Classic and Contemporary Poetry
THE SUMMER CAMP, by BAYARD TAYLOR Poet's Biography First Line: Here slacken rein; here let the dusty mules Last Line: And gird our loins for action. Let us go! Alternate Author Name(s): Taylor, James Bayard Subject(s): Camping; Forests; Life; Past; Travel; Camps; Summer Camps; Woods; Journeys; Trips | ||||||||
HERE slacken rein; here let the dusty mules Unsaddled graze! The shadows of the oaks Are on our brows, and through their knotted boles We see the blue round of the boundless plain Vanish in glimmering heat: these aged oaks, The island speck that beckoned us afar Over the burning level, -- as we came, Spreading to shore and cape, and bays that ran To leafy headlands, balanced on the haze, Faint and receding as a cloud in air. The mules may roam unsaddled: we will lie Beneath the mighty trees, whose shade like dew Poured from the urns of Twilight, dries the sweat Of sunburnt brows, and on the heavy lid And heated eyeball sheds a balm, than sleep Far sweeter. We have done with travel, -- we Are weary now, who never dreamed of Rest, For until now did never Rest unbar Her palace-doors, nor until now our ears The silence drink, beyond all melodies Of all imagined sound, that wraps her realm. Here, where the desolating centuries Have left no mark; where noises never came From the far world of battle and of toil; Where God looks down and sends no thunderbolt To smite a human wrong, for all is good, She finds a refuge. We will dwell with her. No more of travel, where the flaming sword Of the great sun divides the heavens; no more Of climbing over jutty steeps that swim In driving sea-mist, where the stunted tree Slants inland, mimicking the stress of winds When wind is none; of plain and steaming marsh Where the dry bulrush crackles in the heat; Of camps by starlight in the columned vault Of sycamores, and the red, dancing fires That build a leafy arch, efface and build, And sink at last, to let the stars peep through; Of canons grown with pine and folded deep In golden mountain-sides; of airy sweeps Of mighty landscape, lying all alone Like some deserted world. They tempt no more. It is enough that such things were: too blest, O comrades mine, to lie in Summer's arms, Lodged in her Camp of Rest, we will not dream That they may vex us more. The sun goes down: The dun mules wander idly: motionless Beneath the stars, the heavy foliage lifts Its rich, round masses, silent as a cloud That sleeps at midday on a mountain peak. All through the long, delicious night no stir Is in the leaves; spangled with broken gleams. Before the pining Moon, -- that fain would drop Into the lap of this deep quiet, -- swerve Eastward the shadows: Day comes on again. Where is the life we led? Whither hath fled The turbulent stream that brought us hither? How, So full of sound, so lately dancing down The mountains, turbid, fretted into foam, -- How has it slipped, with scarce a gurgling coil, Into this calm transparence, noise or wind Hath ruffled never? Ages past, perchance, Such wild turmoil was ours, or did some Dream Malign, that last night nestled in the oak, Whisper our ears, when not a star could see? Give o'er the fruitless doubt: we will not waste One thought of rest, nor spill one radiant drop From the full goblet of this summer balm. Day after day the mellow sun slides o'er, Night after night the mellow moon. The clouds Are laid, enchanted: soft and bare, the heavens Fold to their breast the dozing Earth, that lies In languor of deep bliss. At times a breath, Remnant of gales far off, forgotten now, Rustles the never-fading leaves, then drops Affrighted into silence. Near a slough Of dark, still water, in the early morn The shy coyotas prowl, or trooping elk From the close covert of the bulrush fields Their dewy antlers toss: nor other sight, Save when the falcon, poised on wheeling wings, His bright eye on the burrowing coney, cuts His arrowy plunge. Along the distant trail, Dim with the heat, sometimes the miners go, Bearded and rough, the swart Sonorians drive Their laden asses, or vaqueros whirl The lasso's coil and carol many a song, Native to Spanish hills. As when we lie On the soft brink of Sleep, not pillowed