The Backwoodsman

The silent wilderness for me!
Where never sound is heard,
Save the rustling of the squirrel's foot,
And the flitting wing of bird,
Or its low and interrupted note,
And the deer's quick, crackling tread,
And the swaying of the forest boughs,
As the wind moves overhead.
Alone, (how glorious to be free !)
My good dog at my side,
My rifle hanging in my arm,
I range the forest wide.
And now the regal buffalo
Across the plains I chase;
Now track the mountain stream to find
The beaver's lurking-place
I stand upon the mountain's top,
And (solitude profound !)
Not even a woodman's smoke curls up
Within the horizon's bound.
Below, as o'er its ocean breadth
The air's light currents run,
The wilderness of moving leaves
Is glancing in the sun.
I look around to where the sky
Meets the far forest line,
And this imperial domain —
This kingdom — 'all is mine.
This bending heaven, these floating clouds,
Waters that ever roll,
And wilderness of glory, bring
Their offerings to my soul.
My palace, built by God's own hand,
The world's fresh prime hath seen;
Wide stretch its living halls away,
Pillar'd and roof'd with green.
My music is the wind that now
Pours loud its swelling bars,
Now lulls in dying cadences,
My festal lamps are stars.
Though when in this my lonely home,
My star-watch'd couch I press,
I hear no fond "good-night" — think not
I am companionless.
O, no! I see my father's house,
The hill, the tree, the stream,
And the looks and voices of my home
Come gently to my dream.
And in these solitary haunts,
While slumbers every tree
In night and silence, God himself
Seems nearer unto me.
I feel His presence in these shades,
Like the embracing air;
And as my eyelids close in sleep,
My heart is hush'd in prayer.