 | Airs of Palestine, and other poems |  |
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IX. GLEANINGS.
I.
TO A FRIEND.
Friend of my dark and solitary hour,
When spectres walk abroad, and ghosts have power,
To thee I look to dissipate the gloom,
And banish sheeted corpses from my room.
Thou'rt not thyself a corpse, though, past all doubt,
Thou hast been a dead body, and “laid out.”
Nor art thou quite a ghost, though, sooth to say,
Much like a ghost thou vanishest away,
And, like the ghost in Shakspeare's tragic tale,
(That of the royal Dane,) thou 'rt “very pale.”
When spectres walk abroad, and ghosts have power,
To thee I look to dissipate the gloom,
And banish sheeted corpses from my room.
Thou'rt not thyself a corpse, though, past all doubt,
Thou hast been a dead body, and “laid out.”
Nor art thou quite a ghost, though, sooth to say,
Much like a ghost thou vanishest away,
And, like the ghost in Shakspeare's tragic tale,
(That of the royal Dane,) thou 'rt “very pale.”
Life of my nights, thy cheering smile impart!
Light of my lone and melancholy heart,
Come stand beside me, and, with silent gaze,
O'erlook the line I'm weaving in thy praise.
But, should my numbers, like thyself, decline,
Start not indignant from thy silver shrine,
Such panegyric though incensed to hear,
Nor, like the Cynthian, touch my tingling ear.
Yea,—though I feel thy warm breath in my face,
As Daphne felt the Delphian's in the chase,
Let not my finger press thy polished form,
Lest, like Pygmalion, I should find thee warm.
Light of my lone and melancholy heart,
Come stand beside me, and, with silent gaze,
O'erlook the line I'm weaving in thy praise.
But, should my numbers, like thyself, decline,
Start not indignant from thy silver shrine,
Such panegyric though incensed to hear,
Nor, like the Cynthian, touch my tingling ear.
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As Daphne felt the Delphian's in the chase,
Let not my finger press thy polished form,
Lest, like Pygmalion, I should find thee warm.
Thou art not cold as marble, though thou 'rt fair
As smoothest alabaster statues are;
Thou 'rt like the lamp that brightens wisdom's page;
Thou 'rt like a glass to the dim eye of age;
Thou 'rt like the lantern Hero held, of yore,
On Sestos's tower, to light Leander o'er.
Thou art the friend of Beauty and of Wit;
Both beam the brighter when with thee they sit.
Thou giv'st to Beauty's cheek a softer hue,
Sprinklest on Beauty's lip a fresher dew,
Giv'st her with warmer eloquence to sigh,
And wing love's shafts more heated from her eye.
As smoothest alabaster statues are;
Thou 'rt like the lamp that brightens wisdom's page;
Thou 'rt like a glass to the dim eye of age;
Thou 'rt like the lantern Hero held, of yore,
On Sestos's tower, to light Leander o'er.
Thou art the friend of Beauty and of Wit;
Both beam the brighter when with thee they sit.
Thou giv'st to Beauty's cheek a softer hue,
Sprinklest on Beauty's lip a fresher dew,
Giv'st her with warmer eloquence to sigh,
And wing love's shafts more heated from her eye.
Still, pure thyself, as Nova Zembla's snows,
Thy blood bounds not,—it regularly flows.
Thou dost not feel, nor wake, impure desire;—
For, though thou standest with thy soul on fire,
Beside my couch, in all thy glowing charms,
I sleep, nor dream I clasp thee in my arms.
Thy blood bounds not,—it regularly flows.
Thou dost not feel, nor wake, impure desire;—
For, though thou standest with thy soul on fire,
Beside my couch, in all thy glowing charms,
I sleep, nor dream I clasp thee in my arms.
Thy faithfulness, my friend, oft hast thou shown;
Thou hast stood by me oft,—and stood alone;
And when the world has frowned, thou wouldst beguile
My hours of sadness with thy cheerful smile.
Yet well I know,—forgive the painful thought!—
With all thy faithfulness, thou hast been bought.
Yes, friend, thou hast been venal, and hast known
The time, when, just as freely as my own
Thou mightest, for a trifle, have been led
To grace the veriest stranger's board or bed.
Yet will I trust thee now,—while thou hast life;—
I'll trust thee with my money, or my wife,
Not doubting, for a moment, that thou 'lt be
As true to them as thou art true to me.
Thou hast stood by me oft,—and stood alone;
And when the world has frowned, thou wouldst beguile
My hours of sadness with thy cheerful smile.
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With all thy faithfulness, thou hast been bought.
Yes, friend, thou hast been venal, and hast known
The time, when, just as freely as my own
Thou mightest, for a trifle, have been led
To grace the veriest stranger's board or bed.
Yet will I trust thee now,—while thou hast life;—
I'll trust thee with my money, or my wife,
Not doubting, for a moment, that thou 'lt be
As true to them as thou art true to me.
