Blooms of the Berry. Cawein Madison Julius

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      On some hoar upland, hoar with clustered thorns,

      Hard by a river's wind-blown lisp of waves,

      Sit with young white-skinned Spring, whose dewy morns

      Laugh in his pouting cheeks which Health enslaves.

      There feast thee on the brede of his long hair,

      Where half-grown roses royal blaze.

      And cool-eyed primroses wide-diskéd bare,

      Frail stars of moonish haze,

      Contented lie wound in his breathing arms: —

      'Tis meet that grief should mingle with the wan,

      That blue of calms and gloom of storms

      Reign on the burning throne of dawn

      To glorify the world.

      Or in the peaceful calm of stormy evens,

      When the sick, bloodless West doth winding spread

      A sheeted shroud of silver o'er the heavens

      And brooches it with one rich star's gold head,

      Low lay thee down beside a mountain lake,

      Which dimples at the twilight's sigh,

      Couched on plush mosses 'neath green bosks that shake

      Storm fragrance from on high, —

      The cold, pure spice of rain-drenched forests deep, —

      And gorge thy grief upon the nightingale,

      Who with the hush a war doth keep

      That bubbles down the starlit vale

      To Silence's rapt ear.

      On southern winds shot through with amber light,

      Breeding soft balm, and clothed in cloudy white,

      The lily-fingered Spring came o'er the hills

      Waking the crocus and the daffodils.

      O'er the cold earth she breathed a tender sigh, —

      The maples sang and flung their banners high,

      Their crimson-tasseled pennons, and the elm

      Bound his dark brows with a green-crested helm.

      Beneath the musky rot of Autumn's leaves,

      Under the forest's myriad naked eaves,

      Life woke and rose in gold and green and blue,

      Robed in the star-light of the twinkling dew.

      With timid tread adown the barren wood

      Spring held her way, when, lo! before her stood

      White-mantled Winter wagging his white head,

      Stormy his brow, and stormily he said: —

      "Sole lord of terror, and the fiend of storm,

      Crowned king of despots, my envermeiled arm

      Slew these vast woodlands crimsoning all their bowers!

      Thou, Spirit of Beauty, with thy bursting flowers,

      Swollen with pride, wouldst thou usurp my throne,

      Long planted here deep in the waste's wild moan?

      Sworn foe of beauty, with a band of ice

      I'll strangle thee tho' thou be welcomer thrice!"

      So round her throat a band of blasting frost,

      Her sainted throat of snow, he coiled and crossed,

      And cast her on the dark, unfeeling mold;

      Her tender blossoms, blighted in the fold

      Of her warm bosoms, trembling bowed their brows

      In holy meekness, or in scattered rows

      Huddled about her white and silent feet,

      Or on pale lips laid fond last kisses sweet,

      And died: lilacs all musky for the May,

      And bluer violets, and snow drops lay

      Silent and dead, but yet divinely fair,

      Like ice gems glist'ning in Spring's lovely hair.

      The Beautiful, so innocent, sweet, and pure,

      Why must thou perish, and the evil still endure?

      Too soon must pass the Beautiful away!

      Too long doth Terror hold anarchal sway!

      Alas! sad heart, bow not beneath the pain,

      Time changeth all, the Beautiful wakes again!

      We can not question such; a higher power

      Knows best what bud is ripest in its flower;

      Silently plucks it at the fittest hour.

      The hoar-frost hisses 'neath the feet,

      And the worm-fence's straggling length,

      Smote by the morning's slanted strength,

      Sparkles one rib of virgin sleet.

      To withered fields the crisp breeze talks,

      And silently and sadly lifts

      The bronz'd leaves from the beech and drifts

      Them wadded down the woodland walks.

      Reluctantly and one by one

      The worthless leaves sift slowly down,

      And thro' the mournful vistas blown

      Drop rustling, and their rest is won.

      Where stands the brook beneath its fall,

      Thin-scaled with ice the pool is bound,

      And on the pebbles scattered 'round

      The ooze is frozen; one and all

      White as rare crystals shining fair.

      There stirs no life: the faded wood

      Mourns sighing, and the solitude

      Seems shaken with a mighty care.

      Decay and silence sadly drape

      The vigorous limbs of oldest trees,

      The rotting leaves and rocks whose knees

      Are shagged with moss, with misty crape.

      To sullenness the surly crow

      All his derisive feeling yields,

      And o'er the barren stubble-fields

      Flaps cawless, wrapped in hungry woe.

      The eve comes on: the teasel stoops

      Its spike-crowned head before the blast;

      The tattered leaves drive whirling past

      Like skeletons in whistling troops.

      The pithy elder copses sigh;

      Their broad blue combs with berries weighed,

      Like heavy pendulums are swayed

      With ev'ry gust that hurries by.

      Thro' matted walls of tangled brier

      That hedge the lane, the sumachs thrust

      Their scarlet torches red as rust,

      Burning with flames of stolid fire.

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