Blooms of the Berry

THE SPIRITS OF LIGHT AND DARKNESS

[VOICES SINGING.]FIRST CHORUSEre the birth of Death and of Time,Ere the birth of Hell and its torments,Ere the orbs of heat and of rimeAnd the winds to the heavens were as garments,Worm-like in the womb of Space,Worm-like from her monster womb,We sprung, a myriad raceOf thunder and tempest and gloom.SECOND CHORUSAs from the evil goodSprings like a fire,As bland beatitudeWells from the dire,So was the Chaos broodOf us the sire.FIRST CHORUSWe had lain for gaunt ages asleep'Neath her breast in a bulk of torpor,When down through the vasts of the deepClove a sound like the notes of a harper;Clove a sound, and the horrors grewTumultuous with turbulent night,With whirlwinds of blackness that blew,And storm that was godly in might.And the walls of our prison were shatteredLike the crust of a fire-wrecked world;Like torrents of clouds that are scatteredOn the face of the Night we are hurled.SECOND CHORUSUs, in unholy thoughtPatiently lying,Eons of violence wrought,Violence defying.When on a mighty wind, —Born of a godly mindLarge with a motive kind, —Girdled with wonder,Flame and a strength of songRushed in a voice along,Burst and, lo! we were strong —Strong as the thunder.FIRST CHORUSWe lurk in the upper spaces,Where the oceans of tempest are born,Where the scowls of our shadowy facesAre safe from the splendors of morn.Our homes are wrecked worlds and each planetWhose sun is a light that is sped;Bleak moons whose cold bodies of graniteAre hollow and flameless and dead.SECOND CHORUSWe in the living sunLive like a passion;Ere all his stars begunWe and the sun were one,As God did fashion.Lo! from our burning hands,Flung like inspired brands,Hurled we the stars, like sandsWhirled in the ocean;And all our breath was life,Life to those worlds and rifeWith ever-moving strife,Passion for motion.FIRST CHORUSOur beds are the tombs of the mortals;We feed on their crimes and the thoughtThat falters and halts at the portalsOf actions, intentions unwrought.We cover the face of to-morrow;We frown in the hours that be;We breathe in the presence of sorrow,And death and destruction are we.SECOND CHORUSWe are the hope and ease,Joy and the pleasure,Authors of love and peace,Love that shall never cease,Free as the azure.Birth of our eyes – the might,Power and strength of light,Victor o'er death and night,Flesh and its yearnings:And from our utt'rance streamsBeauty with burningsAfter completer dreams,Fuller discernings.Morning and birth are ours,Dew that is blownFrom our light lips like flowers;Clouds and the beating showers,Stars that are sown;Song and the bursting buds,Life of the many floods,Winds that are strown.Ye in your darkness areDark and infernal;Subject to death and mar!But in the spaces far,Like our effulgent star,We are eternal!

TO SORROW

IO tear-eyed goddess of the marble brow,Who showerest snows of tresses on the nightOf anguished temples! lonely watcher, thouWho bendest o'er the couch of life's dead light!Who in the hollow hours of night's noonRockest the cradle of the child,Whose fever-blooded eyeballs seek the moonTo cool their pulses wild.Thou who dost stoop to kiss a sister's cheek,Which rules the alabastar death with youth;Thou who art mad and strangely meek, —Empress of passions, couth, uncouth,We kneel to thee!IIO Sorrow, when the sapless world grows white,And singing gathers on her springtide robes,On some bleak steep which takes the ruby lightOf day, braid in thy locks the spirit globesOf cool, weak snowdrops dashed with frozen dew,And hasten to the leas belowWhere Spring may wandered be from the rich blueWhich rims yon clouds of snow.From the pied crocus and the violet's hues,Think then how thou didst rake the bosoming snow,To show some mother the soft bluesOf baby eyes, the sparkling glowOf dimple-dotted cheeks.IIIOn some hoar upland, hoar with clustered thorns,Hard by a river's wind-blown lisp of waves,Sit with young white-skinned Spring, whose dewy mornsLaugh in his pouting cheeks which Health enslaves.There feast thee on the brede of his long hair,Where half-grown roses royal blaze.And cool-eyed primroses wide-diskéd bare,Frail stars of moonish haze,Contented lie wound in his breathing arms: —'Tis meet that grief should mingle with the wan,That blue of calms and gloom of stormsReign on the burning throne of dawnTo glorify the world.IVOr in the peaceful calm of stormy evens,When the sick, bloodless West doth winding spreadA sheeted shroud of silver o'er the heavensAnd brooches it with one rich star's gold head,Low lay thee down beside a mountain lake,Which dimples at the twilight's sigh,Couched on plush mosses 'neath green bosks that shakeStorm fragrance from on high, —The cold, pure spice of rain-drenched forests deep, —And gorge thy grief upon the nightingale,Who with the hush a war doth keepThat bubbles down the starlit valeTo Silence's rapt ear.

