Selections from the American Poets/The edge of the Swamp
THE EDGE OF THE SWAMP.
'Tis a wild spot and hath a gloomy look;The bird sings never merrily in the trees,And the young leaves seem blighted. A rank growthSpreads poisonously round, with pow'r to taint,With blistering dews, the thoughtless hand that daresTo penetrate the covert. CypressesCrowd on the dank, wet earth; and, stretched at length,The cayman—a fit dweller in such home—Slumbers, half buried in the sedgy grass,Beside the green ooze where he shelters him.A whooping crane erects his skeleton form,And shrieks in flight. Two summer ducks, arousedTo apprehension as they hear his cry,Dash up from the lagoon with marvellous, haste,Following his guidance. Meetly taught by these,And startled at our rapid, near approach,The steel-jawed monster, from his grassy bed,Crawls slowly to his slimy, green abode,Which straight receives him. You behold him now,His ridgy back uprising as he speedsIn silence to the centre of the stream,Whence his head peers alone. A butterfly,That, travelling all the day, has counted climesOnly by flowers, to rest himself a while,Lights on the monster's brow. The surly muteStraightway goes down, so suddenly, that he,
The dandy of the summer flow'rs and woods,Dips his light wings and spoils his golden coatWith the rank water of that turbid pond.Wondering and vex'd, the pluméd citizenFlies, with an hurried effort, to the shore,Seeking his kindred flow'rs; but seeks in vain:Nothing of genial growth may there be seen,Nothing of beautiful! Wild, ragged trees,That look like felon spectres—fetid shrubs,That taint the gloomy atmosphere—dusk shades,That gather, half a cloud and half a fiendIn aspect, lurking on the swamp's wild edge—Gloom with their sternness and forbidding frownsThe general prospect. The sad butterfly,Waving his lacker'd wings, darts quickly on,And, by his free flight, counsels us to speedFor better lodgings, and a scene more sweetThan these drear borders offer us to-night.