Isaac McLellan: Verses about Nature

Now the good old Year is dead and gone
To the grave of the Past, forever borne.
I heard last night his awful knell
Knolled gloomily by the midnight bell;
And I saw his hearse creep darkly by;
And the blackened pall on his coffin lie;
Then deepened the midnight's shadowy gloom!
And thus the good Year passed to his tomb!

Now ere we welcome the newborn year
Let us give to the Past one tribute tear;
Let us look once more on his pallid face-
One parting look, for a moment's space,
Ere the crumbling sod of the valley hide
The aged year which last night died;
For soon, very soon do men forget
Their friends upon whom Death's seal is set.

Cans't thou number the blessings, the past year shed,
With a liberal hand upon thine head!
Oh! number rather the stars that burn
With a blaze of light, by the moon's red urn;
Or the yellow sands of the sparkling sea;
Or the twinkling leaves of the wild wood-tree.
Thou can'st not number the blessings strewn,
By that prodigal year, now past and gone.

And let us bid to the coming year,
A hearty, and happy welcome here.
We know not whether its latest day
Will find us sorrowing, or find us gay,
We know not whether in weal or woe,
In health or in sickness, we do not know.
Perchance, we may still on our journey plod;
Perchance, we may lie 'neath the churchyard sod;
To this earth we may then no more belong,
Our names forgot, like a 'passing song.'

New England's dead! New England's dead!
On every hill they lie;
On every field of strife, made red
By bloody victory.
Each valley, where the battle poured
Its red and awful tide,
Beheld the brave New England sword
With slaughter deeply dyed.
Their bones are on the northern hill,
And on the southern plain,
By brook and river, lake and rill,
And by the roaring main.

The land is holy where they fought,
And holy where they fell;
For by their blood that land was bought,
The land they loved so well,
Then glory to that valiant band,
The honored saviours of the land!

O, few and weak their numbers were,--
A handful of brave men;
But to their God they gave their prayer,
And rushed to battle then.
The God of battles heard their cry,
And sent to them the victory.

They left the ploughshare in the mold,
Their flocks and herds without a fold,
The sickle in the unshorn grain,
The corn, half-garnered, on the plain,
And mustered, in their simple dress,
For wrongs to seek a stern redress,
To right those wrongs, come weal, come woe,
To perish, or o'ercome their foe.

And where are ye, O fearless men?
And where are ye to-day?
I call:--the hills reply again
That ye have passed away;
That on old Bunker's lonely height,
In Trenton, and in Monmouth ground,
The grass grows green, the harvest bright
Above each soldier's mound.
The bugle's wild and warlike blast
Shall muster them no more;
An army now might thunder past,
And they heed not its roar.
The starry flag, 'neath which they fought
In many a bloody day,
From their old graves shall rouse them not,
For they have passed away.

For other scenes their lights expand,
Out in the savage western land,
Where wildernesses lone and grand,
Their awful glooms extend;
Far where the Rocky Mounts upthrow
Their pinnacles of rock and snow,
White cones, whereon the sunset's glow,
Its roseate hues doth blend.
Around them, woods primeval press,
Around them, pastures measureless,
Waved by the idle wind's caress,
Reach th' horizon's edge.
In dark ravine and gulch the bear
And tiger-cat have made their lair,
The bison range the meadows there,
To browse the bending sedge.
O'er open plain, in leafy dell,
In hollow vale, on upland swell,
The wild steeds of the prairies dwell,
Free as the mountain wind;
No iron bit or curb have they,
No galling spur, no trappings gay,
No rider to control their way,
Their untam'd limbs to bind.
Free as the eagle cleaves through space,
They curvet or they join in race,
Fleeter than wild beasts of the chase,
A vast unnumbered throng;
They crop the dewy grass at will,
In ice-cold waters drink their fill,
Scour the wild plain or sweep the hill,
Unscarr'd by whip or thong.
Yet comes at times a yelling crew,
The savage with his wild halloo,
The painted Blackfoot or Sioux,
All greedy for the spoil;
It were a thrilling sight to see
Those lawless riders fierce and free,
Each swinging with a madden'd glee,
The lariat's twisting coil.
On, on the frantic horsemen sweep,
On, on the snorting wild steeds leap,
Down flowery slope, o'er wooded steep,
Pursuers and pursued;
Then far th' unerring noose is thrown,
The stately bay or lusty roan
Fall captive, panting, with a groan,
All vanquish'd and subdued.

