The Portland Sketch Book. Various

       Table of Contents

      A beauteous Cove, amid the isles

       That sprinkle Casco's winding bay,

       Where, like an Eden, nature smiles

       In all her wild and rich array.

       'Tis sheltered from the ocean's roar

       By beetling crags and foam-girt rifts,

       And mossy trees, that ages hoar

       Have braved the sea-gales on its cliffs!

       The broad-armed oak, the beech and pine,

       And elm, their branches intertwine

       Above its tranquil, glassy face,

       So that the sun finds scarcely space

       At mid-day, for his fervid beam

       To shimmer on the limpid stream;

       And in its rugged, sparry caves,

       Worn by the winter's tempest waves,

       Gleams many a crystal wildly bright

       Like diamonds, flashing radiant light, And hence the fairy spot is 'hight.'

      The forests far extending round,

       Ne'er to the spoiler's axe resound;

       Nor is man's toil or traces there;

       But resteth all as lone and fair—

       The sunny slopes, the rocks and trees,

       As desert isles in Indian seas,

       That sometimes rise upon the view

       Of some far-wandering, wind-bound crew,

       Sleeping alone mid ocean's blue.

      The lonely ospray rears her brood

       Deep in the forest-solitude;

       And through the long, bright summer day,

       When ocean, calm as mountain lake,

       Bears not a breath its hush to break,

       The snow-winged sea-gull tilts away

       Upon the long, smooth swell, that sweeps,

       In curving, wide, unbroken reach,

       Into the cove from outer deeps,

       Unwinding up the pebbly beach.

      Oft blithly ring the wide old woods,

       Within their loneliest solitudes,

       To youthful shout, and song, and glee,

       And viol's merry minstrelsy,

       When summer's stirless, sultry air

       Pervades the city's thoroughfare,

       And drives the throng to seek the shades

       Of these green, zephyr-breathing glades!

       The dance goes round; the trunks so tall—

       Rough columns of the festal hall—

       Sustain a broad and lofty roof

       Of nature's greenest, loveliest woof!

       The maiden weaves, in lieu of wreath,

       The bending fern-plumes in her hair,

       And the wild flowers with scented breath,

       That spring to blossom every where

       Around; the forest's dream-like rest

       Drives care and sorrow from each breast,

       And makes the worn and weary blest!

      And when the broad, dim waters blush

       Beneath the tints of ebbing day,

       When comes the moon out in the hush

       Of eve, with mellow, timid ray,

       And twilight lingers far away

       On the blue waste, the fisher's skiff

       Comes dancing in, and 'neath the cliff

       Is moored to rest, till morning's train

       Beams with fresh beauty o'er the main,

       And wakes him to his toil again!

      O, lovely there is sunset-hour!

       When twilight falls with soothing power

       Along the forest-windings dim,

       And from the thicket, sweet and low,

       The red-breast tunes a farewell hymn

       To daylight's latest, lingering glow—

       When slope, and rock, and wood around,

       In all their dreamy, hushed repose,

       Are glassed adown the bright profound—

       And passing fair is evening's close!

       When from the bright, cerulean dome,

       The sea-fowl, that have all the day

       Wheeled o'er the far, lone billows' spray,

       Come thronging to their eyries home;

       When over rock and wave, remote,

       From yon dim fort, the bugle's note

       Along the listening air doth creep,

       Seeming to steal down from the sky,

       Or with out-bursting, martial sweep

       Rings through the forests, clanging high,

       While echo waked bears on the strain,

       Till faint, beyond the trackless main,

       In realms of space it seems to die.

       But lovelier still is night's calm noon!

       When like a sea-nymph's fairy bark,

       The mirrored crescent of the moon

       Swings on the waters weltering dark;

       And in her solitary beam,

       Upon each bald, storm-beaten height,

       The quartz and mica wildly gleam,

       Spangling the rocks with magic light;

       And when a silvery minstrelsy

       Is swelling o'er the dim-lit sea,

       As of some wandering fairy throng,

       Passing on viewless wing along,

       Tuning their spirit-lyres to song;

       And when the night's soft breeze comes out,

       And for a moment breathes about,

       Shaking a burst of fresh perfume

       From every honied bell and bloom,

       Startling the tall pine from its rest,

       And sleeping wood-bird in her nest,

       Or kissing the bright water's breast;

       Then stealing off into the shade,

       As if it were a thing afraid!

      The Indian prized this beauteous spot

       Of old; beneath the embowering shade

       He reared his rude and simple cot;

       And round these wild shores where they played

       In youth, still—pilgrims from the bourn

       Of far Penobscot's sinuous stream,

       Aged and bowed, and weary worn—

       Lingering they love to stray, and dream

       O'er the proud hopes possessed of yore,

       When forest, isle and mainland shore,

       For many a league, owned but their sway;