While thus I praise thee, I do not pretend
That though a faithful, thou 'rt a faultless friend.
Excuse me, then,—I do not love to blame,—
When, for thy sake, thy faults I briefly name.
That though a faithful, thou 'rt a faultless friend.
Excuse me, then,—I do not love to blame,—
When, for thy sake, thy faults I briefly name.
Though often present when debates wax warm,
On Slavery, or the Temperance reform,
I ne'er have known thee lift thy voice or hand,
The car of Reformation through the land
Onward to roll.—Thou knowest well that I
Drink nothing but cold water, when I'm dry;—
It is my daily bath, my daily drink;—
What, then, with all thy virtues, must I think,
When, as thou seest my goblet filling up,
Or the pure crystal flowing from the cup,
In cool refreshment, o'er my parching lip,
I never can persuade thee e'en to sip?—
Nay,—when thou bear'st it with so ill a grace,
If but a drop I sprinkle in thy face?
On Slavery, or the Temperance reform,
I ne'er have known thee lift thy voice or hand,
The car of Reformation through the land
Onward to roll.—Thou knowest well that I
Drink nothing but cold water, when I'm dry;—
It is my daily bath, my daily drink;—
What, then, with all thy virtues, must I think,
When, as thou seest my goblet filling up,
Or the pure crystal flowing from the cup,
In cool refreshment, o'er my parching lip,
I never can persuade thee e'en to sip?—
Nay,—when thou bear'st it with so ill a grace,
If but a drop I sprinkle in thy face?
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Thou know'st this puts thee out. And then, once more,
Tobacco juice, on carpet, hearth, or floor,
I can't endure; and yet I know thou viewest
Such things unmoved. I say not that thou chewest
The Indian weed; but I'm in error far,
If I've not seen thee lighting a cigar;—
Fie! Fie! my friend, eschew the nauseous stuff!
I hate thy smoking! I detest thy snuff!
Tobacco juice, on carpet, hearth, or floor,
I can't endure; and yet I know thou viewest
Such things unmoved. I say not that thou chewest
The Indian weed; but I'm in error far,
If I've not seen thee lighting a cigar;—
Fie! Fie! my friend, eschew the nauseous stuff!
I hate thy smoking! I detest thy snuff!
True, should my censures a retort provoke,
Thou mayst reply that Spanish ladies smoke;
And that e'en editors are pleased enough
Sometimes to take, as oft they give, a puff.
Thou mayst reply that Spanish ladies smoke;
And that e'en editors are pleased enough
Sometimes to take, as oft they give, a puff.
Ah well, “with all thy faults,”—as Cowper says,—
“I love thee still,” and still I sing thy praise:
These few bad habits I o'erlook in thee;—
For who, on earth, from every fault is free?
“I love thee still,” and still I sing thy praise:
These few bad habits I o'erlook in thee;—
For who, on earth, from every fault is free?
Still, my fair friend, the poisonous gall that drips
On virtue's robe, from Scandal's viper lips,
Hath fallen on thee. When innocence and youth
Her victims are, she seems to tell the truth,
While yet she lies. But when, with deadly fangs,
She strikes at thee, and on thy mantel hangs,
She seems resolved a different game to try;
She tells the truth, but seems to tell a lie,
And calls thee,—thy tried character to stain,—
“The wicked fiction of some monster's brain!”
“Wicked!”—let all such slanderers be told
Thy maker cast thee in an upright mould;
And, though thou mayst be swayed, 't is ne'er to ill,
But thou maintainest thine uprightness still.
“Wicked”—while all thine hours, as they proceed,
See thee engaged in some illustrious deed!
See thee, thyself and all thou hast, to spend,
Like holy Paul, to benefit thy friend;
And, by the couch where wakeful woe appears,
See thee dissolve, like Niobe, in tears!
On virtue's robe, from Scandal's viper lips,
Hath fallen on thee. When innocence and youth
Her victims are, she seems to tell the truth,
While yet she lies. But when, with deadly fangs,
She strikes at thee, and on thy mantel hangs,
She seems resolved a different game to try;
She tells the truth, but seems to tell a lie,
And calls thee,—thy tried character to stain,—
“The wicked fiction of some monster's brain!”
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Thy maker cast thee in an upright mould;
And, though thou mayst be swayed, 't is ne'er to ill,
But thou maintainest thine uprightness still.
“Wicked”—while all thine hours, as they proceed,
See thee engaged in some illustrious deed!
See thee, thyself and all thou hast, to spend,
Like holy Paul, to benefit thy friend;
And, by the couch where wakeful woe appears,
See thee dissolve, like Niobe, in tears!
E'en now, as, gazing on thy slender frame,
That, like my own, still feeds the vital flame,
I strive to catch thy beauty's modest ray,
Methinks I see thee sink, in slow decay,
Beneath the flame that's kindled by my breath,
And preys upon thy heart-strings till thy death.
