 | Duganne's Poetical Works |  |
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Metrical Miscellanies.
296
TO J. J. Couch, J. Glover Drew, AND John Botume, Sons of New England AND TRIED FRIENDS, THESE MISCELLANIES (WHICH THEY HAVE MARKED BY THEIR COMMENDATION) ARE DEDICATED.
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ANTEDILUVIUM.
Deep mutterings were heard,
As of arising thunders;—now in low
And hoarsely-moaning tones, that stirred
All hearts with secret terror—then a long
Continuous, melancholy flow
Of sound, like waves that roll among
The deep, o'erhanging woods;
And then the mountains shook, and sounds
Broke forth from their deep wombs; and then
The roar of rushing floods—
That came, in swift and fearful bounds,
From mountain-top to glen.
The hearts of men were hush'd in chilling fear;
And from the palace and the peasant's cot
They came, and each drew near
The other, muttering some fearful thought.
And straining eyes were turned to heaven;
For thence—the prophet-man had said—
Should come their fearful doom:
But though the mountain-cliffs were riven—
And though each little rippling rill,
That silvered once the meadows fair,
Was swelled to rolling billows—still
No tempest broke the air:
No cloud enwrapped in sable gloom
The blue and peaceful sky;
But there the holy star-light beamed,
And placidly its radiance streamed
Upon each up-turn'd eye.
As of arising thunders;—now in low
And hoarsely-moaning tones, that stirred
All hearts with secret terror—then a long
Continuous, melancholy flow
Of sound, like waves that roll among
The deep, o'erhanging woods;
And then the mountains shook, and sounds
Broke forth from their deep wombs; and then
The roar of rushing floods—
That came, in swift and fearful bounds,
From mountain-top to glen.
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And from the palace and the peasant's cot
They came, and each drew near
The other, muttering some fearful thought.
And straining eyes were turned to heaven;
For thence—the prophet-man had said—
Should come their fearful doom:
But though the mountain-cliffs were riven—
And though each little rippling rill,
That silvered once the meadows fair,
Was swelled to rolling billows—still
No tempest broke the air:
No cloud enwrapped in sable gloom
The blue and peaceful sky;
But there the holy star-light beamed,
And placidly its radiance streamed
Upon each up-turn'd eye.
Then a quick, sharp crash, like a trumpet-blast,
Broke around and above, and the light was past;
And the trampling thunders came fierce and fast:—
Men looked around, and they looked their last.
Broke around and above, and the light was past;
And the trampling thunders came fierce and fast:—
Men looked around, and they looked their last.
A moment it paused, and the wind was stilled;
Not a passing zephyr the leaflets thrilled—
Not a ripple broke over the water;
And then o'er the silent sky was spread
A terrible mantle of bloody red,
Like crimson field of slaughter.
And then the lightnings, fork'd and bright,
Gleamed out on the face of the fearful night,
And wrote, in letters of ghastly white,
The sentence of all mankind:
And the eyes of men, in the awful light
Of that flaming sky—grew blind.
A shriek of desperate wo—
A hopeless, wailing, lengthen'd cry,
Of all the soul's deep agony—
Went up to that red sky.
Hushed were their voices then:
And on the stony earth they sank—
The stricken sons of men!
Forgotten now were power and rank:
The diadems of kings were low;
Monarch and peasant felt the blow:
And man crept nearer to his brother—
(He cared not who the wretch might be)
But fearfully each sought another,
For fellowship in misery.
The beggar's arm was wound a prince's neck around—
The neck of royalty.
They waited for their graves—
That silent multitude
The monarch and his slaves,
In golden and in iron chains,
With sightless eyes and throbbing veins,
In wild confusion stood.
There was stillness in heaven and earth,
Silence, and sadness, and gloom:
The world had forgotten its joyous birth,
And waited for the tomb.
And men were crouching on the ground,
And listening to their own dull breathing;
And over their bodies, and round and round,
The slimy snakes were wreathing.
The roar of the tiger was hushed:
The lion sank down, with his spirit crushed;
And forth from their caverns the jackals rushed,
And mingled with mankind!—
All—all—alike—were BLIND!
Not a passing zephyr the leaflets thrilled—
Not a ripple broke over the water;
And then o'er the silent sky was spread
A terrible mantle of bloody red,
Like crimson field of slaughter.
299
Gleamed out on the face of the fearful night,
And wrote, in letters of ghastly white,
The sentence of all mankind:
And the eyes of men, in the awful light
Of that flaming sky—grew blind.
A shriek of desperate wo—
A hopeless, wailing, lengthen'd cry,
Of all the soul's deep agony—
Went up to that red sky.
Hushed were their voices then:
And on the stony earth they sank—
The stricken sons of men!
Forgotten now were power and rank:
The diadems of kings were low;
Monarch and peasant felt the blow:
And man crept nearer to his brother—
(He cared not who the wretch might be)
But fearfully each sought another,
For fellowship in misery.
The beggar's arm was wound a prince's neck around—
The neck of royalty.
They waited for their graves—
That silent multitude
The monarch and his slaves,
In golden and in iron chains,
With sightless eyes and throbbing veins,
In wild confusion stood.
300
Silence, and sadness, and gloom:
The world had forgotten its joyous birth,
And waited for the tomb.
And men were crouching on the ground,
And listening to their own dull breathing;
And over their bodies, and round and round,
The slimy snakes were wreathing.
The roar of the tiger was hushed:
The lion sank down, with his spirit crushed;
And forth from their caverns the jackals rushed,
And mingled with mankind!—
All—all—alike—were BLIND!
A light, low sound, as of falling rain!
And on the parched and fiery plain
The showers of heaven descended:
They cooled the hot and fevered brain,
And men were lit with hope again,
As if the curse were ended.
But, sudden on each startled ear,
There came a surging sound!
A sound as of the moaning seas,
Or like the Autumn's sobbing breeze,
That rolls so dolefully around
The bare and bending trees,—
Solemn, and sad, and drear.
Then came the thunder-peal once more,
And the rushing wind, and the ocean-roar,
And the galloping waves on the crumbling shore,
And the muttering earthquake's groan;
Then the sea up-rose, with a sudden swell,
And the heavy clouds unbroken fell,
Till over each forest, and plain, and dell,
The watery pall was thrown.
Shriekings were heard—Creation's wail!—
Howlings of terror rose wild on the gale,
And to the hills they fled—
The multitudes of sightless men!
Where were their shrines of marble then?
Where were their gods of lead?
And on the parched and fiery plain
The showers of heaven descended:
They cooled the hot and fevered brain,
And men were lit with hope again,
As if the curse were ended.
But, sudden on each startled ear,
There came a surging sound!
A sound as of the moaning seas,
Or like the Autumn's sobbing breeze,
That rolls so dolefully around
The bare and bending trees,—
Solemn, and sad, and drear.
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And the rushing wind, and the ocean-roar,
And the galloping waves on the crumbling shore,
And the muttering earthquake's groan;
Then the sea up-rose, with a sudden swell,
And the heavy clouds unbroken fell,
Till over each forest, and plain, and dell,
The watery pall was thrown.
Shriekings were heard—Creation's wail!—
Howlings of terror rose wild on the gale,
And to the hills they fled—
The multitudes of sightless men!
Where were their shrines of marble then?
Where were their gods of lead?
They mounted to the hills—
The craggy steeps they gained;
And to their gods, in desperate yells,
Their choking voices strained.
The slow, engulfing waves drew nigh—
Against each rocky cliff they beat:
They reached each steep, each mountain high,
They licked their victims' feet.
Up, up!—the waves grew wilder yet
They mingled with the bloody sweat
That bathed each clammy breast:
Fiercely they came, and the multitude knelt,
As the crawling curse on their limbs they felt;
And from each gasping heart arose
A cry to Him who ruled their woes;
And each dark lip confessed
The justness of their doom!
They prayed to that strange God, whose Name
Burned in their souls like living flame—
Whose withering frown athwart the skies,
Robed in the midnight's sable guise,
Deepened the stormy gloom,—
They prayed to that strange God, whose might
Is quick to save, as fierce to smite,
To shield them from the tomb;
Each dark, despairing child of earth,
To Him who gave Creation birth—
To Him who rules in Heaven—
A deep and earnest prayer poured forth,
A prayer—to be FORGIVEN!
The craggy steeps they gained;
And to their gods, in desperate yells,
Their choking voices strained.
The slow, engulfing waves drew nigh—
Against each rocky cliff they beat:
They reached each steep, each mountain high,
They licked their victims' feet.
Up, up!—the waves grew wilder yet
They mingled with the bloody sweat
That bathed each clammy breast:
Fiercely they came, and the multitude knelt,
As the crawling curse on their limbs they felt;
302
A cry to Him who ruled their woes;
And each dark lip confessed
The justness of their doom!
They prayed to that strange God, whose Name
Burned in their souls like living flame—
Whose withering frown athwart the skies,
Robed in the midnight's sable guise,
Deepened the stormy gloom,—
They prayed to that strange God, whose might
Is quick to save, as fierce to smite,
To shield them from the tomb;
Each dark, despairing child of earth,
To Him who gave Creation birth—
To Him who rules in Heaven—
A deep and earnest prayer poured forth,
A prayer—to be FORGIVEN!
The scales fell from their eyes!
