University of Virginia Library

'Twas June, the loveliest priestess of the twelve,
That wait in Earth's great temple, each in turn
Offering the gifts of Nature to her God,
Each beautiful,—and most appropriate
The offerings she presents. But June, sweet June,
Comes with the warmest holiest glow of love,
The most exquisite incense, and a hymn
Of all sweet voices blended, gushing up
From human heart, from harps with flashing wings,
From grove, and woodland, where the breezes wake
A low sweet chorus from the swaying wreaths
Of tremulous green bells; from every shore
That running water kisses, blending all
With deep wild song of winds, and deep dread voice
Of Ocean's adoration; while the heavens
Seem bending o'er the altar with a smile
So calm, so sweet, so graciously benign,
That the instinctive spirit of all life
Thrills with ecstatic worship.
On the shore
That border'd with bright emerald a broad stream,
The pride and blessing of a lovely land,
My own dear native land—Oh, how mine eyes
Grow dim and painful as I muse on thee,
My blessed native land! Aye, on the shore
Of that rich river, stood a fair young girl
Alone; for she had left the playful band
Of laughing sisters, and stood silent there.
Her living picture now is on my heart.
Daguerreotyp'd by that strong spirit-light
Which writes on memory. She was a mere child
Of scarce five summers, and her little feet
Were bare and pearl-like, 'mid the dripping flowers.
(She was a poor man's child,) her golden curls
Lay in profusion on her broad high brow,
And shoulders white as lilies. But her eyes,
Her large blue tender eyes, were deeply fring'd
With long dark lashes, as if nature sought
To hide the loving spirits bathing there,
From sacrilegious gaze. They were such eyes
As ne'er should look on misery, or sin;
They were so pure, so gentle, and so true,
So faithful to the soul, and pleaded so
To all they met for tender sympathy.
Such eyes should never read the cold false world.
The dear domestic bower of holy love
Built in a shelter'd vale, where all sweet things
Are of spontaneous growth, should be the home
In which they should diffuse their tenderness
And gather in the deep abiding love,
Which is their light and life. A summer cloud
Had thrown its wealth of rain-drops liberally
Upon the fainting earth, and passing o'er
It now was hovering with its dusky wing
Outspread beyond the river, while the bow
Hung glorious on its pathway,—and the child
Was gazing on that seal which God has set
To his eternal promise. All her soul
Was trembling in the light of those blue eyes,
Like pure reflection of the starry heavens
On deep, still water. It was easy then
To read her destiny—that she was form'd
Of high and pure susceptibilities,
Shrined in a heart whose strings were all attuned
Unto the music of adoring love,
To God, and nature. Easy 'twere to tell
How such a heart would give to human love
Its perfect and adoring worshipping;
That it would cast itself upon that love
In fervent trust, and self-forgetfulness;
Like some fair launch committed to the waves
To be their own for ever, though their calm
Shall change to tempest, still to be their own,
In wreck, in ruin, evermore their own.
A creature made and fashion'd but to lie
Upon their bosom, and obey their will.
But she knew naught of this, for in that hour
She felt the first strange yearnings of a Soul
Toward the Great, the Beautiful, and Good;
And learn'd her kindred to all fair, and sweet,
And holy things.
There came a change. She was no more a child,
Although not yet upon her radiant brow
Was laid the shadow of the full-blown wreath
Of early womanhood. She had grown tall
And full of queenly graces. Those bright curls
Had chang'd to auburn ringlets, and her cheeks
Flush'd with each throb of the young timid heart,
Just trembling with a new-born consciousness
Of its delicious life. She stood that night
Amid the dancers, and her tiny feet
Bore her along as if she were the soul
Of all the melody that sported there.
Admiring glances follow'd all her steps,
And many a voice proclaim'd that she was fair,
Aye, fairest of the fair; and envy heard,
But dared not touch the childish purity
Of one so young and guileless. But the maid—
She smiled and blush'd, and turn'd her from a scene
In which she felt no sympathy, and sought
The holy moonlight's cool and silent flood,
The element of all fantastic forms
Of active fancy, where they sport themselves,
And hold mysterious rites, and weave strange wreaths
To lay upon the sleeper's brow and breast
Strange wreaths of joy and sorrow, light and shade,
Which men call dreams, composed of shadowy buds
And blossoms, cull'd from some light cloud that floats
An island in that ocean, wandering still
Between the earth and heaven, allied to both,
And intimate with neither. Sometimes, too,
The mystic creatures snatch a mournful wreath
From ridges of the black-brow'd thunder-storm,
Where sits the thunder with his living darts
Of fiery serpents. These are fearful dreams
By cruel fancies braided, and we start
Affrighted at their touch. But they all fade,
And melt to moonshine, at the touch of truth.
Thus mus'd the maiden, with her pleading eyes
Uprais'd toward their kindred starry blue;
And moonlight fancies trac'd a glowing scene
Of such delights as they, and they alone,
Can shadow forth, and in that world of bliss
One perfect being reign'd, who courted her
With loving words, to come and share with him
That blessed paradise. The maiden sigh'd,
That voice was all familiar to her ear,
And whisper'd now, that she was gazing on
The vision'd land of Love. Oh! she forgot
That this fair picture was of moonlight too!

