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(Died June 9, 1870)
ABOVE the pines the moon was slowly drifting, | |
| The river sang below; | |
| The dim Sierras, far beyond, uplifting | |
| Their minarets of snow. | |
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| The roaring camp-fire, with rude humor, painted | 5 |
| The ruddy tints of health | |
| On haggard face and form that drooped and fainted | |
| In the fierce race for wealth: | |
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| Till one arose, and from his pack’s scant treasure | |
| A hoarded volume drew, | 10 |
| And cards were dropped from hands of listless leisure | |
| To hear the tale anew. | |
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| And then, while round them shadows gathered faster, | |
| And as the firelight fell, | |
| He read aloud the book wherein the Master | 15 |
| Had writ of “Little Nell.” | |
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| Perhaps ’twas boyish fancy,—for the reader | |
| Was youngest of them all,— | |
| But, as he read, from clustering pine and cedar | |
| A silence seemed to fall; | 20 |
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| The fir-trees, gathering closer in the shadows, | |
| Listened in every spray, | |
| While the whole camp, with “Nell” on English meadows | |
| Wandered and lost their way. | |
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| And so in mountain solitudes—o’ertaken | 25 |
| As by some spell divine— | |
| Their cares dropped from them like the needles shaken | |
| From out the gusty pine. | |
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| Lost is that camp and wasted all its fire: | |
| And he who wrought that spell?— | 30 |
| Ah! towering pine and stately Kentish spire, | |
| Ye have one tale to tell! | |
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| Lost is that camp, but let its fragrant story | |
| Blend with the breath that thrills | |
| With hop-vines incense all the pensive glory | 35 |
| That fills the Kentish hills. | |
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| And on that grave where English oak and holly | |
| And laurel-wreaths entwine, | |
| Deem it not all a too presumptuous folly,— | |
| This spray of Western pine! | 40 |
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