They saw the blesséd light!
'Twas not the golden sunlight's gleam;
'Twas not the pale moon's softer beam;
But the light of heaven's opening skies
Broke through the stormy night;
And a strain of angel minstrelsies
Fell from the mystic sky,
Whispering of hope, and love, and peace,
To the mortals doomed to die:
While far away, on the waters dark,
They saw the rescued Prophet's ark.
They saw the blesséd light!
'Twas not the golden sunlight's gleam;
'Twas not the pale moon's softer beam;
But the light of heaven's opening skies
Broke through the stormy night;
And a strain of angel minstrelsies
Fell from the mystic sky,
Whispering of hope, and love, and peace,
To the mortals doomed to die:
303
They saw the rescued Prophet's ark.
God in his power is kind!
God in his wrath still loves!
Behold! as round the nations, bent
In that last dying prayer,
Closes the narrowing firmament—
Ocean devouring air,—
Behold the Sign of peace—a Dove's
White wings the winds up-bear!
The multitudes behold—believe—
As through the Dark those pinions cleave.
God in his wrath still loves!
Behold! as round the nations, bent
In that last dying prayer,
Closes the narrowing firmament—
Ocean devouring air,—
Behold the Sign of peace—a Dove's
White wings the winds up-bear!
The multitudes behold—believe—
As through the Dark those pinions cleave.
They saw, and they believed!—
From out the bending sky,
The hope of immortality
Their changing hearts received.
Beyond the grave their faith was cast—
The bitterness of death was past:
And Mercy, from the vast profound,
Smiled o'er the waste where Justice frowned.
And in the choking ocean's fang,
And in the last, sharp, gasping pang,
When soul and sense were riven,
Their closing eyes beheld the light—
They heard the Hymn of seraphs bright,
And KNEW they were FORGIVEN.
From out the bending sky,
The hope of immortality
Their changing hearts received.
Beyond the grave their faith was cast—
The bitterness of death was past:
And Mercy, from the vast profound,
Smiled o'er the waste where Justice frowned.
And in the choking ocean's fang,
And in the last, sharp, gasping pang,
When soul and sense were riven,
Their closing eyes beheld the light—
They heard the Hymn of seraphs bright,
And KNEW they were FORGIVEN.
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CARACTACUS—
Caractacus was a British prince, who placed
himself at the head of the Silures, a people of
North Wales, in a revolt against the Romans.
He defeated the Roman general, Plautius, in
three pitched battles; but, after a protracted
struggle of nine years, was overcome by Ostorius,
Roman governor of Britain, who took
captive the chieftain's wife and daughter. Caractacus
took refuge with Cartismandua, Queen
of the Brigantes; but was treacherously delivered
up to Ostorius, and carried by him to
Rome, where (his fame having reached the
capital) a great concourse of people attended,
to witness his introduction to the Emperor
Claudius. The behaviour of the noble barbarian,
on this occasion, was firm and magnanimous,
as, with an erect presence, he replied to
the Cæsar's questions; and the latter had the
generosity to admit his defence, and, releasing
him from his chains, ordered his wife and child
to be restored to him.—
Vide
Taciti Annal. XII.
A ROMAN BALLAD.
Caractacus was a British prince, who placed himself at the head of the Silures, a people of North Wales, in a revolt against the Romans. He defeated the Roman general, Plautius, in three pitched battles; but, after a protracted struggle of nine years, was overcome by Ostorius, Roman governor of Britain, who took captive the chieftain's wife and daughter. Caractacus took refuge with Cartismandua, Queen of the Brigantes; but was treacherously delivered up to Ostorius, and carried by him to Rome, where (his fame having reached the capital) a great concourse of people attended, to witness his introduction to the Emperor Claudius. The behaviour of the noble barbarian, on this occasion, was firm and magnanimous, as, with an erect presence, he replied to the Cæsar's questions; and the latter had the generosity to admit his defence, and, releasing him from his chains, ordered his wife and child to be restored to him.—
Vide Taciti Annal. XII.
CLOSE your gates, O priests of Janus! close your brazen temple gates!
For the bold Ostorius Scapula invokes the peaceful fates;
And the brave Britannic Legion at the Arch of Triumph waits.
For the bold Ostorius Scapula invokes the peaceful fates;
And the brave Britannic Legion at the Arch of Triumph waits.
Bold Ostorius—home returning—for the island war is o'er;
And the wild Silurian rebels shall arise in arms no more:
Captive stands their savage monarch on the Tiber's golden shore.
And the wild Silurian rebels shall arise in arms no more:
Captive stands their savage monarch on the Tiber's golden shore.
Crowded are the banks of Tiber—crowded is the Appian Way;
And through all the Via Sacra ye may mark the dense array
Of the tramping throngs who celebrate a Roman gala-day.
And through all the Via Sacra ye may mark the dense array
Of the tramping throngs who celebrate a Roman gala-day.
305
From the joyous Campus Martius to the lonely Aventine—
From the Capitolian Palace to Apollo's Tiber shrine—
Hurrying onward to the Forum, sweeps the long, unbroken line.
From the Capitolian Palace to Apollo's Tiber shrine—
Hurrying onward to the Forum, sweeps the long, unbroken line.
To the Forum, where the Captive—chief of Britain's savage horde—
He who smote the host of Plautius with his fierce barbaric sword—
To the Forum, where the captive, trembling, waits the Cæsar's word.
He who smote the host of Plautius with his fierce barbaric sword—
To the Forum, where the captive, trembling, waits the Cæsar's word.
Caractácus! Caractácus! Oh! full many a Roman child
To its mother's breast at midnight has been caught in terror wild,
When some fearful dream of Britain's chief her sleeping sense beguiled.
To its mother's breast at midnight has been caught in terror wild,
When some fearful dream of Britain's chief her sleeping sense beguiled.
Thrice in battle sank our Eagles—shame that Romans lived to tell!
Thrice three years our baffled legions strove this rebel chief to quell:
Vain were all our arms against him—till by treachery he fell.
Thrice three years our baffled legions strove this rebel chief to quell:
Vain were all our arms against him—till by treachery he fell.
306
Now, behold! he is our captive! in the market-place he stands,
And around him are the Lictors and the stern Prætorian bands:
Stands he like a king among them—lifting high his shackled hands.
And around him are the Lictors and the stern Prætorian bands:
Stands he like a king among them—lifting high his shackled hands.
Sure he sees the steel-clad cohorts—sure he marks the lictors nigh,
Yet he stands before our monarch with a glance as proudly high
As if he, in truth, were Cæsar, and 'twere Claudius that should die.
Yet he stands before our monarch with a glance as proudly high
As if he, in truth, were Cæsar, and 'twere Claudius that should die.
Gazes he o'er prince and people, with a glance of wondering light—
O'er the Rostra—o'er the Forum—up the Palatinian height—
O'er the serried ranks of soldiers stretching far beneath his sight.
O'er the Rostra—o'er the Forum—up the Palatinian height—
O'er the serried ranks of soldiers stretching far beneath his sight.
Grandly swell the crash of cymbals, blare of trump, and roll of drum,
As adown that storied market-place the veteran cohorts come:
Then, at once, the clamorous shoutings sink into a brooding hum.
As adown that storied market-place the veteran cohorts come:
Then, at once, the clamorous shoutings sink into a brooding hum.
307
Tramping onward move the legions—tramping on with iron tread,
While Ostorius, marching vanward, proudly bends his martial head—
Proudly bends to the Ovation—meed of those whom valor led.
While Ostorius, marching vanward, proudly bends his martial head—
Proudly bends to the Ovation—meed of those whom valor led.
Statue-like, in savage grandeur, stands the chief of Britain's isle;
And his bearded lip is wreathing, as with silent scorn, the while:
Bold barbarian! dost thou mock us—mock us with that bitter smile?
And his bearded lip is wreathing, as with silent scorn, the while:
Bold barbarian! dost thou mock us—mock us with that bitter smile?
Lo! thou standest where the Brutus sware by chaste Lucretia's blood—
Where the Roman sire, Virginius, o'er his virgin daughter stood;
And where Marcus Curtius perished—victim for his country's good.
Where the Roman sire, Virginius, o'er his virgin daughter stood;
And where Marcus Curtius perished—victim for his country's good.
Lo! thou standest in the Forum—where the stranger's voice is free—
Where the captive may bear witness—thus our Roman laws decree!
“Lift thy voice, O chief of Britons!” 'Tis the Cæsar speaks to thee!—
Where the captive may bear witness—thus our Roman laws decree!
“Lift thy voice, O chief of Britons!” 'Tis the Cæsar speaks to thee!—
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“Lift thy voice, O wondering stranger! Thou hast marked our Roman state:
All the terrors—all the glories—that on boundless empire wait!—
Boldly speak thy thought, O Briton!—be it framed in love or hate!”
All the terrors—all the glories—that on boundless empire wait!—
Boldly speak thy thought, O Briton!—be it framed in love or hate!”
Thus our monarch to the stranger. Then, from off his forehead fair,
Backward, with a Jove-like motion, flung the chief his golden hair:
And he said—“O King of Romans! freely I my thought declare:—
Backward, with a Jove-like motion, flung the chief his golden hair:
And he said—“O King of Romans! freely I my thought declare:—
“Vanquished is my warlike nation—stricken by the Roman sword;
Lost to me my wife and children—long have I their fate deplored—
They are gone—but gloomy Hertha still enthralls their hapless lord.
