I STOOD on the bridge at midnight, As the clocks were striking the hour, And the moon rose o'er the city, Behind the dark church tower. I saw her bright reflection In the waters under me, Like a golden goblet falling And sinking into the sea. And far in the hazy distance Of that lovely night in June, The blaze of the flaming furnace Gleamed redder than the moon. Among the long, black rafters The wavering shadows lay, And the current that came from the ocean Seemed to lift and bear them away; As, sweeping and eddying through them, Rose the belated tide, And, streaming into the moonlight, The seaweed floated wide. And like those waters rushing Among the wooden piers, A flood of thoughts came o'er me How often, O, how often, In the days that had gone by, I had stood on that bridge at midnight How often, O, how often, I had wished that the ebbing tide Would bear me away on its bosom O'er the ocean wild and wide! For my heart was hot and restless, And my life was full of care, And the burden laid upon me Seemed greater than I could bear. But now it has fallen from me, It is buried in the sea; Yet whenever I cross the river On its bridge with wooden piers, Like the odour of brine from the ocean Comes the thought of other years. And I think how many thousands Each bearing his burden of sorrow, I see the long procession Still passing to and fro, The young heart hot and restless, And the old subdued and slow! And forever and forever, As long as the river flows, As long as the heart has passions, As long as life has woes; се The moon and its broken reflection As the symbol of love in heaven, And its wavering image here. TO THE DRIVING CLOUD. GLOOMY and dark art thou, O chief of the mighty Omawhaws; taken! Wrapt in thy scarlet blanket, I see thee stalk through the city's Narrow and populous streets, as once by the margin of rivers Stalked those birds unknown, that have left us only their footprints. What, in a few short years, will remain of thy race but the footprints? How canst thou walk in these streets, who hast trod the green turf of the prairies? How canst thou breathe in this air, who hast breathed the sweet air of the mountains? Ah! 't is in vain that with lordly looks of disdain thou dost challenge Looks of dislike in return, and question these walls and these pavements, Claiming the soil for thy hunting-grounds, while down-trodden millions Starve in the garrets of Europe, and cry from its caverns that they, too, Have been created heirs of the earth, and claim its division! Back, then, back to thy woods in the regions west of the Wabash! TO THE DRIVING CLOUD. There as a monarch thou reignest. In autumn the leaves of the maple Pave the floors of thy palace halls with gold, and in summer Pine trees waft through its chambers the odorous breath of their branches. There thou art strong and great, a hero, a tamer of horses! There thou chasest the stately stag on the banks of the Elk horn, Or by the roar of the Running-Water, or where the Omawhaw Hark! what murmurs arise from the heart of those mountainous Is it the cry of the Foxes and Crows, or the mighty Behemoth, Marks not the buffalo's track, nor the Mandan's dexterous horse race; It is a caravan, whitening the desert where dwell the Camanches! Ha! how the breath of these Saxons and Celts, like the blast of the east-wind, Drifts evermore to the west the scanty smokes of thy wigwams! 219 |