Strophes XXI à XL

First, the sweet Idyls from the shepherd vales,
Where Peace and rural Happiness abide;
Bird-hymns and wild rejoicings in the dales,
Where the swart Peasant cheers his rustic Bride;
Anthems from solitary plains that glide
To where the death-dirge wails along the sea;
Low chantings from the stars, and far and wide
The Minstrel Breezes, meeting playfully,
Rehearse their wanderings in Canzonet and Glee:

While the deep forest rolls its Psalmody
Of Voices from its music-haunted aisles;
And the strong Choruses leap joyfully
From hill to hill, or where the sunlight smiles
Upon the mountain summits, tinging miles
Of clouded crag and heaven-tinted air;
Last, the winged Tempest, from the long defiles
Emerging, like a Lyric God, to share
The genial Feast of Sounds that roused him from his lair,

The Spirits of the Storm are all abroad;
Of various natures, good and bad, are they;
Like mortal dwellers on this mundane clod,
Some evil natures, others good, obey.
As through the air they cleave their weird way,
Their separate passions show: Some smite the trees,
The innocent flowers, or the granite gray,
Or in huge heaps uproll the shouting seas;
‘While others weep, as now, wrecked Nature’s obsequies.

In the far distance rolls the Thunder-Car,
Faintly the echo of its wheels is heard;
No more is felt the elemental jar;
The Curtains of the Storm are gently stirred,
And pushed aside; and slowly, at the Word
Of Him who placed it first within the cloud,
A gorgeous rainbow rises. The dark bird
Of night is on the wing; it cries aloud;
And the white sea gull floats where erst the thunder ploughed.

The storm is lulled; the heaving waves subside;
The lightning’s flash grows fainter; and the eye
Can just perceive the silver girdle tied
About the groups of pleasant Isles that lie
Before us. Down the hurrying stream we fly,
Like a white dove unto its nest. The eve
Has closed around us, and the brightening sky
    Yearns for the coming stars. Nobly we leave
The Lake, and glide through scenes that Fairy hands might weave.

Pale Hesper smiles upon us through the gloom,
An unassuming Pioneer of Night,
Like a chrysalis that had burst its tomb,
And spread its gleaming pinions to the light.
Soft moon-beams fall like lovelooks on the sight,
And earth and sky seem blending into one,
Even as our hearts’ deep virtues, love, unite,
Like meeting pilgrims at the set of sun
Grasping each other’s hands, their joyous labors done.

Mild Evening, like a pensive Vestal Nun,
Sits veiled, lamenting for the truant Hours;
The Day has sprung to heaven to seek the Sun,
And left her weeping on her couch of flowers;
Heaven’s Angels, bearing moonlight to the bowers
Where True love dwells, and Virtue sits enthroned,
In golden urns collect the pearly showers,
Singing sweet idyls, low and silver-toned,
Till the enameled tears some cherub brow have zoned.

God of the early Morning light!
    Whose Hand the Gates of Dawn unbars;
God of the Evening and the Night!
    Who guides the chariots of the stars:
We thank Thee for the air we breathe,
    The waves that roll, the winds that rise,
For all Thy wondrous works beneath,
    For all the glories of the skies.
We bless Thee for the soothing Calm
    That broods below the Evening’s wings,
We bless Thee for the Spirit-balm
    The gentle-footed Twilight brings.
Promptings of Hope, and Joy, and Love,
    Exalt our minds and set them free,
And Prayer-wreaths white as Aaron’s Dove
    Ascend like incense up to Thee.
Gently the shades of Night come down,
    Glooming the Evening’s silver gray,
Pale Twilight puts aside her crown,
    And follows the dim Ghost of Day.
So at the threshold of life’s close,
    We tread the verge of heaven’s goal,
Peace, like a spirit, brings repose
    To the calm Twilight of the Soul.

There is no Twilight in you queenly Moon,
At least the philosophic vision ne’er,
At midnight’s solemn, thought-inducing noon,
Could trace the existence of an atmosphere.
No Twilight and no Song! No blue sky, clear
As Woman’s purest and most crystal thought
Rising to heaven on the wings of prayer!
No mountain echoes, like wild music, caught
From Nature’s hallowed lips, to waiting Genii taught.

Its valleys know not either day or night;
Like mountain shadows darkening the plain
They slumber on, unconscious of the light
That falls on earth, like sun-thoughts on the brain.
And yet we feel her presence, as the main
Thrills to the diapason of the storm;
When the waves spring to their feet and join the strain,
These mighty wrestlers a strong chorus form,
And sing her praise, in tones deep, passionate and warm.