Lost to me my wife and children—long have I their fate deplored—
They are gone—but gloomy Hertha still enthralls their hapless lord.
“Yet I murmur not—but wonder—WONDER, as in Jötna dreams,
At each strange and glittering marvel that before my vision gleams;
At the blaze of Roman glory which upon my senses streams.
At each strange and glittering marvel that before my vision gleams;
At the blaze of Roman glory which upon my senses streams.
309
“Romans! even as gods ye prosper—boundless are your gifts and powers!
Ye have fields with grain o'erladen—gardens thick with fruits and flowers
Halls of shining marble builded—cities strong with battling towers.
Ye have fields with grain o'erladen—gardens thick with fruits and flowers
Halls of shining marble builded—cities strong with battling towers.
“I have marked your gorgeous dwellings, and your works of wondrous art;
Bridges high in air suspended—columned shrine, and gilded mart:—
And I marveled—much I marveled—in my poor barbarian heart.
Bridges high in air suspended—columned shrine, and gilded mart:—
And I marveled—much I marveled—in my poor barbarian heart.
“For this day I saw your mighty gods beneath the Pantheon dome—
Gods of gold, and bronze, and silver!—and I marveled, King of Rome!
That such wealthy gods should envy me my poor, barbarian home!”
Gods of gold, and bronze, and silver!—and I marveled, King of Rome!
That such wealthy gods should envy me my poor, barbarian home!”
Ceased the chief—and on the pavement sadly sank his tearful eyes,
And the wondering crowds around him held their breath in mute surprise;
Held their breath—and then, outbursting, clove the air with sudden cries:
And the wondering crowds around him held their breath in mute surprise;
Held their breath—and then, outbursting, clove the air with sudden cries:
310
As when round the hush'd arena's dust a swoon-like silence floats,
While the Coliseum's victor o'er his dying foeman gloats—
And as breaks the sudden plaudit from a hundred thousand throats.
While the Coliseum's victor o'er his dying foeman gloats—
And as breaks the sudden plaudit from a hundred thousand throats.
Thus arose the voiceful tumult—thus, with loud and sudden swell,
Up from all those swaying thousands rose the shout no king might quell:
“Cæsar! he hath spoken bravely! Claudius! he hath spoken well!”
Up from all those swaying thousands rose the shout no king might quell:
“Cæsar! he hath spoken bravely! Claudius! he hath spoken well!”
Not unmoved the brow of Cæsar—it hath lost the Claudian frown;
And a tear upon his royal cheek is slowly trickling down:
Never purer gem than Pity's tear enriched a monarch's crown!
And a tear upon his royal cheek is slowly trickling down:
Never purer gem than Pity's tear enriched a monarch's crown!
Yet he speaks in anger's accents—“Ho! advance the fasces now!
Lictors! close ye round the scorner! Ha! barbarian! smilest thou?
There is ONE beneath whose glance even THY haughty soul shall bow!”
Lictors! close ye round the scorner! Ha! barbarian! smilest thou?
There is ONE beneath whose glance even THY haughty soul shall bow!”
311
Thus spoke Claudius—and the soldiers, opening round the curule chair,
Half revealed a form majestic 'mid the lictors bending there—
Half revealed a stately WOMAN—mantled by her radiant hair.
Half revealed a form majestic 'mid the lictors bending there—
Half revealed a stately WOMAN—mantled by her radiant hair.
Flashed the captive's eye with sunlight—burned his cheek with new-born life—
Hope, and fear, and doubt, and gladness, held by turns their eager strife—
Then two hearts and voices mingled—murmuring, “Husband!” answering, “Wife!”
Hope, and fear, and doubt, and gladness, held by turns their eager strife—
Then two hearts and voices mingled—murmuring, “Husband!” answering, “Wife!”
THE GERM OF GOOD.
NO feet this mortal maze have thrid,Or striven its stormy ways to climb,
That could not, in the journey's prime
To heavenly paths be led.
In every heart there's haply hid
(Though choked by weeds of guile and crime,)
Some pure, untainted germ, which time
And nurture may to flower upbid:
And, oh! it were a task sublime
To seek this germ, all withering weeds amid,
And train it, till it hath the heart from venom rid!
312
BARONIAL TIMES.
1. PART I.—BARONS OF THE PAST.
IN the old baronial times,
When the feudal lords bore sway,
There were high and low, and friend and foe,
As there are in this our day;
There were shrines and fanes, and swords and chains,
Young maids, and old men gray!
And the barons kept high state,
In their ancient castle halls—
And the warders stout watched well without,
Lest foes should scale the walls;
And down far deep, in the donjon-keep,
Were chain'd the barons' thralls.
When the feudal lords bore sway,
There were high and low, and friend and foe,
As there are in this our day;
There were shrines and fanes, and swords and chains,
Young maids, and old men gray!
And the barons kept high state,
In their ancient castle halls—
And the warders stout watched well without,
Lest foes should scale the walls;
And down far deep, in the donjon-keep,
Were chain'd the barons' thralls.
And whenever these barons bold
Would swell their golden hoards,
They summoned their men from hill and glen,
And bared their bright broad-swords;
And the trumpet brayed, and the war-horse neighed,
And the minstrel swept his chords.
And the barons bold rode forth,
And the fray was fierce and long;
For with deadly blows they smote their foes,
And stormed their castles strong—
They sacked and killed, and their coffers filled,—
But the deed (men say) was wrong.
Would swell their golden hoards,
They summoned their men from hill and glen,
And bared their bright broad-swords;
And the trumpet brayed, and the war-horse neighed,
And the minstrel swept his chords.
And the barons bold rode forth,
And the fray was fierce and long;
For with deadly blows they smote their foes,
And stormed their castles strong—
They sacked and killed, and their coffers filled,—
But the deed (men say) was wrong.
313
And whenever these barons bold
Would add to their lands a rood,
They grappled the brand, with a red right hand,
And seized whatever they would—
And none said nay, for the strong bore sway,
And the Evil ruled the Good.
And these barons bold waxed great,
Till the feeble feared their might:
They lived like kings, and the bard still sings
Of their deeds in feast and fight;
But to burn and steal, and to sack and kill,
Can never (men say) be right.
Would add to their lands a rood,
They grappled the brand, with a red right hand,
And seized whatever they would—
And none said nay, for the strong bore sway,
And the Evil ruled the Good.
And these barons bold waxed great,
Till the feeble feared their might:
They lived like kings, and the bard still sings
Of their deeds in feast and fight;
But to burn and steal, and to sack and kill,
Can never (men say) be right.
2. PART II.—BARONS OF THE PRESENT.
In the new baronial times,
The barons have doffed their arms—
And the shield is dust, and the spear is rust,
And the sword no more alarms;
And the trumpet-peal and the flash of steel
Have lost their olden charms.
But the barons still bear sway—
In a lordly state they dwell;
They have slaves enow, right well I trow,
And rule with a mighty spell;
And for bright red gold, men's lives untold
These barons buy and sell.
And whenever these barons proud
Would swell their golden store,
They write with a pen in the blood of men,
And the human heart they score:
They shroud the soul with a parchment scroll,
And crush men's hopes with ore.
And the widow's cruse they grasp,
And the orphan's crust of bread—
The blind man's staff they seize, with a laugh,
And the pauper's wretched bed;
Like vampyres they prey on the living clay,
And like ghouls devour the dead.
And acres of goodly land,
And houses of chiselled stone,
Brave ships of the sea, and forests free,—
They gather them, one by one:
The Law is their shield, and the World their field,
And their sword is Gold alone.
The barons have doffed their arms—
And the shield is dust, and the spear is rust,
And the sword no more alarms;
And the trumpet-peal and the flash of steel
Have lost their olden charms.
But the barons still bear sway—
In a lordly state they dwell;
They have slaves enow, right well I trow,
And rule with a mighty spell;
And for bright red gold, men's lives untold
These barons buy and sell.
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Would swell their golden store,
They write with a pen in the blood of men,
And the human heart they score:
They shroud the soul with a parchment scroll,
And crush men's hopes with ore.
And the widow's cruse they grasp,
And the orphan's crust of bread—
The blind man's staff they seize, with a laugh,
And the pauper's wretched bed;
Like vampyres they prey on the living clay,
And like ghouls devour the dead.
And acres of goodly land,
And houses of chiselled stone,
Brave ships of the sea, and forests free,—
They gather them, one by one:
The Law is their shield, and the World their field,
And their sword is Gold alone.
Now, tell me the noblest men!—
The barons who lived of old—
The wild, proud lords, with their crimson swords,
And their deeds so fierce and bold,—
Or the barons who ride o'er men's hearts in pride,
The barons whose swords are gold!
The barons who lived of old—
The wild, proud lords, with their crimson swords,
And their deeds so fierce and bold,—
Or the barons who ride o'er men's hearts in pride,
The barons whose swords are gold!
315
PLYMOUTH ROCK.
ROCK of Freedom! old and hoary—
Footstool of the Pilgrim band!
Emblem of their toil and glory—
Altar where their children stand:
Lo! we keep thy name immortal,
We, who own the Pilgrim stock;
For they marched through Freedom's portal,
O'er her threshold—Plymouth Rock!