THE PASSING OF THE BEAUTIFUL

On southern winds shot through with amber light,Breeding soft balm, and clothed in cloudy white,The lily-fingered Spring came o'er the hillsWaking the crocus and the daffodils.O'er the cold earth she breathed a tender sigh, —The maples sang and flung their banners high,Their crimson-tasseled pennons, and the elmBound his dark brows with a green-crested helm.Beneath the musky rot of Autumn's leaves,Under the forest's myriad naked eaves,Life woke and rose in gold and green and blue,Robed in the star-light of the twinkling dew.With timid tread adown the barren woodSpring held her way, when, lo! before her stoodWhite-mantled Winter wagging his white head,Stormy his brow, and stormily he said: —"Sole lord of terror, and the fiend of storm,Crowned king of despots, my envermeiled armSlew these vast woodlands crimsoning all their bowers!Thou, Spirit of Beauty, with thy bursting flowers,Swollen with pride, wouldst thou usurp my throne,Long planted here deep in the waste's wild moan?Sworn foe of beauty, with a band of iceI'll strangle thee tho' thou be welcomer thrice!"So round her throat a band of blasting frost,Her sainted throat of snow, he coiled and crossed,And cast her on the dark, unfeeling mold;Her tender blossoms, blighted in the foldOf her warm bosoms, trembling bowed their browsIn holy meekness, or in scattered rowsHuddled about her white and silent feet,Or on pale lips laid fond last kisses sweet,And died: lilacs all musky for the May,And bluer violets, and snow drops laySilent and dead, but yet divinely fair,Like ice gems glist'ning in Spring's lovely hair.The Beautiful, so innocent, sweet, and pure,Why must thou perish, and the evil still endure?Too soon must pass the Beautiful away!Too long doth Terror hold anarchal sway!Alas! sad heart, bow not beneath the pain,Time changeth all, the Beautiful wakes again!We can not question such; a higher powerKnows best what bud is ripest in its flower;Silently plucks it at the fittest hour.

A NOVEMBER SKETCH

The hoar-frost hisses 'neath the feet,And the worm-fence's straggling length,Smote by the morning's slanted strength,Sparkles one rib of virgin sleet.To withered fields the crisp breeze talks,And silently and sadly liftsThe bronz'd leaves from the beech and driftsThem wadded down the woodland walks.Reluctantly and one by oneThe worthless leaves sift slowly down,And thro' the mournful vistas blownDrop rustling, and their rest is won.Where stands the brook beneath its fall,Thin-scaled with ice the pool is bound,And on the pebbles scattered 'roundThe ooze is frozen; one and allWhite as rare crystals shining fair.There stirs no life: the faded woodMourns sighing, and the solitudeSeems shaken with a mighty care.Decay and silence sadly drapeThe vigorous limbs of oldest trees,The rotting leaves and rocks whose kneesAre shagged with moss, with misty crape.To sullenness the surly crowAll his derisive feeling yields,And o'er the barren stubble-fieldsFlaps cawless, wrapped in hungry woe.The eve comes on: the teasel stoopsIts spike-crowned head before the blast;The tattered leaves drive whirling pastLike skeletons in whistling troops.The pithy elder copses sigh;Their broad blue combs with berries weighed,Like heavy pendulums are swayedWith ev'ry gust that hurries by.Thro' matted walls of tangled brierThat hedge the lane, the sumachs thrustTheir scarlet torches red as rust,Burning with flames of stolid fire.The evening's here – cold, hard, and drear;The lavish West with bullion brightOf molten silver walls the nightFar as one star's thin rays appear.Wedged toward the West's cold luridnessThe wild geese fly 'neath roseless domes;The wild cry of the leader comesDistant and harsh with loneliness.The pale West dies, and in its cupBubble on bubble pours the night:The East glows with a mystic light;The stars are keen; the moon is up.

