Graham's Magazine Vol XXXIII No. 1 July 1848

Thou, sitting on the hill-top bare, Dost see the far hills disappear In Autumn smoke, and all the air Filled with bright leaves. Below thee spread Are yellow harvests, rich in bread For winter use; while over-head The jays to one another call, And through the stilly woods there fall, Ripe nuts at intervals, where'er The 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 whence He nimbly scours along the fence To secret haunts.
But oftener, When Mother Earth begins to stir, And like a Hadji who hath been To Mecca, wears a caftan green; When jasmines and azalias fill The air with sweets, and down the hill Turbid no more descends the rill; The wonder of thy hazel eyes, Soft opening on the misty skies— Dost smile within thyself to see Things uncontained in, seemingly, The open book upon thy knee, And through the quiet woodlands hear Sounds full of mystery to ear Of grosser mould—the myriad cries That from the teeming world arise; Which we, self-confidently wise, Pass by unheeding. Thou didst yearn From thy weak babyhood to learn Arcana of creation; turn Thy eyes on things intangible To mortals; when the earth was still. Hear dreamy voices on the hill,
In wavy woods, that sent a thrill Of joyousness through thy young veins. Ah, happy thou! whose seeking gains All that thou lovest, man disdains A sympathy in joys and pains With 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-head So 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 breast Shot-riddled, or divide my nest With wearer of so tattered vest? I see myself, with wing awry, Approaching. Duskywing will spy My altered mien, and shun my eye. With laughter bursting, through the wood The birds will scream—she's quite too good For 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 sing Another song!