Moonlight upon the mountains, softly bright! The green leaves quiver in the silvery light, Shed from the starry heavens round me rise These monuments of countless centuries Gone to decay—more strong and stately now, Than when the first green crown set on each brow, Told of imperial triumph—uninscribed, They tower around, as if the past had bribed Them into silence of its stormy tale; As if the dark leaf and the midnight gale, Had found no tongue to whisper of its fate So glorious, yet so stern and desolate.
I hear them now I strange voices on the wind, Come to the haunted chambers of my mind, Lessening its power of thought. Bright images, Shaped in the mind, yet born of melodies Lost in the mighty past, before me rise, Changeful as visioned dreams of paradise; And in the dim, uncertain light, I trace Slowly uprising from their burial-place Within the wood—the nameless kings of old, Whose veins, once fall of life, have long been cold Beneath the green-sward, and whose march to fame Has left upon their tombs, not even a name.
Around me, flashing in the moon's large light, I see the sharp sword glitter; and the flight Of arrows from the shadow of each tree Telleth that death asserts his mastery. The air is teeming with the things forgot, The themes of buried ages; every spot Of earth is hallowed ground; dyed with the blood Of martyrs—martyrs they, who bravely stood, And battled for their country. They who died, Beside the stream, or on the green hill-side, Where'er death met them, sanctified the earth On which they died, and that which gave them birth!
Hark! 'tis the sound of music! I will stand And list a moment to the forest-band, Striking its thousand strings of melody, Solemnly musical from each green tree! The sound of sweet-voiced waters sendeth far Its song melodiously—from every star A spirit looks, until my bosom thrills "With their unspeakable love! Harp of the hills! Thou of the many strings, thy tones are full Of mournful feeling; strangely beautiful Are thy unnumbered airs, so softly sad That even the heart, while weeping, they make glad. How my heart swells within me! I have heard Even in the language of a little bird, A whisper as from God within my soul, Waking strange thoughts that defied control; And here the mountain-torrent speaks aloud, Full of deep eloquence—the heavens are bowed, The stars look down from their high homes above, Calmly, religiously!—a voice of love Is whispering all around, sweet as the breeze, Yet mighty as the swelling of the seas, When their wide bosoms heave tumultuously, With inward passions, struggling to be free!
The red deer boundeth past; I hear it brush The green leaves at my side; I hear the rush Through the deep forest—yet I linger here! The sound of falling waters on my ear Hath poured wild music—I have learned to love The things of nature as I aimless rove, 'Mid their dim majesty; they breathe a tone, Of deep solemnity that speaks alone To' the worn spirit, weary of the strife It ever holdeth with the outward life; Till soothed with sympathy it drops to rest, Slumbering like peace upon its Maker's breast! A place for prayer! here where the strong oaks twine Their arms together—where the forest-vine; Clinging like faithful love around her dead, Forms of itself a bower: overhead, Through the thick foliage, far and faintly gleam The sky's unnumbered stars: like a sweet dream, The rill goes singing in the old moon's light, Gladdening beneath its rays—here when the night Falls gently round me, I would raise my voice To Heaven, to bid the "wilderness rejoice," And in its love divine, send to the dry And barren heart a "day-spring from on high!"
Here would I raise an altar; loneliness Should brood like peace around me: I would bless The solitary hour, that gives to life Strength to endure the trials of its strife; And tears should be my offering. Who hath not Some unforgotten sin, o'er which his thought Hath pined in secret? And here too, the dim, Deep woods should echo to my vesper-hymn, And the wild bird would answer from the tree, Pouring its notes of free-born melody, Nature's own minstrel; here a cross should stand, To point the traveller to a better land. And they, the dead, would they not hover round, Invisible? would not the air abound, With spirit-voices—voices of the dead? I deemed of yore were forever fled To heaven, or lingered round their place of birth, The only worshipped spot on all the earth, For warm, devoted hearts—and yet a thrill, A consciousness that they are with me still, Where'er I may be, rushes o'er my soul, Filling with reverential awe the whole, Till, like a load of fragrance on the air, I feel them spiritually every where.
And I am humbled! though I prized them well, I prized them not enough: we cannot tell How much we love the living, till the thread Of life is snapped, and they are with the dead. Then the remembrance of each uttered word, Cold or neglectful, from its depths is stirred, And drooping heavily across the heart, A shadow falls that will not thence depart. It is the ghostly feeling of regret, That haunts the bosom when all hope has set Of restitution. We may call the dead. But will they answer to the tears we shed?
And yet they hover round us constantly, To witness our repentance; though we see Them not, their wings are o'er us in the night, Guarding our slumbers; angels of the light, They tend us and we know it not; they bless Our earth-worn spirits with their tenderness, Subduing them to meekness. Did we know, Or could we only feel, that even so, Affection known too late will wear the heart With vain repinings, we might tear apart, The seeming coldness that divides too long Warm hearts that perish like a gush of song.
Beautiful, beautiful, above me shine Heaven's countless host. So on my bosom's shrine Bright stars arise, that ever shed a beam Of pensive light across my being's dream. Yet where are they, the tender and the bright, That perished from my bosom yester-night? Lost Pleiads, ever striking on the lyre Of mournful recollection, could the fire That once burnt in you, spring to life once more, You would not thus haunt memory's distant shore, But bounding upward, take your places, first Of all that on my thoughtful vision burst.
Aid from above! my soul is sorrowful With many things. Too full of pain, too full, Is our life's measure, yet we need it all: More gentle means would fail to break the thrall That binds us so to earth; and we must drink The cup with meekness, or despairing sink! Heaven proves us; painfully auction's rod O'ertakes us, bidding us return to God, Nor wander thence again; a precious soul Is in our keeping we should well control, And fit for heaven. Unto so great a trust Can we be faithless, treading it to dust?
The day-star dawneth! I have mused too long Upon the hills. I hear the wildbird's song Welcome the morn; the dew is on the flowers, Strengthening them for the hot noon-tide hours, So hopefully upon my heart I find The dews of meditation; I will bind Their purity around me, and go forth In strength and holiness; the things of earth May bend but will not break my spirit; a light Still shines from heaven across the darkest night, And lead by it gently, upward, the tired soul Will rest at last beyond the world's control.
