Excerpt
THE FROST SPIRIT He comes,—he comes,—the Frost Spirit comesYou may trace his footsteps nowOn the naked woods and the blasted fields and thebrown hill's withered brow.He has smitten the leaves of the gray old treeswhere their pleasant green came forth,And the winds, which follow wherever he goes,have shaken them down to earth.He comes,—he comes,—the Frost Spirit comes!from the frozen Labrador,From the icy bridge of the Northern seas, whichthe white bear wanders o'er,Where the fisherman's sail is stiff with ice, and theluckless forms belowIn the sunless cold of the lingering night intomarble statues growHe comes,—he comes,—the Frost Spirit comeson the rushing Northern blast,And the dark Norwegian pines have bowed as hisfearful breath went past.With an unscorched wing he has hurried on,where the fires of Hecla glowOn the darkly beautiful sky above and the ancientice below.He comes,—he comes,—the Frost Spirit comesand the quiet lake shall feelThe torpid touch of his glazing breath, and ring tothe skater's heel;And the streams which danced on the brokenrocks, or sang to the leaning grass,Shall bow again to their winter chain, and inmournful silence pass.He comes,—he comes,—the Frost Spirit comes!Let us meet him as we may,And turn with the light of the parlor-fire his evilpower away;And gather closer the circle round, when thatfire-light dances high,And laugh at the shriek of the baffled Fiend ashis sounding wing goes by!1830. THE MERRIMAC. "The Indians speak of a beautiful river, far to the south,which they call Merrimac."—SIEUR. DE MONTS, 1604. Stream of my fathers! sweetly stillThe sunset rays thy valley fill;Poured slantwise down the long defile,Wave, wood, and spire beneath them smile.I see the winding Powow foldThe green hill in its belt of gold,And following down its wavy line,Its sparkling waters blend with thine.There 's not a tree upon thy side,Nor rock, which thy returning tideAs yet hath left abrupt and starkAbove thy evening water-mark;No calm cove with its rocky hem,No isle whose emerald swells beginThy broad, smooth current; not a sailBowed to the freshening ocean gale;No small boat with its busy oars,Nor gray wall sloping to thy shores;Nor farm-house with its maple shade,Or rigid poplar colonnade,But lies distinct and full in sight,Beneath this gush of sunset light.Centuries ago, that harbor-bar,Stretching its length of foam afar,And Salisbury's beach of shining sand,And yonder island's wave-smoothed strand,Saw the adventurer's tiny sail,Flit, stooping from the eastern gale;And o'er these woods and waters brokeThe cheer from Britain's hearts of oak,As brightly on the voyager's eye,Weary of forest, sea, and sky,Breaking the dull continuous wood,The Merrimac rolled down his flood;Mingling that clear pellucid brook,Which channels vast AgioochookWhen spring-time's sun and shower unlockThe frozen fountains of the rock,And more abundant waters givenFrom that pure lake, "The Smile of Heaven,"Tributes from vale and mountain-side,—With ocean's dark, eternal tide...!