Footstool of the Pilgrim band!
Emblem of their toil and glory—
Altar where their children stand:
Lo! we keep thy name immortal,
We, who own the Pilgrim stock;
For they marched through Freedom's portal,
O'er her threshold—Plymouth Rock!
Bethel, thou! of wandering nations—
Pharos through the gloom of time;
Patriots mark their long probations
Ended at thy base sublime!
There the tyrants sink, adoring,
There the slaves their chains unlock,
There the freeman's flag, up-soaring,
Points to mankind—Plymouth Rock!
Pharos through the gloom of time;
Patriots mark their long probations
Ended at thy base sublime!
There the tyrants sink, adoring,
There the slaves their chains unlock,
There the freeman's flag, up-soaring,
Points to mankind—Plymouth Rock!
Rock of Freedom! Proud and lonely,
Once it braved Atlantic's roar:
Once its bosom bulwark'd only
Massachusetts' stormy shore;
Now, where'er, on coast or border,
Danger threats her angry shock,
There, be sure—for watch and warder—
Stands, for aye, a Pilgrim Rock!
Once it braved Atlantic's roar:
Once its bosom bulwark'd only
Massachusetts' stormy shore;
Now, where'er, on coast or border,
Danger threats her angry shock,
There, be sure—for watch and warder—
Stands, for aye, a Pilgrim Rock!
316
THE ARMIES.
1. PART I.—ARMIES OF THE PRESENT.
SOUL! behold those marshalled armies,
Threat'ning Heaven with dire alarms!
Gorgeous banners wave above them—
Flash like flame their gleaming arms!
Lo! their steeds the earth are trampling—
Hark! their brazen trumpets clang;
And the sulph'rous clouds of battle
Like a pall above them hang.
Shakes the ground beneath their onset—
Quakes the sky with answering dread;
And the iron waltz of battle
Whirls along, with crashing tread:
Flash the flaming tongues of muskets—
Peals the cannon's angry roar;
And the shell's loud diapason
Swells the awful din of war.
Storm-like rolls the hurtling onset—
Leaden drops of murderous rain;
Thund'rous fall the angry war-bolts—
Crimson rivers cross the plain:
Islands rise where sink the bravest—
Islands formed of steeds and men;
From the earth they sprang to being—
To the earth are trod again.
Iron hoofs are on men's bosoms—
Hearts are crushed by cannon-wheels;
Still the drum-beat gaily soundeth—
Still the cheering bugle peals.
Sheaves of souls like chaff are winnowed—
Swept beneath the whirl of fire;
Still the trumpet merrily clangeth—
Still the flags are mounting higher.
Back—far back behind those armies—Threat'ning Heaven with dire alarms!
Gorgeous banners wave above them—
Flash like flame their gleaming arms!
Lo! their steeds the earth are trampling—
Hark! their brazen trumpets clang;
And the sulph'rous clouds of battle
Like a pall above them hang.
Shakes the ground beneath their onset—
Quakes the sky with answering dread;
And the iron waltz of battle
Whirls along, with crashing tread:
Flash the flaming tongues of muskets—
Peals the cannon's angry roar;
And the shell's loud diapason
Swells the awful din of war.
Storm-like rolls the hurtling onset—
Leaden drops of murderous rain;
Thund'rous fall the angry war-bolts—
Crimson rivers cross the plain:
Islands rise where sink the bravest—
Islands formed of steeds and men;
From the earth they sprang to being—
To the earth are trod again.
317
Hearts are crushed by cannon-wheels;
Still the drum-beat gaily soundeth—
Still the cheering bugle peals.
Sheaves of souls like chaff are winnowed—
Swept beneath the whirl of fire;
Still the trumpet merrily clangeth—
Still the flags are mounting higher.
Move, with feeble steps and slow,
Ranks of pale and faded maidens,
Clad in garbs of sable wo;
Lines of orphaned babes and widows—
Dying mothers, childless sires;—
Merrily still resounds the bugle,
Brightly gleam the battle fires.
2. PART II.—ARMIES OF THE FUTURE.
SOUL! look forth where shines the Future!
Lo! where march in radiant lines,
Glorious hosts with snow-white banners—
Banners bright with holiest signs—
Gleams the Press, in golden glory—
Shines the Plough, in silken pride;
Waves aloft the flashing Anvil—
Floats the ponderous Sledge beside.
Lo! where march in radiant lines,
Glorious hosts with snow-white banners—
Banners bright with holiest signs—
Gleams the Press, in golden glory—
Shines the Plough, in silken pride;
Waves aloft the flashing Anvil—
Floats the ponderous Sledge beside.
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Stalwart men, with limbs of iron,
Bear those gleaming flags above:
Men with lips and eyes of gladness—
Valiant souls and hearts of love.
Rings o'er earth their loud hosanna—
Soar to heaven those banners fair:
Hark! the eternal concave echoes—
Labor! labor!—work is prayer!
Bear those gleaming flags above:
Men with lips and eyes of gladness—
Valiant souls and hearts of love.
Rings o'er earth their loud hosanna—
Soar to heaven those banners fair:
Hark! the eternal concave echoes—
Labor! labor!—work is prayer!
O'er earth's plains sweep on those armies:
Mountains fall beneath their blows;
Lo! they choke the red volcanoes—
Lo! they grapple Iceland snows!
Rush their ploughs through black morasses—
Roll their cars through deserts' gloom;
Dark Miasma flies before them—
Shrinks in dread the hot Simoom!
Mountains fall beneath their blows;
Lo! they choke the red volcanoes—
Lo! they grapple Iceland snows!
Rush their ploughs through black morasses—
Roll their cars through deserts' gloom;
Dark Miasma flies before them—
Shrinks in dread the hot Simoom!
Gleam with golden grain the deserts—
Shine the swamps with flow'rets bright;
Still march on those glorious armies—
Wave their flags in radiant light.
Ocean's storms to them are playthings—
Chained are Earth, and Fire, and Air;
Merrily rings their loud-voiced anthem—
“Labor! labor!—work is prayer!”
Shine the swamps with flow'rets bright;
Still march on those glorious armies—
Wave their flags in radiant light.
Ocean's storms to them are playthings—
Chained are Earth, and Fire, and Air;
Merrily rings their loud-voiced anthem—
“Labor! labor!—work is prayer!”
319
Following close these conquering armies—
Dancing on with twinkling feet—
White-armed maids and flower-crown'd children
Haste those warrior-men to greet—
Hands are clasped in holiest union;
Joy, like incense, soars above:
Hail! thrice hail! the Industrial Armies!
Hail the immortal Strife of Love!
Dancing on with twinkling feet—
White-armed maids and flower-crown'd children
Haste those warrior-men to greet—
Hands are clasped in holiest union;
Joy, like incense, soars above:
Hail! thrice hail! the Industrial Armies!
Hail the immortal Strife of Love!
TO THE PRINTERS.
BRETHREN of the Art of Arts:Sons of those old German spirits
Through whose toil the world inherits
All the joys that lore imparts,—
Know ye, that from out your hearts
Ye should ne'er permit to perish
Faust or Guttenburger's fame!—
Never cease to fondly cherish
Ancient Schaeffer's name!
But let not their names alone
In your memory be enshrined—
Cherish ye their searching mind—
Make their noble thoughts your own:
Then above all slavish fetters,
Proudly marked, shall rise your order—
Then the glorious Craft of Letters
Shall be Freedom's Watch and Warder.
320
ODE TO POWERS' GREEK SLAVE.
This poem was the result of a competition for a prize of $100, offered by the “Cosmopolitan Art and Literary Association.” (which had purchased Hiram Powers' statue,) “for the best Ode written on this beautiful creation of American Genius.” The judges selected (says the New York Mirror) were “Messrs. Bayard Taylor, of the Tribune: R. S. Willis, of the Musical World, and H. Fuller, of the Evening Mirror, who met at the St. Nicholas Hotel, on Tuesday evening, Oct. 3d, (1854.) About two hundred contributions were sent in, with the writers' names enclosed in sealed envelopes, with the understanding that only the name of the winner should be known. This condition was strictly observed; and the committee, after carefully reading them, and discussing the merits of the fifteen or twenty worth considering, unanimously decided in favor of the Ode by Augustine Duganne.”
This poem was the result of a competition for a prize of $100, offered by the “Cosmopolitan Art and Literary Association.” (which had purchased Hiram Powers' statue,) “for the best Ode written on this beautiful creation of American Genius.” The judges selected (says the New York Mirror) were “Messrs. Bayard Taylor, of the Tribune: R. S. Willis, of the Musical World, and H. Fuller, of the Evening Mirror, who met at the St. Nicholas Hotel, on Tuesday evening, Oct. 3d, (1854.) About two hundred contributions were sent in, with the writers' names enclosed in sealed envelopes, with the understanding that only the name of the winner should be known. This condition was strictly observed; and the committee, after carefully reading them, and discussing the merits of the fifteen or twenty worth considering, unanimously decided in favor of the Ode by Augustine Duganne.”
O GREEK! by more than Moslem fetters thrall'd!
O marble prison of a radiant thought!
