 | The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer |  |
163
SONGS AND BALLADS.
THE POET'S HOME.
Give answer, rolling waves!
Where must the minstrel go
To find some quiet land,
Unvisited by woe?
Some consecrated spot,
Where partings are unknown,
And on the violet turf
A blight is never thrown?
The waves reply, while bursting on the strand,
“Earth, in her ample bounds, owns no such land.”
Where must the minstrel go
To find some quiet land,
Unvisited by woe?
Some consecrated spot,
Where partings are unknown,
And on the violet turf
A blight is never thrown?
The waves reply, while bursting on the strand,
“Earth, in her ample bounds, owns no such land.”
Answer, ye voiceful winds!
Where can the minstrel find
A wreath amid whose leaves
No cypress is entwined?
A crown of beauteous flowers
That may become a brow
O'er which neglect's cold hand
Hath driven Grief's dark plow?
And the winds answer, “Sunset hath not smiled,
On wreath like this in all our wanderings wild.”
Where can the minstrel find
A wreath amid whose leaves
No cypress is entwined?
A crown of beauteous flowers
That may become a brow
O'er which neglect's cold hand
Hath driven Grief's dark plow?
And the winds answer, “Sunset hath not smiled,
On wreath like this in all our wanderings wild.”
Oh! answer, aged Earth!
Where will the bard obtain
Reward for airy dreams
Created by his brain?
A recompense for toil
In haunts obscure and cold,
While one by one his hopes,
Expiring, turn to mould?
Earth makes reply, “The bard's reward is rest
Under the green robe on his mother's breast.”
Where will the bard obtain
Reward for airy dreams
Created by his brain?
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In haunts obscure and cold,
While one by one his hopes,
Expiring, turn to mould?
Earth makes reply, “The bard's reward is rest
Under the green robe on his mother's breast.”
Give answer, journeying birds,
That northern fields forsake
In quest of tropic grove,
Green isle and sunny lake—
Will ye not reach a clime
Whose radiance may control
The wild, unsated wish
That haunts the poet's soul?
And the birds warble, “By our flight be taught
That not in vain are homes of beauty sought.”
That northern fields forsake
In quest of tropic grove,
Green isle and sunny lake—
Will ye not reach a clime
Whose radiance may control
The wild, unsated wish
That haunts the poet's soul?
And the birds warble, “By our flight be taught
That not in vain are homes of beauty sought.”
Give answer, twinkling stars!
For lord of lute and lay
Cannot some kingdom fair
Be found far, far away;
Where sleep may fall like balm
Upon his wounded powers—
A sunny land of calm,
Unlike this world of ours?
And the stars answer, “At the fount of song,
In heaven, no more the minstrel suffers wrong.”
For lord of lute and lay
Cannot some kingdom fair
Be found far, far away;
Where sleep may fall like balm
Upon his wounded powers—
A sunny land of calm,
Unlike this world of ours?
And the stars answer, “At the fount of song,
In heaven, no more the minstrel suffers wrong.”
165
INDEPENDENCE ODE.
When our fathers in vain sought redress from the throne,
And the Tyrant grew mad in his thirst for dominion—
Earth shook, while the bugle of conflict was blown,
And our Eagle unfolded his newly-fledged pinion:
Men with hair thin and white,
Bared their arms for the fight,
And the lad of sixteen made the dull weapon bright,
While gilding the battle-storm, rolling in wrath,
The sunlight of freedom streamed full on their path.
And the Tyrant grew mad in his thirst for dominion—
Earth shook, while the bugle of conflict was blown,
And our Eagle unfolded his newly-fledged pinion:
Men with hair thin and white,
Bared their arms for the fight,
And the lad of sixteen made the dull weapon bright,
While gilding the battle-storm, rolling in wrath,
The sunlight of freedom streamed full on their path.
Fierce bands of Oppression were marshalled in vain,
Though the Cross of St. George fluttered haughtily o'er them,
Unmoved as the rock, beating backward the main,
Frowned the phalanx of Liberty darkly before them:
With the dying and dead
Was the battle-field spread,
And the rain of destruction fell reeking and red;
But Britain soon learned that she could not prevail,
For the war-shout of Washington rang on the gale.
Though the Cross of St. George fluttered haughtily o'er them,
Unmoved as the rock, beating backward the main,
Frowned the phalanx of Liberty darkly before them:
With the dying and dead
Was the battle-field spread,
And the rain of destruction fell reeking and red;
But Britain soon learned that she could not prevail,
For the war-shout of Washington rang on the gale.
In earth, by their prowess and fortitude won,
From the grasp of Invasion, our grandsires are sleeping,
And proud are the columns that gleam in the sun,
Where moss o'er each sepulchre slowly is creeping;
But the triumphs of Art
Can no glory impart,
When the names of the mighty are traced on the heart,
And deeds that have hallowed hill, valley, and shore,
Are linked to the turf that they trod, evermore.
From the grasp of Invasion, our grandsires are sleeping,
And proud are the columns that gleam in the sun,
Where moss o'er each sepulchre slowly is creeping;
But the triumphs of Art
Can no glory impart,
When the names of the mighty are traced on the heart,
And deeds that have hallowed hill, valley, and shore,
Are linked to the turf that they trod, evermore.
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The valor that burned in the breasts of our sires
Is living in hearts of the free-born and daring,
Who nobly, while poets are stringing their lyres,
Our flag to the Mexican stronghold are bearing:
Thronging hosts in the fray,
Veiled the lustre of day
With the smoke-cloud of guns, but their march could not stay,
And earth feels the tread of their conquering feet,
While the heart of an Empire is ceasing to beat.
Is living in hearts of the free-born and daring,
Who nobly, while poets are stringing their lyres,
Our flag to the Mexican stronghold are bearing:
Thronging hosts in the fray,
Veiled the lustre of day
With the smoke-cloud of guns, but their march could not stay,
And earth feels the tread of their conquering feet,
While the heart of an Empire is ceasing to beat.
Proud heirs of a legacy bought by the sword,
May the South and the North ever live in communion;
May the vials of doom on the traitor be poured,
Whose lip ever mutters that foul word—“Disunion”—
Guard the Home of your birth
Where the wretched of earth,
When scourged by the Despot, find altar and hearth,
And the splendor of Rome will be dim to the fame
That our Land, in the Congress of Nations, will claim.
May the South and the North ever live in communion;
May the vials of doom on the traitor be poured,
Whose lip ever mutters that foul word—“Disunion”—
Guard the Home of your birth
Where the wretched of earth,
When scourged by the Despot, find altar and hearth,
And the splendor of Rome will be dim to the fame
That our Land, in the Congress of Nations, will claim.
167
KE-U-KA REVISITED.
Loved Lake! I have seen thee once more,
And the hills that slope down to thy wave,
And gazed on thy picturesque shore,
While nature a welcoming gave.
Old woods, like the sun-bow arrayed,
By the breath of October were stirred
And music to soothe me was made
By wind, singing ripple and bird.
And the hills that slope down to thy wave,
And gazed on thy picturesque shore,
While nature a welcoming gave.
Old woods, like the sun-bow arrayed,
By the breath of October were stirred
And music to soothe me was made
By wind, singing ripple and bird.
How sweet was the murmuring roll
Of each wavelet that broke on the strand!
And I thought I was wafted in soul
From earth to some magical land.
Circling over thy bosom of blue
The light, graceful gull was afloat,
And gravelly Bluff Point loomed to view
From the deck of our beautiful boat.
Of each wavelet that broke on the strand!
And I thought I was wafted in soul
From earth to some magical land.
Circling over thy bosom of blue
The light, graceful gull was afloat,
And gravelly Bluff Point loomed to view
From the deck of our beautiful boat.
Though changed since the summit I trod
In the deep green of summer-time drest,
It towered a grand altar of God,
And mist rose like smoke from its breast.
My hat waved in air at the sight,
And I cheered in my fullness of joy,
While back came a sense of delight
That I knew, when a wild, dreaming boy.
In the deep green of summer-time drest,
It towered a grand altar of God,
And mist rose like smoke from its breast.
My hat waved in air at the sight,
And I cheered in my fullness of joy,
While back came a sense of delight
That I knew, when a wild, dreaming boy.
The red man may well with a sigh
Look there on a paradise lost,
While the bones of his forefathers lie
Exposed to the gale and the frost.
His pines, so majestic of old,
Stand dreary, like battle-thinn'd ranks;
The stone of his altar is cold,
His trail blotted out on thy banks.
Look there on a paradise lost,
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Exposed to the gale and the frost.
His pines, so majestic of old,
Stand dreary, like battle-thinn'd ranks;
The stone of his altar is cold,
His trail blotted out on thy banks.
Ke-u-ka! thrice blest would I be,
Could a home by thy waters be mine;
No monarch beyond the blue sea
Would drink such a draught of life's wine.
My harp, draped no longer in black,
Would wake to a rapturous strain;
The dream of romance would come back,
And my spirit grow youthful again.
Could a home by thy waters be mine;
No monarch beyond the blue sea
Would drink such a draught of life's wine.
My harp, draped no longer in black,
Would wake to a rapturous strain;
The dream of romance would come back,
And my spirit grow youthful again.
The child of my love has an eye
Like the deep azure tint of thy breast,
And her cheek wears the roseate dye
On thy mirror by sunset impressed.
I caught the bright gleam of her hair
In thy swell, edged by morning with gold,
And the snow of her forehead so fair
In the flash of thy foam did behold.
Like the deep azure tint of thy breast,
And her cheek wears the roseate dye
On thy mirror by sunset impressed.
I caught the bright gleam of her hair
In thy swell, edged by morning with gold,
And the snow of her forehead so fair
In the flash of thy foam did behold.
How grandly the wood-belted hills
In thy surf dipped their gray, rocky feet,
While leaped down a thousand bright rills,
Like children their mother to greet!
