| |
(Excerpt)
THE RIPE red berries of the wintergreen | |
| Lure me to pause awhile | |
| In this deep, tangled wood. I stop and lean | |
| Down where these wild-flowers smile, | |
| And rest me in this shade; for many a mile, | 5 |
| Through lane and dusty street, | |
| I ’ve walked with weary, weary feet, | |
| And now I tarry mid this woodland scene, | |
| ’Mong ferns and mosses sweet. | |
| |
| Here all around me blows | 10 |
| The pale primrose. | |
| I wonder if the gentle blossom knows | |
| The feeling at my heart,—the solemn grief, | |
| So whelming and so deep | |
| That it disdains relief, | 15 |
| And will not let me weep. | |
| I wonder that the woodbine thrives and grows, | |
| And is indifferent to the nation’s woes. | |
| For while these mornings shine, these blossoms bloom, | |
| Impious rebellion wraps the land in gloom. | 20 |
| |
| Nature, thou art unkind, | |
| Unsympathizing, blind! | |
| Yon lichen, clinging to the o’erhanging rock, | |
| Is happy, and each blade of grass | |
| O’er which unconsciously I pass | 25 |
| Smiles in my face, and seems to mock | |
| Me with its joy. Alas! I cannot find | |
| One charm in bounteous Nature, while the wind | |
| That blows upon my cheek bears on each gust | |
| The groans of my poor country, bleeding in the dust. | 30 |
| |
| The air is musical with notes | |
| That gush from wingéd warblers’ throats, | |
| And in the leafy trees | |
| I hear the drowsy hum of bees. | |
| Prone from the blinding sky | 35 |
| Dance rainbow-tinted sunbeams, thick with motes; | |
| Daisies are shining, and the butterfly | |
| Wavers from flower to flower;—yet in this wood | |
| The ruthless foeman stood, | |
| And every turf is drenched with human blood! * * * * * | 40 |
| |