THE WHITE EVENING

From gray, bleak hills 'neath steely skiesThro' beards of ice the forests roar;Along the river's humming shoreThe skimming skater bird-like flies.On windy meads where wave white breaks,Where fettered briers' glist'ning handsReach to the cold moon's ghastly lands,Hoots the lorn owl, and crouching quakes.With frowsy snow blanched is the world;Stiff sweeps the wind thro' murmuring pines,Then fiend-like deep-entangled whinesThro' the dead oak, that vagrant twirledPhantoms the cliff o'er the wild wold:Ghost-vested willows rim the stream,Low hang lank limbs where in a dreamThe houseless hare leaps o'er the coldOn snow-tressed crags that twinkling flash,Like champions mailed for clanking war,Glares down large Phosphor's quiv'ring star,Where teeth of foam the fierce seas gnash.Slim o'er the tree-tops weighed with whiteThe country church's spire doth swell,A scintillating icicle,While fitfully the village lightIn sallow stars stabs the gray dark;Homeward the creaking wagons strainThro' knee-deep drifts; the steeple's vaneA flitting ghost whirls in its sark.Down from the flaky North with clash,Swathed in his beard of flashing sleet,With steeds of winds that jangling beatLife from the world, and roaring dash, —Loud Winter! ruddy as a roseBlown by the June's mild, musky lips;The high moon dims her horn that dips,And fold on fold roll down the snows.

SUMMER

INow Lucifer ignites her taper brightTo greet the wild-flowered Dawn,Who leads the tasseled Summer draped with lightDown heaven's gilded lawn.Hark to the minstrels of the woods,Tuning glad harps in haunted solitudes!List to the rillet's music soft,The tree's hushed song:Flushed from her star aloftComes blue-eyed Summer stepping meek along.IIAnd as the lusty lover leads her in,Clad in soft blushes red,With breezy lips her love he tries to win,Doth many a tear-drop shed:While airy sighs, dyed in his heart,Like Cupid's arrows, flame-tipped o'er her dart,He bends his yellow head and cravesThe timid maidFor one sweet kiss, and lavesHer rose-crowned locks with tears until 'tis paid.IIICome to the forest or the musky meadowsBrown with their mellow grain;Come where the cascades shake green shadows,Where tawny orchards reign.Come where fall reapers ply the scythe,Where golden sheaves are heaped by damsels blithe:Come to the rock-rough mountain old,Tree-pierced and wild;Where freckled flowers paint the wold,Hail laughing Summer, sunny-haired, blonde child!IVCome where the dragon-flies in coats of blueFlit o'er the wildwood streams,And fright the wild bee from the honey-dewWhere if long-sipping dreams.Come where the touch-me-nots shy peepGold-horned and speckled from the cascades steep:Come where the daisies by the rustic bridgeDisplay their eyes,Or where the lilied sedgeFrom emerald forest-pools, lance-like, thick rise.VCome where the wild deer feed within the brakeAs red as oak and strong;Come where romantic echoes wildly wakeOld hills to mystic song.Come to the vine-hung woodlands hoary,Come to the realms of hunting song and story;But come when Summer decks the landWith garb of gold,With colors myriad as the sand —A birth-fair child, tho' thousand summers old.VICome where the trees extend their shining armsUnto the star-sown skies;Displaying wrinkled age in limb-gnarled charmsWhen Night, moon-eyed, brown liesUpon their bending lances seenWith fluttered pennons in the moon's broad sheen.Come where the pearly dew is spreadUpon the rose;Come where the fire-flies wedThe drowsy Night flame-stained with sudden glows.VIICome to the vine-dark dingle's whispering glensWhite with their blossoms pale;Come to the willowed weed-haired lakes and fens;Come to the tedded vale.Come all, and greet the brown-browed childWith lips of honey red as a poppy wild,Clothed in her vernal robes of old,Her hair with wheatAll tawny as with gold;Hail Summer with her sandaled grain-bound feet!