Yet, in thy melting mood, thy heart is light,
Thy smile is cheerful, and thy visage bright.
And, in thy pallid form, I see displayed
The Cyprian goddess and the martial maid;
For thou didst spring, like Venus, from the main,
And, like Minerva, from a thunderer's brain.
That, like my own, still feeds the vital flame,
I strive to catch thy beauty's modest ray,
Methinks I see thee sink, in slow decay,
Beneath the flame that's kindled by my breath,
And preys upon thy heart-strings till thy death.
Yet, in thy melting mood, thy heart is light,
Thy smile is cheerful, and thy visage bright.
And, in thy pallid form, I see displayed
The Cyprian goddess and the martial maid;
For thou didst spring, like Venus, from the main,
And, like Minerva, from a thunderer's brain.
What though thou art a “fiction”? Still, forsooth,
Fiction may throw as fair a light as truth.
But, thou'rt a “wicked fiction”; yet, the while,
No crime is thine, and thou 'rt unknown to guile.
In fiery trials, I have seen thee stand
Firm, and more pure than e'en thy maker's hand;
And deeds of darkness, crimsoned o'er with shame,
Shrink from thine eye as from devouring flame.
Fiction may throw as fair a light as truth.
But, thou'rt a “wicked fiction”; yet, the while,
No crime is thine, and thou 'rt unknown to guile.
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Firm, and more pure than e'en thy maker's hand;
And deeds of darkness, crimsoned o'er with shame,
Shrink from thine eye as from devouring flame.
True at thy post, I've ever seen thee stay,
Yet, truant-like, I 've seen thee run away;
And, though that want of firmness I deplore,
Wert thou less wicked thou wouldst run still more;
Wert thou more wicked, and less modest too,
The meed of greater virtue were thy due.
Wert thou less wicked, thou wouldst less dispense
The beams of beauty and benevolence.
Light of my gloomy hours, thy name I bless
The more, the greater is thy wickedness.
Yet, truant-like, I 've seen thee run away;
And, though that want of firmness I deplore,
Wert thou less wicked thou wouldst run still more;
Wert thou more wicked, and less modest too,
The meed of greater virtue were thy due.
Wert thou less wicked, thou wouldst less dispense
The beams of beauty and benevolence.
Light of my gloomy hours, thy name I bless
The more, the greater is thy wickedness.
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II.
PETITION FROM A LAZARETTO.
[_]
Lines written in the Lazaretto at Malta, in May, 1836, in the name of the Subscriber,—a Captain in His Britannic Majesty's service, who had been stationed at Corfu,—and sent by him to Sir Frederick Hankey, in behalf of the party described, and for the object stated in the lines themselves.
Sir,
From the Lazaretto's lofty cells,Where Freedom comes not, but where Hunger dwells,
Where floors, walls, ceilings,—all of Malta stone,—
Have long replied to many a prisoner's moan;
Where, while we wake, we 're stung by many a gnat,
And, while we sleep, are robbed by many a rat,—
Your servant, who, you know, is not a stoic
(Though here one ought to be), begs your permission,
In a few lines, and somewhat less heroic
Than are these first, to send you his petition;—
Which humbly showeth;—
Here are four
As hearty men as walked the planet,
Who're running up a frightful score,
('T is now five days since we began it,)
For baked, stewed, roasted, with McAlif;
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But eating beef and drinking beer,—
We speak not now of eau de vie,
And rum, and lemon ratafia, —
We really begin to fear
That we shall all be after meeting,
On our way homeward, a “bum-bailiff,”
With his tipped staff, and civil “greeting.”
Now, should our commissary set a
Bull-dog like this upon our track,
Who, on our entering Valetta,
Should seize, and hold, or drag us back;
Or, on such “livery of seisin,”
Should take us to a debtor's prison,
Our case were obviously still harder;
For there McAlif keeps no larder;—
And, what is worse, when once in there,
We fear, the whole corps sanitaire
Might deem it somewhat too erratic,
Even in ten days to give us pratique.
Fear ye the plague from such as we?
Consider, pray, from whence we've come;—
Some from Corfù, from Patras some,
And all have crossed the Ionian sea.
Some have been rambling, e'er so long,
Among the hills so famed in song,
('T is there we must have caught the power
To string our lyre thus, and to sound it.)
On Helicon we met a shower,
With a young Iris dancing round it.
Upon Cythæron's shady side
We saw Hygeia coolly seated;
Who, learning that we'd come in honest quest of her,
(Not like Actæon, for a glimpse by stealth,)
Most promptly gave us a clean bill of health,
And to our question courteously replied,
And her assurance o'er and o'er repeated,
That we should find no plague, now, to the West of her;
“Except,”—she added in an under tone,—
“It be the plague at Malta or Ancone,”
By which we understood the nymph to mean
The plague of there performing quarantine.
Consider, pray, from whence we've come;—
Some from Corfù, from Patras some,
And all have crossed the Ionian sea.
