THE QUIET ARBOR.

———

BY W. H. C. HOSMER.

———

“Hence let me haste into the midwood shade,

And on the dark green grass, beside the brink

Of haunted stream, that by the roots of oak

Rolls o’er the rocky channel, lie at large.”

When study pales my visage, and I feel

Oppressive languor chaining heart and brain,

Away from toil and books I often steal,

Exploring haunts where Quiet holdeth reign.

I love the wild, the picturesque—and when

Her nest of moss the roving linnet weaves,

And the low thorn is beautiful with flowers,

I seek my favorite glen,

While warm winds wanton with the twinkling leaves,

And pass in pleasant idleness the hours.

Where a dark arbor, by the mingling boughs

Of two gigantic hemlock-trees, is made,

I rest my limbs, and with wild shout arouse

The ruffed-grouse from her cover in the shade;

The tapping flicker does not keep aloof,

But plies his noisy bill above my head,

To greet my coming, while the summer heat

Falls on the verdant roof

That canopies my green, luxurious bed,

With the fresh odors of the forest sweet.

I lie and listen to the lulling tones

Of the clear brook that works its winding way,

Far down through brush, and over mossy stones,

The green marge wetting with its silver spray;

The path is steep and perilous that leads

To the cold flushing waters—and few dare

Descend to quaff refreshment from their flow;

For thick, entangling weeds,

In the loose soil seem matted to ensnare

The foot of him who ventureth below.

In the rich bottom of the dale, a grove

Of sylvan giants woos the roving eye;

The topmost limbs wave not their leaves above

The shrubby brow of the declivity.

Sometimes in musing indolence I stand,

And drink in rapture from the peaceful scene,

Or call up old rememberings from sleep;

Then pluck with careless hand

The ripe, red berries of the winter-green,

That blush like rubies on the verdant steep.

I watch the wild bees from my cool retreat

Hum tunefully around the blue harebell,

Before they enter to extract the sweet

That lieth hidden in each fragrant cell.

The small ground-squirrels leave their dwellings dark

In the black, slaty soil, and gambol oft

On an old oak with star-moss overgrown,

And reft of branch and bark;

While the fierce hawk forsakes his realm aloft,

And settles on the blasted pine, his throne.

Where the broad banks slope gently downward, grow

The sassafras and other fragrant trees;

And the bright lilies of the wave below,

Give nods of recognition to the breeze.

In mild accordance with the quiet scene,

Beat tranquilly the pulses of my heart;

While Fancy populates the place with fays,

In robes of dazzling sheen,

Who dance to merry music, and depart,

While other fairy visions cheat the gaze.

Around the sapling, like a verdant belt,

The claspers of the honeysuckle twine;

The Dryades of Argos never dwelt

Within a bower more beautiful than mine.

The humming-bird is near me on the wing,

And the warm breeze with dulcet tone is stealing

Through the green plumage of the hemlocks old—

A spiritual thing;

While butterflies round marshy spots are wheeling,

Clad in their dazzling liveries of gold.

The dusky lord of knife and hatchet roves

Near my wild haunt of loveliness no more;

He saw, amid his old ancestral groves,

Throng pale invaders from a foreign shore—

Then heard the sylvan monarchs, one by one,

With all their leafy diadems laid low,

And sought an undiscoverable lair

Toward the dim, setting sun,

With empty quiver and a broken bow,

And gloomy brow contorted by despair.

The game he hunted craftily is gone,

And meadow-grass conceals his ancient trail;

The flock is feeding where his camp-fire shone,

And rang his whoop of triumph on the gale.

His implements of battle and the chase,

Are often found near my romantic bower,

For the rich scene about it is allied

To legends of his race;

And mournful traces of his day of power

Make classic grove, and glade, and river-side.

Frost, washing rain-drops, and the plough lay bare

The rude graves of his sires on hill and plain,

Exposing their white secrets to the air,

And the rough foot-fall of the whistling swain;

When Autumn robes the forest in a dress

Of many colors, he returns no more,

To pay due homage to ancestral dust,

From distant wilderness;

The wave no longer flushes with his oar,

And crusted is his tomahawk with rust.

His woodland language cannot wholly die

While swift Ganèsus, with a voice of glee,

Between bright, flowery banks is rolling by

To mix his waters with the Genesee.

These tall old hemlocks tell of other days,

When the red warrior rested in their shade,

The painted ruler of the scene around;

And the far hills that raise

Their wooded tops, by Summer lovely made,

In marks of ancient Indian rule abound.

When the life-stream is frozen in my veins,

And hollow are my features with decay,

I fondly hope my cold and stiff remains

May not be hidden from the light of day,

In the dank yard where hundreds hide their dead;

For I would rather have a pleasant grave

Beneath the roofing of my arbor green,

With wild-grass over-spread;

While far below sing bird and gurgling wave,

Through the dense, rustling thicket, dimly seen.