The light of morning now begins to thrill
Upon the purple mountains, and the gray
Mist-robed old pines. Brightly upon the still
Deep banks of snow looks out the eye of Day;—
The constant stream runs plashing on its way,
As melted stars might flow along blue heaven,
And its white foam grows whiter, with the play
Of sunlight, down its rocky channel driven,
Like the eternal splendor from God's forehead given.

And tree, rock, pine, all are enveloped now
With light, as with a visible soul of love:
Down the rough mountain sides the breezes blow,
And in and out each grassy shaded cove,
Making the scared dark from its dens remove,
To pine away amid the splendor-shower
That raineth to the depths of each dim grove,
And under all the rocks that sternly lower,
And even in the caves and jagged grots doth pour.

Yet a small cloud goes wandering here and there,
Whose only care seems up the hill to float,
Until the sun be risen broad and fair;
And then the unseen angel that takes note
To steer in safety this ethereal boat,
Will turn its helm toward heaven's untroubled seas,
Where its white sail will glimmer, like a mote,
One moment, and then vanish. Now the trees
Through it are seen, like shadows through transparencies.

Now the sweet dew from the rich flower-bells,
And from the quivering blades of bended grass,
Begins to rise invisibly, and swells
Into the air,—the valley's humble mass;
Like the rich incense that to God doth pass
Out of the bruised heart: the cricket's hymn,
The bird's glad anthem, the cicada's bass,
All people with their influence the dim
Soul's solitude, in this most brief, sweet interim.

Now Sorrow, sitting quietly and still,
With look all gentle, and with sad smiles kind,
And sharing in all nature's joyous thrill,
Breathes a delicious influence on the mind,
A soothing melancholy, hope-inclined;
Like the faint memory of a painful dream,
At which the heart once wept itself stone-blind;
But now which doth part pain part pleasure seem,
Until we know not which the feeling most to deem.

But soon will Sorrow re-subject her own,
Although this golden and delicious calm
Hath shaken her in her accustomed throne;
Although she sleeps, like Peace, with open palm,
And quiet eyelid, and relaxed arm.
Soon Memory again will learn to sting,
Recovered from this most unusual charm,
And from the past will gather up, and bring
Into the heart sharp agonies, its cords to wring.

She will point back to home and hearth forsaken,
To friends grown cold, perhaps inimical;
And Love again will shudderingly awaken
From troubled slumber; poverty enthrall,
And shroud again, with dark and icy pall,
My hopes, my happiness, my fatherland;
And I once more shall stand amid them all,
Cast them aside with rash and hasty hand,
Shiver my household gods, and 'mid the ruins stand.

Beloved New England! whom these jagged rocks,
These chanting pines, this sea of snowy light,
These mountains, lifted bj; volcanic shocks,
And now defying them; this hoarded white
Of snows, that scoffs at the sun; this vale so bright,
And all the thousand objects here in view,
Bring brightly forward into memory's sight
Thy hills, thy dells, thy streams, thy ocean blue,
Thy gorgeous sky, and clouds of so surpassing hue.

I have gone from thee, and perhaps forever,
Land of the free, the beautiful, the brave!
It was a mournful hour which saw me sever
The ties that bound me unto thee; which gave
Me living unto exile's narrow grave;
And now my heart is all, ay, all thine own:
Again above me thy old forests wave,
Again I hear the Atlantic's deep grave tone;
I live with thee, and am even in the world alone.

Wherever I may roam, I shall be proud
Of thee, old mother! and no less of thine:
Thy knee hath never to a tyrant bowed,
Thou hast allowed no heresies to twine
Around thee, as the gaudy poison-vine
Twines round the oak, and rots it to its core;
I love thee, and my heart is ever thine:
And here, alone, I think of thee the more,
And pace these flinty hills, and on thy glories pore.

For here, beneath these mountain-summits gray,
I think of those old venerable aisles,
Where I have passed on many a holy day,
Into the sanctity of ancient piles,
To hear thy sober creed; of those green isles
That gem thy bays and quiet ocean-nooks;
Of the bright eyes and cheeks enwreathed with smiles,
That make thee famous: of still lakes and brooks;
And, more than all, I think of quietude and books.

What is there left, that I should cling to life?
High hopes that storms smote down when scarce expanded;
A broken censer with faint odor rife,—
A waning sun,—a vessel half-ensanded,—
Life's prospects on sharp rocks and shallows stranded,—
A star just setting in a midnight-ocean,—
A smoking altar, broken and unbanded,—
Lit with the flame of hopeless love's devotion,—
A bosom shattered with its own intense emotion.

Unmanly Heart! Repine not, but be calm!
Take courage, Heart! Let us not madly mar
The effect of this sweet scene. Hope holds her palm,
Like an old friend, to me, and sets her star
Once more upon the waves of life afar;
It shall not sink again; but ever lift
Cheerily its eye above the stormy bar.
I thank thee, Hope, for thy most princely gift!
No longer, eyeless, on life's clashing waves I drift.

Farewell to thee, New England! Once again
The echo of thy name has reached my soul,
And it has vibrated: oh, not in vain,
If thou and thine shall hear. Now for the goal!
Dash through the waves, bold Heart, that madly roll
Across thy path! Much waiteth to be done,
Before Time's billows o'er my dead brain roll:
Behold the last complaining words of one,
Who has been, is, will ever be, New England's son.