OCTOBER. A SONNET. Ay, thou art welcome, heaven's delicious breath, And suns grow meek, and the meek suns grow brief, In the gay woods and in the golden air, Like to a good old age released from care, Journeying, in long serenity, away. In such a bright, late quiet, would that I Might wear out life like thee, mid bowers and brooks, And, dearer yet, the sunshine of kind looks, And music of kind voices ever nigh; And when my last sand twinkled in the glass, Pass silently from men, as thou dost pass. A MEDITATION ON RHODE-ISLAND COAL. Decolor, obscuris, vilis, non ille repexam Cesariem regum, non candida virginis ornat CLAUDIAN. I SAT beside the glowing grate, fresh heaped And last I thought of that fair isle which sent I saw it once, with heat and travel spent, And scratched by dwarf-oaks in the hollow way; Now dragged through sand, now jolted over stoneA rugged road through rugged Tiverton. And hotter grew the air, and hollower grew The deep-worn path, and horror-struck, I thought, Where will this dreary passage lead me to? This long dull road, so narrow, deep, and hot? I looked to see it dive in earth outright; I looked-but saw a far more welcome sight. Like a soft mist upon the evening shore, As if just risen from its calm inland bay; The barley was just reaped-its heavy sheaves Lay on the stubble field-the tall maize stood Dark in its summer growth, and shook its leaves— And bright the sunlight played on the young For fifty years ago, the old men say, wood I saw where fountains freshened the green land, Went wandering all that fertile region o'er Rogue's Island once-but when the rogues were dead, Rhode Island was the name it took instead. Beautiful island! then it only seemed A lovely stranger-it has grown a friend. I gazed on its smooth slopes, but never dreamed How soon that bright magnificent isle would send The treasures of its womb across the sea, To warm a poet's room and boil his tea. Dark anthracite ! that reddenest on my hearth, And put to shame the men that mean thee wrong. Thou shalt be coals of fire to those that hate thee, And warm the shins of all that underrate thee. Yea, they did wrong thee foully-they who mocked Thy honest face, and said thou wouldst not burn ; Of hewing thee to chimney-pieces talked, And grew profane-and swore, in bitter scorn, Yet is thy greatness nigh. I pause to state, When, barehead, in the hot noon of July, He would not let the umbrella be held o'er him, For which three cheers burst from the mob before him. And I have seen-not many months ago An eastern Governor in chapeau bras And military coat, a glorious show! Ride forth to visit the reviews, and ah! How oft he smiled and bowed to Jonathan ! How many hands were shook and votes were won! 'Twas a great Governor-thou too shalt be Great in thy turn-and wide shall spread thy fame, And swiftly; farthest Maine shall hear of thee, And cold New Brunswick gladden at thy name, And, faintly through its sleets, the weeping isle That sends the Boston folks their cod shall smile. For thou shalt forge vast railways, and shalt heat Thou shalt make mighty engines swim the sea, Will take a man to Havre-and shalt be The moving soul of many a spinning-jenny, And ply thy shuttles, till a bard can wear As good a suit of broadcloth as the mayor. |