The River Otter — A Fragment
A hundred times the Summer’s fragrant blooms
Have laden all the air with sweet perfumes;
A hundred times, along the mountain-side,
Autumn has flung his crimson banners wide;
A hundred times has kindly Winter spread
His snowy mantle o’er the violet’s bed;
A hundred times has Earth rejoiced to hear
The Spring’s light footsteps in the forest sere,
Since on yon grassy knoll the quick, sharp stroke
Of the young woodman’s axe the silence broke.
Not then did these encircling hills look down
On quaint old farmhouse, or on steepled town.
No church-spires pointed to the arching skies;
No wandering lovers saw the moon arise;
No childish laughter mingled with the song
Of the fair Otter, as it flowed along
As brightly then as now. Ah! little recked
The joyous river, when the sunshine flecked
Its dancing waters, that no human eye
Gave it glad welcome as it frolicked by!
The long, uncounted years had come and flown,
And it had still swept on, unseen, unknown,
Biding its time. No minstrel sang its praise,
No poet named it in immortal lays.
It played no part in legendary lore,
And young Romance knew not its winding shore.
But in her own loveliness Nature is glad,
And little she cares for man’s smile or his frown;
In the robes of her royalty still she is clad,
Though his eye may behold not her sceptre or crown!
And over our beautiful Otter the trees
Swayed lightly as now in the frolicsome breeze;
And the tremulous violet lifted an eye
As blue as its own to the laughing blue sky.
The harebell trembled on its stem
Down where the rushing waters gleam,
A sapphire on the broidered hem
Of some fair Naiad of the stream.
The buttercups, bright-eyed and bold,
Held up their chalices of gold
To catch the sunshine and the dew,
Gayly as those that bloom for you.
And deep within the forest shade,
Where broadest noon mere twilight made,
Ten thousand small, sweet censers swung,
And tiny bells by zephyrs rung,
Made tinkling music till the day
In solemn splendor died away.
The woods were full of praise and prayer,
Although no human tongue was there;
For every pine and hemlock sung
The grand cathedral aisles among,
And every flower that gemmed the sod
Looked up and whispered, “Thou art God.”
The birds sung as they sing to-day,
A song of love and joy alway.
The brown thrush from its golden throat
Poured out its long, melodious note;
The pigeons cooed; the veery threw
Its mellow thrill from spray to spray;
The wild night-hawk its trumpet blew,
And the owl cried, “Tu whit, tu whoo,”
From set of sun to break of day.
The partridge reared her fearless brood
Safe in the darkling solitude,
And the bald eagle built its nest
High on the tall cliff’s craggy crest.
And often, when the still moonlight
Made all the lonely valley bright,
Down from the hills its thirst to slake,
The deer trod softly through the brake;
While far away the spotted fawn
Waited the coming of the dawn,
And trembled when the panther’s scream
Startled it from a troubled dream.
The black bear roamed the forest wide;
The fierce wolf tracked the mountain-side;
The wild-cat’s silent, stealthy tread
Was, even there, a fear and dread;
The red fox barked—a strange, weird sound,
That woke the slumbering echoes round;
And the burrowing mink and otter hid
In their holes the tangled roots amid.
Lords of their limitless domain,
Of hill and dale, of mount and plain,
The wild things dreamed not of the hour
When they should own their Master’s power!