When insect wings are glistening in the beam Of the low sun, and mountain-tops are bright, Oh, let me, by the crystal valley-stream, Wander amid the mild and yellow light; And while the wood-thrush pipes his evening lay, Give me one lonely hour to hymn the setting day.
Oh, sun! that o'er the western mountains now Go'st down in glory! ever beautiful And blessed is thy radiance, whether thou Colorest the eastern heaven and night-mist cool, Till the bright day-star vanish, or on high Climbest and streamest thy white splendors from mid-sky.
Yet, loveliest are thy setting smiles, and fair, Fairest of all that earth beholds, the hues That live among the clouds, and flush the air, Lingering and deepening at the hour of dews. Then softest gales are breathed, and softest heard The plaining voice of streams, and pensive note of bird.
They who here roamed, of yore, the forest wide, Felt, by such charm, their simple bosoms won; They deemed their quivered warrior, when he died, Went to bright isles beneath the setting sun; Where winds are aye at peace, and skies are fair, And purple-skirted clouds curtain the crimson air,
So, with the glories of the dying day, Its thousand trembling lights and changing hues, The memory of the brave who passed away Tenderly mingled;—fitting hour to muse On such grave theme, and sweet the dream that shed Brightness and beauty round the destiny of the dead.
For ages, on the silent forests here, Thy beams did fall before the red man came To dwell beneath them in the shade the deer Fed, and feared not the arrow's deadly aim. Nor tree was felled, in all that world of woods, Save by the beaver's tooth, or winds, or rush of floods.
Then came the hunter tribes, and thou didst look, For ages, on their deeds in the hard chase, And well-fought wars; green sod and silver brook Took the first stain of blood; before thy face The warrior generations came and passed, And glory was laid up for many an age to last.
Now they are gone, gone as thy setting blaze Goes down the west, while night is pressing on, And with them the old tale of better days, And trophies of remembered power, are gone. Yon field that gives the harvest, where the plough Strikes the white bone, is all that tells their story now.
I stand upon their ashes in thy beam, The offspring of another race, I stand, Beside a stream they loved, this valley-stream; And where the night-fire of the quivered band Showed the gray oak by fits, and war-song rung, I teach the quiet shades the strains of this new tongue.
Farewell! but thou shalt come again—thy light Must shine on other changes, and behold The place of the thronged city still as night— States fallen—new empires built upon the old— But never shall thou see these realms again Darkened by boundless groves, and roamed by savage men.
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