Some have been rambling, e'er so long,
Among the hills so famed in song,
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To string our lyre thus, and to sound it.)
On Helicon we met a shower,
With a young Iris dancing round it.
Upon Cythæron's shady side
We saw Hygeia coolly seated;
Who, learning that we'd come in honest quest of her,
(Not like Actæon, for a glimpse by stealth,)
Most promptly gave us a clean bill of health,
And to our question courteously replied,
And her assurance o'er and o'er repeated,
That we should find no plague, now, to the West of her;
“Except,”—she added in an under tone,—
“It be the plague at Malta or Ancone,”
By which we understood the nymph to mean
The plague of there performing quarantine.
Since that, we've felt the breezes pass us
Fresh from the white head of Parnassus,
And, later still, the Adriatic
Has breathed upon us;—and his breath,
If it e'er bears the darts of Death,
Brings them in colds and pains rheumatic;
Or down the gulf a demon sails,
With white lips and blue finger-nails,
By mortals sometimes called an ague;—
These imps Adria sends to plague you;—
But, as to any other kind of pest,
Were't not a lazar-house, it were a jest.
Fear ye the plaque from such as we?
O, send the leech, and let him see.
We think, if any thing can banish
The fear of pest from us, poor sinners,
'T would be, when we are at our dinners,
To see how soon those dinners vanish.
Send, then, the leech,—let him examine;
We think, when he shall make report,
'Twill be agreed “by the whole court,”—
No fear of plague, but fear of famine.
Fresh from the white head of Parnassus,
And, later still, the Adriatic
Has breathed upon us;—and his breath,
If it e'er bears the darts of Death,
Brings them in colds and pains rheumatic;
Or down the gulf a demon sails,
With white lips and blue finger-nails,
By mortals sometimes called an ague;—
These imps Adria sends to plague you;—
But, as to any other kind of pest,
Were't not a lazar-house, it were a jest.
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O, send the leech, and let him see.
We think, if any thing can banish
The fear of pest from us, poor sinners,
'T would be, when we are at our dinners,
To see how soon those dinners vanish.
Send, then, the leech,—let him examine;
We think, when he shall make report,
'Twill be agreed “by the whole court,”—
No fear of plague, but fear of famine.
O, had we but a tongue to plead our cause!
We had one once,—it is not what it was,—
There was a time when that delicious tongue,
Sweeter than Nestor's, with its fellows hung,
And in the smoke of Adrianople swung.
In Smyrna next it met our roving eye,
And the bait took;—what could we do but buy?
O, it was sweeter than “the summer south,”
Nor could we see it but with watering mouth;
In papers firm we had the purchase rolled,
And then we paid for't in the Sultan's gold.
Pleased, we looked forward to the Lazaret,
Where, if McAlif could not meet our wishes,
We knew that there was one thing we could get,
And then one thing the very prince of dishes!
We had one once,—it is not what it was,—
There was a time when that delicious tongue,
Sweeter than Nestor's, with its fellows hung,
And in the smoke of Adrianople swung.
In Smyrna next it met our roving eye,
And the bait took;—what could we do but buy?
O, it was sweeter than “the summer south,”
Nor could we see it but with watering mouth;
In papers firm we had the purchase rolled,
And then we paid for't in the Sultan's gold.
Pleased, we looked forward to the Lazaret,
Where, if McAlif could not meet our wishes,
We knew that there was one thing we could get,
And then one thing the very prince of dishes!
This morning, as a miser to his hoard
Goes, to be sure that every thing is right,
We sought the basket where our tongue was stored,
And where we left it, safely wrapped, last night.—
The truth flashed forth;—we can no longer mask it;—
Some foe,—and doubtless thereby hangs a tail,—
Had, “while men slept,” crept softly to the basket,
(How, when we all looked in, we all looked pale!)
And left no more of all our cherished treasure,
Than what consisted with the pirate's pleasure!
We had a tongue, which is not all a tongue;
Ah, little thought we, it so soon would fail us!
But yesterday, it might have stood among
The dishes dressed for Heliogabalus;
Now, none so hungry as that tongue to set to,
Of all the starvelings of a Lazaretto.
We, then, your servant, do implore,
Not for ourself, but all the four
Who help this Lazaretto farce on;—
Yes,—'t is the four we're pleading for,
To wit, three English men of war
And one poor vagrant Yankee parson;—
We say, we do beseech your grace,
Sir Frederick, in behalf of these,
Let us all quit this hungry place,
And get our dinner when and where we please.
Your deed shall live; in verse and prose we'll tell it!
And, as in duty bound, we'll ever thank ye;
Your humble servant,
Robert Napier Kellett.
The Honorable Secretary Hankey.
Goes, to be sure that every thing is right,
We sought the basket where our tongue was stored,
And where we left it, safely wrapped, last night.—
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Some foe,—and doubtless thereby hangs a tail,—
Had, “while men slept,” crept softly to the basket,
(How, when we all looked in, we all looked pale!)
