These have no speech For idiot seasons that still come and go-- To whom the heart no offices can teach, Vainer than breezes that at midnight blow! And yet there seem Memorials still in nature, which are taught,-- Unless all pleasant fancies be a dream, To bring our sweetest histories back to thought. A famous tree Was this, three hundred years ago, when stood The hunter-chief below it, bold and free, Proud in his painted pomp and deeds of blood. By hunger taught, He gathered the brown acorn in its shade, And ere he slept, still gazing upward, caught Sweet glimpses of the night, in stars arrayed. His hatchet sunk With sharp wound, fixing his own favorite sign, Deep in the living column of its trunk, Where thou may'st read a history such as thine. He, too, could feel Such passion as awakes the noble soul-- And in fond hour, perchance, would hither steal, With one, of all his tribe, who could his ire control. And others signs, Tokens of races, greatlier taught, that came To write like record, though in smoother lines, And thus declare a still more human flame. Here love's caprice-- The hope, the doubt, the dear despondencies--- Joy that had never rest, hope without peace-- These each declared the grief he never flies. And the great oak Grew sacred to each separate pilgrimage, Nor heeded, in his bulk, the sudden stroke That scarred his giant trunk with seams of age. And we who gaze Upon each, rude memorial--letter and date-- Still undefaced by storm and length of days, Stand, as beneath the shadow of a fate! Some elder-born, A sire of wood and vale, guardian and king Of separate races, unsubdued, unshorn, Whose memories grasp the lives of every meaner thing! With great white beard Far streaming with a prophet-like display, Such as when Moses on the Mount appeared, And prostrate tribes looked down, or looked away! With outstretched arms, Paternal, as if blessing--with a grace, Such as, in strength and greatness, ever charms, As wooing the subdued one to embrace! Thus still it stood, While the broad forests, 'neath the pioneer, Perished--proud relic of the ancient wood-- Men loved the record-tree, and bade them spare! And still at noon, Repairing to its shadow, they explore Its chronicles, still musing o'er th' unknown, And telling well-known histories, told of yore! We shall leave ours, Dear heart! and when our sleep beneath its boughs Shall suffer spring to spread o'er us her flowers, Eyes that vow love like ours shall trace our vows. THE RAINBOW.