Three cheers for the steamer Steuben!
May she aye be a stranger to wreck,
Not forgetting that jewel of men,
The Captain who paces her deck.
In thy surf dipped their gray, rocky feet,
While leaped down a thousand bright rills,
Like children their mother to greet!
Three cheers for the steamer Steuben!
May she aye be a stranger to wreck,
Not forgetting that jewel of men,
The Captain who paces her deck.
169
THE ROSE-BUD.
Methinks thy gift to wandering bard
Who weaves for thee this careless strain,
Will prove an amulet to guard
From outward ill and inward pain.
Oh! precious is the bud to me
That once on thy fair bosom lay!
For richest pearl in Omar's sea
I would not barter it away.
Who weaves for thee this careless strain,
Will prove an amulet to guard
From outward ill and inward pain.
Oh! precious is the bud to me
That once on thy fair bosom lay!
For richest pearl in Omar's sea
I would not barter it away.
Thy touch hath made it, leaf and stem,
A priceless and a hallowed thing,
Meet for Titania's diadem
While dancing in the fairy ring.
When faded its voluptuous hue,
A life will linger in the flower
That needeth not sustaining dew,
Or golden sunshine's nursing power.
A priceless and a hallowed thing,
Meet for Titania's diadem
While dancing in the fairy ring.
When faded its voluptuous hue,
A life will linger in the flower
That needeth not sustaining dew,
Or golden sunshine's nursing power.
By day, and in the hush of night,
Grief's shadow from my brow to chase,
Its leaves will summon back to sight
Thy graceful form and classic grace.
To the bard's dreamy, gorgeous land
In spirit may we often fly,
And wander shadowy, hand in hand,
Through rose-wreathed halls of fantasy.
Grief's shadow from my brow to chase,
Its leaves will summon back to sight
Thy graceful form and classic grace.
To the bard's dreamy, gorgeous land
In spirit may we often fly,
And wander shadowy, hand in hand,
Through rose-wreathed halls of fantasy.
What nonsense have I written down!
I am not self-possest to-day—
On brow the world hath taught to frown
The light of song should never play.
Can “Witch Imagination” warm
A heart whose passion-streams are dry?
Mere man of parchment and of form,
And slave of wrangling fools am I.
I am not self-possest to-day—
On brow the world hath taught to frown
The light of song should never play.
170
A heart whose passion-streams are dry?
Mere man of parchment and of form,
And slave of wrangling fools am I.
Should maid, then, blest like thee, require
From me the tributary rhyme?
The peerless child of laurelled sire
Will share his fame in after-time.
Thou needest not the praise of one
From whom life's romance is receding,
Who haunts a land without a sun—
The barren realm of special pleading.
From me the tributary rhyme?
The peerless child of laurelled sire
Will share his fame in after-time.
Thou needest not the praise of one
From whom life's romance is receding,
Who haunts a land without a sun—
The barren realm of special pleading.
Farewell! I quit thee with regret
To struggle in the war of life;
I would not for the world forget
Thy words of—hush! I have a wife,
And two sweet children—one a boy
Who wears the dark hair of his mother,
And, full of innocence and joy,
A radiant little girl the other.
To struggle in the war of life;
I would not for the world forget
Thy words of—hush! I have a wife,
And two sweet children—one a boy
Who wears the dark hair of his mother,
And, full of innocence and joy,
A radiant little girl the other.
171
HUNTING SONG.
Would that one I love were here
Where the monarch-pine is waving,
And the Susquehanna near,
Broad, majestical and clear,
Wanders on, the valley laving!
Where tall peaks to kiss the cloud
Far above his tide are swelling,
Beauteous when a misty shroud
Hovers round their foreheads proud,
I would make my sylvan dwelling.
Where the monarch-pine is waving,
And the Susquehanna near,
Broad, majestical and clear,
Wanders on, the valley laving!
Where tall peaks to kiss the cloud
Far above his tide are swelling,
Beauteous when a misty shroud
Hovers round their foreheads proud,
I would make my sylvan dwelling.
Round my home the sun would throw
Tints of rosy light when dying:
Though the vale far, far below
Warms not with a sunset glow,
In a robe of shadow lying.
From the blasted pine, his throne,
I would mark with folded pinion,
Feathered sovereign, fierce and lone,
While the rocking boughs made moan,
Gazing on his wild dominion.
Tints of rosy light when dying:
Though the vale far, far below
Warms not with a sunset glow,
In a robe of shadow lying.
From the blasted pine, his throne,
I would mark with folded pinion,
Feathered sovereign, fierce and lone,
While the rocking boughs made moan,
Gazing on his wild dominion.
I would rove with hound and gun,
When the dawn of day was breaking,
And the dim stars, one by one,
Paled before their lord, the sun,
In a blaze of glory waking:
I would blow a bugle-blast
Loud romantic echoes rousing;
Then, with footstep fleet and fast,
Seek the greenwood deep and vast,
Where the antlered deer are browsing.
When the dawn of day was breaking,
And the dim stars, one by one,
Paled before their lord, the sun,
In a blaze of glory waking:
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Loud romantic echoes rousing;
Then, with footstep fleet and fast,
Seek the greenwood deep and vast,
Where the antlered deer are browsing.
With the spoils of chase at night,
Gladly to my home returning,
I would haste, with footfall light,
Guided by a beacon bright
On my rugged hearth-stone burning.
There my bride, in accent clear,
While my frugal meal preparing,
With a song would lull mine ear,
And repay her mountaineer
For a life of toil and daring
Gladly to my home returning,
I would haste, with footfall light,
Guided by a beacon bright
On my rugged hearth-stone burning.
There my bride, in accent clear,
While my frugal meal preparing,
With a song would lull mine ear,
And repay her mountaineer
For a life of toil and daring
173
THOUGH THY DREAR WORDS.
“The roses of my spirit, as well as of my cheeks are fled, and I fear, my friend, that the few pale flowers which are still lingering in the garden of my youth would soon become scentless and tasteless to you.”
Stella.
Though thy drear words are fraught with solemn truth,
And the soft light of thy dark eye is waning—
Though roses in the garden of thy youth,
Like mourners, few and frost-bleached, are remaining—
My heart with deep affection to its core
Will thrill whenever thy sweet name is spoken,
And love thee till its pulse can throb no more,
And its frail chords are tuneless, stilled and broken.
And the soft light of thy dark eye is waning—
Though roses in the garden of thy youth,
Like mourners, few and frost-bleached, are remaining—
My heart with deep affection to its core
Will thrill whenever thy sweet name is spoken,
And love thee till its pulse can throb no more,
And its frail chords are tuneless, stilled and broken.
Think not that maid of more enticing mien—
Of lip more red, and darker, richer tresses,
Though in the jewelled drapery of a queen
Her form of Phidian witchery she dresses,
Will teach me falsehood by her potent wiles,
And the fond ties that knit our souls dissever,
Or, with the dazzling radiance of her smiles,
Dim Stella's image in my bosom ever.
Of lip more red, and darker, richer tresses,
Though in the jewelled drapery of a queen
Her form of Phidian witchery she dresses,
Will teach me falsehood by her potent wiles,
And the fond ties that knit our souls dissever,
Or, with the dazzling radiance of her smiles,
Dim Stella's image in my bosom ever.
Though pain and sorrow on thy forehead fair
Have left their deep and melancholy traces,
I prize thy pensive mournfulness of air
Far more than joys that kindle happier faces.
I think of thee when Night is on her throne,
And Dian in her car of pearl is riding,
And when I wander in the woods alone
Thy sylph-like figure in my path seems gliding.
Have left their deep and melancholy traces,
I prize thy pensive mournfulness of air
Far more than joys that kindle happier faces.
I think of thee when Night is on her throne,
And Dian in her car of pearl is riding,
And when I wander in the woods alone
Thy sylph-like figure in my path seems gliding.
174
The wild, inconstant bird our northern bowers
Forsakes, when winds are chill and leaves are dying;
In quest of lands where ever blush the flowers
Across the blue and briny waters flying:—
Unlike that bird from thee I will not fly
When the brief summer of thy bloom is ended,
And with the tints of life a deadlier dye,
That whispers of the winding-sheet, is blended.
Forsakes, when winds are chill and leaves are dying;
In quest of lands where ever blush the flowers
Across the blue and briny waters flying:—
Unlike that bird from thee I will not fly
When the brief summer of thy bloom is ended,
And with the tints of life a deadlier dye,
That whispers of the winding-sheet, is blended.
Ah! if it be thy destiny to lie
In the cold hall of dreamless rest before me,
My tears, until the fount of grief is dry,
Will 'dew the funeral turf that blossoms o'er thee:
Nor will I worship, with adoring gaze,
Some dawning orb of loveliness, forgetting
The lost, extinguished star of other days
That flung on me its latest beam while setting.
In the cold hall of dreamless rest before me,
My tears, until the fount of grief is dry,
Will 'dew the funeral turf that blossoms o'er thee:
Nor will I worship, with adoring gaze,
Some dawning orb of loveliness, forgetting
The lost, extinguished star of other days
That flung on me its latest beam while setting.
175
FLORENCE AND PAUL.
By ocean's rocky ledges
She clasped his wasted hand,
And the surf, with whitening edges,
Came booming to the land.
His sweet, pale face, wore ever—
By day and twilight lone—
The look of one who never
Had childish pastime known:
But love, unto each other,
Had closely knit the pair—
Why, with her little brother,
Came gentle Florence there?
PAUL.She clasped his wasted hand,
And the surf, with whitening edges,
Came booming to the land.
His sweet, pale face, wore ever—
By day and twilight lone—
The look of one who never
Had childish pastime known:
But love, unto each other,
Had closely knit the pair—
Why, with her little brother,
Came gentle Florence there?
Hark! dearest sister, hearken!
To that low, mournful strain,
While landward breezes darken
The mirror of the main.