Where life is half recalled—
And Beauty dwells, created, not enwrought,—
Why hauntest thou my dreams, enrobed in light,
And atmosphered with purity, wherein
Mine own soul is transfigured, and grows bright,
As though an angel smiled away its sin?
O marble prison of a radiant thought!
Where life is half recalled—
And Beauty dwells, created, not enwrought,—
Why hauntest thou my dreams, enrobed in light,
And atmosphered with purity, wherein
Mine own soul is transfigured, and grows bright,
As though an angel smiled away its sin?
O chastity of Art!
Behold! this maiden shape makes solitude
Of all the busy mart;
Beneath her soul's immeasurable woe,
All sensuous vision lies subdued;
And, from her veiléd eyes, the flow
Of tears is inward turned upon her heart:
While on the prisoning lips
Her eloquent spirit swoons,
And from the lustrous brows' eclipse
Falls patient glory, as from clouded moons!
Severe in vestal grace, yet warm
And flexile with the delicate glow of youth,
She stands, the sweet embodiment of truth;
Her pure thoughts clustering around her form,
Like seraph garments, whiter than the snows
Which the wild sea upthrows.
Behold! this maiden shape makes solitude
Of all the busy mart;
Beneath her soul's immeasurable woe,
All sensuous vision lies subdued;
And, from her veiléd eyes, the flow
Of tears is inward turned upon her heart:
While on the prisoning lips
Her eloquent spirit swoons,
And from the lustrous brows' eclipse
Falls patient glory, as from clouded moons!
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And flexile with the delicate glow of youth,
She stands, the sweet embodiment of truth;
Her pure thoughts clustering around her form,
Like seraph garments, whiter than the snows
Which the wild sea upthrows.
O Genius! thou canst chain
Not marble only, but the human soul:
And melt the heart with soft control,
And wake such reverence in the brain,
That man may be forgiven,
If in the ancient days he dwelt
Idolatrous with sculptured life, and knelt
To Beauty more than Heaven!
Not marble only, but the human soul:
And melt the heart with soft control,
And wake such reverence in the brain,
That man may be forgiven,
If in the ancient days he dwelt
Idolatrous with sculptured life, and knelt
To Beauty more than Heaven!
Genius is worship! for its works adore
The Infinite Source of all their glorious thought!
So blesséd Art, like Nature, is o'erfraught
With such a wondrous store
Of hallowed influence, that we who gaze
Aright on her creations, haply pray and praise!
The Infinite Source of all their glorious thought!
So blesséd Art, like Nature, is o'erfraught
With such a wondrous store
Of hallowed influence, that we who gaze
Aright on her creations, haply pray and praise!
Go, then, fair Slave! and in thy fetters teach
What Heaven inspired and Genius hath designed:
Be thou Evangel of true Art, and preach
The freedom of the Mind!
What Heaven inspired and Genius hath designed:
Be thou Evangel of true Art, and preach
The freedom of the Mind!
322
AN HONEST BALLAD TO JOHN BULL,
[Per MARTIN FARQUHAR TUPPER,]
In reply to a “LOVING BALLAD TO BROTHER JONATHAN;”
Martin Farquhar Tupper, the worthy author
of “Proverbial Philosophy,” (an elongation, but
no improvement, of old George Herbert's treatment
of the same subject,) has, on several occasions,
been pleased to patronize and encourage
this modest country of ours, in her efforts “to
get along.” Among other “flattering notices”
was the “Loving Ballad” above mentioned, a
few verses from which are here appended—to
mark the gist of the rejoinder:—
“Ho, Brother! I'm a Britisher,
A chip of heart of oak.
That would'nt warp, or swerve, or stir,
From what I thought or spoke:
And you a blunt and honest man,
Straightforward, kind, and true!
I tell you. Brother Jonathan,
That you're a Briton, too!
“God save the Queen” delights you still,
And “British Grenadiers;”
The good old strains your heart-strings thrill,
And hold you by both ears:
And we—O hate us, if you can,
For we are proud of you—
We like you, Brother Jonathan,
And “Yankee Doodle,” too.
Time was—it was not long ago—
Your grandsires went with mine,
To battle traitors, blow for blow,
For England's royal line:
Or tripped to court to kiss Queen Anne,
Or worship royal Bess;
And you and I, good Jonathan,
Went with them then, I guess.
There lived a man, a man of men,
A king, on fancy's throne;
We ne'er shall see his like again,
The globe is all his own:
And if we claim him of our clan,
He half belongs to you;
For Shakespeare, happy Jonathan,
Is yours, and ours, too.
Add but your stripes and golden stars
To our St. George's Cross:
And never dream of mutual wars,
Two dunces' mutual loss:
Let us two bless, where others ban,
And love when others hate;
And so, my cordial Jonathan,
We'll fit, I calculate.”
From MARTIN FARQUHAR TUPPER.
Martin Farquhar Tupper, the worthy author of “Proverbial Philosophy,” (an elongation, but no improvement, of old George Herbert's treatment of the same subject,) has, on several occasions, been pleased to patronize and encourage this modest country of ours, in her efforts “to get along.” Among other “flattering notices” was the “Loving Ballad” above mentioned, a few verses from which are here appended—to mark the gist of the rejoinder:—
“Ho, Brother! I'm a Britisher,
A chip of heart of oak.
That would'nt warp, or swerve, or stir,
From what I thought or spoke:
And you a blunt and honest man,
Straightforward, kind, and true!
I tell you. Brother Jonathan,
That you're a Briton, too!
A chip of heart of oak.
That would'nt warp, or swerve, or stir,
From what I thought or spoke:
And you a blunt and honest man,
Straightforward, kind, and true!
I tell you. Brother Jonathan,
That you're a Briton, too!
“God save the Queen” delights you still,
And “British Grenadiers;”
The good old strains your heart-strings thrill,
And hold you by both ears:
And we—O hate us, if you can,
For we are proud of you—
We like you, Brother Jonathan,
And “Yankee Doodle,” too.
And “British Grenadiers;”
The good old strains your heart-strings thrill,
And hold you by both ears:
And we—O hate us, if you can,
For we are proud of you—
We like you, Brother Jonathan,
And “Yankee Doodle,” too.
Time was—it was not long ago—
Your grandsires went with mine,
To battle traitors, blow for blow,
For England's royal line:
Or tripped to court to kiss Queen Anne,
Or worship royal Bess;
And you and I, good Jonathan,
Went with them then, I guess.
Your grandsires went with mine,
To battle traitors, blow for blow,
For England's royal line:
Or tripped to court to kiss Queen Anne,
Or worship royal Bess;
And you and I, good Jonathan,
Went with them then, I guess.
There lived a man, a man of men,
A king, on fancy's throne;
We ne'er shall see his like again,
The globe is all his own:
And if we claim him of our clan,
He half belongs to you;
For Shakespeare, happy Jonathan,
Is yours, and ours, too.
A king, on fancy's throne;
We ne'er shall see his like again,
The globe is all his own:
And if we claim him of our clan,
He half belongs to you;
For Shakespeare, happy Jonathan,
Is yours, and ours, too.
Add but your stripes and golden stars
To our St. George's Cross:
And never dream of mutual wars,
Two dunces' mutual loss:
Let us two bless, where others ban,
And love when others hate;
And so, my cordial Jonathan,
We'll fit, I calculate.”
To our St. George's Cross:
And never dream of mutual wars,
Two dunces' mutual loss:
Let us two bless, where others ban,
And love when others hate;
And so, my cordial Jonathan,
We'll fit, I calculate.”
I'VE read your ballad, Johnny Bull!
A dozen times or more—
'Faith! at my heart it took a pull,
That drew me “half-seas o'er;”
I felt the “Anglo-Saxon” run
Through neck, and cheek, and forehead:
I might have been your shadow, John!
I grew so very florid.
A dozen times or more—
'Faith! at my heart it took a pull,
That drew me “half-seas o'er;”
I felt the “Anglo-Saxon” run
Through neck, and cheek, and forehead:
I might have been your shadow, John!
I grew so very florid.
It sort o' tickled me, I own,
To read sich printed praise:
Sez I, old Johnny 's cuter grown
In these his latter days.
I calculated all was true,
And jist as good as preachin',
Because, friend John! you know that tew
Can play at over-reachin'.
To read sich printed praise:
Sez I, old Johnny 's cuter grown
In these his latter days.
I calculated all was true,
And jist as good as preachin',
Because, friend John! you know that tew
Can play at over-reachin'.
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But still it sort o' puzzled me,
To think how, all at once,
Sich virtoos in a chap you see,
You used to call a dunce
It's surely but the other day,
You asked, with scornful look,
“Who heeds a Yankee journal, pray?
Who reads a Yankee book?”
To think how, all at once,
Sich virtoos in a chap you see,
You used to call a dunce
It's surely but the other day,
You asked, with scornful look,
“Who heeds a Yankee journal, pray?
Who reads a Yankee book?”
O! Johnny Bull! O! Johnny Bull!
It's really grown too late
Of brotherhood so beautiful
'Twixt you and me to prate.
A Cain-like chap you'd proved, I ween,
Had you disabled us—
A brother Remus we'd have been,
And you our Romulus!
It's really grown too late
Of brotherhood so beautiful
'Twixt you and me to prate.
A Cain-like chap you'd proved, I ween,
Had you disabled us—
A brother Remus we'd have been,
And you our Romulus!
