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! 'tis 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! 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 Calls thee, and leaps through the wild ravine like a brave of the Blackfeet! 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! And from wrecks of ships, and drifting Spars, uplifting On the desolate, rainy seas ; Ever drifting, drifting, drifting Currents of the restless main; Till in sheltered coves, and reaches All have found repose again. So when storms of wild emotion Of the poet's soul, ere long From each cave and rocky fastness. Floats some fragment of a song: From the far-off isles enchanted, With the golden fruit of Truth; From the flashing surf, whose vision Gleams Elysian In the tropic clime of Youth; From the strong Will, and the Endeavour That forever Wrestles with the tides of Fate; From the wreck of Hopes far-scattered, Tempest-shattered, Floating waste and desolate ; Ever drifting, drifting, drifting Currents of the restless heart; Till at length in books recorded, They, like hoarded Household words, no more depart. I see the lights of the village Gleam through the rain and the mist, And a feeling of sadness comes o'er mic, That my soul cannot resist : A feeling of sadness and longing, And resembles sorrow only As the mist resembles the rain. Come, read to me some poem, Some simple and heartfelt lay, That shall soothe this restless feeling, And banish the thoughts of day. Not from the grand old masters, For, like strains of martial music, Read from some humbler poet, Whose songs gushed from his heart, As showers from the clouds of summer, Or tears from the eyelids start; Who, through long days of labor, Such songs have power to quiet Then read from the treasured volume The poem of thy choice, And lend to the rhyme of the poet And the night shall be filled with music, |