GREENWOOD.

I would that I were dreaming, Where lovely flowers are gleaming, And the tall green grass is streaming O'er the gone—for ever gone. Motherwell.

The evening glories of a summer sky Brimming the heart with yearnings to be blest; The wood-bird's wailing as he soars on high Winging his weary way to distant nest; The murmuring billows as they kiss the strand, Bearing dim memories of stranger land; The sad mysterious voices of the night, Bathing the soul in reverie and love; The low wind, whispering of its former might To the tall trees that sigh the hills above, Like angel-tones that roll from sphere to sphere And dimly echo to the faithful ear; The flitting shadows glancing o'er the sail Of some proud ship that's dreaming on the sea; The lighthouse fires that fitful glow and pale; The far-off strains of martial minstrelsy; Wechawken's hoary head o'er hill and dell, Gloomy and proud, a giant sentinel; Such the soft charms, thou Paradise of Death! My languid spirit hath erewhile confest, When wearied with the city's tainted breath, Fever'd and faint I've sought thy shades of rest, Where all combines in heaven, and earth, and sea, To image life, death, immortality!— Here where the dusky savage twanged his bow In the old time at startled doe or fawn, Raised the shrill war-whoop at the approach of foe, His wild eye flashing with revenge and scorn; Here where the Indian maiden told her love To the soft sighing spirits of the grove. Here, where the bloody fiend of frantic war Flapped its red wings o'er hill-top and o'er plain— Where the sharp musket ring, and cannon roar, Crashed o'er the valley, thundered o'er the main, No sound is heard, save the sweet symphony Of Nature's all-pervading harmony. Here the pale willow, drooping o'er the wave, Dips its long tresses in the silvery flood; Here the blue violet, blooming o'er the grave, Distils its fragrance to the enamored wood, While the complaining turtle's mournful woe Steals on the ear in murmurs soft and low. Here its cold shaft the polished marble rears; Here, eloquent of grief, the sculptured urn Bares its white bosom to the dewy tears, Dropt pure from heaven, far purer to return! Here the grim granite's sempeternal pile In monumental grandeur stands the while. Where the still stars with gentlest radiance shine On forest green and flower-enamelled vale, Two simple columns circled by one vine, Tell to the traveller's eye the tender tale Of constancy in life and death—and love, Not e'en the horrors of the tomb could move. Here strained, and struggling with the unequal might Of sea and tempest, the poor foundering bark, And the snapp'd cable, chiselled on yon height, Where calmly sleeps the wave-tossed pilot mark; Hope, with her anchor, pointing to the sky, Triumphant hails the spirit flight on high! Hark! how the solemn spirit dirge ascends In floating cadence on the evening air, Where with clasped hands the weeping angel bends In human grief o'er her that's buried there; The gentle maid, in festive garments hurled From life's gay glitter to the gloomy world! Thy childish laughter lingers on mine ear, Thy fairy form still floats before mine eye; Still is the music of thy footsteps near, Visioned to sense by tenderest memory; Thy soul too pure for purest mortal love, Enraptured seraphs snatched to realms above! Here where the sparkling fountain flings its spray In sportive freedom, frolicksome and wild, Mocking the wood-nymphs with its gladsome lay, Serenely sleeps the dark-eyed forest child— Her kinsman's glory and her nation's pride! A chieftain's daughter and a warrior's bride! Oft shall the pale face, pensive o'er thy mound, Weep for the white man's shame, the red man's wrong; Oft from spring warblers, o'er this hallowed ground, Shall gush the tenderest melody of song, For the poor pilgrim to that distant shore, Her fathers loved, their sons shall see no more! Pause, weary wanderer, pause! In yon lone glade Where silence reigns in deep funereal gloom, Where the pale moonbeams struggle through the shade, Open the portals of "The Stranger's Tomb!" No holier symbol taught since time began The sacred sympathy of man for man! Dear Greenwood! when the solemn heights I tread, And catch the gray old ocean's sullen roar, Chanting the dirge of the mighty dead, Over whose graves the oblivious billows pour, A tearful prayer is gushing from my breast, "Here in thy peaceful bosom may I rest!— "Rest till the signal calls the ransomed throng With shouts their Saviour and their God to greet; Rest till the harp, the trumpet, and the song Summon the dead, Death's conqueror to meet; And love, imperfect, man's best gift below, In heaven eternal rapture shall bestow!"