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Home  »  Specimens of American Poetry  »  Frederic S. Hill

Samuel Kettell, ed. Specimens of American Poetry. 1829.

By Musings

Frederic S. Hill

I LOVE sometimes to tune my simple lute,

And, as an echo to its softer strains,

Give utterance to the thoughts that often rush

Like an o’erflowing current through my soul.

What though my name, unknown amid the host

Of those who crowd around Apollo’s shrine,

Shine not emblazon’d on the rolls of Fame?

What though my wandering feet have never trod

The flowery Parnassus,—nor my lips

Imbibed poetic inspiration from

The pure Castalian spring?—still in the hour

When clouds of disappointment lower around,

And veil the scenes of beauty sketch’d by hope

In all her rainbow hues, the chord I touch,

May waken memory from her trance, and soothe

The throbbing of my heart. Sweet Poesy!

Thy full outpourings can assuage the breast

That heaves in tumult. O, if thou appear,—

Thy loosen’d tresses floating wide, thine eye

Beaming with an unearthly brightness, then

The rapt enthusiast in his ecstacy,

Forgets the chilling atmosphere of earth,

The selfish heartlessness of those around,

And thinks he wanders in thy sun-light sphere,

Holding “high converse” with thy chosen ones.

Up from the barren heath on which he treads,

The bloom of the primeval Eden springs;

Transparent waters meet him in his path,

And figures leap out even from the air,

Clothed in light drapery, and beautiful

As Houris in the Moslem Paradise.

Seek’st thou the spirit who with magic wand

Can work these wonders? Come then; let us stand

Here, on the precipice that overhangs

That everlasting deep. O God! it is

A sight too solemn to look out upon,

Unless with reverence for thy majesty,

And for thy greatness, awe. See how the waves

Come surging onward—heaving, heaving on,

As if a consciousness of their own might

ave a new impulse to them. See! they strike

The battlements fix’d by Jehovah’s hand,

And the tremendous roar tells their defeat.

Look! look again—a coronal of foam

White as a snow-wreath, now surmounts the wave

And sparkles in the sun—and now—’t is gone!

But night comes on: let us begone—we ’ll climb

Yon mountain, though it be a toilsome task.

Let no unhallow’d word pass from thy lips,

Nor impure thought dwell in thy heart—for now

We leave the earth and all its vanities

Below—and come up to a place, that seems

The threshold of th’ Eternal’s presence. Hush!

Here in this region silence sits supreme,

And now she slumbers ’neath the canopy

That darkness spreads around. The sense is pain’d

By the intensity of stillness, for

Even the breeze, although its dewy wing

Bring freshness with its stirring, in its flight

Is noiseless as the eagle, when he wheels

Alone and undisturb’d in the mid air.

The sky above looks dark and fathomless,

Like the great ocean in a troubled dream;

With a strange splendor burn the stars, and yet

Diffuse no light around, but rather seem

Like orbs that separate the realm of light

From chaos. ’T is a fearful spot—like that

Which David dreamt of, when he spoke of Him,

Who maketh darkness his abiding place.

Still shall we on?—Aye, even to yon crags.

How fearfully Earth’s bosom quakes! It heaves

With tremulous throbbing, and sends forth deep tones,

Like thunder from a necromatic cave.

Or nature’s groans of agony. Gaze now

At yonder mighty burst of waters—see—

E’en the gigantic rocks, that look as firm

As adamantine pillars, based below

The centre dark—have yielded, and retired

To make free course for the fierce torrent’s plunge,

As did the waves for Israel’s fugitives,

When the Red Sea was smitten by the rod

That had been given to Israel’s chosen judge.

The white mist rises from the cataract

In rolling clouds, like the unceasing smoke

Of incense going to the throne of God,

And o’er the silvery sheet a rainbow spreads:—

A brilliant halo round the awful brow

Of majesty.

Now we will seek the glen

That blossoms in rich beauty, like the fields

Of classic Tempe, in their loveliness.

It is a place meet for the home of those

Who leave the busy world—and in the pure,—

The blest communion of each other’s hearts,

Live in their hallow’d intercourse with Him

Who giveth them the boon of sweet content.

Of old, such haunts as this, the wood-nymphs sought,

And when the burning noon look’d hotly down,

Met with the Naiades of the neighboring streams;

These blew their wreathed shells, the others join’d

With delicate trumpets made of hollow flowers,

And fragrance mingled with the blending notes.

Here oft I sit when eve with silent pace

Steals on—when only here and there a star

Emits a doubtful ray, as though it were

Some gentle spirit coming forth to see

This earth by summer twilight—then I love

To listen to the music issuing out

In untaught freedom from each gushing fount,

And to the melody among the leaves

Of the green woods. For Fancy then can deem

These sounds the low responsive utterings

From Nature’s temple to her worshippers.

Here, thou mayst woo the spirit of Poesy,

Here thou shalt find her, in her gentler moods.