neighbour thus addressed:--
III
''Eight weary weeks, through rock and clay,
Along this mountain's edge,
The Frost hath wrought both night and day,
Wedge driving after wedge.
Look up! and think, above your head
What trouble, surely, will be bred;
Last night I heard a crash--'tis true,
The splinters took another road--
I see them yonder--what a load
For such a Thing as you!
IV
''You are preparing as before,
To deck your slender shape;
And yet, just three years back--no more--
You had a strange escape:
Down from yon cliff a fragment broke;
It thundered down, with fire and smoke,
And hitherward pursued its way;
This ponderous block was caught by me,
And o'er your head, as you may see,
'Tis hanging to this day!
V
''If breeze or bird to this rough steep
Your kind's first seed did bear;
The breeze had better been asleep,
The bird caught in a snare:
For you and your green twigs decoy
The little witless shepherd-boy
To come and slumber in your bower;
And, trust me, on some sultry noon,
Both you and he, Heaven knows how soon!
Will perish in one hour.
VI
''From me this friendly warning take'--
The Broom began to doze,
And thus, to keep herself awake,
Did gently interpose:
'My thanks for your discourse are due;
That more than what you say is true,
I know, and I have known it long;
Frail is the bond by which we hold
Our being, whether young or old,
Wise, foolish, weak, or strong.
VII
''Disasters, do the best we can,
Will reach both great and small;
And he is oft the wisest man,
Who is not wise at all.
For me, why should I wish to roam?
This spot is my paternal home,
It is my pleasant heritage;
My father many a happy year,
Spread here his careless blossoms, here
Attained a good old age.
VIII
''Even such as his may be my lot.
What cause have I to haunt
My heart with terrors? Am I not
In truth a favoured plant!
On me such bounty Summer pours,
That I am covered o'er with flowers;
And, when the Frost is in the sky,
My branches are so fresh and gay
That you might look at me and say,
This Plant can never die.
IX
''The butterfly, all green and gold,
To me hath often flown,
Here in my blossoms to behold
Wings lovely as his own.
When grass is chill with rain or dew,
Beneath my shade, the mother-ewe
Lies with her infant lamb; I see
The love they to each other make,
And the sweet joy which they partake,
It is a joy to me.'
X
'Her voice was blithe, her heart was light;
The Broom might have pursued
Her speech, until the stars of night
Their journey had renewed;
But in the branches of the oak
Two ravens now began to croak
Their nuptial song, a gladsome air;
And to her own green bower the breeze
That instant brought two stripling bees
To rest, or murmur there.
XI
'One night, my Children! from the north
There came a furious blast;
At break of day I ventured forth,
And near the cliff I passed.
The storm had fallen upon the Oak,
And struck him with a mighty stroke,
And whirled, and whirled him far away;
And, in one hospitable cleft,
The little careless Broom was left
To live for many a day.'
poem by William Wordsworth
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The Hunter of the Uruguay to his Love
Would'st thou be happy, would'st thou be free,
Come to our woody islands with me!
Come, while the summer sun is high,
Beneath the peach tree's shade to lie;
Or thy hunter will shield thee the live-long day
In his hut of reeds from the scorching ray.
There countless birds with wings of light
Shall flit and glitter before thy sight,
And their songs from the stately palm trees nigh
Shall charm thee with ceaseless melody.
The Cayman shall not lurk within
To steal around thy bed;
But the leopard shall yield his spotted skin
That thy couch may be warmly spread.
The river-serpent, with glittering coil,
Shall plunge beneath the tide;
And the Ao shall shun the happy isle
That hails my gentle bride.
Thou shalt list to the hymn of the forest choir
As eve comes gently on,
How the woods resound
With the lengthen'd sound,
Till in distance it is gone.
Thou shalt mark the ounce in his leafy shade,
How he lures his finny prey—
Whose colours, in the gleam display'd,
Illumine the wat'ry way.