Amid the wildernesses vast
That gird the Mississippi's shores,
'Mid woods whose shadows dense are cast
Where the Red River sluggish pours,
The wildcat makes his lonely camp,
His dark, impregnable abode,
Hid in the dusk, unwholesome swamp
Where human foot hath seldom trod.
In dense retreat, in hollow tree,
Or natural cave it rears its brood,
And hunts the forest's recesses
To feed their gaping mouths with food.
In silence of the darkling night,
Or when the new day has its birth,
It goes abroad with step as light
As fall of thistle-down to earth,
No bird may build its airy nest
Beyond the wildcat's plundering quest,
For swift and easy as a bird
It mounts, and scarce a leaf is stirr'd.
It runs, it flies, it springs, it leaps,
As graceful as the antelope,
Yet cruel as the tiger grim
In Indian swamp or mountain slope.

The hare, the 'possum, and the coon,
It waylays in the forest-glade;
'Gainst poultry-yard and sheepfold pen
Its ravaging inroads are made;
So with all arts the human race
Assails it in the pitiless chase.

At day-dawn forth the hunters go
With rifle and with yelping hound;
They run the red fox to his den,
They track the 'cat' in forest grand;
They drive him to some dense retreat
Where high o'erhead the branches meet;
Close to some rough and gnarled limb
The frenzied creature hides and clings.
With foamy jaws and hair erect,
Fierce glances from his eyes he flings,
But deadly aim and rifle-ball
Soon humble him in headlong fall.
But if tenacious life remains,
He meets the baffled, fierce attack,
Then swift thro' wood and briery bush
He flies, the dog pack yelling at his back;
He scales some tree-top, or doth plunge
In some deep fissure of the ground,
And then the death-fight is renew'd
'Twixt the marauder and the hound,
And many a ghastly wound doth show
Before the quarry is laid low.

The autumn day is fleck'd with gold,
As slow the twilight sun declines;
The western cloud's encrimson'd fold
With a surpassing beauty shines;
And as the deep'ning shadows creep
Athwart the glimmering landscape's breast,
And o'er the purpling mountains sweep,
The drowsy breezes sink to rest.
The roe buck to his dingle goes,
Where thick the wood its covert throws;
The red stag that had paus'd to drink
Beside the rivulet's plashy brink,
Exhausted flings his dappled side
Along the clear, pellucid tide.
'Tis then the pigeons seek the wood
To roost, a swarming multitude.

Deep in Wisconson wilderness,
Or forests vast of Michigan,
The bending boughs their bosoms press,
The air their clanging pinions fan.
So great their numbers, hunters say
They bend the bough and break the spray,
And when their frighten'd myriads rise,
'Tis like the thunder of the skies.

Years since in forests of the East
They gather'd to the harvest feast;
They swarm'd by river and by shore,
In vast flocks flew the pastures o'er;
They swept innumerable the plain,
Gleaning the corn-seed and the grain;
Then, winging to some grove their flight,
Sought roosting-places for the night.

When emigration to the West
In eager emulation press'd,
And axe and plough and farmer's toil
Open'd the treasures of new soil;
And million acres of the wheat
Ripen'd in summer's fervent heat,
And bearded rye and yellow corn
Shook their bright tresses in the morn;
Then to those fields and pastures new
These emigrants on pinions flew.

