The day had been a day of wind and storm;—
The wind was laid, the storm was overpast,—
And stooping from the zenith bright and
warm
Shone the great sun on the wide earth
at last.
I stood upon the upland slope, and cast
My eye upon a broad and beauteous scene,
Where the vast plain lay girt by mountains
vast,
And hills o’er hills lifted their
heads of green,
With pleasant vales scooped out and villages between.
The rain-drops glistened on the trees
around,
Whose shadows on the tall grass were not
stirred,
Save when a shower of diamonds, to the
ground,
Was shaken by the flight of startled bird;
For birds were warbling round, and bees
were heard
About the flowers; the cheerful rivulet
sung
And gossiped, as he hastened ocean-ward;
To the gray oak the squirrel, chiding,
clung,
And chirping from the ground the grasshopper upsprung.
And from beneath the leaves that kept
them dry
Flew many a glittering insect here and
there,
And darted up and down the butterfly,
That seemed a living blossom of the air.
The flocks came scattering from the thicket,
where
The violent rain had pent them; in the
way
Strolled groups of damsels frolicksome
and fair;
The farmer swung the scythe or turned
the hay,
And ’twixt the heavy swaths his children were
at play.
It was a scene of peace—and,
like a spell,
Did that serene and golden sunlight fall
Upon the motionless wood that clothed
the fell,
And precipice upspringing like a wall,
And glassy river and white waterfall,
And happy living things that trod the
bright
And beauteous scene; while far beyond
them all,
On many a lovely valley, out of sight,
Was poured from the blue heavens the same soft golden
light.
I looked, and thought the quiet of the
scene
An emblem of the peace that yet shall
be,
When o’er earth’s continents,
and isles between,
The noise of war shall cease from sea
to sea,
And married nations dwell in harmony;
When millions, crouching in the dust to
one,
No more shall beg their lives on bended
knee,
Nor the black stake be dressed, nor in
the sun
The o’erlaboured captive toil, and wish his
life were done.
Too long, at clash of arms amid her bowers
And pools of blood, the earth has stood
aghast,
The fair earth, that should only blush
with flowers
And ruddy fruits; but not for aye can
last
The storm, and sweet the sunshine when
’tis past.
Lo, the clouds roll away—they
break—they fly,
And, like the glorious light of summer,
cast
O’er the wide landscape from the
embracing sky,
On all the peaceful world the smile of heaven shall
lie.
AUTUMN WOODS.
Ere, in the northern
gale,
The summer tresses of the trees are gone,
The woods of Autumn, all around our vale,
Have put their glory
on.