And left no more of all our cherished treasure,
Than what consisted with the pirate's pleasure!
We had a tongue, which is not all a tongue;
Ah, little thought we, it so soon would fail us!
But yesterday, it might have stood among
The dishes dressed for Heliogabalus;
Now, none so hungry as that tongue to set to,
Of all the starvelings of a Lazaretto.
We, then, your servant, do implore,
Not for ourself, but all the four
Who help this Lazaretto farce on;—
Yes,—'t is the four we're pleading for,
To wit, three English men of war
And one poor vagrant Yankee parson;—
We say, we do beseech your grace,
Sir Frederick, in behalf of these,
Let us all quit this hungry place,
And get our dinner when and where we please.
Your deed shall live; in verse and prose we'll tell it!
And, as in duty bound, we'll ever thank ye;
Your humble servant,
Robert Napier Kellett.
The Honorable Secretary Hankey.
The author owes it to himself, not to say one or two others of the party, to declare that these three lines had reference to only one of the party, who in the armies of “the jolly god” was a veteran, that had seen hard service.
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III.
FOR THE ALBUM OF MISS E. L. B—.
Is there, in all the skies, a star
That envies not the Queen of Heaven,
As nightly, on her silver car,
Through their retiring ranks she's driven?
That envies not the Queen of Heaven,
As nightly, on her silver car,
Through their retiring ranks she's driven?
There is:—for, though a countless train,
That sparkled ere she rose to view,
Grow pale with envy when the plain
Is sprinkled with her light and dew,
That sparkled ere she rose to view,
Grow pale with envy when the plain
Is sprinkled with her light and dew,
One stands unmoved, and sees her roll,
Nor will retire, nor yet attend her;
'T is she whose lamp illumes the pole
With modest but eternal splendor.
Nor will retire, nor yet attend her;
'T is she whose lamp illumes the pole
With modest but eternal splendor.
Springs there a plant or flower to light,
Whose bosom, all unknown to guile,
Is bathed in the pure tears of Night,
And dried in Morning's cheerful smile,—
Whose bosom, all unknown to guile,
Is bathed in the pure tears of Night,
And dried in Morning's cheerful smile,—
Whether that plant or blossom throws
Its fragrance over hill or dale,—
That envies not to see the Rose
Unfold her leaves and woo the gale,
Its fragrance over hill or dale,—
That envies not to see the Rose
Unfold her leaves and woo the gale,
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When on her green and graceful stem
She hangs, her native bush adorning,
Sparkling with many a dewy gem,
And blushing with the beams of morning?
She hangs, her native bush adorning,
Sparkling with many a dewy gem,
And blushing with the beams of morning?
Yes, there is one, and one alone;—
Mimosa, pride of vegetation,
Boasts higher honors of her own;
Hers is the honor of sensation.
Mimosa, pride of vegetation,
Boasts higher honors of her own;
Hers is the honor of sensation.
And is there one whose peace the glare
Of others' beauty never mars?
One of the blooming, sparkling fair,
Whose emblems are the flowers and stars?
Of others' beauty never mars?
One of the blooming, sparkling fair,
Whose emblems are the flowers and stars?
Yes:—there is one; 't is she who shrinks
From even admiration's gaze,
Who courts the shade, who feels, who thinks,
And spreads her hands to heaven in praise;
From even admiration's gaze,
Who courts the shade, who feels, who thinks,
And spreads her hands to heaven in praise;
'T is she whose spirit dwells on high,
Even in the thoughtful nights of youth;
'T is she whose mild and constant eye
Beams with the faithful light of truth.
Even in the thoughtful nights of youth;
'T is she whose mild and constant eye
Beams with the faithful light of truth.
Heaven's brilliant lights, Earth's blooming flowers,—
These shall all fade, and those shall fall:—
The moral beauty that is ours
Shall flourish o'er the tomb of all.
These shall all fade, and those shall fall:—
The moral beauty that is ours
Shall flourish o'er the tomb of all.
1824.
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IV.
FOR THE ALBUM OF MISS CAROLINE C---.
“Grace is deceitful, and beauty vain.”
—Solomon.
—Solomon.
O, say not, wisest of all the kings
That have risen on Israel's throne to reign,
Say not, as one of your wisest things,
That grace is false, and beauty vain.
That have risen on Israel's throne to reign,
Say not, as one of your wisest things,
That grace is false, and beauty vain.
Your harem beauties resign! resign
Their lascivious dance, their voluptuous song!
To your garden come forth, among things divine,
And own you do grace and beauty wrong.
Their lascivious dance, their voluptuous song!
To your garden come forth, among things divine,
And own you do grace and beauty wrong.
Is beauty vain because it will fade?
Then are earth's green robe and heaven's light vain;
For this shall be lost in evening's shade,
And that in winter's sleety rain.
