In the forest cool and chill, Sadly moans the Whippoorwill, Not as in the summer days, When he gloried in his lays, Lower-toned, but sweet and clear, Like thy crisp and fragrant air, Warbling forth with voice sublime, This is nature’s harvest time.
Crickets chirp amid the leaves, Squirrels hop among the trees, Brown nuts falling thick and fast, On the dewy, dying grass, Glowing sun with softer rays, Harbinger of wintry days, Tell the year is going by, Sighing forth its lullaby.
But sister, time is waning, after all it doth but seem That life is but a toilsome march, a weariness, a dream; And yet I do not murmur, for if all the joys of earth Had not faded from my vision ere they ripened into birth,
Night’s shades hung o’er the valleys and obscured the forest green— ’Twas o’er; that happy spirit had been robed in spotless sheen, So they laid her ’mong the flowers, and the zephyr’s tuneful play Resounds a woodland requiem at the sunset of each day.
With thy rugged, ice-girt shore, Draped in everlasting snow, Thou’rt enthroned a queen. Crown of moss and lichen grey, Frosted o’er with ocean spray, All thy long, long wintry day, Dark and stern thy mien.
From the cloudland fresh and fair, Falls the snow through crispy air, Mantling vale and hill. Then old “Borealis” glows, With his fiery light that shows, Frozen nature in repose, River, stream and rill.
On thy north the Polar Sea Thunders forth in wild melee, ’Mid gorges dark and steep Full many a ship with noble crew, Lies low beneath thy waters blue, Nor left behind a single clue, But sleep a dreamless sleep.
Beside the far famed Yukon stands Hundreds of men from distant lands, All with the same desire Gold, gold’s the watchword, yellow ore, That tempts him from his homestead door, And Oh! alas he nevermore May sit by household fire.
Ah! if men would only toil, Dig and delve their own rich soil, With vigor and with vim; Forth would spring the golden corn, Loud would ring the harvest song, Life and health they would prolong, All through nature’s prime.
Under his own, his fruitful vine, Beneath his laden fig tree green, He, like a king, would reign. Bending low with purple yield, Rivalling fair Eschkol’s fields, He’d a potent influence wield, With his corn and wine.
Can I forget thee? No, while mem’ry lasts, Thine image like a talisman entwined, Around my heart by sacred friendship’s ties Remains unchanged, in love, pure love, enshrined.
Can I forget thee? Childhood’s happy hours Would like some flitting phantom mock and jeer; Life’s sunny hours, would quickly lose their charm, If Lethe’s slumbrous waves but touched me there.
Can I forget thee? ’Tis a sad, sad thought, That friend from friend should thus be ruthless riven— But list, methinks, a sweet voice whispers low, Remember, no adieus are spoke in heaven.
Can I forget thee? No, though ocean’s waves May madly leap and foam ’twixt you and me, Still o’er my stricken heart this yearning will remain, Nor time estrange my love, dear one, from thee.