NIGHT

Lo! where the car of Day down slopes of flameOn burnished axle quits the drowsy skies!And as his snorting steeds of glowing brassRush 'neath the earth, a glimmering dust of goldFrom their fierce hoofs o'er heaven's azure meadsRolls to yon star that burns beneath the moon.With solemn tread and holy-stoled, star-bound,The Night steps in, sad votaress, like a nun,To pace lone corridors of th' ebon-archéd sky.How sad! how beautiful! her raven locksPale-filleted with stars that dance their sheenOn her deep, holy eyes, and woo to sleep,Sleep or the easeful slumber of white Death!How calm o'er this great water, in its flowSilent and vast, smoothes yon cold sister sphere,Her lucid chasteness feathering the wax-white foam!As o'er a troubled brow falls calm content:As clear-eyed chastity in this bleak worldTinges and softens all the darker dross.See, where the roses blow at the wood's edgeIn many a languid bloom, bowed to the moonAnd the dim river's lisp; sleep droops their lidsWith damask lashes trimmed and fragile rayed,Which the mad, frolic bee – rough paramour —So often kissed beneath th' enlivening sun.How cool the breezes touch the tired headWith unseen fingers long and soft! and thereFrom its white couch of thorn-tree blossoms sweet,Pillowed with one milk cluster, floating, swooning,Drops the low nocturne of a dreaming bird,Ave Maria, nun-like, slumb'ring sung.See, there the violet mound in many an eye,A deep-blue eye, meek, delicate, and sad,As Sorrow's own sad eyes, great with far dreams,When haltingly she bends o'er Lethe's wavesFalt'ring to drink, and falt'ring still remains,The Night with feet of moon-tinged mist swept o'erThem now, but as she passed she bent and kissedEach modest orb that selfless hung as tho'Thought-freighted low; then groped her train of jetWhich billowing by did merely waft the soundOf a brief gust to each wild violet,To kiss each eye and laugh; then shed a tearUpon each downward face which nestled there.She weeping from her silent vigil turns,As some pale mother from her cradled child,Frail, sick, and wan, with kisses warm and songsWooed to a peaceful ease and tranquil rest,When the rathe cock crows to the graying East.

DAWN

IMist on the mountain heightSilvery creeping;Incarnate beads of lightBloom-cradled sleeping,Dripped from the brow of Night.IIShadows, and winds that riseOver the mountain;Stars in the spar that liesCold in the fountain,Pale as the quickened skies.IIISheep in the wattled foldsDreamily bleating,Dim on the thistled wolds,Where, glad with meeting,Morn the thin Night enfolds.IVSleep on the moaning seaHushing his trouble;Rest on the cares that beHued in Life's bubble,Calm on the woes of me…VMist from the mountain heightHurriedly fleeting;Star in the locks of NightThrobbing and beating,Thrilled with the coming light.VIFlocks on the musky strips;Pearl in the fountain;Winds from the forest's lips;Red on the mountain;Dawn from the Orient trips.

JUNE

IHotly burns the amaryllisWith its stars of red;Whitely rise the stately liliesFrom the lily bed;Withered shrinks the wax May-apple'Neath its parasol;Chilly dies the violet dappleIn its earthly hall.IIMarch is but a blust'ring liar,April a sad love,May a milkmaid from the byreFlirting in the grove.June is rich in many blossoms,She's the one I'll woo;Health swells in her sunny bosoms,She's my sweetheart true.

THE JESSAMINE AND THE MORNING-GLORY

IOn a sheet of silver the morning-star layFresh, white as a baby child,And laughed and leaped in his lissome way,On my parterre of flowers smiled.For a morning-glory's spiral budOf shell-coned tallness slimStood ready to burst her delicate hoodAnd bloom on the dawning dim:A princess royal in purple bornTo beauty and pride in the balmy morn.IIAnd she shook her locks at the morning-starAnd her raiment scattered wide;Low laughed at a hollyhock's scimetar,Its jewels of buds to deride.The pomegranate near, with fingers of flame,The hot-faced geraniums nigh,Their proud heads bowed to the queenly dameFor they knew her state was high:The fuchsia like a bead of bloodBashfully blushed in her silvery hood.IIIAll wit that this child of the morning lightWas queen of the morn and them,That the orient star in his beams of whiteWas her prince in a diadem;For lavish he showered those pearls that flashAnd cluster the front of her smock;From his lordly fingers of rays did dashDown zephyrs her crib to rock.But a jessamine pale 'neath the arbor grew,Meek, selfless, and sweet, and a virgin true.IVBut the morning-glory disdained her birth,Of her chastity made a scorn:"I marvel," she said, "if thy mother earthWas not sick when thou wast born!Thou art pale as an infant an hour dead —Wan thing, dost weary our eye!"And she weakly laughed and stiffened her headAnd turned to her love i' the sky.But the jessamine turned to the rose besideWith a heavy glance and but sadly sighed.VAnd the orient grew to a wealth of bars'Neath which foam-fires churned,And the princess proud saw her lord of starsIn a torrid furnace burned;And the giant of life with his breath of flameGlared down with one red eye,And 'neath his breath this gorgeous dameIn her diamonds did wilt and die;But the jessamine fragrant waxed purer with light;For my lady's bosom I culled it that night.