Is it the snow-gull glancing,
A rover wild and free—
Far off the white-caps dancing,
Or phantoms that I see?
FLORENCE.
I hear no voice of sorrow
Of roaring ocean born,
And his azure garments borrow
Fresh lustre from the morn.
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The waters far away,
And nothing ghostly hovers
Above the dashing spray.
PAUL.
A lady beckons, sister!
Who pale and shrouded seems,
Oh! I have often kissed her,
And talked to her in dreams.
Her presence wakes within me
Vague memories of the past;
Oh! would that she might win me
To her embrace at last.
177
HEBREW MELODY.
“Thou hast covered thyself with a cloud, that our prayers should not pass through.”—
Lamentations, 3:44.
Lamentations, 3:44.
We have prayed, in the midnight deep,
For Salem doomed by thee;
Oh! when will thine anger sleep,
And our fettered limbs be free?
Her princes wail aloud,
And fly while foes pursue—
“Thou hast covered thyself with a cloud,
That our prayers should not pass though.”
For Salem doomed by thee;
Oh! when will thine anger sleep,
And our fettered limbs be free?
Her princes wail aloud,
And fly while foes pursue—
“Thou hast covered thyself with a cloud,
That our prayers should not pass though.”
Joy of the earth no more,
Her strongholds are destroyed,
And the glittering crown she wore
Of brightness is devoid.
For sackcloth, lo! the proud
Change robes of scarlet hue—
“Thou hast covered thyself with a cloud,
That our prayers should not pass through.”
Her strongholds are destroyed,
And the glittering crown she wore
Of brightness is devoid.
For sackcloth, lo! the proud
Change robes of scarlet hue—
“Thou hast covered thyself with a cloud,
That our prayers should not pass through.”
For corn and wine in vain
Her famished children call,
And drugged is the cup they drain
With the wormwood and the gall:
In dust are the mighty bowed
With their ruined homes in view—
“Thou hast covered thyself with a cloud,
That our prayers should not pass through.”
Her famished children call,
And drugged is the cup they drain
With the wormwood and the gall:
In dust are the mighty bowed
With their ruined homes in view—
“Thou hast covered thyself with a cloud,
That our prayers should not pass through.”
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She, on whose queenly head
The gifts of heaven were showered,
Droops, widowed by the dead,
With watching overpowered.
The tears of a ghastly crowd
Her walks and courts bedew—
“Thou hast covered thyself with a cloud,
That our prayers should not pass through.”
The gifts of heaven were showered,
Droops, widowed by the dead,
With watching overpowered.
The tears of a ghastly crowd
Her walks and courts bedew—
“Thou hast covered thyself with a cloud,
That our prayers should not pass through.”
179
LAY OF THE CRUSADER.
Ginevra!—Ginevra!—
Thy girlish lip is mute:
And silent, in ancestral hall,
Hangs now thy gilded lute.
With trophies from the Holy Land
Hath come thine own true knight,
To wildly wish the desert sand
Had drank his blood in fight!
Thy girlish lip is mute:
And silent, in ancestral hall,
Hangs now thy gilded lute.
With trophies from the Holy Land
Hath come thine own true knight,
To wildly wish the desert sand
Had drank his blood in fight!
Ginevra!—Ginevra!
By palmer wert thou told
That, on the plains of Palestine,
My corse was lying cold;
And, credence giving to the tale,
Went up wild prayer to die,
While suddenly thy cheek grew pale,
And lustreless thine eye.
By palmer wert thou told
That, on the plains of Palestine,
My corse was lying cold;
And, credence giving to the tale,
Went up wild prayer to die,
While suddenly thy cheek grew pale,
And lustreless thine eye.
Ginevra!—Ginevra!—
No more thy lulling voice,
When twilight paints the sky, will trill
The ballad of my choice.
Thy parting gift, my buried bride,
Will nerve this arm no more,
When speeds my barb with fetlock dyed
In Saracenic gore.
No more thy lulling voice,
When twilight paints the sky, will trill
The ballad of my choice.
Thy parting gift, my buried bride,
Will nerve this arm no more,
When speeds my barb with fetlock dyed
In Saracenic gore.
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Ginevra!—Ginevra!
Death holds in icy thrall
Thy loveliness of form and face
In his unlighted hall.
With laurels from the Holy Land
Hath come thine own true knight,
To wildly wish the desert sand
Had drank his blood in fight.
Death holds in icy thrall
Thy loveliness of form and face
In his unlighted hall.
With laurels from the Holy Land
Hath come thine own true knight,
To wildly wish the desert sand
Had drank his blood in fight.
181
A FESTAL SONG.
Fill high, fill high, with good old wine,
The bowl our fathers drained—
Fill high, fill high, though its golden rim
By the mist of age is stained.
In nectar now bedew the lips,
And wake the voice of song,
For clouds will gather, and eclipse
The light of bliss ere long.
Fill high, fill high, with good old wine,
The cup our fathers drained—
Fill high, fill high, though its golden rim
By the mist of age is stained.
The bowl our fathers drained—
Fill high, fill high, though its golden rim
By the mist of age is stained.
In nectar now bedew the lips,
And wake the voice of song,
For clouds will gather, and eclipse
The light of bliss ere long.
Fill high, fill high, with good old wine,
The cup our fathers drained—
Fill high, fill high, though its golden rim
By the mist of age is stained.
The foam-bells on the ruby tide
Are types of passing things,
Reminding us that Joy soon dies—
That gray-beard Time hath wings—
And a few more days will dawn and end,
A few more moons wax old,
Ere friend will darkly follow friend
To homes in church-yard mould.
Fill high, fill high, with good old wine,
The bowl our fathers drained—
Fill high, fill high, though its golden rim
By the mist of age is stained.
Are types of passing things,
Reminding us that Joy soon dies—
That gray-beard Time hath wings—
And a few more days will dawn and end,
A few more moons wax old,
Ere friend will darkly follow friend
To homes in church-yard mould.
Fill high, fill high, with good old wine,
The bowl our fathers drained—
Fill high, fill high, though its golden rim
By the mist of age is stained.
Around this ancient festal board
Glad spirits met of yore,
But their merry strains are hushed in death—
Their laugh will ring no more:
Under the yew trees, mossed and green,
May their quiet graves be found;
But in soul they hover nigh unseen,
While tale and jest go round.
Then fill high, fill high, with good old wine,
The bowl our fathers drained—
Fill high, fill high, though its golden rim
By the mist of age is stained.
Glad spirits met of yore,
But their merry strains are hushed in death—
Their laugh will ring no more:
182
May their quiet graves be found;
But in soul they hover nigh unseen,
While tale and jest go round.
Then fill high, fill high, with good old wine,
The bowl our fathers drained—
Fill high, fill high, though its golden rim
By the mist of age is stained.
183
HEART SHADOWS.
“Me nec fœmina, nec puer
Jam, nec spes animi credula mutui,
Nec certare juvat mero,
Nec vincire novis tempora floribus.”
Horace.
Jam, nec spes animi credula mutui,
Nec certare juvat mero,
Nec vincire novis tempora floribus.”
Horace.
The rack that weaves a vapory pall
Between the sun and earth,
Soon passes, and the birds again
Make melody and mirth;
But, ah! there is a darker cloud
That will not thus depart,
But flings, though roll away the years,
A shadow on the heart.
Between the sun and earth,
Soon passes, and the birds again
Make melody and mirth;
But, ah! there is a darker cloud
That will not thus depart,
But flings, though roll away the years,
A shadow on the heart.
The dim and misty veil that drapes
A sombre April sky,
Is kindled, now and then, by gleams
Of day's bright golden eye;
But through a denser, darker cloud
The sunbeam cannot dart—
It coldly flings for evermore
A shadow on the heart.
A sombre April sky,
Is kindled, now and then, by gleams
Of day's bright golden eye;
But through a denser, darker cloud
The sunbeam cannot dart—
It coldly flings for evermore
A shadow on the heart.
It may be study that has brought
This deep, abiding gloom—
Blind, erring Love, whose roses frail
Catch odors from the tomb;
Or Pleasure wild, that beckons us
To sail without a chart,
May fling, till o'er the stormy cruise,
A shadow on the heart
This deep, abiding gloom—
Blind, erring Love, whose roses frail
Catch odors from the tomb;
Or Pleasure wild, that beckons us
To sail without a chart,
May fling, till o'er the stormy cruise,
A shadow on the heart
184
Let Music wake her sweetest note,
And Joy his loudest strain—
The light that cheered and warmed of old
Comes never back again:
The mantle of a night that morn
In twain will never part,
Flings heavily for evermore
Chill shadows on the heart.
And Joy his loudest strain—
The light that cheered and warmed of old
Comes never back again:
The mantle of a night that morn
In twain will never part,
Flings heavily for evermore
Chill shadows on the heart.
185
A WAIL.
Wail! wail! wail!
Filling earth with the sound—
Alas, the Old Year
Lieth dead and discrown'd!
Happy dreams, sunny joys,
Pleasant thoughts that we cherished,
Were born while he ruled,
And with him have they perished;
A phantom with scythe
And frail glass hurried by
Who palsied his limbs,
And who curtained his eye.
Filling earth with the sound—
Alas, the Old Year
Lieth dead and discrown'd!
Happy dreams, sunny joys,
Pleasant thoughts that we cherished,
Were born while he ruled,
And with him have they perished;
A phantom with scythe
And frail glass hurried by
Who palsied his limbs,
And who curtained his eye.
Croak! croak! croak!
Outcalleth the crow,
Perched on the tree-top
A prophet of woe!
Black are his vestments,
And vigil he keepeth
Over the spot where
The weary one sleepeth.
Fled have bright schemes
With the year that is gone,
And pall o'er the coffin
Of love hath been drawn.
Outcalleth the crow,
Perched on the tree-top
A prophet of woe!
