Born where the thunder and the blast, And morning's earliest light are born, Thou rushest swoln, and loud, and fast, By these low homes, as if in scorn: Yet humbler springs yield purer waves; And brighter, glassier streams than thine, Sent up from earth's unlighted caves, With heaven's own beam and image shine. Yet stay; for here are flowers and trees; Warm rays on cottage roofs are here, And laugh of girls, and hum of bees-- Here linger till thy waves are clear. Thou heedest not--thou hastest on; From steep to steep thy torrent falls, Till, mingling with the mighty Rhone, It rests beneath Geneva's walls. Rush on--but were there one with me That loved me, I would light my hearth Here, where with God's own majesty Are touched the features of the earth. By these old peaks, white, high, and vast, Still rising as the tempests beat, Here would I dwell, and sleep, at last, Among the blossoms at their feet. TO COLE, THE PAINTER, DEPARTING FOR EUROPE. A SONNET. Thine eyes shall see the light of distant skies: Yet, COLE! thy heart shall bear to Europe's strand A living image of thy native land, Such as on thine own glorious canvas lies; Lone lakes--savannas where the bison roves-- Rocks rich with summer garlands--solemn streams-- Skies, where the desert eagle wheels and screams-- Spring bloom and autumn blaze of boundless groves. Fair scenes shall greet thee where thou goest--fair, But different--everywhere the trace of men, Paths, homes, graves, ruins, from the lowest glen To where life shrinks from the fierce Alpine air, Gaze on them, till the tears shall dim thy sight, But keep that earlier, wilder image bright. TO THE FRINGED GENTIAN. Thou blossom bright with autumn dew, And coloured with the heaven's own blue, That openest when the quiet light Succeeds the keen and frosty night. Thou comest not when violets lean O'er wandering brooks and springs unseen, Or columbines, in purple dressed, Nod o'er the ground-bird's hidden nest. Thou waitest late and com'st alone, When woods are bare and birds are flown, And frosts and shortening days portend The aged year is near his end. Then doth thy sweet and quiet eye Look through its fringes to the sky, Blue--blue--as if that sky let fall A flower from its cerulean wall. I would that thus, when I shall see The hour of death draw near to me, Hope, blossoming within my heart, May look to heaven as I depart. THE TWENTY-SECOND OF DECEMBER. Wild was the day; the wintry sea Moaned sadly on New-England's strand, When first the thoughtful and the free, Our fathers, trod the desert land. They little thought how pure a light, With years, should gather round that day; How love should keep their memories bright, How wide a realm their sons should sway. Green are their bays; but greener still Shall round their spreading fame be wreathed, And regions, now untrod, shall thrill With reverence when their names are breathed.