THE HEREMITE TOAD

A human skull in a church-yard lay;For the church was a wreck, and the tombstones oldOn the graves of their dead were rotting awayTo the like of their long-watched mould.And an heremite toad in this desolate seatHad made him an hermitage long agone,Where the ivy frail with its delicate feetCould creep o'er his cell of bone.And the ground was dark, and the springing dawn,When it struck from the tottering stones of each graveA glimmering silver, the dawn drops wanThis skull and its ivy would lave.* * * * * * *The night her crescent had thinly hungFrom a single star o'er the shattered wall,And its feeble light on the stone was flungWhere I sat to hear him call.And I heard this heremite toad as he sateIn the gloom of his ghastly hermitage,To himself and the gloom all hollowly prate,Like a misanthropic sage:"O, beauty is well and is wealth to all,But wealth without beauty makes fair;And beauty with wealth brings wooers tallWhom she snares in her golden hair."Tho' beauty be well and be wealth to all,And wealth without beauty draw men,Beauty must come to the vaulted wall,And what is wealth to her then?.."This skeleton face was beautiful erst;These sockets could mammonites sway;So she barter'd her beauty for gold accurs'd —But both have vanished away."But beauty is well when the mind it revealsMore beautiful is than the head;For beauty and wealth the tomb congeals,But the mind grows lovelier dead."And he blinked at the moon from his grinning cell,And the darnels and burdocks aroundBowed down in the night, and I murmured "Well!"For I deemed his judgment sound.

THE HEART OF SPRING

IWhiten, O whiten, ye clouds of fleece!Whiten like lilies floating above,Blown wild about like a flock of white geese!But never, O never; so cease! so cease!Never as white as the throat of my love!IIBlue-black night on the mountain peaks,Blacker the locks of my maiden love!Silvery star 'mid the evening streaksOver the torrent that flashes and breaks,Brighter the eyes of my laughing love!IIIHorn of a new moon golden 'mid gold,Broken, fluted in the tarn's close skies;Shattered and beaten, wave-like and cold,Crisper my love's locks fold on fold,Cooler and brighter where dreaming she lies!IVSilvery star o'er the precipice snow,Mist in the vale where the rivulet sings,Dropping from ledge to ledge below,Where we stood in the roseate glow,Softer the voice of her whisperings!VSound o' May winds in the blossoming trees,Sweeter the breeze my love's breath brings!Song of wild birds on the morning breeze,Song o' wild birds and murmur o' wild bees,Sweeter my love's voice when she sings!VITo the star of dawning bathed with dew,Blow, moony Sylph, your bugle of gold!Blow thro' the hyaline over the blue,Blow from the sunset the morning lands thro',Let the star of love of our love be told!

THE OLD HOUSE BY THE MERE

Five rotten gables look uponWan rotting roses and rank weeds,Old iron gates on posts of stone,Dim dingles where the vermin breeds.Five rotten gables black appearAbove bleak yews and cedars sad,And thence they see the sleepy mereIn lazy lilies clad.At morn the slender dragon-fly,A burnished ray of light, darts past;The knightly bee comes charging byWinding a surly blast.At noon amid the fervid leavesThe quarreling insects gossip hot,And thro' the grass the spider weavesA weft with silver shot.At eve the hermit cricket rearsHis vesper song in shrillful shrieks;The bat a blund'ring voyage steersBeneath the sunset's streaks.The slimy worm gnaws at the bud,The Katydid talks dreamily;The sullen owl in monkish hoodChants in the old beech tree.At night the blist'ring dew comes downAnd lies as white as autumn frostUpon the green, upon the brown,You'd deem each bush a ghost.The crescent moon with golden prowPlows thro' the frothy cloud and 's gone;A large blue star comes out to glowAbove the house alone.The oozy lilies lie asleepOn glist'ring beds of welt'ring leaves;The starlight through the trees doth peep,And fairy garments weaves.And in the mere, all lily fair,A maiden's corpse floats evermore,Naked, and in her raven hairWrapped o'er and o'er.And when the clock of yon old townPeals midnight o'er the fenny heath,In haunted chambers up and downMarches the pomp of Death:And stiff, stiff silks make rustlings,Sweep sable satins murmuringly;And then a voice so sweetly singsAn olden melody.And foam-white creatures flit and danceAlong the dusty galleries,With long, loose locks that strangely glanceAnd demon-glaring eyes.But in one chamber, when the moonCasts her cold silver wreath on wreath,Holds there proud state on ghastly throneThe skeleton Death.