The bright dorado shall glitter by
With scales of gold and blue,
As the lucid waters tremblingly
Reflect each varying hue.
Come, my beloved, delay no more;
I linger for thee upon the shore.
Fear not the rocks that darken our course;
Our canoes are swift and strong:
Fear not the eddy's hurrying force;
We shall dart, like light, along.
The willows are waving to hail us home;
When the hunter and his bride shall come:
All the joys of summer stay for thee—
Oh, come to our woody islands with me.
poem by Louisa Stuart Costello
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Jean Chouan
The Whites fled, and the Blues fired down the glade.
A hill the plain commanded and surveyed,
And round this hill, of trees and verdure bare,
Wild forests closed th' horizon everywhere.
Safe hold and rampart were behind the mount:
There the Whites halt, and their small numbers count.
Jean Chouan rose, his long hair floating free:
'None can be dead, since here our chief we see,'
They cried. Jean Chouan listened to the shot:
'Are any missing? No! Then tarry not,
But fly!' Around him women, children stood,
In terror. 'Sons, re-entering quick the wood,
Disperse yourselves!' As swallows scattering fly
On rapid wings when storms invade the sky,
They fled to thickets drowned in mist and shade,
And ran,—e'en brave men run when they're afraid.
Dread the disorder, when in trembling flight
Old men and infants at the breast unite,
Fearing or to be killed, or captive ta'en.
Jean Chouan, last, did with slow steps remain,
And often turned him back, and made a prayer.
Sudden, a cry within the glade you hear!
A woman 'mid a storm of bullets stood.
Already the whole band was in the wood;
Jean Chouan only stays. He turns, and sees
A woman burdened. Pale and weak, she flies;
Her naked feet, torn by the brambles, bleed;
She's all alone, and cries, 'To help me, speed!'
Jean Chouan mutters, ''T is Jeanne Madeleine.'
In line of shot, in middle of the plain,
On her the bullets with fierce fury pour.
Ah! God himself must bend the victim o'er,
And take her hand, and shelter 'neath his wing.
Death does such numerous darts around her fling,
She must be lost. 'There, help!' she loudly cries;
But fugitives are deaf, and fear denies.
The balls upon the helpless peasant ran.
Then on the hill which dominates the plain,
Jean Chouan bounded, manly, calm, and proud,
Dauntless. 'I am Jean Chouan!' called he loud.
The Blues cried, ''T is the chief!' and that brave form,
Engrossing all the thunder and storm,
Made Death his target change. 'Now take to flight!
He shouts; 'save yourself, sister!' Mad with fright.
Jeanne sped into the wood, her life to save.
Like pine on snow, or mast upon the wave,
Jean Chouan, whom death seemed to fascinate,
Drew up. The Blues see only him. 'I wait
What time your safety needs. Go, daughter, go!
Joy 'mong your kindred you again shall know,
Again sweet blossoms in your bodice place.'
And he alone it was who then did face
The storm of shot which fell on his great height,
Which seemed as if e'en then would win the fight.
The balls fell thick as hail. With scornful eye
He smiled and raised his sword, when suddenly,
As a bear struck in cavern deep and wide,
He felt a ball pierce thro' and thro' his side.
He stood, and said, ''T is well. Hail, Mary, maid!'
Then staggering towards the wood, he turned his head:
'Friends! friends! has Jeanne your shelter reached?' he cried.
'She's safe!' the voices from the wood replied.
Jean Chouan murmured, 'Good!' and dead he fell.
Peasant, O peasants! True, ye chose not well,
But still your memory has not lessened France.
Great were ye in your fierce, dark ignorance,—
Ye, whom your kings, wolves, priests, and savage wood
Made bandits of, were valiant knights and good.
Through all your frightful yoke and errors foul
You had mysterious flashes of the soul;
Bright rays at times from out your blindness flew.
Hail! I, the banished, am not hard on you:
Exile!—I know the cottage roof to spare.
