Pleasant it was, when woods
were green,
And winds were soft and low,
To lie amid some sylvan scene.
Where, the long drooping boughs
between,
Shadows dark and sunlight sheen
Alternate come and go;
Or where the denser grove
receives
No sunlight from above,
But the dark foliage
interweaves
In one unbroken roof of leaves,
Underneath whose sloping eaves
The shadows hardly move.
Beneath some patriarchal tree
I lay upon the ground;
His hoary arms uplifted he,
And all the broad leaves over
me
Clapped their little hands in
glee,
With one continuous sound;--
A slumberous sound, a sound
that brings
The feelings of a dream,
As of innumerable wings,
As, when a bell no longer
swings,
Faint the hollow murmur rings
O'er meadow, lake, and stream.
And dreams of that which cannot
die,
Bright visions, came to me,
As lapped in thought I used to
lie,
And gaze into the summer sky,
Where the sailing clouds went
by,
Like ships upon the sea;
Dreams that the soul of youth
engage
Ere
Fancy has been quelled;
Old legends of the monkish
page,
Traditions of the saint and
sage,
Tales that have the rime of
age,
And chronicles of Eld.
And, loving still these quaint
old themes,
Even in the city's throng
I feel the freshness of the streams,
That, crossed by shades and
sunny gleams,
Water the green land of dreams,
The holy land of song.
Therefore, at Pentecost, which
brings
The Spring, clothed like a bride,
When nestling buds unfold their
wings,
And bishop's-caps have golden
rings,
Musing upon many things,
I sought the woodlands wide.
The green trees whispered low
and mild;
It was a sound of joy!
They were my playmates when a
child,
And rocked me in their arms so
wild!
Still they looked at me and
smiled,
As if I were a boy;
And ever whispered, mild and
low,
"Come,
be a child once more!"
And waved their long arms to
and fro,
And beckoned solemnly and slow;
O, I could not choose but go
Into the woodlands hoar,--
Into the blithe and breathing
air,
Into the solemn wood,
Solemn and silent everywhere
Nature with folded hands seemed
there
Kneeling at her evening prayer!
Like one in prayer I stood.
Before me rose an avenue
Of tall and sombrous pines;
Abroad their fan-like branches
grew,
And, where the sunshine darted
through,
Spread a vapor soft and blue,
In long and sloping lines.
And, falling on my weary brain,
Like a fast-falling shower,
The dreams of youth came back
again,
Low lispings of the summer
rain,
Dropping on the ripened grain,
As once upon the flower.
Visions of childhood! Stay, O stay!
Ye were so sweet and wild!
And distant voices seemed to
say,
"It cannot be! They
pass away!
Other themes demand thy lay;
Thou art no more a child!
"The land of Song within thee lies,
Watered by living springs;
The lids of Fancy's sleepless
eyes
Are gates unto that Paradise,
Holy thoughts, like stars,
arise,
Its clouds are angels' wings.
"Learn, that henceforth thy song shall be,
Not mountains capped with snow,
Nor forests sounding like the
sea,
Nor rivers flowing ceaselessly,
Where the woodlands bend to see
The bending heavens below.
"There is a forest where the din
Of iron branches sounds!
A mighty river roars between,
And whosoever looks therein
Sees the heavens all black with
sin,
Sees not its depths, nor bounds.
"Athwart the swinging branches cast,
Soft rays of sunshine pour;
Then comes the fearful wintry
blast
Our hopes, like withered
leaves, fail fast;
Pallid lips say, 'It is past!
We can return no more!,
"Look, then, into thine heart, and write!
Yes, into Life's deep stream!
All forms of sorrow and
delight,
All solemn Voices of the Night,
That can soothe thee, or
affright,--
Be these henceforth thy theme."
