Isaac McLellan Poems

Morn on the Summer Sea- the breaking light
Is trembling on the mountain's misty height,
And upland lea- and on the distant glen-
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For other scenes their lights expand,
Out in the savage western land,
Where wildernesses lone and grand,
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A noble sight is this, I ween,
Fair panorama of the sea,
The ocean white with crested foam
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New England's dead! New England's dead!
On every hill they lie;
On every field of strife, made red
By bloody victory.
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I ofttimes come to this lonely place,
And forget the stir of my restless race;
Forget the woes of human life,
The bitter pang and the constant strife,
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October's flaming banners, of purple and of gold,
O'er all the bowery woodland, are flauntingly unroll'd;
From his o'er-brimming urn red Autumn pours his dyes
O'er all thy realm, Long Island, from clouds that sail the skies.
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The brown chickadee still chirps on the tree,
Though it yields scanty wealth of larvae and bee,
Though its branches are stripp'd of blossom and leaf,
And shrill blows the wind with a murmur of grief.
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The autumn day is fleck'd with gold,
As slow the twilight sun declines;
The western cloud's encrimson'd fold
With a surpassing beauty shines;
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As a life-weary pilgrim sinks to his last repose,
The old year, pale and pulseless, swoons o'er the drifting snows;
He's gone to join the ages, in the past years laid away,
To sleep in time's mausoleum, until the judgment day.
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Now the good old Year is dead and gone
To the grave of the Past, forever borne.
I heard last night his awful knell
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