We are proscribed, and you but phantoms are!
Brothers, we all have battled, but we sought
The future; you, benighted lions! fought
To keep the past. We strove to climb the height;
You strove no less to sink in gulfs of night.
All warred, and martyrs were, by different course,
Without ambition and without remorse,—
We to shut hell, you to keep wide the tomb.
Yet on your brows from high does radiance come;
Fraternal love and pity can unite
The sons of day with children of the night.
And Hero of the Darkness! in this lay
For you I mourn,—I, Soldier of the Day.
poem by Victor Hugo
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Oak and The Broom, The: A Pastoral Poem
I
His simple truths did Andrew glean
Beside the babbling rills;
A careful student he had been
Among the woods and hills.
One winter's night, when through the trees
The wind was roaring, on his knees
His youngest born did Andrew hold:
And while the rest, a ruddy quire,
Were seated round their blazing fire,
This Tale the Shepherd told.
II
"I saw a crag, a lofty stone
As ever tempest beat!
Out of its head an Oak had grown,
A Broom out of its feet.
The time was March, a cheerful noon--
The thaw-wind, with the breath of June,
Breathed gently from the warm south-west:
When, in a voice sedate with age,
This Oak, a giant and a sage,
His neighbour thus addressed:--
III
"'Eight weary weeks, through rock and clay,
Along this mountain's edge,
The Frost hath wrought both night and day,
Wedge driving after wedge.
Look up! and think, above your head
What trouble, surely, will be bred;
Last night I heard a crash--'tis true,
The splinters took another road--
I see them yonder--what a load
For such a Thing as you!
IV
"'You are preparing as before,
To deck your slender shape;
And yet, just three years back--no more--
You had a strange escape:
Down from yon cliff a fragment broke;
It thundered down, with fire and smoke,
And hitherward pursued its way;
This ponderous block was caught by me,
And o'er your head, as you may see,
'Tis hanging to this day!
V
"'If breeze or bird to this rough steep
Your kind's first seed did bear;
The breeze had better been asleep,
The bird caught in a snare:
For you and your green twigs decoy
The little witless shepherd-boy
To come and slumber in your bower;
And, trust me, on some sultry noon,
Both you and he, Heaven knows how soon!
Will perish in one hour.
VI
"'From me this friendly warning take'--
The Broom began to doze,
And thus, to keep herself awake,
Did gently interpose:
'My thanks for your discourse are due;
That more than what you say is true,
I know, and I have known it long;
Frail is the bond by which we hold
Our being, whether young or old,
Wise, foolish, weak, or strong.
VII
"'Disasters, do the best we can,
Will reach both great and small;
And he is oft the wisest man,
Who is not wise at all.
For me, why should I wish to roam?
This spot is my paternal home,
It is my pleasant heritage;
My father many a happy year,
Spread here his careless blossoms, here
Attained a good old age.
VIII
"'Even such as his may be my lot.
What cause have I to haunt
My heart with terrors? Am I not
In truth a favoured plant!
On me such bounty Summer pours,
That I am covered o'er with flowers;
And, when the Frost is in the sky,
My branches are so fresh and gay
That you might look at me and say,
This Plant can never die.
IX
"'The butterfly, all green and gold,
To me hath often flown,
Here in my blossoms to behold
Wings lovely as his own.
When grass is chill with rain or dew,
Beneath my shade, the mother-ewe
Lies with her infant lamb; I see
The love they to each other make,
And the sweet joy which they partake,
It is a joy to me.'
X
"Her voice was blithe, her heart was light;
The Broom might have pursued
Her speech, until the stars of night
Their journey had renewed;
But in the branches of the oak
Two ravens now began to croak
Their nuptial song, a gladsome air;
And to her own green bower the breeze
That instant brought two stripling bees
To rest, or murmur there.
XI
"One night, my Children! from the north
There came a furious blast;
At break of day I ventured forth,
And near the cliff I passed.