Then are earth's green robe and heaven's light vain;
For this shall be lost in evening's shade,
And that in winter's sleety rain.
But earth's green mantle, pranked with flowers,
Is the couch where life with joy reposes;
And heaven gives down, with its light and showers,
To regale them, fruits,—to deck them, roses.
Is the couch where life with joy reposes;
And heaven gives down, with its light and showers,
To regale them, fruits,—to deck them, roses.
And, while opening flowers in such beauty spread,
And ripening fruits so gracefully swing,
Say not, O King, as you just now said,
That beauty or grace is a worthless thing.
And ripening fruits so gracefully swing,
Say not, O King, as you just now said,
That beauty or grace is a worthless thing.
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This willow's limbs, as they bend in the breeze,
The dimpled face of the pool to kiss,—
Who, that has eyes and a heart, but sees
That there is beauty and grace in this!
The dimpled face of the pool to kiss,—
Who, that has eyes and a heart, but sees
That there is beauty and grace in this!
And do not these boughs all whisper of Him,
Whose smile is the light that in green arrays them;
Who sitteth, in peace, on the wave they skim,
And whose breath is the gentle wind that sways them?
Whose smile is the light that in green arrays them;
Who sitteth, in peace, on the wave they skim,
And whose breath is the gentle wind that sways them?
And are not the beauty and grace of youth,
Like those of this willow, the work of love?
Do they not come, like the voice of truth,
That is heard all around us here, from above?
Like those of this willow, the work of love?
Do they not come, like the voice of truth,
That is heard all around us here, from above?
Then say not, wisest of all the kings
That have risen on Israel's throne to reign,
Say not, as one of your wisest things,
That grace is false, and beauty vain.
That have risen on Israel's throne to reign,
Say not, as one of your wisest things,
That grace is false, and beauty vain.
1827.
V.
FOR THE ALBUM OF MISS OCTAVIA W---.
Octavia! what the eighth!—If bounteous HeavenHath made eight such, where are the other seven?
1835.
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VI.
FOR THE ALBUM OF MISS MARY G. M—.
Mary, never on these pages
Let there be a single line,
Be it beau's, or bard's, or sage's,
That shall aught unholy speak,
Or blot the paper's virgin cheek,
Or bring a blush o'er thine.
Let there be a single line,
Be it beau's, or bard's, or sage's,
That shall aught unholy speak,
Or blot the paper's virgin cheek,
Or bring a blush o'er thine.
Let no hand,—or friend's or lover's,—
Ever, from wit's sparkling mine
Call, and leave between these covers,
Any gem, however bright,
That in jealous Virtue's sight
Shall be unfit for thine.
Ever, from wit's sparkling mine
Call, and leave between these covers,
Any gem, however bright,
That in jealous Virtue's sight
Shall be unfit for thine.
With the pearls from shallow waters,
Such as brainless flatterers twine
Round the brow of Folly's daughters,
Let the pedlers of those pearls
Grace the albums of their girls,
But never trick out thine.
Such as brainless flatterers twine
Round the brow of Folly's daughters,
Let the pedlers of those pearls
Grace the albums of their girls,
But never trick out thine.
Gems of truth and genius, rather,
That, from heights or depths divine,
Wisdom's sons and daughters gather,—
Gems of thought and holy feeling,
To thyself revealing,—
Shall fill this book of thine.
That, from heights or depths divine,
Wisdom's sons and daughters gather,—
Gems of thought and holy feeling,
To thyself revealing,—
Shall fill this book of thine.
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Flowers, by kindred spirits painted,
Taste shall here so intertwine,
That thy brother's spirit sainted,—
Could the finished volume lie
Open to his watchful eye,—
Would give it back to thine.
Taste shall here so intertwine,
That thy brother's spirit sainted,—
Could the finished volume lie
Open to his watchful eye,—
Would give it back to thine.
Mary, now thy cheek is blowing;
But its bloom wilt thou resign,
With the locks that now are flowing
Down the shoulders of thy youth;
But thy purity and truth
O keep for ever!—Thine,
But its bloom wilt thou resign,
With the locks that now are flowing
Down the shoulders of thy youth;
But thy purity and truth
O keep for ever!—Thine,
1840.
J. P.
VII.
SUNDAY MORNING AT CAMBRIDGE.
It had rained in the night; but the morning's birth
Was as calm and still as even;
The heralds of day were awake in their mirth,
For the sun in his glory was coming to earth,
And the mists had gone to heaven.
The winds were asleep; so soft was the weather,
Since the storm had spent its might,
Not an angel of morning had lifted a feather,
Or whispered a word for hours together,
Or breathed a “Farewell!” to night.
Was as calm and still as even;
The heralds of day were awake in their mirth,
For the sun in his glory was coming to earth,
And the mists had gone to heaven.