Our friendship, John! you might have won,
(Pre-haps have gained our love,)
When we were but an eaglet, John!
And gentle as a dove.
But you were vicious, then, and tried
To clip our growing wings:
Your brother didn't like sich pride,
And didn't b'lieve in kings!
(Pre-haps have gained our love,)
When we were but an eaglet, John!
And gentle as a dove.
But you were vicious, then, and tried
To clip our growing wings:
Your brother didn't like sich pride,
And didn't b'lieve in kings!
324
Your “British Granny-Dears,” good John!
We often recollect!
They journeyed once through Lexington,
Quite gaily, I suspect.
And “Yankee Doodle” 's liked as well,
I doubt it not, by you, John!—
At Yorktown on your ears it fell,
And Saratoga, too, John!
We often recollect!
They journeyed once through Lexington,
Quite gaily, I suspect.
And “Yankee Doodle” 's liked as well,
I doubt it not, by you, John!—
At Yorktown on your ears it fell,
And Saratoga, too, John!
It may have been, as now you sing,
That our old English sires
Have battled for some tyrant king,
Or lit his Smithfield fires:
It may have been that sires o' mine
Have bent the vassal's knee, John!
But from the boast o' sich a line,
Good Lord deliver me, John!
That our old English sires
Have battled for some tyrant king,
Or lit his Smithfield fires:
It may have been that sires o' mine
Have bent the vassal's knee, John!
But from the boast o' sich a line,
Good Lord deliver me, John!
Thank God! that Shakspeare lived and sung!
For Milton, Heaven be praised!
The flame from out their spirits flung
Through all the world has blazed.
Right glad are we that English birth
For souls like these you claim, John:
But recollect that all the earth
Is narrow for their fame, John!
For Milton, Heaven be praised!
The flame from out their spirits flung
Through all the world has blazed.
Right glad are we that English birth
For souls like these you claim, John:
But recollect that all the earth
Is narrow for their fame, John!
325
We shared your glorious days, good John!
But, oh! we're modest now!
We don't lay claim to aught that's done
In present years, I trow.
We beg to be excused from fame
Through China or Bengal, John!
And thank you not to use our name,
When Ireland you recall, John!
But, oh! we're modest now!
We don't lay claim to aught that's done
In present years, I trow.
We beg to be excused from fame
Through China or Bengal, John!
And thank you not to use our name,
When Ireland you recall, John!
Pre-haps, good Johnny! by and by,
When kings are obsolete,
And soldiers thrown like rubbish by,
And sceptres under feet;
When laws of corn, and laws of game,
And tithings are no more, John!
When Ireland isn't England's shame,
And India isn't sore, John!
When kings are obsolete,
And soldiers thrown like rubbish by,
And sceptres under feet;
When laws of corn, and laws of game,
And tithings are no more, John!
When Ireland isn't England's shame,
And India isn't sore, John!
When starving men have gained their own,
And lords and dukes are sparse;
When ballot-boxes rule the throne,
And pauper-soup is scarce,—
When England's noble peasantry,
And England's laboring men, John!
In soul and limb are glad and free—
We'll call you “Brother,” then, John!
And lords and dukes are sparse;
When ballot-boxes rule the throne,
And pauper-soup is scarce,—
When England's noble peasantry,
And England's laboring men, John!
In soul and limb are glad and free—
We'll call you “Brother,” then, John!
326
“PROVERBIAL PHILOSOPHY.”
I.
THERE'S a man in England's UpperTen, with dainty feed for supper—
Mister Martin Farquhar Tupper
Is his name:
And he 's writ full many a poem
For the poorer class, to show 'em,
That if poverty should blow 'em,
They themselves are most to blame—
That advice is what we owe 'em,
And equality 's a shame.
II.
It is well for Mister TupperThus to preach from Fortune's upper
Deck, that those within the scupper
Should'nt pine for fish or fowl:
That to grunt is very silly,
And that life's a daffy-dilly,
And the Poor Man—will-he, nill-he—
Must be silent as an owl—
And if things grow well or ill, he
Never should presume to growl.
327
III.
That's good talk for Mister Tupper,Who is fast in Fortune's crupper;
While he drinks a stirrup-cup, or
Two—it's famous talk for him:
But, if he'd but leave his dinner,
And become some pauper sinner—
Some poor weaver, or some spinner,
Working, sick in heart and limb,—
He'd see something of the inner
Life, that now to him is dim!
EVER BE HAPPY.
EVER be happy, wherever thou art—
Leaving a broken heart;
Still be thy bosom unclouded with care,
Though I no more am there:
Yet, like a star,
Worshipped afar,
Purely loved still thou art—
Loved by a broken heart.
Leaving a broken heart;
Still be thy bosom unclouded with care,
Though I no more am there:
Yet, like a star,
Worshipped afar,
Purely loved still thou art—
Loved by a broken heart.
328
Well I remember the hours that we met—
Oh! that I could forget!
Oh! that Oblivion might haply o'ercast
Joys that too brightly passed!
Oh! that my soul
Thought might control,
And forget that thou wert
Loved by a trusting heart!
Oh! that I could forget!
Oh! that Oblivion might haply o'ercast
Joys that too brightly passed!
Oh! that my soul
Thought might control,
And forget that thou wert
Loved by a trusting heart!
I can but bless thee, wherever thou art—
Bless thee with hopeless heart;
I can but pray that no grief shall be thine,
Grief such as now is mine.
Though in the dust
Lies all my trust,
Yet beloved still thou art—
Loved by a changeless heart.
Bless thee with hopeless heart;
I can but pray that no grief shall be thine,
Grief such as now is mine.
Though in the dust
Lies all my trust,
Yet beloved still thou art—
Loved by a changeless heart.
Ever my spirit in memory returns,
Fondly my heart still yearns:
Yet must I love thee, and call thee mine own,
Still is my heart thy throne;
Joy's dream is past,—
Death comes at last:
Yet beloved still thou art—
Loved by a dying heart!
Ever be happy, wherever thou art—
Loved by a dying heart!
Fondly my heart still yearns:
Yet must I love thee, and call thee mine own,
Still is my heart thy throne;
Joy's dream is past,—
Death comes at last:
Yet beloved still thou art—
Loved by a dying heart!
Ever be happy, wherever thou art—
Loved by a dying heart!
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THE AUTOCRAT'S TRIUMPH.
A MUSCOVITE stood on the Capitol Hill—
A serf of Autocrat Nicholas;
And over the city of Washington
He looked through an opera-glass.
A serf of Autocrat Nicholas;
And over the city of Washington
He looked through an opera-glass.
He chuckled, and smacked his hairy lips,
And shook his sides with laughter,
As a slave-gang crawled through the Avenue,
With a driver following after.
And shook his sides with laughter,
As a slave-gang crawled through the Avenue,
With a driver following after.
“This building they call the Capitol,”
Quoth he, “is surely grand—
But down by the river stands one which suits
My own dear native land!
Quoth he, “is surely grand—
But down by the river stands one which suits
My own dear native land!
“I like that building—in faith, I do!
For out of it, all day long,
Come clank of chain and crack of lash,
And groans from agony wrung.
For out of it, all day long,
Come clank of chain and crack of lash,
And groans from agony wrung.
“Ho, ho! 'twould glad my master's heart—
My master, the Autocrat—
But, ah! what tumult is this I hear?
That rushing crowd—what's that?”
My master, the Autocrat—
But, ah! what tumult is this I hear?
That rushing crowd—what's that?”
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The Muscovite looked through his opera-glass,
And he almost danced with joy;
For he saw a mob, and he heard the shout,
Of “burn!”—“tear down!”—“destroy!”
And he almost danced with joy;
For he saw a mob, and he heard the shout,
Of “burn!”—“tear down!”—“destroy!”
“Ho, ho!” laughed Muscovy, long and loud—
“The meaning of this I guess;
These brave and happy Republicans
Are about to muzzle a Press!
“The meaning of this I guess;
These brave and happy Republicans
Are about to muzzle a Press!
“This does me good, by Peter the Great!
There's hope for despots yet!
When the heel of a mob in Washington
On a fallen Press is set.
There's hope for despots yet!
When the heel of a mob in Washington
On a fallen Press is set.
“I feared, when Phillippe was sent adrift
For muzzling the voice of thought—
But I see these model Republicans
Are better than Frenchmen taught.
For muzzling the voice of thought—
But I see these model Republicans
Are better than Frenchmen taught.
“Ho, ho! Ho, ho! well done! well done!
For freedom of thought is o'er!
The Press is bullied in Washington,
And Tyranny's safe once more!”
For freedom of thought is o'er!
The Press is bullied in Washington,
And Tyranny's safe once more!”
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THE PRAYER OF JESUS.
PRAYED the Christ, when, pale and dying,
On the cruel cross he hung—
When the Temple-veil was rended,
And the night o'er day was flung;
When the hireling soldier's spear-point
Pierced his anguished bosom through,—
“Father! forgive my murderers!
“For they know not what they do!”
On the cruel cross he hung—
When the Temple-veil was rended,
And the night o'er day was flung;
When the hireling soldier's spear-point
Pierced his anguished bosom through,—
“Father! forgive my murderers!
“For they know not what they do!”