When June with rose-red cheeks aglow
O'er banks wild strawberries doth strew;
When August on the sunny hills
With sweets the luscious blueberry fills,
And o'er the heated pasture pours
The blackberries in honey'd stores,
And ripens on the swinging vine
The grapes, like amethysts that shine-
Then to this ripe, abundant fare,
So sweet, the pigeon-flocks repair,
Sharing the never-cloying feast
Our Maker offers to the guest.

I ofttimes 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,
The 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 infants ask 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 those gray 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 touch'd with the silver light
That a spirit leans o'er that lonely turf,
Like a snowy wreath of the ocean surf,
And a sound like a passionate mourner's cry,
Will often startle the passer by.

A noble sight is this, I ween,
Fair panorama of the sea,
The ocean white with crested foam
To windward and to lee;
Bright shines the day on Staten Isle,
On woods of emerald green,
On stately dome and villa roof,
With field and lawn between.
Long Island stretches east away,
Engirdled with the brine;
On sandy bar and weedy rock
The glorious sunbeams shine.

Full many a score of stately yachts
Wide o'er the sea are spread,
Careening like white-plumag'd birds,
On rushing pinions sped.
Vast steamers bound for foreign land,
Their smoky banners raise;
The flag of every nation
Its blazon's field displays.
The sound of martial music
From many a deck arise,
Loud shouts of acclamation
Swell grandly to the skies;
From fortress wall and green parade
Ring out the cannonade.

Off Sandy Hook two stately yachts
The broad arena sweep,
While meteor flag and flag of stars
To each tall masthead leap;
Each emulous to win the prize
For speed in ocean race;
To claim the palm of victory
O'er ocean's rolling space.

See how they matchless ride the seas,
Like rush of desert steed,
Graceful as swan on limpid lake,
Swift as the eagle's speed.
A cloud of canvas each displays
From deck to topmast head,
Jib, mainsail, spinnaker,
In ample folds outspread.

Onward, right onward see them fly,
Cleaving the tumbling surge;
A score of miles away the goal
To which the champions urge.
The mark is reach'd, and homeward now
On free wind turns each dashing prow.
So ends the race, the first great race,
Where Puritan holds foremost place;
But nobly in the watery way
Genesta bore her flag that day!

Once more these yachts the challenge fling,
Again on rushing wings they swing;
From Scotland Lightship swift they bear,
Each yacht a pyramid of snow,
The white sails blossoming high in air,
Balloon jibs all aglow!
Yielding to pressure of the breeze,
Thro' the salt ocean sleet they dash,
Plunging thro' maelstrom of green waves,
Through whirling foam they flash,
'Tis battle of the flight and chase,
Pursuer and pursued;
The centreboard, the cutter race,
Fought out o'er ocean flood.
Ah, Puritan hath won the prize!
And cheers exultant rend the skies.

Morn on the Summer Sea- the breaking light
Is trembling on the mountain's misty height,
And upland lea- and on the distant glen-
And o'er the waters- far from haunts of men.

How faint and sweet from yonder secret dell,
Swells o'er the wave the early village bell,
Borne with the sounds of tinkling herds- and hark!
O'er the blue hills, the music of the lark
Rings clearly from the silver clouds that rest,
Like a bright Crown, above the mountain-crest.

O! green and happy land! whose headlands grey,
Are, in the distance, melting fast away;
Ye peaceful vales- the wanderer's own sweet home,
And ye old woods!- farewell.- The curling foam-
The boundless sea, with all its host of waves,
May dash ere evening o'er our lonely graves.

Thou dark, unfathomed Ocean! in thy halls
No searching glance of kindly sunlight falls-
Far through thy azure depths the sea-snakes sweep,
And the huge Krakens haunt thee- stormy deep!
Yet hast thou wealth of glorious things, far down
Thy hidden palaces- jewels and crown,
And the reich spoils of many a shattered bark,
Lie with thy Sea-Stars and the ocean shark;
And from thy many-twinkling sands, bright gems
Shine like the pearls in kingly diadems.
The broad Sea-Fag lies there- and tufts of green,
Oft through thy glassy depths are dimly seen;
And the Sea-Grape and yellow Fan o'erspread
Thy pathless empire- and the Coral's red
Glows mid thy snowy pebbles and rich sand,
And scarlet Shells that glisten o'er the strand.
- Sea! thou art full of life! things swift and strange
Through thy mysterious tides, half shapeless, range.