The winds were asleep; so soft was the weather,
Since the storm had spent its might,
Not an angel of morning had lifted a feather,
Or whispered a word for hours together,
Or breathed a “Farewell!” to night.
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The fields were green,
And the world was clean;
The young smokes curled in air,
And the clear-toned bell
Swung merrily to tell
The students' hour of prayer.
The elm's yellow leaf, that the frost had dyed,
Caught the yellower sun as he came in pride
Down the church's spire and the chapel's side.
And the world was clean;
The young smokes curled in air,
And the clear-toned bell
Swung merrily to tell
The students' hour of prayer.
The elm's yellow leaf, that the frost had dyed,
Caught the yellower sun as he came in pride
Down the church's spire and the chapel's side.
As learning's pale and dark-robed throng
Moved on to morning's prayer and song,
One of the train, who walked alone,
One, to the rest but little known,
Whose way of worship was his own,
Moved tardily, till by degrees
He stopped among the glittering trees
While the rest in the chapel assembled.
For the diamond drops of the mist hung there,
All meltingly strung on the stiff, straight hair,
Of the shrubbery larch. The sun's flash came
And wrapped the bush all at once in flame;
Yet its glorious locks never trembled.
Not Horeb's bush, to Moses' eye,
Wa fuller of the deity.
The worshipper gazed:—'t was a glorious sight!
As the pageant blazed with its rainbow light,
He was bowing his heart adoringly.
From the bush, that in silence and purity burned,
To commune with the Spirit that filled it he learned,
And from earth I saw that his eyes were turned,
And lifted to heaven imploringly.
Moved on to morning's prayer and song,
One of the train, who walked alone,
One, to the rest but little known,
Whose way of worship was his own,
Moved tardily, till by degrees
He stopped among the glittering trees
While the rest in the chapel assembled.
For the diamond drops of the mist hung there,
All meltingly strung on the stiff, straight hair,
Of the shrubbery larch. The sun's flash came
And wrapped the bush all at once in flame;
Yet its glorious locks never trembled.
Not Horeb's bush, to Moses' eye,
Wa fuller of the deity.
The worshipper gazed:—'t was a glorious sight!
As the pageant blazed with its rainbow light,
He was bowing his heart adoringly.
From the bush, that in silence and purity burned,
To commune with the Spirit that filled it he learned,
And from earth I saw that his eyes were turned,
And lifted to heaven imploringly.
Oct. 2d, 1818.
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VIII.
MORNING PRAYER FOR A CHILD.
O God! I thank thee, that the night
In peace and rest hath passed away,
And that I see in this fair light
My Father's smile, that makes it day.
In peace and rest hath passed away,
And that I see in this fair light
My Father's smile, that makes it day.
Be thou my guide, and let me live
As under thine all-seeing eye;
Supply my wants, my sins forgive,
And make me happy when I die.
As under thine all-seeing eye;
Supply my wants, my sins forgive,
And make me happy when I die.
IX.
EVENING PRAYER FOR A CHILD.
Another day its course hath run,
And still, O God, thy child is blessed;
For thou hast been by day my sun,
And thou wilt be by night my rest.
And still, O God, thy child is blessed;
For thou hast been by day my sun,
And thou wilt be by night my rest.
Sweet sleep descends, my eyes to close;
And now, while all the world is still,
I give my body to repose,
My spirit to my Father's will.
And now, while all the world is still,
I give my body to repose,
My spirit to my Father's will.
330
X.
JERUSALEM.
Jerusalem, Jerusalem,
How glad should I have been,
Could I, in my lone wanderings,
Thine aged walls have seen!—
Could I have gazed upon the dome,
Above thy towers that swells,
And heard, as evening's sun went down,
Thy parting camels' bells:—
How glad should I have been,
Could I, in my lone wanderings,
Thine aged walls have seen!—
Could I have gazed upon the dome,
Above thy towers that swells,
And heard, as evening's sun went down,
Thy parting camels' bells:—
Could I have stood on Olivet,
Where once the Saviour trod,
And, from its height, looked down upon
The city of our God!
For is it not, Almighty God,
Thy holy city still,—
Though there thy prophets walk no more,—
That crowns Moriah's hill?
Where once the Saviour trod,
And, from its height, looked down upon
The city of our God!
For is it not, Almighty God,
Thy holy city still,—
Though there thy prophets walk no more,—
That crowns Moriah's hill?
Thy prophets walk no more, indeed,
The streets of Salem now,
Nor are their voices lifted up
On Zion's saddened brow;
Nor are their garnished sepulchres
With pious sorrow kept,
Where once the same Jerusalem,
That killed them, came and wept.
The streets of Salem now,
Nor are their voices lifted up
On Zion's saddened brow;
Nor are their garnished sepulchres
With pious sorrow kept,
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That killed them, came and wept.
But still the seed of Abraham
With joy upon it look,
And lay their ashes at its feet,
That Kedron's feeble brook
Still washes, as its waters creep
Along their rocky bed,
And Israel's God is worshipped yet
Where Zion lifts her head.