Black are his vestments,
And vigil he keepeth
Over the spot where
The weary one sleepeth.
Fled have bright schemes
With the year that is gone,
And pall o'er the coffin
Of love hath been drawn.
Wail! wail! wail!
The knell of the year
Telleth children of dust
That the night-time is near—
That Beauty in vain
Watcheth over her flower—
That her march to the grave
Groweth faster each hour:
Wail! wail! wail!
Filling earth with the sound,
Alas! the Old Year
Lieth dead and discrown'd.
The knell of the year
Telleth children of dust
That the night-time is near—
186
Watcheth over her flower—
That her march to the grave
Groweth faster each hour:
Wail! wail! wail!
Filling earth with the sound,
Alas! the Old Year
Lieth dead and discrown'd.
187
THE GIRLS OF SONG.
Come back to memory, and wear
Your chaplets of poetic glory,
Bright Laura of the golden hair,
And Tasso's royal Leonora!
But wakeners of a brighter throng
Of pleasant thoughts and visions airy,
Are those immortal Girls of Song—
Sweet “Bonny Jean” and “Highland Mary.”
Your chaplets of poetic glory,
Bright Laura of the golden hair,
And Tasso's royal Leonora!
But wakeners of a brighter throng
Of pleasant thoughts and visions airy,
Are those immortal Girls of Song—
Sweet “Bonny Jean” and “Highland Mary.”
Fair picture to poetic eye
Is Una with her white lamb straying,
Or Rosalind, a masquer sly,
The part of boy in Arden playing;
But never toward those rustic belles
My heart will in attachment vary
Who weave for me poetic spells—
Young “Bonny Jean” and “Highland Mary.”
Is Una with her white lamb straying,
Or Rosalind, a masquer sly,
The part of boy in Arden playing;
But never toward those rustic belles
My heart will in attachment vary
Who weave for me poetic spells—
Young “Bonny Jean” and “Highland Mary.”
I love, in inspiration's hour
While Fancy her weird realm discloses,
To think of love's own passion flower,
Young Juliet with her wreath of roses.
But never walked elysian plain,
Or lingered in the “Land of Faëry”
Forms dearer than that precious twain—
Blithe “Bonny Jean” and “Highland Mary.”
While Fancy her weird realm discloses,
To think of love's own passion flower,
Young Juliet with her wreath of roses.
But never walked elysian plain,
Or lingered in the “Land of Faëry”
Forms dearer than that precious twain—
Blithe “Bonny Jean” and “Highland Mary.”
The lassies still are young and fair,
Defying Death and Time's endeavor;
Their lover was the Bard of Ayr,
And in his lay they live forever.
Methinks the sun would be less bright—
Less beautiful the welkin starry,
Had never woke to life and light,
Blithe “Bonny Jean” and “Highland Mary.”
Defying Death and Time's endeavor;
188
And in his lay they live forever.
Methinks the sun would be less bright—
Less beautiful the welkin starry,
Had never woke to life and light,
Blithe “Bonny Jean” and “Highland Mary.”
189
THE HALLOWED WELLS OF LEARNING.
The hallowed wells of Learning
No wasting may they know,
But sparkle, fed by lucid streams,
Unceasing in their flow;
And may their waters catch no stain
Of deep and Stygian dye,
Though error for an hour hold reign
Beneath a darkened sky.
No wasting may they know,
But sparkle, fed by lucid streams,
Unceasing in their flow;
And may their waters catch no stain
Of deep and Stygian dye,
Though error for an hour hold reign
Beneath a darkened sky.
The sacred bowers of Learning,
Be blight apart from them!
No tree grow up with serpent-folds
Entwining round the stem;
No bud of precious promise feel
The frost of cold neglect,
And heard no solemn funeral peal
For Genius early wrecked.
Be blight apart from them!
No tree grow up with serpent-folds
Entwining round the stem;
No bud of precious promise feel
The frost of cold neglect,
And heard no solemn funeral peal
For Genius early wrecked.
The stately halls of Learning,
Forever may they stand!
And Truth walk down the sounding aisles,
With Honor hand in hand;
The columns that uphold the roof
Be men of noble mould,
And beauteous daughters, armed in proof,
Stern war with wrong to hold.
Forever may they stand!
And Truth walk down the sounding aisles,
With Honor hand in hand;
The columns that uphold the roof
Be men of noble mould,
And beauteous daughters, armed in proof,
Stern war with wrong to hold.
The holy shrines of Learning,
May no polluting flame
Be lighted on one altar-stone
By fiends who mock at shame;
But cloudless light be shed abroad
A guilty world to cheer,
And men forget to worship God
In superstitious fear.
May no polluting flame
190
By fiends who mock at shame;
But cloudless light be shed abroad
A guilty world to cheer,
And men forget to worship God
In superstitious fear.
191
ODE.
IN COMMEMORATION OF THE SETTLEMENT OF WESTERN NEW YORK.
High was the homage senates paid
To the plumed conquerors of old
And freely at their feet were laid
Rich piles of flashing gems and gold
To the plumed conquerors of old
And freely at their feet were laid
Rich piles of flashing gems and gold
Proud History exhausted thought—
Glad bards awoke their vocal reeds
While Phidian hands the marble wrought
In honor of their wond'rous deeds;
Glad bards awoke their vocal reeds
While Phidian hands the marble wrought
In honor of their wond'rous deeds;
But our undaunted pioneers
Have conquests more enduring won,
In scattering the night of years,
And opening forests to the sun:
Have conquests more enduring won,
In scattering the night of years,
And opening forests to the sun:
And victors are they nobler far
Than the helmed chiefs of other times,
Who rolled their chariots of war
In other lands and distant climes.
Than the helmed chiefs of other times,
Who rolled their chariots of war
In other lands and distant climes.
Earth groaned beneath those mail-clad men,
Bereft of beauty where they trod—
And wildly rose from hill and glen
Loud, agonizing shrieks to God
Bereft of beauty where they trod—
And wildly rose from hill and glen
Loud, agonizing shrieks to God
Purveyors to the carrion-bird,
Blood streamed from their uplifted swords,
And while the crash of states was heard,
Swept on their desolating hordes.
Blood streamed from their uplifted swords,
And while the crash of states was heard,
Swept on their desolating hordes.
192
Then tell me not of heroes fled—
Crime renders foul their boasted fame,
While widowed ones and orphans bled
They earned the phantom of a name.
Crime renders foul their boasted fame,
While widowed ones and orphans bled
They earned the phantom of a name.
The sons of our New England sires,
Armed with endurance, dared to roam
Far from the hospitable fires,
And the green, hallowed bowers of home.
Armed with endurance, dared to roam
Far from the hospitable fires,
And the green, hallowed bowers of home.
Distemper, leagued with famine wan,
Nerved to a high resolve, they bore,
And flocks upon the thymy lawn
Ranged where the panther yelled before.
Nerved to a high resolve, they bore,
And flocks upon the thymy lawn
Ranged where the panther yelled before.
Look now abroad! the scene how changed
Where fifty fleeting years ago,
Clad in his savage costume, ranged
The belted lord of shaft and bow.
Where fifty fleeting years ago,
Clad in his savage costume, ranged
The belted lord of shaft and bow.
No more a woody waste, the land
Is rich in fruits and golden grain,
And clustering domes and temples stand
On upland, river, shore and plain.
Is rich in fruits and golden grain,
And clustering domes and temples stand
On upland, river, shore and plain.
In praise of Pomp let fawning Art
Carve rocks to triumph over years—
The grateful incense of the heart
Give to our living Pioneers.
Carve rocks to triumph over years—
The grateful incense of the heart
Give to our living Pioneers.
Almighty! may thine outstretched arm
Guard, through long ages yet to be,
From tread of slave, and kingly harm,
Our Eden of the Genesee.
Guard, through long ages yet to be,
From tread of slave, and kingly harm,
Our Eden of the Genesee.
193
A SCOTTISH BALLAD.
“We perish, or avenge him!”
The fierce Mc Ians cried,
When, stricken by an arrow,
The brave young Ronald died.
The fierce Mc Ians cried,
When, stricken by an arrow,
The brave young Ronald died.
Noon saw them stem the battle
With targe and broad claymore,
But moonlight fell upon them
Crouched darkly in their gore.
With targe and broad claymore,
But moonlight fell upon them
Crouched darkly in their gore.
Mourn, mourn, ye houseless widows!
Ye orphan children, wail!
Nor son, nor sire, nor brother
Come back to tell the tale!
Ye orphan children, wail!
Nor son, nor sire, nor brother
Come back to tell the tale!
Ho! pale and plaided maiden,
Of light, but hurried tread—
Thy quest is vain; for Ronald,
Thy Highland lad, is dead!
Of light, but hurried tread—
Thy quest is vain; for Ronald,
Thy Highland lad, is dead!
At last she found her lover
Stretched on the dewy turf—
His face, all streaked with crimson,
Colder than wintry surf.
Stretched on the dewy turf—
His face, all streaked with crimson,
Colder than wintry surf.
The brooch on his hushed bosom
Flashed in the wan moonlight,
And low and dirge-like music
Rose on the blast of night.
Flashed in the wan moonlight,
And low and dirge-like music
Rose on the blast of night.
194
She wildly kissed his cold lips,
And over him she spread
Her chequered plaid, believing
Its warmth might wake the dead.
And over him she spread
Her chequered plaid, believing
Its warmth might wake the dead.
Poor, crazed, heart-broken Flora,
Thy time of woe was brief,
For blue-eyed morning found thee
A corse beside thy chief!
Thy time of woe was brief,
For blue-eyed morning found thee
A corse beside thy chief!
Deep grave the herdsmen hollowed
Within the valley lone,
And there ye rest together
Without memorial-stone.
Within the valley lone,
And there ye rest together
Without memorial-stone.
195
THE POLE'S FAREWELL.
