Moral Pieces, in Prose and Verse/Montevideo
ADDITIONAL POETICAL PIECES.
ON the summit of a Mountain, in Connecticut, is a small lake, near which stands a country house, four hundred feet above a fine valley, which it immediately overlooks. From the North end of the water, the rocks rise abruptly, an hundred feet higher, crowned by lofty forest trees, above whose branches a dark, grey Tower is seen, resembling the rock on which it stands, and commanding a distant view into the neighbouring States. The following is an attempt to describe this place, which bears the name of
MONTEVIDEO.
HOW sweet upon the mountains brow
To stand and mark the vales below;
The peaceful vales that calmly sleep,
Conceal'd, emerging, silent, deep;
The forest shades remote from noise,
The houses dwindled into toys;
Or turning from this gentle scene.
So mute, so distant, so serene,
Scale the steep cliff, whose ample range
Gives to the eye a holder change;
The verdant fields which rivers lave,
The broken ledge where forests wave,
The distant towns obscurely seen,
The glittering spires that gem the green,
The pale, blue line that meets the eye,
Where mountains mingle with the sky,
The floating mist in volumes roll'd,
That hovers round their bosoms cold,
Woods, wilds, and waters, scattered free,
In nature's boldest majesty.
Mark, on the mountain's cultur'd breast,
The mansion-house in beauty drest ;
Above, to brave the tempest's shock,
The lonely tow'r that crowns the rock;
Beneath, the lake, whose waters dark
Divide before the gliding bark,
With snowy sail, and busy oar,
Moving with music to the shore.
And say while musing o'er the place,
Where art to nature lends her grace,
The crimes that blast the fleeting span
Of erring, suffering, wandering man,
Unfeeling pride, and cold disdain,
The heart that wills another's pain,
Pale envy's glance, the chill of fear,
And war, and discord come not here.
How sweet around that silent lake,
As friendship guides, your way to take,
And cull the plants whose glowing heads
Bend meekly o'er their native beds,
And own the hand that paints the flow'r,
That deals the sunshine and the show'r,
That hears the sparrow in its fall,
Is kind, and good, and just to all.
Or see the sun, with morning beam,
First gild the tow'r, the tree, the stream,
And moving to his nightly rest,
Press through the portal of the west,
Close wrapt within his mantle fold
Of glowing purple dipp'd in gold;
And then to mark the queen of night,
Like some lone vestal pure and bright,
Move slowly from her silent nook,
And gild the scenes that he forsook.
And then that deep recess to find,
Where the green boughs so close are twin'd;
For there within that silent spot,
As all secluded—all forgot,
The fond enthusiast free may soar,
The sage be buried in his lore;
The poet muse, the idler sleep,
The pensive mourner bend and weep,
And fear no eye or footstep rude
Shall break that holy solitude.
Unless some viewless angel guest,
Who guards the spirits of the just,
Might seek among the rising sighs
To gather incense for the skies,
Or hover o'er that hallow'd sod,
To raise the mortal thought to God.
O gentle scene! Whose transient sight
So wakes my spirit to delight,
Where kindness, love, and joy unite;
That tho' no words the rapture speak,
The tear must tremble on the cheek,
The lay of gratitude he given,
The prayer in secret speed to heaven,
Here peace, long exil'd and opprest,
By those she came to save, distrest,
Might find repose from war's alarms,
And gaze on nature's treasured charms;
Beneath these mountain shades reclin'd,
Sing her sad dirge o'er lost mankind,
Or on mild virtue's tranquil breast,
Close her tir'd eye in gentle rest,
Forget her wounds, her toil, her pain.
And dream of Paradise again.