With joy upon it look,
And lay their ashes at its feet,
That Kedron's feeble brook
Still washes, as its waters creep
Along their rocky bed,
And Israel's God is worshipped yet
Where Zion lifts her head.
Yes;—every morning, as the day
Breaks over Olivet,
The holy name of Allah comes
From every minaret;
At every eve the mellow call
Floats on the quiet air,
“Lo, God is God! Before him come,
Before him come, for prayer!”
Breaks over Olivet,
The holy name of Allah comes
From every minaret;
At every eve the mellow call
Floats on the quiet air,
“Lo, God is God! Before him come,
Before him come, for prayer!”
I know, when at that solemn call
The city holds her breath,
That Omar's mosque hears not the name
Of Him of Nazareth;
But Abraham's God is worshipped there
Alike by age and youth,
And worshipped,—hopeth charity,—
“In spirit and in truth.”
The city holds her breath,
That Omar's mosque hears not the name
Of Him of Nazareth;
But Abraham's God is worshipped there
Alike by age and youth,
And worshipped,—hopeth charity,—
“In spirit and in truth.”
Yea, from that day when Salem knelt
And bent her queenly neck
To him who was, at once, her Priest
And King,—Melchisedek,
To this, when Egypt's Abraham
The sceptre and the sword
Shakes o'er her head, her holy men
Have bowed before the Lord.
And bent her queenly neck
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And King,—Melchisedek,
To this, when Egypt's Abraham
The sceptre and the sword
Shakes o'er her head, her holy men
Have bowed before the Lord.
Jerusalem, I would have seen
Thy precipices steep,
The trees of palm that overhang
Thy gorges dark and deep,
The goats that cling along thy cliffs,
And browse upon thy rocks,
Beneath whose shade lie down, alike,
Thy shepherds and their flocks.
Thy precipices steep,
The trees of palm that overhang
Thy gorges dark and deep,
The goats that cling along thy cliffs,
And browse upon thy rocks,
Beneath whose shade lie down, alike,
Thy shepherds and their flocks.
I would have mused, while Night hung out
Her silver lamp so pale,
Beneath those ancient olive trees
That grow in Kedron's vale,
Whose foliage from the pilgrim hides
The city's wall sublime,
Whose twisted arms and gnarled trunks
Defy the sithe of Time.
Her silver lamp so pale,
Beneath those ancient olive trees
That grow in Kedron's vale,
Whose foliage from the pilgrim hides
The city's wall sublime,
Whose twisted arms and gnarled trunks
Defy the sithe of Time.
The Garden of Gethsemanè
Those aged olive trees
Are shading yet, and in their shade
I would have sought the breeze,
That, like an angel, bathed the brow,
And bore to heaven the prayer,
Of Jesus, when in agony,
He sought the Father there.
Those aged olive trees
Are shading yet, and in their shade
I would have sought the breeze,
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And bore to heaven the prayer,
Of Jesus, when in agony,
He sought the Father there.
I would have gone to Calvary,
And, where the Marys stood
Bewailing loud the Crucified,
As near him as they could,
I would have stood, till Night o'er earth
Her heavy pall had thrown,
And thought upon my Saviour's cross,
And learned to bear my own.
And, where the Marys stood
Bewailing loud the Crucified,
As near him as they could,
I would have stood, till Night o'er earth
Her heavy pall had thrown,
And thought upon my Saviour's cross,
And learned to bear my own.
Jerusalem, Jerusalem,
Thy cross thou bearest now!
An iron yoke is on thy neck,
And blood is on thy brow;
Thy golden crown, the crown of truth,
Thou didst reject as dross,
And now thy cross is on thee laid,
The Crescent is thy cross!
Thy cross thou bearest now!
An iron yoke is on thy neck,
And blood is on thy brow;
Thy golden crown, the crown of truth,
Thou didst reject as dross,
And now thy cross is on thee laid,
The Crescent is thy cross!
It was not mine, nor will it be,
To see the bloody rod
That scourgeth thee, and long hath scourged,
Thou city of our God!
But round thy hill the spirits throng
Of all thy murdered seers,
And voices that went up from it
Are ringing in my ears,—
To see the bloody rod
That scourgeth thee, and long hath scourged,
Thou city of our God!
But round thy hill the spirits throng
Of all thy murdered seers,
And voices that went up from it
Are ringing in my ears,—
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Went up that day, when darkness fell
From all thy firmament,
And shrouded thee at noon; and when
Thy temple's vail was rent,
And graves of holy men, that touched
Thy feet, gave up their dead:—
Jerusalem, thy prayer is heard,
His blood is on thy head!
From all thy firmament,
And shrouded thee at noon; and when
Thy temple's vail was rent,
And graves of holy men, that touched
Thy feet, gave up their dead:—
Jerusalem, thy prayer is heard,
His blood is on thy head!
1840.
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