Noon on the flashing billows. All the day
We have gone lightly on our foaming way;
And the glad sun a tranquil smile hath sent
From his bright throne in yonder firmament.
Far on our lee, the giant Whales upturn
The boisterous water from the sea's full urn;
The storm-drenched Petrel curbs his tired wing,
To view awhile our rapid wandering-
And the blue Halcyon bends his gentle eye
On the strong ship that flies so gaily by-
The purple Mullets through our pathway sweep,
And the blue Dolphins in our white track leap.

O! boundless Sea! with thy upheaving surge,
Whitened with foam-wreaths to thy glorious verge;
With thy strong tides- thy multitude of waves-
And the wild voices of thy thousand caves-
And thy stern rage when tempests madden thee!
Fearful thou ever art, Eternal Sea!

In winter, when the snows lie deep
In shapeless hillock, drifted heap;
When thick the hollow vales they fill,
And woods are trackless on the hill,
The wild wolves, famish'd, grim and gaunt,
Forsake their rocky mountain-haunt,
When frozen Nature's hand denies
The food in summer it supplies.
Forc'd from their coverts, far they prowl
With gnashing teeth and dismal howl,
And, hid all day in darksome den,
At night roam round the haunts of men.
By cattle-fold or shelter'd shed
Where bleating sheep are hous'd and fed,
When all the farmer's household sleeps,
And watch-dog to the fireside creeps,
These fierce marauders gather round;
They scent the air, they sniff the ground,
Then with a famish'd onset break
Thro' wattled hedge and sheepfold stake,
Rending with their demoniac crew
The fleecy dam, the bleating ewe.

The farmer at the break of day
Looks on the ravage with dismay-
The precious flock, complete no more;
The snowy sheep-yard, red with gore!
From farm to farmhouse spreads the tale,
From upland hut to peopled vale;
All arm, the 'wolf drive' to prepare,
A hunt that all for leagues must share.
Some from the dusty rafters take
Their rusty guns of ancient make;
And some, late soldiers of the war,
The rifles that have slain so far;
The small boys birding-pieces wield,
Impatient for the hunting-field.

Forth then exultingly they pour
For circuit of ten leagues or more;
Their captains on their coursers borne,
Arm'd with the trumpet and the horn;
All wading o'er the snow-heap'd ground,
All to some common centre bound,
Marching with blast of horns and shout,
To drive the hunted wolves in rout.

Unharm'd the red deer boundeth by;
Scathless the wild-cats from the bough
Gaze on the rushing crowd below;
The coon from hollow of the tree
Looks down, amaz'd the coil to see.
'Tis known in tangled-hazel swamp
The wolves have made their winter camp;
And here, vociferous and loud,
Concentrates th' avenging crowd,
Engirdling as with iron ring
The wolves that to their covert cling.

At summons of the leader press
Thro' briery, vine-strung wilderness,
A chosen band, with horn and cry
To fright the victims till they fly;
Who, mad with terror, seek to gain
Some outlet of escape in vain;
For everywhere a foeman stands
To slaughter them with bloody hands;
And soon is soak'd the spotless snow
With crimson blood from wounds that flow.

The brown chickadee still chirps on the tree,
Though it yields scanty wealth of larvae and bee,
Though its branches are stripp'd of blossom and leaf,
And shrill blows the wind with a murmur of grief.

Though orchards are bleak and woodlands are bare,
And the breath of the winter hath frozen the air,
Though the brook in the meadow is shrunken and low,
For the blight of the ice hath fetter'd its flow;

Though the river is white with the icicle gleam,
And the foliage all wither'd on banks of the stream,
Yet this blithe little bird remains with us still,
To flit o'er the valley and skim o'er the hill.

