 | The poems and prose writings of Sumner Lincoln Fairfield |  |
THE FATHER'S LEGACY.
By Hudson's glorious stream, in death's cold rest,
Thy head lies low, my great and gallant sire!
Pillowed in peace on earth's eternal breast,
No more thy bosom pants with hope's desire.
Now, more than ever, doth thy name inspire,
For lingering years have wept above thy grave,
And shed their cold dews o'er my lonely lyre,
But to enhance the grief that could not save,
The settled woe that sighs o'er Hudson's midnight wave.
Thy head lies low, my great and gallant sire!
Pillowed in peace on earth's eternal breast,
No more thy bosom pants with hope's desire.
Now, more than ever, doth thy name inspire,
For lingering years have wept above thy grave,
And shed their cold dews o'er my lonely lyre,
But to enhance the grief that could not save,
The settled woe that sighs o'er Hudson's midnight wave.
376
In the first gush and glory of my years,
Ere reason glowed, or memory held her power,
Thy pale proud brow was wet with infant tears,
And wild cries rose in thy deserted bower!
Oh, how the dim remembrance of that hour
Crowds on my brain like night's most shadowy dream,
When winds wail loud and o'erfraught tempests lower!
A glimpse of glory in a meteor's gleam,
Sunlight in storms—a flower upon the rushing stream.
Ere reason glowed, or memory held her power,
Thy pale proud brow was wet with infant tears,
And wild cries rose in thy deserted bower!
Oh, how the dim remembrance of that hour
Crowds on my brain like night's most shadowy dream,
When winds wail loud and o'erfraught tempests lower!
A glimpse of glory in a meteor's gleam,
Sunlight in storms—a flower upon the rushing stream.
The budding boughs, the limpid light of spring,
The mirrored beauty of the brimming rills,
The greenness and the gentle airs, that bring
Life's golden hours again, when heavenly hills
And vales bore witness to the soul that thrills
The heart of youth ere passion riots there—
Shed o'er me now the loveliness which fills,
At parted seasons, such as wed despair
When being's dayspring breaks and all but life is fair.
The mirrored beauty of the brimming rills,
The greenness and the gentle airs, that bring
Life's golden hours again, when heavenly hills
And vales bore witness to the soul that thrills
The heart of youth ere passion riots there—
Shed o'er me now the loveliness which fills,
At parted seasons, such as wed despair
When being's dayspring breaks and all but life is fair.
Yet from this scene of most surpassing love,
Not unrefreshed, I turn to happier years,
Quick in their flight, when through the highland grove
I ran to meet thee with ecstatic tears,
And in thine arms forgot my deepest fears!
Oh, then thou wert to me what I am now
To one blest boy—my sorrow's bliss—who wears
The very majesty of thy high brow,
The pride, the thought, the power, that in thine eye did glow.
Not unrefreshed, I turn to happier years,
Quick in their flight, when through the highland grove
I ran to meet thee with ecstatic tears,
And in thine arms forgot my deepest fears!
Oh, then thou wert to me what I am now
To one blest boy—my sorrow's bliss—who wears
The very majesty of thy high brow,
The pride, the thought, the power, that in thine eye did glow.
No proud sarcophagus thy corse enshrines,
No mausoleum mocks thy mouldering dust,
But there the rose, amid its mazy vines,
Blooms like thy spirit with the pure and just;
And—image of earth's high and holy trust—
Deep verdure smiles and wafts its breath to heaven,
And, holier far than antique print or bust,
Lives in my heart the portrait thou hast given,
The worship of pure love—the faith of autumn's even.
No mausoleum mocks thy mouldering dust,
But there the rose, amid its mazy vines,
Blooms like thy spirit with the pure and just;
And—image of earth's high and holy trust—
Deep verdure smiles and wafts its breath to heaven,
And, holier far than antique print or bust,
Lives in my heart the portrait thou hast given,
The worship of pure love—the faith of autumn's even.
377
Thy Legacy was not the gold of men,
The slave of pomp, the vassal of the mine,
But an o'ermastering intellect, that, when
The world reviled and trampled, soared divine,
And stood o'erpanoplied on God's own shrine!
This did'st thou leave me, Father! and my mind
Hath been my realm of glory—as 't was thine—
Though much it irks me to have cast behind
Thy godlike skill to quell the ills of human kind.
The slave of pomp, the vassal of the mine,
But an o'ermastering intellect, that, when
The world reviled and trampled, soared divine,
And stood o'erpanoplied on God's own shrine!
This did'st thou leave me, Father! and my mind
Hath been my realm of glory—as 't was thine—
Though much it irks me to have cast behind
Thy godlike skill to quell the ills of human kind.
'T was thine to grapple with the fiend of gain,
'T was thine to toil and triumph in the field—
It cannot be that I should faint in pain,
And like a craven, to the dastard yield;
On the starr'd mead, and in the o'erarching weald
It hath been mine to think and to be blest,
And oft on mountain pinnacles I 've kneeled
To pray I might be gathered to my rest
With glory on my brow and virtue in my breast.
'T was thine to toil and triumph in the field—
It cannot be that I should faint in pain,
And like a craven, to the dastard yield;
On the starr'd mead, and in the o'erarching weald
It hath been mine to think and to be blest,
And oft on mountain pinnacles I 've kneeled
To pray I might be gathered to my rest
With glory on my brow and virtue in my breast.
Though anguish throbs through all my bosom now,
And wild tears gush whene'er I think of thee,
Yet like blue heaven upon Cordillera's brow,
Thy memory clothes me with divinity,
And lifts my soul beyond the things that be,
The strife of traffic, falsehood's common fear,
Friendship betrayed, unguerdoned vassalry,
And every ill, that reigns and riots here,
In this dark world so far from thine immortal sphere.
And wild tears gush whene'er I think of thee,
Yet like blue heaven upon Cordillera's brow,
Thy memory clothes me with divinity,
And lifts my soul beyond the things that be,
The strife of traffic, falsehood's common fear,
Friendship betrayed, unguerdoned vassalry,
And every ill, that reigns and riots here,
In this dark world so far from thine immortal sphere.
My earliest smiles were thine—my earliest thought,
Like rosy light in morn's translucent sky,
First from thine eye, my spirit's sun, were caught;
And as it gleams on days that vanish by,
It turns to thee, my fountain shrined on high!
—My Sister! is she with thee? where thou art
Thy children fain would be!—on starbeams fly,
Spirits of Love! and in my raptured heart
Make Heaven's own music till my soul in transport part.
Like rosy light in morn's translucent sky,
First from thine eye, my spirit's sun, were caught;
And as it gleams on days that vanish by,
It turns to thee, my fountain shrined on high!
—My Sister! is she with thee? where thou art
Thy children fain would be!—on starbeams fly,
Spirits of Love! and in my raptured heart
Make Heaven's own music till my soul in transport part.
378
And teach me with an awed delight to tread
The darksome vale that all must tread alone,
And gift me with the wisdom of the dead,
Justly to do, yet all unjustly done,
Freely to pardon!—Till the crown is won,
Be with me in the errings of my lot,
The many frailties of thine only son,
And when brief records say that he is not,
Hail his wronged spirit home where sorrow is forgot!
The darksome vale that all must tread alone,
And gift me with the wisdom of the dead,
Justly to do, yet all unjustly done,
Freely to pardon!—Till the crown is won,
Be with me in the errings of my lot,
The many frailties of thine only son,
And when brief records say that he is not,
Hail his wronged spirit home where sorrow is forgot!
| The poems and prose writings of Sumner Lincoln Fairfield | |