SUBSTRATUM

Hear you r o music in the creaksMade by the sallow grasshopper,Who in the hot weeds sharply breaksThe mellow dryness with his cheer?Or did you by the hearthstones hearThe cricket's kind, shrill strain when frostWorked mysteries of silver nearUpon the casement's panes, and lostWithout the gate-post seemed a sheeted ghost?Or through the dank, dim Springtide's nightGreen minstrels of the marshlands tuneTheir hoarse lyres in the pale twilight,Hailing the sickle of the moonFrom flag-thronged pools that glassed her lune?Or in the Summer, dry and loud,The hard cicada whirr aboonHis long lay in a poplar's cloud,When the thin heat rose wraith-like in a shroud?The cloud that lids the naked moon,And smites the myriad leaves with nightOf stormy lashes, livid strewnWith veins of branched and splintered light;The fruitful glebe with blossoms white,The thistle's purple plume; the tearsPearling the matin buds' delight,Contain a something, it appears,'Neath their real selves – a poetry that cheers.Nor scoff at those who on the woldSee fairies whirling in the shineOf prodigal moons, whose lavish goldPaves wood-ways, forests wild with vine,When all the wilderness with wineOf tipsy dew is dazed; nor sayOur God's restricted to confineHis wonders solely to the day,That yields the abstract tangible to clay.Ponder the entrance of the MornWhen from her rubric forehead farShines one clean star, and the dead tarn,The wooded river's red as war:Where arid splinters of the scarLock horns above a blue abyss,How roses prank each icy bar,While piled aloft the mountains press,Fling dawn below from many a hoary tress.The jutting crags, all stubborn-veinedWith iron life, where eaglets screamIn dizzy flocks, and cleave the stainedMist-rainbows of the mountain stream;Thus you will drink the thickest creamOf nature if you do not scanThe bald external; and must deemA plan existent in a plan —As life in thrifty trees or soul in man.

ALONG THE OHIO

Athwart a sky of brass rich ribs of gold;A bullion bulk the wide Ohio lies;Beneath the sunset, billowing manifold,The purple hill-tops rise.And lo! the crescent of a crystal moon,And great cloud-feathers flushed with crimson lightDrifting above the pureness of her lune,Rent from the wings of night.A crescent boat slips o'er the burnished stream;A silver wake, that broadens far behind,Follows in ripples, and the paddles gleamAgainst the evening wind.So, in this solitude and evening hush,Again to me the Old Kentucky gloomsBehold the red man lurking in yon bushIn paint and eagle plumes.And now the breaking of the brittle brush —An altered forehead hirsute swells in view,And now comes stealing down the river's gushThe dip of the canoe.The wigwams glimmer in night's settling waves,And, wildly clad, around the camp-fire's glowSit long-haired chieftains 'mid their wily braves,Each grasping his war-bow.But now yon boat on fading waters fades;The ostrich-feathered clouds have lost their light,And from the West, like somber sachem shades,Gallop the shades of night.The broad Ohio wavers 'neath the stars,And many murmurs whisper 'mid the woods —Tumultuous mournings of dead warriorsFor their lost solitudes.And like a silver curl th' Ohio liesAmong the earth's luxuriance of hair;Majestic as she met the red man's eyes —As beautiful and fair.No marvel that the warrior's love waxed flameFighting for thee, Kentucky, till he woundInseparably 'round thee that old nameOf dark and bloody ground!But peace to those wild braves whose bones are thine!And peace to those rude pioneers whose moonOf glory rose, 'mid stars of lesser shine,In name of Daniel Boone!"Peace! peace!" the lips of all thy forests roar;The rivers mutter peace unto thy strand:Thy past is dead, and let us name thee o'er,The hospitable land!