quite To blest forgetfulness, some dim array Of masking forms in long procession comes, A sweet disturbance to the poppied sense, That will not cease, but gently holds it back From slumber's haven, so their figures pass, With such disturbance cloud the blessed calm, And hold our beings, ready to slip forth O'er unmolested seas, still rocking near The coasts of Action. Other dreams are ours, Of shocks that were, or seemed; whereof our souls Feel the subsiding lapse, as feels the sand Of tropic island-shores the dying pulse Of storms that racked the Northern sea. My Soul, I do believe that thou hast toiled and striven, And hoped and suffered wrong. I do believe Great aims were thine, deep loves and fiery hates, And though I may have lain a thousand years Beneath these Oaks, the baffled trust of Youth, Thy first keen sorrow, brings a gentle pang To temper joy. Nor will the joy I drank To wild intoxication, quit my heart: It was no dream that still has power to droop The soft-suffusing lid, and lift desire Beyond this rapt repose. No dream, dear love! For thou art with me in our Camp of Peace. O Friend, whose history is writ in deeds That make your life a marvel, come no gleams Of past adventure, echoes of old storms, And Battle's tingling hum of flying shot, To touch your easy blood and tempt you o'er The round of yon blue plain? Or have they lost, Heroic days, the virtue which the heart That did their hest rejoicing, proved so high? Back through the long, long cycles of our rest Your memory travels: through this hush you hear The Gila's dashing, feel the yawning jaws Of black volcanic gorges close you in On waste and awful tracts of wilderness, Which other than the eagle's cry, or bleat Of mountain-goat, hear not: the scorching sand Eddies around the tracks your fainting mules Leave in the desert: thorn and cactus pierce Your bleeding limbs, and stiff with raging thirst Your tongue forgets its office. Leave untried That cruel trail, and leave the wintry hills And leave the tossing sea! The Summer here Builds us a tent of everlasting calm. How shall we wholly sink our lives in thee, Thrice-blessed Deep? O many-natured Soul, Chameleon-like, that, steeped in every phase Of wide existence, tak'st the hue of each, Here with the silent Oaks and azure Air Incorporate grow! Here loosen one by one Thy vexing memories, burdens of the Past, Till all unrest be laid, and strong Desire Sleeps on his nerveless arm. Content to find In liberal Peace thy being's high result And crown of aspiration, gather all The dreams of sense, the reachings of the mind For ampler issues and dominion vain, To fold them on her bosom, happier there Than in exultant action: as a child Forgets his meadow butterflies and flowers, Upon his mother's breast. It may not be. Not in this Camp, in these enchanted Trees, But in ourselves, must lodge the calm we seek, Ere we can fix it here. We cannot take From outward nature power to snap the curse Which clothed our birth; and though 't were easier This hour to die than yield the blessed cup Wherefrom our hearts divinest comfort draw, It clothes us yet, and yet shall drive us forth To breast the world. Then come: we will not bide To tempt a ruin to this paradise, Fulfilling Destiny. A mighty wind Would gather on the plain, a cloud arise To blot the sky, with thunder in its heart, And the black column of the whirlwind spin Out of the cloud, straight downward to this grove, Take by their heads the shuddering trees, and wrench With fearful clamor, limb from limb, till Rest Should flee forever. Rather set at once Our faces towards the noisy world again, And gird our loins for action. Let us go! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...RICHARD, WHAT'S THAT NOISE? by RICHARD HOWARD LOOKING FOR THE GULF MOTEL by RICHARD BLANCO RIVERS INTO SEAS by LYNDA HULL DESTINATIONS by JOSEPHINE JACOBSEN THE ONE WHO WAS DIFFERENT by RANDALL JARRELL THE CONFESSION OF ST. JIM-RALPH by DENIS JOHNSON SESTINA: TRAVEL NOTES by WELDON KEES TO H. B. (WITH A BOOK OF VERSE) by MAURICE BARING BEDOUIN [LOVE] SONG by BAYARD TAYLOR NATIONAL ODE; INDEPENDENCE SQUARE, PHILADELPHIA by BAYARD TAYLOR |
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