Mocking lips his woes derided—
Heads were bowed in scornful pride;
Judas had betrayed his Master—
Peter thrice his Lord denied;
Yet still prayed the Christ, unfaltering,
While his gasping breath he drew,
“Father! forgive my murderers!
“For they know not what they do.”
Heads were bowed in scornful pride;
Judas had betrayed his Master—
Peter thrice his Lord denied;
Yet still prayed the Christ, unfaltering,
While his gasping breath he drew,
“Father! forgive my murderers!
“For they know not what they do.”
Oh! my brother! thou who hangest
On the cross of earthly wo—
Thou, who bearest whip and fetter,
Angry word and cruel blow,—
Be the Christ thy soul's example!
Pray, with heart sincere and true,
“Father! forgive my murderers!
“For they know not what they do.”
On the cross of earthly wo—
Thou, who bearest whip and fetter,
Angry word and cruel blow,—
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Pray, with heart sincere and true,
“Father! forgive my murderers!
“For they know not what they do.”
Thou, whose bruised and broken spirit
Groaneth with continual strife—
Thou, who sinkest, faint with suffering,
By the weary way of life,—
Pray, thou still, with foemen round thee—
Pray, when friends are weak and few,
“Father! forgive my murderers!
“For they know not what they do.”
Groaneth with continual strife—
Thou, who sinkest, faint with suffering,
By the weary way of life,—
Pray, thou still, with foemen round thee—
Pray, when friends are weak and few,
“Father! forgive my murderers!
“For they know not what they do.”
Pray, my brother! Lo! thy suffering
Shall redeem thy cruel foes!
For each prayer, in anguish rising,
Back to earth in mercy flows:
Like the Christ, O pray, my brother!
Pray, with soul serene and true,—
“Father! forgive my murderers!
“For they know not what they do!”
Shall redeem thy cruel foes!
For each prayer, in anguish rising,
Back to earth in mercy flows:
Like the Christ, O pray, my brother!
Pray, with soul serene and true,—
“Father! forgive my murderers!
“For they know not what they do!”
333
THE DRUNKARD'S LAMENT.
I'M thinking on thy smile, Mary!
Thy bright and trusting smile—
In the morning of our youth and love,
Ere sorrow came, or guile;
When thine arms were twined about my neck,
And mine eyes look'd into thine;
And the heart that throbb'd for me alone
Was nestling close to mine.
Thy bright and trusting smile—
In the morning of our youth and love,
Ere sorrow came, or guile;
When thine arms were twined about my neck,
And mine eyes look'd into thine;
And the heart that throbb'd for me alone
Was nestling close to mine.
I see full many a smile, Mary!
On young lips beaming bright;
And many an eye of light and love
Is flashing in my sight:
But the smile is not for my poor heart,
And the eye looks strange on me;
And a loneliness comes o'er my soul,
When its memory turns to thee.
On young lips beaming bright;
And many an eye of light and love
Is flashing in my sight:
But the smile is not for my poor heart,
And the eye looks strange on me;
And a loneliness comes o'er my soul,
When its memory turns to thee.
I'm thinking on the night, Mary!
The night of grief and shame,
When, with drunken ravings on my lip,
To thee I homeward came:
Oh! the tear was in thine earnest eye,
And thy bosom wildly heaved;
Yet a smile of love was on thy cheek,
Though thy heart was sorely grieved.
The night of grief and shame,
When, with drunken ravings on my lip,
To thee I homeward came:
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And thy bosom wildly heaved;
Yet a smile of love was on thy cheek,
Though thy heart was sorely grieved.
Oh! my words were harsh to thee, Mary!
For the wine-cup made me wild;
And I chid thee when thine eyes were sad,
And I cursed thee when they smil'd.
God knows I loved thee, even then,
But the fire was in my brain;
And the curse of drink was in my heart,
To make my love a bane!
For the wine-cup made me wild;
And I chid thee when thine eyes were sad,
And I cursed thee when they smil'd.
God knows I loved thee, even then,
But the fire was in my brain;
And the curse of drink was in my heart,
To make my love a bane!
'Twas a pleasant home of ours, Mary!
In the spring-time of our life—
When I look'd upon thy trusting face,
And proudly call'd thee, “wife!”
And 'twas pleasant when the children play'd,
Before our cottage door;—
But the children sleep with thee, Mary!
I ne'er shall see them more!
In the spring-time of our life—
When I look'd upon thy trusting face,
And proudly call'd thee, “wife!”
And 'twas pleasant when the children play'd,
Before our cottage door;—
But the children sleep with thee, Mary!
I ne'er shall see them more!
Thou art resting in the churchyard now,
And no stone is at thy head;
But the sexton knows a drunkard's wife
Sleeps in that lowly bed:
And he says the hand of God, Mary!
Will fall, with crushing weight,
On the wretch who brought thy gentle life
To its untimely fate!
And no stone is at thy head;
But the sexton knows a drunkard's wife
Sleeps in that lowly bed:
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Will fall, with crushing weight,
On the wretch who brought thy gentle life
To its untimely fate!
But he knows not of the broken heart
I bear within my breast,
Nor the heavy load of vain remorse,
That will not let me rest!
He knows not of the sleepless nights,
When, dreaming of thy love,
I seem to see thine angel eyes
Look coldly from above.
I bear within my breast,
Nor the heavy load of vain remorse,
That will not let me rest!
He knows not of the sleepless nights,
When, dreaming of thy love,
I seem to see thine angel eyes
Look coldly from above.
I have raised the wine-cup in my hand,
And the wildest strains I've sung,
Till with the laugh of drunken mirth
The echoing air has rung,—
But a pale and sorrowing face look'd out
From the glittering cup on me;
And a trembling whisper I have heard,
That I fancied breath'd by thee!
And the wildest strains I've sung,
Till with the laugh of drunken mirth
The echoing air has rung,—
But a pale and sorrowing face look'd out
From the glittering cup on me;
And a trembling whisper I have heard,
That I fancied breath'd by thee!
Thou art resting in the silent grave,
And thy sleep is dreamless now;
But the seal of an undying grief
Is on thy mourner's brow!
And my heart is chill as thine, Mary!
For the joys of life have fled—
And I long to lay my aching breast
With the cold and dreamless dead!
And thy sleep is dreamless now;
But the seal of an undying grief
Is on thy mourner's brow!
336
For the joys of life have fled—
And I long to lay my aching breast
With the cold and dreamless dead!
COLUMBUS AND GARIBALDI.
Garibaldi, one of the Triumvirate of Rome, during the Revolution of 1848, is recognised by his republican countrymen, as “the Sword of Italy”—and, if he be not deceived into trusting the Sardinian government too much, may yet rally “L'Italia Giovane” to a new struggle for liberty. God grant he may keep the brave heart that has made him the hero of two worlds already.
Garibaldi, one of the Triumvirate of Rome, during the Revolution of 1848, is recognised by his republican countrymen, as “the Sword of Italy”—and, if he be not deceived into trusting the Sardinian government too much, may yet rally “L'Italia Giovane” to a new struggle for liberty. God grant he may keep the brave heart that has made him the hero of two worlds already.
ON the crowded quays of Genoa
Walk'd a discontented man—
Gazing forth upon the ocean
Far as straining eye could scan;
Fix'd and pallid was his forehead;
And his arms were tightly lock'd
Over the heart that in his bosom
Like a surging billow rock'd.
Walk'd a discontented man—
Gazing forth upon the ocean
Far as straining eye could scan;
Fix'd and pallid was his forehead;
And his arms were tightly lock'd
Over the heart that in his bosom
Like a surging billow rock'd.
Gazed he forth upon the ocean,
Through the clouds of misty night—
Gazed he forth when dancing sunshine
Robed the sea in golden light;
And his lips would mutter strangely,
And his forehead weave a frown,
Whilst he hugg'd his heart more tightly,
As 'twere hard to keep it down.
Through the clouds of misty night—
Gazed he forth when dancing sunshine
Robed the sea in golden light;
And his lips would mutter strangely,
And his forehead weave a frown,
Whilst he hugg'd his heart more tightly,
As 'twere hard to keep it down.
337
Gather'd the people oft around him—
Jeering men and laughing maids;
Mocking scorn, and freezing pity—
Nodding chins and wagging heads.
And the gray beards cried, “Good Jesu!
“'Tis a sight should make us sad!
“This poor man has gone demented—
“Poor Columbus, sure, is mad!”
Jeering men and laughing maids;
Mocking scorn, and freezing pity—
Nodding chins and wagging heads.
And the gray beards cried, “Good Jesu!
“'Tis a sight should make us sad!
“This poor man has gone demented—
“Poor Columbus, sure, is mad!”
Like that madman of old story,
Stands another Genoese now—
Fixing on the Future's ocean
Earnest eye and pallid brow;
Throbs his heart with ardent longings,
But he uttereth not his thought;
For the might of his conceptions
In the Future must be wrought.
Stands another Genoese now—
Fixing on the Future's ocean
Earnest eye and pallid brow;
Throbs his heart with ardent longings,
But he uttereth not his thought;
For the might of his conceptions
In the Future must be wrought.
Like Columbus, looks he outward,
Through the gloomy clouds of night,
To a WORLD of glorious beauty
Shining in upon his sight.
Heeds he not the jibes and mocking—
Heeds he not the words of scorn!