Warsaw, farewell! alone that word
Fame's dark eclipse recalls;
The voice of wail alone is heard
Within her ruined walls—
Her pavement rings beneath the tread
Of bondsmen by a master led.
Fame's dark eclipse recalls;
The voice of wail alone is heard
Within her ruined walls—
Her pavement rings beneath the tread
Of bondsmen by a master led.
Hope kindles on my native shore
No more her beacon-fires—
The northern Bear is trampling o'er
The dust of fallen sires,
And signal ever to destroy
Has been his growl of savage joy.
No more her beacon-fires—
The northern Bear is trampling o'er
The dust of fallen sires,
And signal ever to destroy
Has been his growl of savage joy.
Oh! for one hour of glory gone—
An arm of might to hurl
The Czar in thunder from his throne,
And Freedom's flag unfurl;
Then welcome like a bride the grave
Unbranded by the name of slave.
An arm of might to hurl
The Czar in thunder from his throne,
And Freedom's flag unfurl;
Then welcome like a bride the grave
Unbranded by the name of slave.
Our snow-white Eagle
screams no more
Defiance high and loud;
The wing is broken that could soar
Through battle's smoky cloud,
And wounded by a coward's spear,
His perch is now lost Poland's bier.
Defiance high and loud;
The wing is broken that could soar
Through battle's smoky cloud,
And wounded by a coward's spear,
His perch is now lost Poland's bier.
Once happy was the hall of home,
Now desolation's lair—
Blood stains its hearth, and I must roam,
A pilgrim of despair,
Leaving, when heart and brain grow cold,
My weary bones in foreign mould.
Now desolation's lair—
Blood stains its hearth, and I must roam,
A pilgrim of despair,
Leaving, when heart and brain grow cold,
My weary bones in foreign mould.
196
THE PRESS.
Ere the glorious Art that we love was invented,
Restoring the lustre Earth wore in her morn,
A picture the map of creation presented,
How bleak and forbidding—how lost and forlorn!
More dark than the midnight of dreary November,
A pall was spread over the region of mind;
The fires of the past had gone out, and no ember
Was saved from the wreck to illumine mankind.
Restoring the lustre Earth wore in her morn,
A picture the map of creation presented,
How bleak and forbidding—how lost and forlorn!
More dark than the midnight of dreary November,
A pall was spread over the region of mind;
The fires of the past had gone out, and no ember
Was saved from the wreck to illumine mankind.
The Genius of Liberty, bleeding and fettered,
Lay mute and heart-crushed in a pestilent cave,
While cowled Superstition, morose and unlettered,
Consigned with rude hand murder'd Hope to the grave.
Truth walked through the world with a visage dejected,
And Error, appareled in sable, was King;
The harp of the poet hung mute and neglected,
The red rust of ages corroding each string.
Lay mute and heart-crushed in a pestilent cave,
While cowled Superstition, morose and unlettered,
Consigned with rude hand murder'd Hope to the grave.
Truth walked through the world with a visage dejected,
And Error, appareled in sable, was King;
The harp of the poet hung mute and neglected,
The red rust of ages corroding each string.
Then hail to the Press, by which fetters were broken,
And dungeons unbarred to the visit of day—
Our glorious Art, that in thunder hath spoken,
The night-hag of Ignorance chasing away.
Plumed minions of pomp, with their pageantry hollow,
Before its effulgence dissolving, grew pale,
As vapory clouds at the smile of Apollo
Roll back, and the face of the waters unveil.
And dungeons unbarred to the visit of day—
Our glorious Art, that in thunder hath spoken,
The night-hag of Ignorance chasing away.
Plumed minions of pomp, with their pageantry hollow,
Before its effulgence dissolving, grew pale,
As vapory clouds at the smile of Apollo
Roll back, and the face of the waters unveil.
And hail to our brother, calm Tamer of Lightning,
The pride of his country and terror of kings!
Whose fame, though his body is dust, ever bright'ning
A pure, holy light on America flings.
The Staff of the Sage in his hand was a weapon
That aided in conflict a Washington's glaive;
While guard we the relic, no foe will dare step on
The green turf that covers a patriot's grave.
The pride of his country and terror of kings!
Whose fame, though his body is dust, ever bright'ning
A pure, holy light on America flings.
The Staff of the Sage in his hand was a weapon
That aided in conflict a Washington's glaive;
While guard we the relic, no foe will dare step on
The green turf that covers a patriot's grave.
197
SERENADE.
List, lady, listen,
While brightly glisten
The lulling waves in the sweet starlight,
For music hath woke
Her echoes, and broke
The dreamy hush of the summer night.
While brightly glisten
The lulling waves in the sweet starlight,
For music hath woke
Her echoes, and broke
The dreamy hush of the summer night.
Fairies awaking
Dells are forsaking
The magic fall of my strain to hear:—
Star of my being!
Darkness is fleeing,
And sprites, in the green-wood born, are near.
Dells are forsaking
The magic fall of my strain to hear:—
Star of my being!
Darkness is fleeing,
And sprites, in the green-wood born, are near.
Wake, dearest, waken,
Moonbeams have taken
From queenly Night an eclipsing cloud—
Billows kiss brightly
My skiff rocking lightly
Beneath the porch of thy dwelling proud.
Moonbeams have taken
From queenly Night an eclipsing cloud—
Billows kiss brightly
My skiff rocking lightly
Beneath the porch of thy dwelling proud.
Angels are near me,
Water-nymphs hear me,
Their pearl-cars float on the glassy tide—
Winds have been wooing,
With whisper subduing,
Blossoms that blush on the mountain side.
Water-nymphs hear me,
Their pearl-cars float on the glassy tide—
Winds have been wooing,
With whisper subduing,
Blossoms that blush on the mountain side.
While wavelets glisten,
List, lady, listen,
For notes to the landward breeze are given
Sweet as that lay
Thou wilt hearken alway
When thy soul leaves Earth to gladden Heaven.
List, lady, listen,
For notes to the landward breeze are given
Sweet as that lay
Thou wilt hearken alway
When thy soul leaves Earth to gladden Heaven.
198
FISHING SONG OF SHETLAND.
The mermen who dwell
In the fathomless deep
Are lulling the turbulent
Billows to sleep;
And will leave soon their
Cold, sparry caverns to guide
The bark of the fisherman
Over the tide.
In the fathomless deep
Are lulling the turbulent
Billows to sleep;
And will leave soon their
Cold, sparry caverns to guide
The bark of the fisherman
Over the tide.
In the halls of Valhalla
Dwell none but the bold;
We will rival in daring
Our fathers of old—
They thought not of danger
While plying the oar,
And left to the coward
The hovel on shore.
Dwell none but the bold;
We will rival in daring
Our fathers of old—
They thought not of danger
While plying the oar,
And left to the coward
The hovel on shore.
In childhood our nurse
Was the murmuring sea,
The roar of its waters
Proclaims—we are free.
The thunder of waves, and
The shriek of the gale
Keep time to our voices
While trimming the sail.
Was the murmuring sea,
The roar of its waters
Proclaims—we are free.
The thunder of waves, and
The shriek of the gale
Keep time to our voices
While trimming the sail.
Our wives blandly smiling
Will greet our return;
On the hearth, the red peat-fire
Will merrily burn.
The sky is serene, and
The ocean, this day,
To our bearded harpoons
A rich tribute shall pay.
Will greet our return;
On the hearth, the red peat-fire
Will merrily burn.
The sky is serene, and
The ocean, this day,
To our bearded harpoons
A rich tribute shall pay.
199
THE SEA-NYMPH'S SONG.
Sound is he sleeping
Far under the wave,
Sea-nymphs are keeping
A watch for the brave:
Deep was our grief and wild—
Wilder our dirge
When the doomed Ocean Child
Drowned in the surge.
Far under the wave,
Sea-nymphs are keeping
A watch for the brave:
Deep was our grief and wild—
Wilder our dirge
When the doomed Ocean Child
Drowned in the surge.
Within a bright chamber
His form we have laid;
With spar, pearl, and amber
The walls are arrayed—
Though high rolls the billow,
He wakes not at morn,
And sponge for his pillow
From rocks we have torn.
His form we have laid;
With spar, pearl, and amber
The walls are arrayed—
Though high rolls the billow,
He wakes not at morn,
And sponge for his pillow
From rocks we have torn.
I heard thy name spoken
When down came the mast,
His hold was then broken—
That word was his last.
A picture is lying,
Lorn maid! on his breast—
That picture in dying
His hand closely prest.
When down came the mast,
His hold was then broken—
That word was his last.
A picture is lying,
Lorn maid! on his breast—
That picture in dying
His hand closely prest.
Why turns thy cheek paler
These tidings to know?
The truth of thy sailor
Should lessen thy woe:
The wave could not chill it
That stifled his breath;
Pure love—can aught kill it?
Give answer, oh, Death!
These tidings to know?
The truth of thy sailor
Should lessen thy woe:
The wave could not chill it
That stifled his breath;
Pure love—can aught kill it?
Give answer, oh, Death!
200
JUNIPER ISLE.
Oh! fairy scenes are in many lands,
Bright lawns lie spread amid desert sands;
Green Edens, swept by the cooling breeze,
Their brows lift up above Indian seas,
While the billows break, in lengthened swells,
And strew the shore with rose-lipped shells;
But Nature in her loveliest spot—
Arcadian bower, or Egerian grot,
Gave never the light of a sweeter smile
Than rests on the face of the Juniper Isle.
Bright lawns lie spread amid desert sands;
Green Edens, swept by the cooling breeze,
Their brows lift up above Indian seas,
While the billows break, in lengthened swells,
And strew the shore with rose-lipped shells;
But Nature in her loveliest spot—
Arcadian bower, or Egerian grot,
Gave never the light of a sweeter smile
Than rests on the face of the Juniper Isle.