Yon rock, that felt the lightning’s burning kiss,
Has melted at the fervor of its breath,
As it leaped, glowing, from the deep abyss,
On wings of fire, to the distant heath,
Shaking the firm foundations underneath.
Yon shattered trunks that strew the watery way,
Yon floating beds of flowers, where many a wreath
Was woven by the storm, have felt the play
Of the hot lightning’s wings, whose touch is swift decay.

And now ’tis Night. A myriad stars have come
To cheer the earth, and sentinel the skies.
The full-orbed moon irradiates the gloom,
And fills the air with light. Each Islet lies
Immersed in shadow, soft as thy dark eyes;
Swift through the sinuous path our vessel glides,
Now hidden by the massive promontories,
Anon the bubbling silver from its sides
Spurning, like a wild bird, whose home is on the tides.

Here Nature holds her Carnival of Isles.
Steeped in warm sunlight all the merry day,
Each nodding tree and floating greenwood smiles,
And moss-crowned monsters move in grim array;
All night the Fisher spears his finny prey;
The piney flambeaux reddening the deep,
Past the dim shores, or up some mimic bay:
Like grotesque banditti they boldly sweep
Upon the startled prey, and stab them while they sleep.

Many a tale of legendary lore
Is told of these romantic Isles. The feet
Of the Red Man have pressed each wavezoned shore,
And many an eye of beauty oft did greet
The painted warriors and their birchen fleet,
As they returned with trophies of the slain.
That race has passed away; their fair retreat
In its primeval loneness smiles again,
Save where some vessel snaps the isle-enwoven chain:

Save where the echo of the huntsman’s gun
Startles the wild duck from some shallow nook,
Or the swift hounds’ deep baying, as they run,
Rouses the lounging student from his book;
Or where, assembled by some sedgy brook,
A pie-nic party, resting in the shade,
Spring pleasedly to their feet, to catch a look
At the strong steamer, through the watery glade
Ploughing, like a huge serpent from its ambuscade.

We have well-nigh outstripped the nimble breeze;
The silken sail incurves the pliant mast;
As flies the comet through the infinities,
So speeds our darling shallop, lightning-fast.
The merry Isles have floated idly past;
And suddenly the waters boil and leap,
On either side the foamy spray is cast,
Hoarse Genii through the shouting Rapid sweep,
And pilot us unharmed adown the hissing steep.

The startled Galloppes shout as we draw nigh,
The Sault, delighted, hails our reckless bark,
The graceful Cedars murmur joyously,
The vexed Cascades threaten our little ark,
That sweeps, love-freighted, to its distant mark.
Again the troubled deep heaps surge on surge,
And howling billows sweep the waters dark,
Stunning the ear with their stentorian dirge,
That loudens as they strike the rocks’ resisting verge.

And we have passed the terrible Lachine,
Have felt a fearless tremor thrill the soul,
As the huge waves upreared their crests of green,
Holding our feathery bark in their control,
Asa strong eagle holds an oriole.
The brain grows dizzy with the whirl and hiss
Of the fast-crowding billows, as they roll,
Like struggling Demons, to the vexed abyss,
Lashing the tortured crags with wild, demoniac bliss.

Mont Royale rises proudly on the view,
A Royal Mount, indeed, with verdure crowned,
Bedecked with regal dwellings, not a few,
Which here and there adorn the mighty mound.
St. Helens next, a fair, enchanted ground,
A stately Isle in glowing foliage dressed,
Laved by the dark St. Lawrence all around,
Giving a grace to its enamored breast,
As pleasing to the eye as Hochelaga’s crest,

I’ve stood upon yon Mountain when the sun
Entered his cloud-built palace in the west,
Like a proud, Royal Nimrod, who had won
His home, and doffed his richest-broidered vest.
Beneath me, the vast city lay at rest;
Its great heart throbbing gently, like the close
Of Day. A prayer lay folded in my breast,
And from my lips in silence it uprose,
For heaven’s blessing on that city’s calm repose.

For there dwelt one, who, in my Boyhood’s days,
I loved with a deep passion. Many years
Have sung around me the wild paraphrase
Of life since then; and I’ve shed bitter tears,
And smiled heart-smiles; known many hopes and fears;
But my Boy-love has stood the test of time,
And ripened like her beauty. The fool leers
At Love’s sun mellowing fair Childhood’s clime,
Love, beauteous to the Child, to Man becomes sublime.