The storm had fallen upon the Oak,
And struck him with a mighty stroke,
And whirled, and whirled him far away;
And, in one hospitable cleft,
The little careless Broom was left
To live for many a day."
poem by William Wordsworth
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Song of the Crew of Diaz
On the Discovery of the Cape of Good Hope,
or Cape of Storms
Where no sound was ever heard
But the ocean's hollow roar,
As it breaks, in foamy mountains,
Along the rugged shore:
Where ev'ry wind of heaven
That has terror on its wings,
Howls to the startled echo
That through each cavern rings:
Upon that world of waters,
Where nought has ever pass'd
But the storm-bird's glittering pinions,
As it whirls amidst the blast—
Where no sail has ever wandered
Beneath that troubled sky,
Frowns the stately Cape of Storms
O'er the drear immensity!
Above whose hoary summit,
Where captive thunders sleep,
Three huge black clouds for ever
Their dreadful station keep.
We have gazed on what no other
Has ever gazed upon—
We have braved the angry spirits,
And our victory is won.
We have conquered all the dangers
Of a yet unfathom'd sea;
And we bring the prize of glory.
Our country, Spain, to thee!
poem by Louisa Stuart Costello
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A Voice On The Wind
I
She walks with the wind on the windy height
When the rocks are loud and the waves are white,
And all night long she calls through the night,
'O my children, come home!'
Her bleak gown, torn as a tattered cloud,
Tosses around her like a shroud,
While over the deep her voice rings loud,-
'O my children, come home, come home!
O my children, come home!'
II
Who is she who wanders alone,
When the wind drives sheer and the rain is blown?
Who walks all night and makes her moan,
'O my children, come home!'
Whose face is raised to the blinding gale;
Whose hair blows black and whose eyes are pale,
While over the world goes by her wail,-
'O my children, come home, come home!
O my children, come home!'
III
She walks with the wind in the windy wood;
The dark rain drips from her hair and hood,
And her cry sobs by, like a ghost pursued,
'O my children, come home!'
Where the trees loom gaunt and the rocks stretch drear,
The owl and the fox crouch back with fear,
As wild through the wood her voice they hear,-
'O my children, come home, come home!
O my children, come home!'
IV
Who is she who shudders by
When the boughs blow bare and the dead leaves fly?
Who walks all night with her wailing cry,
'O my children, come home!'
Who, strange of look, and wild of tongue,
With wan feet wounded and hands wild-wrung,
Sweeps on and on with her cry, far-flung,-
'O my children, come home, come home!
O my children, come home!'
V
'Tis the Spirit of Autumn, no man sees,
The mother of Death and of Mysteries,
Who cries on the wind all night to these,
'O my children, come home!'
The Spirit of Autumn, pierced with pain,
Calling her children home again,
Death and Dreams, through ruin and rain,-
'O my children, come home, come home!
O my children, come home!'
poem by Madison Julius Cawein
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The Destroying Spirit
I sit upon the rocks that frown
Above the rapid Nile;
And on the toil of man look down
With bitter and scornful smile.
My rocks are inaccessible,
And few return their terrors to tell.
My subjects are the birds, whose wings
Never soar'd into other air;
To whose shrill cries each echo rings—
For their nests are hidden there:
They dip their plumes in that mighty river,
Whose course is onward—onward, for ever.
I see the deluge come sweeping on
Where waving corn-fields gleam;
And forests, and cities, and herds are gone,
Like the shadows of a dream:
The rushing tide is an ocean now;
And islands of ruin darken its brow.
But the waters sink, and earth again
Smiles under Nature's gentlest reign:
Where, from scenes of bliss, shall I go?
I—whose existence is terror and woe.
Now I hide in the burning breast
Of some mountain, whose fires are never at rest,
And urge the torrents that downward flow,
Crashing and swallowing all below.
Then, through the air—away!—away!