A bow-shot or more, from its gleaming strand,
A rock looms up all dark and grand,
Girt by an azure, watery zone,
Like faith in a shifting world alone:
Old hills beyond, a continuous chain,
Give bounds to the realm of proud Champlain,
And clothed in robes of cerulean dye
Resemble clouds that have left the sky,
Woo'd down by the scene's romantic charms,
Like Dian to young Endymion's arms.
A rock looms up all dark and grand,
Girt by an azure, watery zone,
Like faith in a shifting world alone:
Old hills beyond, a continuous chain,
Give bounds to the realm of proud Champlain,
And clothed in robes of cerulean dye
Resemble clouds that have left the sky,
Woo'd down by the scene's romantic charms,
Like Dian to young Endymion's arms.
Back memory will often stray
To the quiet scene of that summer day
When I heard the combing billows break
On the polished beach of the breezy lake;
But the brightest feature of the scene,
Though skies were clear, the meadows green,
And airy tongues, dispelling care,
Made musical both earth and air,
Was nature's gem, the Juniper Isle,
That basked in the sunset's golden smile.
To the quiet scene of that summer day
When I heard the combing billows break
On the polished beach of the breezy lake;
But the brightest feature of the scene,
Though skies were clear, the meadows green,
And airy tongues, dispelling care,
Made musical both earth and air,
Was nature's gem, the Juniper Isle,
That basked in the sunset's golden smile.
201
THE HEARTH-CRICKET.
I love thy chirping notes,
Black watchman of the night!
They summon from the cloudy past
Bright hours of lost delight.
The wildwood haunts of home
In thought I tread once more—
Rock, thicket, glade, and torrent wear
The loveliness of yore.
Black watchman of the night!
They summon from the cloudy past
Bright hours of lost delight.
The wildwood haunts of home
In thought I tread once more—
Rock, thicket, glade, and torrent wear
The loveliness of yore.
Around the lighted hearth
That gave thee lodging warm
While fell the cold, November rain
Or howled the wintry storm,
In calm contentment meet
The forms of vanished days,
And voices of familiar tone
Breathe old, remembered lays.
That gave thee lodging warm
While fell the cold, November rain
Or howled the wintry storm,
In calm contentment meet
The forms of vanished days,
And voices of familiar tone
Breathe old, remembered lays.
When eve again returns,
Steal forth on nimble feet
From cranny in the chimney-wall,
Thy tempest-proof retreat;
For thy shrill, household song
Is worker of a spell
Whereby that thief, Forgetfulness,
Unlocks his treasure-cell
Steal forth on nimble feet
From cranny in the chimney-wall,
Thy tempest-proof retreat;
For thy shrill, household song
Is worker of a spell
Whereby that thief, Forgetfulness,
Unlocks his treasure-cell
Re-visiting in soul
My father's rose-wreathed cot,
The briers of this “work-day world”
Awhile torment me not—
The loved and long-lost dead
Seem palpable to sight,
Awakened by thy chirping note,
Black watchman of the night!
My father's rose-wreathed cot,
The briers of this “work-day world”
Awhile torment me not—
The loved and long-lost dead
Seem palpable to sight,
Awakened by thy chirping note,
Black watchman of the night!
202
MY LOVED—MY OWN.
Nor the hush of the shadowy night,
Nor the glare of the busy day,
Nor the many cares of the world, from thee
Ever lure my thoughts away.
In dreams thou art by my side,
With thy babe, a rose unblown,
And thy voice for me breathes melody,
My loved—my own!
Nor the glare of the busy day,
Nor the many cares of the world, from thee
Ever lure my thoughts away.
In dreams thou art by my side,
With thy babe, a rose unblown,
And thy voice for me breathes melody,
My loved—my own!
The page of the laurell'd bard
Thrills me not, since thou art gone;
And from earth below, and the sky above,
Is an olden charm withdrawn.
Come back with thy beaming smile,
For my heart is mournful grown—
Fast the wild bird flies, when her sad mate cries,
My loved—my own!
Thrills me not, since thou art gone;
And from earth below, and the sky above,
Is an olden charm withdrawn.
Come back with thy beaming smile,
For my heart is mournful grown—
Fast the wild bird flies, when her sad mate cries,
My loved—my own!
I have prayed for a spell whereby
I might question the wind of thee,
And learn if thy cheek was flushed with health,
Or wan while afar from me.
And I start when the casement jars,
And I hear a hollow moan,
But the churlish gale will tell no tale,
My loved—my own!
I might question the wind of thee,
And learn if thy cheek was flushed with health,
Or wan while afar from me.
And I start when the casement jars,
And I hear a hollow moan,
But the churlish gale will tell no tale,
My loved—my own!
Not sooner the noon-parch'd flower,
Would revive in summer rain,
Than a glimpse of thee and my laughing boy
Would my sick heart heal again.
We have been, since wed, like leaves
By the breath of autumn blown;
But home's green bowers may yet be ours,
My loved—my own!
Would revive in summer rain,
Than a glimpse of thee and my laughing boy
Would my sick heart heal again.
We have been, since wed, like leaves
By the breath of autumn blown;
But home's green bowers may yet be ours,
My loved—my own!
203
LAMENT OF A SPIRIT.
Down poured the sleet, when ceased to beat
The pulse of the poor Old Year;
And at midnight hour, a voice of power
From dreams I woke to hear:
“He lieth low in a robe of snow,”
It shouted in thrilling tones—
“Proud heir! unmeet is such winding-sheet
For thy father's royal bones.
The pulse of the poor Old Year;
And at midnight hour, a voice of power
From dreams I woke to hear:
“He lieth low in a robe of snow,”
It shouted in thrilling tones—
“Proud heir! unmeet is such winding-sheet
For thy father's royal bones.
“On his frozen corse with pitiless force
The blows of Winter fall,
While light feet bound to the viol's sound
In Pleasure's glittering hall:
And the crownless head of a Monarch dead
Reclines on a snowy bank,
While wine is poured at the festal board,
And thy health with plaudits drank.
The blows of Winter fall,
While light feet bound to the viol's sound
In Pleasure's glittering hall:
And the crownless head of a Monarch dead
Reclines on a snowy bank,
While wine is poured at the festal board,
And thy health with plaudits drank.
“No bell is tolled for the slumberer old—
No bier with sable hung;
Save the hollow moan of the blast alone,
No ‘ullalulla’ sung:—
He felt the smart of a broken heart
When the flowers grew pale and died,
And the leafy crown of the oak grew brown,
And tattered his robe of pride.
No bier with sable hung;
Save the hollow moan of the blast alone,
No ‘ullalulla’ sung:—
He felt the smart of a broken heart
When the flowers grew pale and died,
And the leafy crown of the oak grew brown,
And tattered his robe of pride.
“Go through the storm to the lifeless form
Of thy royal sire, and see
What thyself ere long, though young and strong,
Gay reveller, wilt be!
My warning mark!—round thy body stark
The night-blast too shall rave—
Twelve flaps of the wing of Time, proud King,
Shall waft thee to thy grave.”
Of thy royal sire, and see
What thyself ere long, though young and strong,
Gay reveller, wilt be!
My warning mark!—round thy body stark
The night-blast too shall rave—
Twelve flaps of the wing of Time, proud King,
Shall waft thee to thy grave.”
204
THE MARINER'S WELCOME HOME.
“Music, when soft voices die,
Vibrates in the memory.”—
Shelley.
Vibrates in the memory.”—
Shelley.
She knew me not, although her breast
Had pillowed oft my head,
And thought I long had been at rest
With Ocean's ghostly dead.
Full on my wan and wasted face
She fixed her melancholy gaze;
But there, alas! she could not trace
The look of other days.
Had pillowed oft my head,
And thought I long had been at rest
With Ocean's ghostly dead.
Full on my wan and wasted face
She fixed her melancholy gaze;
But there, alas! she could not trace
The look of other days.
She knew me not!—the flight of time
An iron form will bow;
And bondage in a tropic clime
Had darkened cheek and brow:
I spoke of friends with look cast down,
Who shared her joy in better hours—
Whom Death had added to his crown
Of darkly folded flowers:—
An iron form will bow;
And bondage in a tropic clime
Had darkened cheek and brow:
I spoke of friends with look cast down,
Who shared her joy in better hours—
Whom Death had added to his crown
Of darkly folded flowers:—
In vain!—the mourning one no glance
Of love or welcome gave;
She thought beneath the blue expanse
Of ocean was my grave:
I then sang airs that in the cell
Of hoarding memory long had slept,
And with a look tongue cannot tell,
She clasped my neck and wept.
Of love or welcome gave;
She thought beneath the blue expanse
Of ocean was my grave:
I then sang airs that in the cell
Of hoarding memory long had slept,
And with a look tongue cannot tell,
She clasped my neck and wept.
205
CHRISTABEL.
Sick at heart, I have retreated
From the dance to muse alone
In this bower where, often seated
By thy side, the hours have flown.
Here, in accents sweetly thrilling,
Words of magic import fell
From thy lip, my bosom filling
With mad transport, Christabel!
From the dance to muse alone
In this bower where, often seated
By thy side, the hours have flown.
Here, in accents sweetly thrilling,
Words of magic import fell
From thy lip, my bosom filling
With mad transport, Christabel!
Thou wilt live, with brow unclouded
And a look like summer skies,
When thy victim, early shrouded,
In his voiceless dwelling lies.
Blossoms on the floor lie faded,
Brought by me from wood and dell,
That were yester-morning braided
With thy locks, false Christabel!
And a look like summer skies,
When thy victim, early shrouded,
In his voiceless dwelling lies.
Blossoms on the floor lie faded,
Brought by me from wood and dell,
That were yester-morning braided
With thy locks, false Christabel!
Nightly here thy ardent lover,
While swift time unnoted fled,
From yon book with gilded cover,
Tales of burning passion read.