The scene was chang'd. It was a wilderness,
A wild dark forest of old patriarch trees,
Gigantic trees, of which no living man
Could say, I saw them when their trunks were less,
Their heads less high than now. Moss-grown, and gray
They stood, the monuments of ages past;
Engrav'd in characters which every eye
May read and understand, with one great name,
The name of Him who rear'd them; of all else
As desert ruins silent, save at times
When spirits from the far mysterious past
Come back like children to a household hearth,
And mourn for all the beautiful and dear
That come no more to meet them. Then a voice
Of strange dark sighing heaves the heavy robes
Above their stern old hearts. The land was rough
With abrupt rocky hills and broken dells,
Where warrior laurel grew, for ever green,
And fair witch-hazles wove their golden blooms
In wreaths for stern December, forming bowers,
Fit palaces for all such things as joy
In solitude and darkness, for the sun
Scarce sent one glittering arrow, all day long,
To fright them from their revels. Rapid streams
Fill'd those wild dells with music, as they dash'd
Along their rocky channels. In these glens
The hypocritic panther made his lair
With mosses for his pillow, and fair shrubs,
In dewy garlands, drooping o'er his form,
While, with his half-closed eyes, and quiet foot,
That sheath'd its terrors, all day long he lay
And waited, listening for the cautious tread,
Of doe, or spotted fawn. And gangs of wolves
Crouch'd in those twilight thickets, kept in bands
By horrible community of taste
For blood and rapine. 'Twas a rough wild land;
Even beauty wore a savage aspect there,
And peace was like a silence, caus'd by fear.
And she was there, who in her childhood play'd
Beside the river, where the city's spires
Threw shadows on the water. She, whose foot
Was lightest in the dance, whose voice in song
Enchain'd all list'ners with its melody;
She, who had been admir'd where all were fair,
And lov'd where all were lovely. She was there—
Lone—lone—and broken-hearted.
Dost thou know
How fares the forest dweller, in her hut
Of unhewn logs, erected hastily,
With windows all unglaz'd, and roof of bark,
Through which the rain-drops trickle, and the stars
Look down upon the sleeper? Hast thou known
The stern privation, and the cruel want
That make themselves at home in such abodes,
And cast their shadows between heart and heart,
Excluding love's warm sunlight, till the blooms
That look to it for life, grow pale and die?
If thou dost know these things, I need not tell
The painful story. If thou knowest not,
'Twere vain to tell, for thou canst not believe.—
She was still young, and on her face and form,
The magic light of beauty linger'd still;
The rose was on her cheek; but o'er her brow
There lay a shadow, even when she smiled,
The fearful shadow which a darkened heart
Throws on the sunshine of the spirit's joy.
And those blue eyes—the dewy tenderness
Of heaven dwelt still within them, and bright forms
Of human sympathies lay tremblingly
Amid their troubled waters,—and her voice
Had in its cadence that complaining tone,
With which the heart, that will not be belied,
Tells its own story. She had learn'd perforce,
Oh! many a bitter lesson, and had grown
Familiar with cold looks and cruel words,
And want, and toil, and weeping. All alone
She bore her burden, for there came to her
No glance or word, of that sweet sympathy
That lies with gentle soothing like rich balm
Upon the wounded spirit. Desolate
Were all life's ways to her. Yet oftentimes
At summer evening when the thunder's voice
Grew low from distance, and the storm-cloud seem'd
A gorgeous portrait, with its lofty towers
Of marble and bright metals—when the bow
Shone, like the jewell'd gate-way of high heaven,
Till fancy almost deem'd that glorious world
Half-visible amid the soft gray mist
That veil'd the open entrance. Or at night
When moonlight with its gentle influence
Hush'd bird and flower to sleep—sweet memories came
Like song-birds of familiar melody
From lands where all was bright, and full of bliss,
And innocence, and beauty—but from which
She was an exile, never to return!
Oh! never to return. Yet still they came
To that dark shore, on which her lot was cast,
With flashing wings, to sing one well-known song
And then return, across the wide dim sea,
Which murmurs Farewell! Farewell! evermore.
Oh, sweet and blessed memories of young life,
With plumage of the brightest hues of hope,
And songs of love's ecstatic melody,
Why come ye to the dark and weary heart?
Or coming, wherefore flit so soon away?—
'Twas May, and yet the frost lay cold and white
On bud, and leaf, and blossoms, like the shroud
O'er rigid forms of death. Oh, sorrowful
It was to see all sweet and beauteous things
Thus blighted in the blooming, by the wing
Of the destroying angel. She that morn
Stood in her garden. She had planted there
A favourite shrub, brought from her native land,
And nurs'd and watch'd it long, and tenderly.
And it had grown, and budded rich and fair,
With promise of abundant blossoming,
To compensate the hopes, and cares of years.
Now as she look'd upon it through her tears,
She thought, how like is this poor ruin'd tree
Nipp'd in its budding, to the blighted heart;
And then she mus'd in numbers, of the buds
That perish e'er the blooming—