Ah, sweet little warbler, why linger so long;
Why cheer our bleak forests with musical song,
While far in the South spread tropical groves,
And perfum'd the breeze perennial roves?

There lie scenes that are fill'd with midsummer light,
Where flower-spread fields are cheerful and bright,
Where the roses and lilies bloom all through the year,
And gardens are bath'd in a rare atmosphere.

There the scented magnolia sheds its perfume,
And its spiring pyramid whitens with bloom,
And the insects that live in the grass and the air
Invite ye a sumptuous banquet to share.

But the chickadee does not care to migrate,
She is chirping and carolling early and late;
Her sweet little chatter saluteth the day,
And trilleth till twilight fades into gray.

The chickadee hath plumage of brown,
And wears on its head a black little crown.
Its song is not querulous, but fluty the note
That in liquid cadences flows from its throat.

'Mid the foliage of summer it lurks in the woods,
Where it calls to its mate in the green solitudes,
But in winter it comes to our orchards to share
The larvae and seeds, its delicate fare.

Clad in soft downy plumage, the chickadee
Fears no cold in its nest in the hollow of tree:
And it comes to the garden to pick up the seed
The dear little children cast out for its feed.

As you walk in the grove on a calm winter day,
You may hear his sweet call from hedgerow and spray,
And with him the nut-hatch and creepers abide,
And downy woodpeckers, all painted and pied.

As you pass, all is still save their tremulous chime,
Or leap of the squirrels as the branches they climb,
The dropping of nuts, or flight of the quail,
Or whir of the partridge in tussock or swale.

O sweet little warbler, may nothing molest
The six snowy eggs that repose in your nest!
For the symphonies gentle your fledglings repeat
Make the life of boon nature in winter's retreat.

As a life-weary pilgrim sinks to his last repose,
The old year, pale and pulseless, swoons o'er the drifting snows;
He's gone to join the ages, in the past years laid away,
To sleep in time's mausoleum, until the judgment day.

When he wav'd his fairy spring wand, the airs grew balmy sweet,
There op'd the blue-ey'd violets, in every dusk retreat,
Then snow-white bloom of orchards, and floral offerings rare,
Illumin'd all the landscape, and perfum'd all the air.

His magic wand touch'd tree and shrub, touch'd arbor, sprig and spray,
And quick, suffusing smiles of green would o'er the tendrils play,
They blush'd with joy, as all their buds their folded lips unclos'd,
And their virgin pearly leaves, and petals red disclos'd.

Then all the painted butterflies enjoy'd their little hour,
They flew like winged blossoms, from floweret to flower,
In honeysuckles dipped the bees, to sip from hidden wells
The sweet, ambrosial nectar, and bear it to their cells.

We saw thee in thy summer prime, in all thy bravery dressed,
Thy woods in wealth of foliage, by gentle airs caress'd,
Thy limpid lakes reflecting the colors of the skies,
And all the dales and mountains made gay with flowery dyes.

Ah, pleasant the wide landscape, in your bright summer prime,
The clear, swift, shaded brooks, with their unceasing chime,
Where droop'd the birch and alder, the willow's tresses green,
And oakes and elms on upland slopes, a pastoral, fair scene.

Thy luminous day-skies, the moonlit shades of night,
When sweetest sounds of nature are a blessing and delight;
When chants and hymns of bird life, of blackbird and of thrush
Entrance with soothing melodies the universal hush.

We welcom'd thee in autumn, o'er all the harvest plain,
Thy forehead thick enwreath'd with chaplets of the grain,
When the orchards drop the fruit, and purple grapes hang sweet,
And the sportsman's shots are ringing in field and wood retreat.

And in this winter season, when icicles like gems,
Adorn each twig and bush with twinkling diadems,
We welcome the New Year, for o'er the falling snow,
The sounds of merry laughter and jocund carols flow.

To all who love the transports of forest and the stream,
To hunt the deer, to take the fish that in the waters gleam,
To seek the duck and partridge, the woodcock and the quail,
We send a New Year's greeting, we say to them 'All hail!'