Long within the deep recesses
Of my breaking heart, will dwell
(Though thy smile another blesses)
Our last parting, Christabel!
While swift time unnoted fled,
From yon book with gilded cover,
Tales of burning passion read.
Long within the deep recesses
Of my breaking heart, will dwell
(Though thy smile another blesses)
Our last parting, Christabel!
206
LAMPS OF SILVER HANG ABOVE
Lamps of silver hang above me,
Shedding floods of rosy light,
And the looks of those who love me,
Chide my cold reserve to-night.
Leafy coronals are flinging
Round their gifts of odor sweet;
Vaulted roof and floor are ringing
With the fall of dancing feet.
While young Joy, with tress unbraided,
Charms with viol-note the ear,
Darkly is my forehead shaded—
Thou art not here!
Shedding floods of rosy light,
And the looks of those who love me,
Chide my cold reserve to-night.
Leafy coronals are flinging
Round their gifts of odor sweet;
Vaulted roof and floor are ringing
With the fall of dancing feet.
While young Joy, with tress unbraided,
Charms with viol-note the ear,
Darkly is my forehead shaded—
Thou art not here!
Often, often have I lifted
To my lip the cup of mirth,
When the beautiful and gifted
Crowded round the festal hearth.
Once this aching heart, of brighter,
Gayer feelings, was the shrine,
And no dancing foot fell lighter
In the mazy reel than mine.
Ruby lips are breathing gladness—
Eyes of fawn-like ray are near;
Why, then, is my brow all sadness?
Thou art not here!
To my lip the cup of mirth,
When the beautiful and gifted
Crowded round the festal hearth.
Once this aching heart, of brighter,
Gayer feelings, was the shrine,
And no dancing foot fell lighter
In the mazy reel than mine.
Ruby lips are breathing gladness—
Eyes of fawn-like ray are near;
Why, then, is my brow all sadness?
Thou art not here!
207
OUR FATHERS.
Renown to the band—that free, bold band
Who forsook the paternal hall,
And in maze lone of a wild unknown
Dared to rear the cabin-wall!
The wolf from his lair fled with bristling hair,
And old Night from his couch upsprung,
For his slumber was broke by the clashing oak—
The knell of his empire rung—
Then praise to the band—that free, bold band
Who went forth from paternal hall—
Nor the wintry gale, nor famine pale
Could their storm-proof hearts appall.
Who forsook the paternal hall,
And in maze lone of a wild unknown
Dared to rear the cabin-wall!
The wolf from his lair fled with bristling hair,
And old Night from his couch upsprung,
For his slumber was broke by the clashing oak—
The knell of his empire rung—
Then praise to the band—that free, bold band
Who went forth from paternal hall—
Nor the wintry gale, nor famine pale
Could their storm-proof hearts appall.
Where roved the wild man, with his whooping clan,
In the vale of the Genesee,
Now the lap of art, and the busy mart
Hold the spoils of land and sea:
Proud vessels ride on the waters wide
Where darted the birch canoe—
Like a ghost of the night scared by morning light,
Fled the groves—all moss'd—from view.
Then praise to the band—that free, bold band
Who forsook the paternal hall—
Nor the wintry gale, nor famine pale
Could their storm-proof hearts appall.
In the vale of the Genesee,
Now the lap of art, and the busy mart
Hold the spoils of land and sea:
Proud vessels ride on the waters wide
Where darted the birch canoe—
Like a ghost of the night scared by morning light,
Fled the groves—all moss'd—from view.
Then praise to the band—that free, bold band
Who forsook the paternal hall—
Nor the wintry gale, nor famine pale
Could their storm-proof hearts appall.
208
IBLA.
Rise, Ibla, rise!
From cloudless skies
Look down the moon and stars;
And near the shore
With boat and oar,
Keep watch, my gallant tars.
Oh, fly this hold of Turkish power,
For land beyond the wave,
Where woman lives a cherished flower,
And not a gold-bought slave!
From cloudless skies
Look down the moon and stars;
And near the shore
With boat and oar,
Keep watch, my gallant tars.
Oh, fly this hold of Turkish power,
For land beyond the wave,
Where woman lives a cherished flower,
And not a gold-bought slave!
Fear not the guard!
Through buckler hard
His heart my dagger found;
And redly now
His turbaned brow
Lies pillowed on the ground.
Haste, Ibla, haste!—my bark for thee
Flings out her canvas white,
And the blue waters of the sea
Will leave no trace of flight!
Through buckler hard
His heart my dagger found;
And redly now
His turbaned brow
Lies pillowed on the ground.
Haste, Ibla, haste!—my bark for thee
Flings out her canvas white,
And the blue waters of the sea
Will leave no trace of flight!
209
TWIN ACORNS.
On one fair stem two acorns grew,
Browned by the golden summer weather;
Together drank the silvery dew,
Rocked in the lulling air together.
Browned by the golden summer weather;
Together drank the silvery dew,
Rocked in the lulling air together.
Crown jewels of the royal oak,
A brief, brief time his forehead wore them,
For the black tempest came, and broke
The leaf-fringed diadem that bore them.
A brief, brief time his forehead wore them,
For the black tempest came, and broke
The leaf-fringed diadem that bore them.
When the wild storm was overpast,
A maiden, through the forest hieing,
Chancing around her eye to cast,
Found the twin acorns lowly lying.
A maiden, through the forest hieing,
Chancing around her eye to cast,
Found the twin acorns lowly lying.
She picked them up with hand of snow,
A lesson from their fate to borrow,
Deeming them types of love in woe,
Of two fond hearts unchanged by sorrow:
A lesson from their fate to borrow,
Deeming them types of love in woe,
Of two fond hearts unchanged by sorrow:
Saying—“When suns no longer shine,
And the red rose of joy is blighted,
Oh, that some breast would beat with mine,
True to the last, and disunited!”
And the red rose of joy is blighted,
Oh, that some breast would beat with mine,
True to the last, and disunited!”
210
LOVE'S STAR.
Though friendship's clear moonlight is sweet, Rose,
With falsehood its glow is replete, Rose—
The sunbeam of joy is a cheat, Rose,
But fadeless is Love's holy light;
It shines, though the storm-demon rave, Rose,
And gilds with a halo the grave, Rose,
When gone are the fair and the brave, Rose,
Restoring their features to sight.
With falsehood its glow is replete, Rose—
The sunbeam of joy is a cheat, Rose,
But fadeless is Love's holy light;
It shines, though the storm-demon rave, Rose,
And gilds with a halo the grave, Rose,
When gone are the fair and the brave, Rose,
Restoring their features to sight.
My bosom was colder than stone, Rose,
And long was I cheerless and lone, Rose,
But full on my darkness hath shone, Rose,
An orb in Love's canopy set;
While cheered on my course by its ray, Rose,
That turns the deep night into day, Rose,
Though fame and its visions betray, Rose,
A heart to press on have I yet.
And long was I cheerless and lone, Rose,
But full on my darkness hath shone, Rose,
An orb in Love's canopy set;
While cheered on my course by its ray, Rose,
That turns the deep night into day, Rose,
Though fame and its visions betray, Rose,
A heart to press on have I yet.
211
ROSE OF THE DESERT.
FROM THE ARABIC.
Sweet Rose of the Desert! thy Hassan will never
The glow of thy beauty with treachery blight,
For curses would rest on his spirit for ever
If false to the vow he has plighted to-night.
In regions of bliss I will fashion thy dwelling,
And teach blushing vales to re-echo thy name:
There forests drop balm, and the fountain is welling,
A mirror of light in an emerald frame.
The glow of thy beauty with treachery blight,
For curses would rest on his spirit for ever
If false to the vow he has plighted to-night.
In regions of bliss I will fashion thy dwelling,
And teach blushing vales to re-echo thy name:
There forests drop balm, and the fountain is welling,
A mirror of light in an emerald frame.
The cinnamon tree will wave gently above thee—
The timid gazelle like an arrow whiz by;
Dream not of affliction, for Hassan will love thee,
Though time rob thy lip of its coralline dye.
My charger is neighing, impatient to bear thee
From wastes that nurse only the deadly simoom;
I came not in meshes of love to ensnare thee,
Then leave thee forsaken, with blight on thy bloom.
The timid gazelle like an arrow whiz by;
Dream not of affliction, for Hassan will love thee,
Though time rob thy lip of its coralline dye.
My charger is neighing, impatient to bear thee
From wastes that nurse only the deadly simoom;
I came not in meshes of love to ensnare thee,
Then leave thee forsaken, with blight on thy bloom.
212
FALSE LADY! NO MORE SHALT THOU TRIFLE.
False Lady! no more shalt thou trifle
With one who was faithful to thee—
Dissembler! henceforth I will stifle
Each throb of affection for thee.
The hand that I prized as a jewel
To others I gladly resign;
A nature inconstant and cruel
Shall never be-mated with mine.
With one who was faithful to thee—
Dissembler! henceforth I will stifle
Each throb of affection for thee.
The hand that I prized as a jewel
To others I gladly resign;
A nature inconstant and cruel
Shall never be-mated with mine.
Old poets have feigned that a Fairy
Of peerless deportment and charms,
First tempted her victim to marry,
Then turned to a hag in his arms:
Thy beauty thus veiled for a season
A heart that was hollow and cold,
But Love turned to ashes when reason
Detected the counterfeit gold.
Of peerless deportment and charms,
First tempted her victim to marry,
Then turned to a hag in his arms:
Thy beauty thus veiled for a season
A heart that was hollow and cold,
But Love turned to ashes when reason
Detected the counterfeit gold.
213
LUCY'S DIRGE.
[The subject of the following tribute was chosen May Queen by her mates. When the day of festivity arrived, she lay wrapped in her little shroud.]
“She was not madeThrough years or moons the inner weight to bear
Which colder hearts endure till they are laid
By age in earth.”—
Byron.