The while she sang
This simple lay, she felt within her breast
The first deep yearnings of a spirit touch'd
With that strange fire which burns within the soul
And wakes a thirst for fame.

Another change.—It was a winter eve,
The fire was blazing brightly on the hearth
Within a rural dwelling. She was there,
But oh, no longer young or beautiful;
For toil, and sorrow, and the restlessness
With which strong spirits struggle with their bonds,
Like those wild mighty birds that will not brook
The chains they cannot sever; these had touch'd
The grace and beauty of her form, and face;
But in her eyes the spirit liv'd and spake,
And dazzled as of old. Around her sat
A band of children, and with gentle voice
She gave familiar lessons, teaching them
The gentle virtues, knitting their young hearts
In one sweet bond of love; and leading thus
Their willing minds by easy flowery paths
Toward the hill of science. Still she plied
Her needle all the while, with busy hand,
And oftentimes, amid her cheerful words,
Sigh'd all unconsciously—then smiled again,
And spoke to them of hope, and coming years,
Bright with the beams that always shine from heaven
Upon the path of piety, and truth.

Her task was done. The evening prayers were said,
The good night spoken, and the kiss exchang'd,
And she was left alone. She brought her pen
And spread before her the unsullied sheet,
On which she thought to trace the imagings
Of bright and sportive fancies. But her hand
Was cold and weary, and her heart was sad.
Beside her lay a page on which her name
Was printed with high honours as a bard
Well worthy of a place amid the band,
Of which her country boasts. So she had won
The meed she coveted, the wreath of Fame,
And now she felt the utter worthlessness,
Of such a glittering toy. It had no power
To still the painful throbbings of her heart,
To cool the fever of her troubled brain,
Or satisfy the yearnings of her soul.—
She droop'd her face upon her folded hands
And wept, oh, long and bitterly. At length
With trembling hand, oft rais'd to brush away
The tears, that in her eyelids gather'd still,
And hung upon their fringes like the drops,
That gem the foliage when the shower is past,
She wrote,—

A WOMAN'S MONODY TO FAME.