May the New Year rejoice you, with all delights of life,
Prosperities, endearments, of home and child and wife,
May the lights of love and friendship, burn ever pure and clear,
No household glooms, no shades of death, to darken o'er the year.

In the Mahouna mountain, in the Haracta glen,
The summons of the Sheik is out- Come forth, ye bearded men!
In African defiles, in jungle, in ravine,
Shadow'd by cork-tree forests and by the olives green,
The torrent-brook of Ouled is bare with torrid heat-
Its gravelly bed is trampled by the lion's mighty feet.
Come forth, ye Arab tribesmen, the hunter and the scout!
The signal-fires are blazing o'er all the cliffs about;
Put off the sandals from the feet, the bournous from the limb,
For silent must your pathway be, thro' dell and desert grim.
Stand fast together, side by side, with levell'd gun and lance;
The foe lurks in the thickest shade, where never sunbeams glance.
This slope upon the mountain-side leads precipitously down-
Leads down to where the brook pours out its waves of turbid brown;
It is the lion's pathway, and here he comes to drink,
With bristling mane and tawny hide, along the grassy brink,
See! all around the trees are torn, and seam'd and scarr'd the bark;
'Tis here his angry iron claws leave their terrific mark;
Here, in the yellow sand, he wallow'd in the heat,
And here upon the pebbles, the impress of his feet,
Then let the bravest and the best, in compact order stand.
The weak may hide where forests their spreading boughs expand.

Here in these desert places no other life may be,
The wild boar and the jackal turn from the haunt and flee;
The panther in the thicket feeds on jackal and the hare;
This desert is the lion's home, the monarch's royal lair;
From hence, when stars are out, he gallops to the plain,
Beneath the herdsman's very beard the cattle spoil to gain.

Stand fast, it is the midnight; the earth is hid in gloom;
No howls of wolves, no low of ox across the silence boom;
No flash of watch-fire, and no light from distant shepherd's tent
To scare the prowling monster, in lurid gleams are sent.
Stand fast! There is a sound! Is it the rising breeze
That murmureth complainingly far thro' the bending trees?
It is the lion's trample, and see, in single file
The tawny beasts! And as they come they lash their flanks the while:
Their luminous bright eyes are of a fiery red;
They snuff the tainted air, they stride with heavy tread.

Now firm your arm and true your aim, for life is on the cast,
Nor break your ranks to flee, for that moment were your last;
Full on the shaggy head discharge the leaden hail;
Alas! it glances harmless, as from a coat of mail.
One roar, one hollow roar! as from a thunderous sky;
The raging beast is on them now- they tremble and they fly.
He snaps the bone, he tears the flesh, and many a victim dies,
Ere, pierc'd with balls, upon the earth the bleeding monarch lies!

October's flaming banners, of purple and of gold,
O'er all the bowery woodland, are flauntingly unroll'd;
From his o'er-brimming urn red Autumn pours his dyes
O'er all thy realm, Long Island, from clouds that sail the skies.
They woods of elm and chestnut, so emerald-green ere-while,
Now glow with brightest blushes, suffus'd with Autumn's smile.
The maples of the uplands are flush'd with royal red,
And robes and garlands golden o'er the pasture-oaks are spread;
The sumacs by the roadside now wear a scarlet crown,
The bayberry bushes by the beach are clad in russet brown;
The apple orchards, late despoil'd of all their ruddy globes,
Tinet with the frost are all array'd in varicolor'd robes;
And low in swamps and thickets of cedar and of pine
The woodbines redden, and the lithe, high-clambering grape-vine.
And there the village children come, the purpling grapes to glean,
Whose clusters load the alders that o'er the streamlets lean.