May is here with golden tresses,
Tresses wreathed with flowers—
Tresses starred with dew-drops gleaming,
In the pleasant south-wind streaming,
Giving many-colored dresses
To the fields and bowers—
May is here with golden tresses,
Tresses wreathed with flowers.
Tresses wreathed with flowers—
Tresses starred with dew-drops gleaming,
In the pleasant south-wind streaming,
Giving many-colored dresses
To the fields and bowers—
May is here with golden tresses,
Tresses wreathed with flowers.
May is here, my little maiden,
Maiden passing fair!
Maiden like a seraph gifted,
Ever high in thought uplifted
Earth above with sorrow laden,
Darkness and despair—
May is here, my little maiden,
Maiden passing fair!
Maiden passing fair!
Maiden like a seraph gifted,
Ever high in thought uplifted
Earth above with sorrow laden,
Darkness and despair—
May is here, my little maiden,
Maiden passing fair!
Hark! a voice replieth sadly,
Sadly like a dirge—
Sadly like some childless mourner:
“To the church-yard they have borne her,
And torn hearts are throbbing madly,
Washed by sorrow's surge—”
Hark! a voice replieth sadly,
Sadly like a dirge:
Sadly like a dirge—
Sadly like some childless mourner:
“To the church-yard they have borne her,
And torn hearts are throbbing madly,
Washed by sorrow's surge—”
Hark! a voice replieth sadly,
Sadly like a dirge:
214
“Oh! she longed for May to greet her
With a honeyed kiss—
Greet her where bright eyes are glancing
And the forms of sylphs are dancing
In the sunny lawns to meet her
With the boon of bliss—
Oh! she longed for May to greet her
With a honeyed kiss.
With a honeyed kiss—
Greet her where bright eyes are glancing
And the forms of sylphs are dancing
In the sunny lawns to meet her
With the boon of bliss—
Oh! she longed for May to greet her
With a honeyed kiss.
Ah! the sun of May is sailing
Through yon azure deep—
Sailing with a face unclouded;
But sweet Lucy, pale and shrouded,
Heareth not the voice of wailing
In her dreamless sleep,
Though the sun of May is sailing
Through yon azure deep.
Through yon azure deep—
Sailing with a face unclouded;
But sweet Lucy, pale and shrouded,
Heareth not the voice of wailing
In her dreamless sleep,
Though the sun of May is sailing
Through yon azure deep.
Like the wondrous flower she faded
That unfolds at night—
Faded, but in fields Elysian
She rejoiceth angel vision,
While a wreath for her is braided
That will know no blight—
Like the wondrous flower she faded
That unfolds at night.
That unfolds at night—
Faded, but in fields Elysian
She rejoiceth angel vision,
While a wreath for her is braided
That will know no blight—
Like the wondrous flower she faded
That unfolds at night.
Oh! too oft the ghostly reaper
Moweth down the young—
Reaper of the scythe unsparing,
For the stricken little caring,
Though they bend above the sleeper
With their hearts unstrung—
Oh! too oft the ghostly reaper
Moweth down the young.
Moweth down the young—
Reaper of the scythe unsparing,
For the stricken little caring,
Though they bend above the sleeper
With their hearts unstrung—
Oh! too oft the ghostly reaper
Moweth down the young.
Fare thee well! bright child of heaven!
Heavenly dreams were thine—
Heavenly beauty gave forewarning
Of departure in life's morning,
And to thee a soul was given
Filled with thoughts divine—
Fare thee well! bright child of heaven!
Heavenly peace is thine.
Heavenly dreams were thine—
215
Of departure in life's morning,
And to thee a soul was given
Filled with thoughts divine—
Fare thee well! bright child of heaven!
Heavenly peace is thine.
MY CHILD.
A knell is ringing
In the belfry of my soul;
Voices are singing
That wildly breathe of dole.
In the belfry of my soul;
Voices are singing
That wildly breathe of dole.
The lyre I waken
Is draped with funeral black;
One away is taken
Who never can come back.
Is draped with funeral black;
One away is taken
Who never can come back.
She was my fairest,
A child of promise bright;
Beauty, the rarest,
Is first to feel the blight.
A child of promise bright;
Beauty, the rarest,
Is first to feel the blight.
I think of her nightly,
When home is far away,
And visions brightly
Around my pillow play.
When home is far away,
And visions brightly
Around my pillow play.
The thought is pleasant,
That she is by my side;
In spirit present,
My wandering feet to guide.
That she is by my side;
In spirit present,
My wandering feet to guide.
216
SONG TO STELLA.
Young rovers on life's changeful sea,
By darkening tide and wild wind driven,
Full many miles from home are we,
And friends who made that home a heaven.
By darkening tide and wild wind driven,
Full many miles from home are we,
And friends who made that home a heaven.
Fair scenes are round us, and the flowers
In winter's lap are sweetly growing
And sunny rills through laurel bowers,
Alive with birds, are brightly flowing:—
In winter's lap are sweetly growing
And sunny rills through laurel bowers,
Alive with birds, are brightly flowing:—
But still our thoughts will wander back,
And seek the haunts of laughing childhood,
Though there with storm the sky is black,
And faded are the lawn and wild-wood
And seek the haunts of laughing childhood,
Though there with storm the sky is black,
And faded are the lawn and wild-wood
Here gentle airs and pleasant gales
Sweep o'er the blossoming savannah,
But dearer are thy storied vales,
Dark Genesee and Susquehannah!
Sweep o'er the blossoming savannah,
But dearer are thy storied vales,
Dark Genesee and Susquehannah!
Our northern groves their charm have lost,
For the green crowns they wore are faded,
And the cold fingers of the frost
Wan wreaths have round the hill-top braided.
For the green crowns they wore are faded,
And the cold fingers of the frost
Wan wreaths have round the hill-top braided.
But in the halls of home, my love!
Warm hearts a summer-time are making,
Though white the roof with snow above,
And storm without is uproar waking.
Warm hearts a summer-time are making,
Though white the roof with snow above,
And storm without is uproar waking.
217
FAREWELL TO AVON.
Dear Avon! my home, looking down on a vale
By its river of sweet waters beautiful made;
Sad music is wandering by on the gale,
And dim lie the scenes of my childhood in shade.
Above is the roof that protected my head
From tempest and rain when an innocent child,
Beneath the same floor that rang out with my tread
When beat my young pulses in ecstasy wild.
Around me are objects that greeted my sight
When hope gave the future a chaplet of light;
And memories, mournful but pleasant, from rest,
Like ghosts that are summoned, awake in my breast.
By its river of sweet waters beautiful made;
Sad music is wandering by on the gale,
And dim lie the scenes of my childhood in shade.
Above is the roof that protected my head
From tempest and rain when an innocent child,
Beneath the same floor that rang out with my tread
When beat my young pulses in ecstasy wild.
Around me are objects that greeted my sight
When hope gave the future a chaplet of light;
And memories, mournful but pleasant, from rest,
Like ghosts that are summoned, awake in my breast.
The desolate moment of parting is near,
And care on my forehead sits mantled in gloom—
Not sadder is maid bending over the bier
Whereon lies her chosen one drest for the tomb;
When the toil and loud tumult of daylight are o'er,
And a family group take their seats by the hearth,
One sigh for the absent—I ask for no more!
A wish he were present to share in the mirth.
I shall miss, when the gale of adversity blows
That being who guarded my cradle-repose—
Where Ocean is baring his breast to the storm,
In visions her kiss on my cheek will be warm.
And care on my forehead sits mantled in gloom—
Not sadder is maid bending over the bier
Whereon lies her chosen one drest for the tomb;
When the toil and loud tumult of daylight are o'er,
And a family group take their seats by the hearth,
One sigh for the absent—I ask for no more!
A wish he were present to share in the mirth.
I shall miss, when the gale of adversity blows
That being who guarded my cradle-repose—
Where Ocean is baring his breast to the storm,
In visions her kiss on my cheek will be warm.
On the morrow I part with my reverend sire,
And vacant my place in his hall will be soon—
Full early the spirit of song on my lyre
Will sleep, for the chords have been long out of tune;
The rich, airy dreams of poetical days,
Like the vapor of morning, have faded away.
On thy loveliness, Avon! the stranger will gaze,
When moulders thy bard in his grave far away:
On the spot where my lute was first tunefully strung,
It is meet, it is meet that my last lay be sung;
Dear home! where companions and relatives dwell,
Fate calls me away—fare thee well! fare thee well!
And vacant my place in his hall will be soon—
218
Will sleep, for the chords have been long out of tune;
The rich, airy dreams of poetical days,
Like the vapor of morning, have faded away.
On thy loveliness, Avon! the stranger will gaze,
When moulders thy bard in his grave far away:
On the spot where my lute was first tunefully strung,
It is meet, it is meet that my last lay be sung;
Dear home! where companions and relatives dwell,
Fate calls me away—fare thee well! fare thee well!
A SCOTTISH SONG.
Giftie we gie, brother! giftie we gie!
Not yellow gowd, nor pale pearl frae the sea;
Though they may glimmer brighter than simmer,
Richer by far is the giftie we gie.
Not yellow gowd, nor pale pearl frae the sea;
Though they may glimmer brighter than simmer,
Richer by far is the giftie we gie.
Mair meet than this warl's gear for lad wha can sing
The wood-notes of Rob, is the buik that we bring;
The strains of a bardie whase sang canna dee
Have hallowed the page of the giftie we gie.
The wood-notes of Rob, is the buik that we bring;
The strains of a bardie whase sang canna dee
Have hallowed the page of the giftie we gie.
Loved name of the dead on its cover behold!
Oh! would we could warm up the heart that is cold!
In soul he is present, though viewless to ee,
While sadly, dear brother! this giftie we gie.
Oh! would we could warm up the heart that is cold!
In soul he is present, though viewless to ee,
While sadly, dear brother! this giftie we gie.
| The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer | |