Graham's Magazine Vol XXXIII No. 1 July 1848

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Excerpt Thou, sitting on the hill-top bare,Dost see the far hills disappearIn Autumn smoke, and all the airFilled with bright leaves. Below thee spreadAre yellow harvests, rich in breadFor winter use; while over-headThe jays to one another call,And through the stilly woods there fall,Ripe nuts at intervals, where'erThe squirrel, perched in upper air,From tree-top barks at thee his fear;His cunning eyes, mistrustingly,Do spy at thee around the tree;Then, prompted by a sudden whim,Down leaping on the quivering limb,Gains the smooth hickory, from whenceHe nimbly scours along the fenceTo secret haunts. But oftener,When Mother Earth begins to stir,And like a Hadji who hath beenTo Mecca, wears a caftan green;When jasmines and azalias fillThe air with sweets, and down the hillTurbid no more descends the rill;The wonder of thy hazel eyes,Soft opening on the misty skies—Dost smile within thyself to seeThings uncontained in, seemingly,The open book upon thy knee,And through the quiet woodlands hearSounds full of mystery to earOf grosser mould—the myriad criesThat from the teeming world arise;Which we, self-confidently wise,Pass by unheeding. Thou didst yearnFrom thy weak babyhood to learnArcana of creation; turnThy eyes on things intangibleTo mortals; when the earth was still.Hear dreamy voices on the hill, In wavy woods, that sent a thrillOf joyousness through thy young veins.Ah, happy thou! whose seeking gainsAll that thou lovest, man disdainsA sympathy in joys and painsWith dwellers in the long, green lanes,With wings that shady groves explore,With watchers at the torrent's roar,And waders by the reedy shore;For thou, through purity of mind,Dost hear, and art no longer blind. Croak! croak!—who croaketh over-headSo hoarsely, with his pinion spread,Dabbled in blood, and dripping red?Croak! croak!—a raven's curse on him,The giver of this shattered limb!Albeit young, (a hundred years,When next the forest leaved appears,)Will Duskywing behold this breastShot-riddled, or divide my nestWith wearer of so tattered vest?I see myself, with wing awry,Approaching. Duskywing will spyMy altered mien, and shun my eye.With laughter bursting, through the woodThe birds will scream—she's quite too goodFor thee. And yonder meddling jay,I hear him chatter all the day,"He's crippled—send the thief away!"At every hop—"don't let him stay."I'll catch thee yet, despite my wing;For all thy fine blue plumes, thou'lt singAnother song! Is't not enoughThe carrion festering we snuff,And gathering down upon the breeze,Release the valley from disease;If longing for more fresh a meal,Around the tender flock we wheel,A marksman doth some bush conceal.This very morn, I heard an eweBleat in the thicket; there I flew,With lazy wing slow circling round,Until I spied unto the groundA lamb by tangled briars bound.The ewe, meanwhile, on hillock-side,Bleat to her young—so loudly cried,She heard it not when it replied....
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