The grass of summer uplands, where far the sheep-flock strays,
The bush-grass of the meadows, where wading cattle graze,
So green erewhile, are wither'd now, and thro' their thin brown leaves
The sorrowful breeze is sighing, like one in pain that grieves.
The bubbling brook, whose currents glide through banks of living green,
So clear that in the crystal depths the spotted trout were seen,
Creeps brown and turbid now, all chok'd with foliage sere-
A clouded mirror now, erewhile transparent clear;
Nor more the angler comes with tapering rod to sweep
The brook or limpid pond where dark tree-shadows creep.

I stand high up a hillside, where, far as eye may reach,
Stretch out fair woods and fields, and the sandy yellow beach;
The harvest crops are garner'd, the fields lie brown and bare,
The thresher's flail in distant barns resounds upon the air;
I hear the cowboy's call, the whistle of the bird,
And all the joyous sounds of rural life are heard.
I hear the piping quail and the gunner's weapon ring,
And see the startled coveys burst forth upon the wing;
I hear far overhead, in the upper realms of air,
The honking of wild geese, as onward swift they fare;
And in the salt bay meadows I see the fowler's boat,
I hear his gun, I see the smoke above his ambush float;
I see the platoons of the coot, the squadrons of the brant,
And hovering black-ducks, the shallow coves that haunt,
The shelldrake and the broad-bill, and all the feather'd flocks
Which haunt the open bays and wheel o'er ocean rocks.

Fair scenes, bright scenes, enchanting scenes! that fill
The heart with o'erflowing joy, and all the life pulses thrill,
So fair in all your autumn pomp, in all your summer green,
When woods are bright, skies full of light, and waters smile serene!

We cross'd a brawling mountain torrent, far
From our Indian camp. The red, angry glare
Of crimson sunset shimmer'd through the clouds
Of dust that fill'd the air with their dull, coppery hues,
Presaging the near coming of a storm.

We pass'd the border-forest's gloomy belt,
Behind which, tier on tier, the mighty range
Of the majestic Himalayas tower'd in air,
Till their snow-clad summits seem'd to pierce the sky;
Had pass'd thro' villages in dense mango groves-
Past temples, shadow'd by great tamarind-trees;
Past crowded hamlets fill'd with din and dust;
Past the low country, covered with green crops;
Past patches of rice stubble, with dense grass between,
Whence rose the partridge, plover, and the quail,
And florican and pea-fowl, in dense flocks;
Past groves of feathery bamboo and the palm,
And plumy plaintains that conceal the huts,
'Midst aloe-hedges festoon'd with gay vines.

There were few song-birds flitting thro' the gloom
Of wood arcades, to make them musical.
The songless horn-bill darts from tree to tree;
The big woodpecker taps the hollow log,
With gorgeous plumage glistening in the sun;
Flights of green parrots scream above your head;
The golden oriole and the bulbul make
Their feeble chirrup, while at times resounds
The melancholy hoot of blinking owl,
Or golden pigeon's soft and murmurous coo.

There, on the borders of the jungle wild,
The hunters pause ere they invade its depths.
'Twas a dark, deep, impenetrable swamp,
Thick with tall reeds and wild vines interlac'd-
Homes of the savage creatures of the waste-
The tiger's haunt, fierce monarch of the woods!
Here rang'd the brown hog-deer in browsing herds,
The wild pig and the boar, with gnashing tusks;
Here tramp'd the black rhinoceros on his way,
And wallow'd the big buffaloes at will;
The jackals rais'd at night their fearful howl,
While overhead great flocks of vultures soar'd.

And here the hunting elephants are rang'd
In line continuous, ready for the charge;
Each bears a howdah on his towering back,
Whereon the hunter with his rifle sits,
To stop the royal game with fatal aim.
Soon the long line advances thro' the wood,
Trampling the bending branches and the reeds,
While loud the native beaters sound their drums,
And kindle into flames the jungle grass-
Kindle acacia shrubs and thorny bush.
So they press on, a wall of flame behind,
While fast before them flies the frantic game.