Till I check my course on the dread Himmaleh:
Down to its deepest valleys I dive,
Which no mortal can ever see and live,
To visit the evil spirits who dwell
In the ceaseless gloom of that murky dell.
With them, from their rocky temples I roam,
To lure the traveller from his home:
When he rests beneath some charmed tree
With dreams we vex his mind;
And he wakes our hideous forms to see,
As we hover upon the wind;
And our voices howl in the hurrying blast,
Till in frantic fear he breathes his last:
Then we bear him to our dismal cave,
And his tortured spirit we claim as our slave!
I dwell where tempests are loud and dread—
I ride on the billow's foam;
And wherever terror is widest spread
There is the Spirit's home.
poem by Louisa Stuart Costello
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Light Between the Trees
Long, long, long the trail
Through the brooding forest-gloom,
Down the shadowy, lonely vale
Into silence, like a room
Where the light of life has fled,
And the jealous curtains close
Round the passionless repose
Of the silent dead.
Plod, plod, plod away,
Step by step in mouldering moss;
Thick branches bar the day
Over languid streams that cross
Softly, slowly, with a sound
In their aimless creeping
Like a smothered weeping,
Through the enchanted ground.
"Yield, yield, yield thy quest,"
Whispers through the woodland deep;
"Come to me and be at rest;
"I am slumber, I am sleep."
Then the weary feet would fail,
But the never-daunted will
Urges "Forward, forward still!
"Press along the trail!"
Breast, breast, breast the slope!
See, the path is growing steep.
Hark! a little song of hope
When the stream begins to leap.
Though the forest, far and wide,
Still shuts out the bending blue,
We shall finally win through,
Cross the long divide.
On, on, onward tramp!
Will the journey never end?
Over yonder lies the camp;
Welcome waits us there, my friend.
Can we reach it ere the night?
Upward, upward, never fear!
Look, the summit must be near;
See the line of light!
Red, red, red the shine
Of the splendour in the west,
Glowing through the ranks of pine,
Clear along the mountain-crest!
Long, long, long the trail
Out of sorrow's lonely vale;
But at last the traveller sees
Light between the trees!
poem by Henry Van Dyke
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The Curlew Song
The viewless blast flies moaning past,
Away to the forest trees,
Where giant pines and leafless vines
Bend 'neath the wandering breeze!
From ferny streams, unearthly screams
Are heard in the midnight blue;
As afar they roam to the shepherd's home,
The shrieks of the wild Curlew!
As afar they roam
To the shepherd's home,
The shrieks of the wild Curlew!
The mists are curled o'er a dark-faced world,
And the shadows sleep around,
Where the clear lagoon reflects the moon
In her hazy glory crowned;
While dingoes howl, and wake the growl
Of the watchdog brave and true;
Whose loud, rough bark shoots up in the dark,
With the song of the lone Curlew!
Whose loud, rough bark
Shoots up in the dark,
With the song of the lone Curlew!
Near herby banks the dark green ranks
Of the rushes stoop to drink;
And the ripples chime, in a measured time,
On the smooth and mossy brink;
As wind-breaths sigh, and pass, and die,
To start from the swamps anew,
And join again o'er ridge and plain
With the wails of the sad Curlew!
And join again
O'er ridge and plain
With the wails of the sad Curlew!
The clouds are thrown around the cone
Of the mountain bare and high,
(Whose craggy peak uprears to the cheek -
To the face of the sombre sky)
When down beneath the foggy wreath,
Full many a gully through,
They rend the air, like cries of despair,
The screams of the wild Curlew!
They rend the air,
Like cries of despair,
The screams of the wild Curlew!
The viewless blast flies moaning past,
Away to the forest trees;
Where giant pines and leafless vines
Bend 'neath the wandering breeze!
From ferny streams, unearthly screams
Are heard in the midnight blue;
As afar they roam to the shepherd's home,
The shrieks of the wild Curlew!
As afar they roam
To the shepherd's home,
The shrieks of the wild Curlew!
poem by Henry Kendall
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