For the ACT is in the future—
Though the THOUGHT be newly born.
Through the gloomy clouds of night,
To a WORLD of glorious beauty
Shining in upon his sight.
Heeds he not the jibes and mocking—
Heeds he not the words of scorn!
For the ACT is in the future—
Though the THOUGHT be newly born.
338
Garibaldi! mount thine ocean!
Grasp the helm, and sway the bark!
Onward, O thou Genoese sailor!
Freedom is thy glorious mark.
Golden lands gave old Columbus
To the grasping kings of Spain!
Thou mayst win thy country's birthright—
Freedom for Italia gain!
Grasp the helm, and sway the bark!
Onward, O thou Genoese sailor!
Freedom is thy glorious mark.
Golden lands gave old Columbus
To the grasping kings of Spain!
Thou mayst win thy country's birthright—
Freedom for Italia gain!
REQUIEM FOR JOHN QUINCY ADAMS.
THERE is a shadow on the souls of men—
There is a sound as of a nation's sob,
And a wild-heaving sorrow, like the throb
Of a giant's mighty heart.
Adams is dead!
“This is the last of earth!” O'er plain and glen
Those words are wandering like a troubled bird,
And the deep waters of all hearts are stirred;
He hath no longer part
In the rude warfare of the troublous world!
He who hath borne God's armor in the fight—
He who hath struck brave blows for human right,
And wrestled with the fiercest wrongs, and hurled
His thunders at the brazen front of might,—
Adams is dead!
He hath writ his glorious memory on the page
Of a great people's history, and the blaze
Of his all-radiant life shall be enshrined—
A lofty beacon light,
A pillar of fire amid his country's night—
A flame upon the altar of mankind,
Fann'd by the breath of patriots, whereso'er
Riseth a freeman's prayer!
He hath ruled o'er generous natures, and sunk down
Gloriously diademed with the reverend crown
Of pure and spotless age!—
Brighter and larger, as the dying sun
Sinks in the ocean wave—his golden grave.
Meet was it that he died
Within those walls that heard his clarion tones
Echoing of yore from Freedom's council-floor,
And startling Europe's despots on their thrones,—
Meet was it that he died,
Grasping the helm which none might better guide.
There is a sound as of a nation's sob,
And a wild-heaving sorrow, like the throb
Of a giant's mighty heart.
Adams is dead!
“This is the last of earth!” O'er plain and glen
Those words are wandering like a troubled bird,
And the deep waters of all hearts are stirred;
He hath no longer part
In the rude warfare of the troublous world!
He who hath borne God's armor in the fight—
He who hath struck brave blows for human right,
And wrestled with the fiercest wrongs, and hurled
His thunders at the brazen front of might,—
Adams is dead!
339
Of a great people's history, and the blaze
Of his all-radiant life shall be enshrined—
A lofty beacon light,
A pillar of fire amid his country's night—
A flame upon the altar of mankind,
Fann'd by the breath of patriots, whereso'er
Riseth a freeman's prayer!
He hath ruled o'er generous natures, and sunk down
Gloriously diademed with the reverend crown
Of pure and spotless age!—
Brighter and larger, as the dying sun
Sinks in the ocean wave—his golden grave.
Meet was it that he died
Within those walls that heard his clarion tones
Echoing of yore from Freedom's council-floor,
And startling Europe's despots on their thrones,—
Meet was it that he died,
Grasping the helm which none might better guide.
Raise ye a monument!
Yet pile not stones, nor build up walls of brass,
For “the old man eloquent!”
But gather chains, by his stern thunders broken—
Rear ye the crumbled idols that he crush'd—
'Grave on those ruins the warnings he hath spoken,—
And crown the mass
With the lofty hopes that from his bosom gush'd!
Then shall his parting words be given
In blessings from his glorious heaven—
Then shall each mystic word,
Wherewith his lofty life was closed,
To Freedom's lips be prayerfully transferr'd:—
“I am composed!”
Yet pile not stones, nor build up walls of brass,
For “the old man eloquent!”
But gather chains, by his stern thunders broken—
Rear ye the crumbled idols that he crush'd—
'Grave on those ruins the warnings he hath spoken,—
And crown the mass
With the lofty hopes that from his bosom gush'd!
340
In blessings from his glorious heaven—
Then shall each mystic word,
Wherewith his lofty life was closed,
To Freedom's lips be prayerfully transferr'd:—
“I am composed!”
TO MY LADY.
COME hither, lady! come!
Thou art gloriously fair—
And thine eyes are purer, brighter,
Than the jewels in thy hair.
There is music in thy motions—
There is perfume in thy smile;
Gentle lady! wilt thou listen
To the Poet's song awhile?
Thou art gloriously fair—
And thine eyes are purer, brighter,
Than the jewels in thy hair.
There is music in thy motions—
There is perfume in thy smile;
Gentle lady! wilt thou listen
To the Poet's song awhile?
I'll tell thee, lady bright!
Nay, incline thy lofty head!—
I will tell thee of thy sisters,
Who are famishing for bread!
Through the weary midnight toiling,
Through the chill and dreary day;
They are sisters, lovely lady!
Pr'ythee, list the Poet's lay!
Nay, incline thy lofty head!—
I will tell thee of thy sisters,
Who are famishing for bread!
Through the weary midnight toiling,
Through the chill and dreary day;
They are sisters, lovely lady!
Pr'ythee, list the Poet's lay!
341
Thy sisters call to thee—
O thou beautiful and bright!
See! their eyes are dull and sunken,
And their cheeks so thin and white!
Look! their foreheads burn with fever,
While their hearts are chill with fear:
Thou art weeping, beauteous lady;—
Heaven bless thee for that tear!
O thou beautiful and bright!
See! their eyes are dull and sunken,
And their cheeks so thin and white!
Look! their foreheads burn with fever,
While their hearts are chill with fear:
Thou art weeping, beauteous lady;—
Heaven bless thee for that tear!
List! gentle lady, list:—
Thou wilt hear the smothered sighs
Of the hopeless one who liveth,
Of the happier one who dies.
Thou hast sisters who are outcast—
Yet through misery they erred;
They are pining—yea, they perish
For a single kindly word!
Thou wilt hear the smothered sighs
Of the hopeless one who liveth,
Of the happier one who dies.
Thou hast sisters who are outcast—
Yet through misery they erred;
They are pining—yea, they perish
For a single kindly word!
Come hither, lady! come!—
There are hearts which thou may'st warm!
Be an angel in thy mercies,
As thou hast an angel form.
Come, and soothe thy suffering sisters,
Fair and gentle as thou art!
Oh! the poor are always with thee!—
They are kneeling at thy heart!
There are hearts which thou may'st warm!
Be an angel in thy mercies,
As thou hast an angel form.
Come, and soothe thy suffering sisters,
Fair and gentle as thou art!
Oh! the poor are always with thee!—
They are kneeling at thy heart!
342
REQUIEM FOR A BELOVED CHILD.
HE lies in beauty with our griefs around him—
So sweetly folded in his snowy shroud;
As if 'twere but a gentle sleep that bound him—
As if a dream alone our spirits bowed.
So sweetly folded in his snowy shroud;
As if 'twere but a gentle sleep that bound him—
As if a dream alone our spirits bowed.
Ah, me! a sleep that knows no earthly waking—
A dream that may not flee with morning hours;
Oh! blossom of the hearts that now are breaking!—
It blows no more among our household flowers.
A dream that may not flee with morning hours;
Oh! blossom of the hearts that now are breaking!—
It blows no more among our household flowers.
Alas! the Hope, that clung around his being!
The Faith, that traced in light his future years!
The Love, that all his virtues was foreseeing!—
Must these, alas! be dimmed with bitter tears?
The Faith, that traced in light his future years!
The Love, that all his virtues was foreseeing!—
Must these, alas! be dimmed with bitter tears?
Oh! no! the Hope looks upward still to heaven;
The Faith soars calmly to the realms above;
The Love, that to our earthly child was given,
Still mingles in his soul with angel love.
The Faith soars calmly to the realms above;
The Love, that to our earthly child was given,
Still mingles in his soul with angel love.
And, oh! the years that now our babe has entered!
The virtues clustering round his seraph brow!
How weak our trust that late on earth was centred—
How sure the promise that sustains us now!
The virtues clustering round his seraph brow!
How weak our trust that late on earth was centred—
How sure the promise that sustains us now!
343
This offering, Jesus! to Thine arms we tender—
Our child, our babe, our little one, we yield:
Its fragrance, Lord! to Thee we humbly render—
Our choicest flower—the lily of our field:—
Our child, our babe, our little one, we yield:
Its fragrance, Lord! to Thee we humbly render—
Our choicest flower—the lily of our field:—
To bloom beneath thy smile—to dwell beholding
The wondrous mystery of thy love divine;
Its beauteous petals evermore unfolding—
Its opening heart, dear Lord! so near to Thine!
The wondrous mystery of thy love divine;
Its beauteous petals evermore unfolding—
Its opening heart, dear Lord! so near to Thine!
O angel-child!—O earthly one immortal!—
Pure messenger from out this world of sin!
Our darling's form hath oped the heavenly portal,
And streams of glory bathe us from within.
Pure messenger from out this world of sin!
Our darling's form hath oped the heavenly portal,
And streams of glory bathe us from within.
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