At length a tiger bounds away in fright,
And fast the goaded elephant pursues.
As fast he tears thro' tangled jungles green,
Like great ship surging thro' the ocean tides.
The Mahouts rain their blows upon his head,
The spearmen prick him with their lances keen;
While on thro' bush and brake, thro' thorny scrub,
Through stream, and down precipitous ravine,
The headlong chase is urg'd, till, brought to bay,
The tiger falls beneath th' unerring shot.

Slow pass'd the sultry days in Afric wilds,
Slow wan'd the moonlit nights, slow flash'd the dawns,
And still the lion came not with his heavy tread
And roar, to fright the desert space.
There was a hunter of Algerian fame,
Gerard, the lion-killer, stout of heart
And strong of limb, who, with his Arab guides,
Waited and watch'd upon a granite ledge
The lion's coming, wearily delay'd.

He hear's the roar increasing in its swell,
The trampling step that crushes leaves and twigs,
And crash of bending trees cast rude aside,
And knows his shaggy foe hath left his lair,
And comes with lashing tail and tossing mane,
To quell who dares to meet him face to face.
He hears his stride, his roar, his breathing hard
Now twenty paces distant, now fifteen,
And the stout hunter's quickly throbbing heart
With Hope's intoxication wild doth beat.
He hears the latest step, he sees a head
Enormous from the foliage dense emerge,
As forth with grace commanding steps the beast,
In open glade, half-seen and half conceal'd.
Seeing the hunter, his great flaming eyes
Dilated, gaze astonish'd on his foe,
While from his jaws immense he churns the foam.

The hunter for one instant holds his aim,
Then fires, and straightway peals a savage roar
Of agony, that stuns and frights the midnight wood!
He sees one paw, one mighty shoulder then,
Go down, and dark dishevell'd mane,
Then all the monstrous body sinks to earth,
A lifeless mass, outstretch'd and grim in death.

Soon the glad news thro' all the douars spread,
And signal-guns awaken'd all the plain.
And Arabs throng'd exultant o'er the hills.
The lion-king was borne in triumph down
By eager multitudes, while bonfires blaz'd
And guns were fir'd and warlike music made,
And women clapp'd their hands and war-songs sang,
While men in long procession march'd around;
And royal wake and revels high were held
For lion of the Archon laid in state!

With the next day-dawn he o'erlook'd the plain,
Outstretch'd for leagues far in the desert's heart.
All seam'd with rocky gulch and sandy shelves,
And sprinkled with thick clumps of olive groves,
And palms and stately cork trees, fair to see.
He gaz'd on villages and cattle farms,
Embower'd in woods, and saw from day to day
The herds pass forth in lengthen'd files to feed,
And, home returning, folded for the night;
But yet the lion came not. There would come
The wild hogs rooting in the forest glades,
The prowling jackals and the timid hare
That gambol'd safe in fastnesses of hills,
Stags with their kingly crowns and stately trend,
And beasts of prey, and tapirs with white tusks,
But o'er the ridg'd plateau no lion came.

The hunter found in many an open glade
The grassy couch the tawny beast had press'd,
And whence he stalk'd when evening shadows fell
To prowl for prey around the cattle pens.
There, all the roots and stones he had displac'd
To smooth his bed, and thick the ground was spread
With tree-bark scrap'd in play by sharpen'd claws.

At last the triumph! The soft twilight eve
Had faded, and night's dusky shadows crept
O'er glimmering plains and up the craggy cliffs,
Blackening the vistas of the cork-tree woods;
And silence reign'd supreme in all the camps.
The ambush'd hunter listening heard afar
A hollow murmur! Was it but the sound
Of gusty breezes sobbing thro' the leaves,
Or voice of brawling torrents down the rocks?
Was it the wolf's long howl, or wild bear's snarl?
No; 'twas the lion's muffled roar in dark ravine
That yawns below, heard fitfully as he comes;
And as he came, the Arab tribesman quail'd,
Azid and Ombar pale as sheeted ghosts;
Yet firm as rock the Gallic hero stands,
Grasping his rifle with courageous hands,
And quick the savage monster bites the dust.