Poems and prose writings :: :: University of Virginia Library

Poems and prose writings

Dana, Richard Henry (1787-1879)

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THE BUCCANEER.

Boy with thy blac berd,
I rede that thou blin,
And sone set the to shrive,
With sorrow of thi syn;

Ze met with the merchandes
And made them ful bare;
It es gude reason and right
That ze evill misfare.

For when ze stode in sowre strenkith,
Ze war all to stout.

Laurence Minot.

The island lies nine leagues away.
Along its solitary shore,
Of craggy rock and sandy bay,
No sound but ocean's roar,
Save where the bold, wild sea-bird makes her home,
Her shrill cry coming through the sparkling foam.

But when the light winds lie at rest,
And on the glassy, heaving sea,
The black duck, with her glossy breast,
Sits swinging silently.—
How beautiful! no ripples break the reach.
And silvery waves go noiseless up the beach.

And inland rests the green, warm dell;
The brook comes tinkling down its side;
From out the trees the Sabbath bell
Rings cheerful, far and wide,
Mingling its sound with bleatings of the flocks,
That feed about the vale among the rocks.

Nor holy bell, nor pastoral bleat,
In former days within the vale;
Flapped in the bay the pirate's sheet;
Curses were on the gale;
Rich goods lay on the sand, and murdered men;
Pirate and wrecker kept their revels then.

But calm, low voices, words of grace,
Now slowly fall upon the ear;
A quiet look is in each face,
Subdued and holy fear;
Each motion gentle: all is kindly done.—
Come, listen how from crime the isle was won.

1

Twelve years are gone since Matthew Lee
Held in this isle unquestioned sway;
A dark, low, brawny man was he;
His law,—“It is my way.”
Beneath his thick-set brows a sharp light broke
From small gray eyes; his laugh a triumph spoke.

2

Cruel of heart, and strong of arm,
Loud in his sport, and keen for spoil,
He little recked of good or harm,
Fierce both in mirth and toil;
Yet like a dog could fawn, if need there were;
Speak mildly, when he would, or look in fear.

3

Amid the uproar of the storm,
And by the lightning's sharp, red glare,
Were seen Lee's face and sturdy form;
His axe glanced quick in air.
Whose corpse at morn lies swinging in the sedge?
There's blood and hair, Matt, on thy axe's edge.

4

“Ask him who floats there; let him tell;
I make the brute, not man, my mark.
Who walks the cliffs, needs heed him well!
Last night was fearful dark.
Think ye the lashing waves will spare or feel?
An ugly gash!—These rocks—they cut like steel.”

5

He wiped his axe; and turning round.
Said with a cold and hardened smile,
“The hemp is saved; the man is drowned.
Will let him float awhile?
Or give him Christian burial on the strand?
He'll find his fellows peaceful under sand.”

6

Lee's waste was greater than his gain.
“I'll try the merchant's trade,” he thought,
“Though less the toil to kill than feign,—
Things sweeter robbed than bought.
But, then, to circumvent them at their arts!”
Ship manned, and spoils for cargo, Lee departs.

7

'Tis fearful, on the broad-backed waves,
To feel them shake, and hear them roar:
Beneath, unsounded, dreadful caves;
Around, no cheerful shore.
Yet 'mid this solemn world what deeds are done!
The curse goes up, the deadly sea-fight's won;—

8

And wanton talk, and laughter heard.
Where sounds a deep and awful voice.
There's awe from that lone ocean-bird:
Pray ye, when ye rejoice!
“Leave prayers to priests,” cries Lee: “I'm ruler here!
These fellows know full well whom they should fear!”

9

The ship works hard; the seas run high;
Their white tops, flashing through the night,
Give to the eager, straining eye
A wild and shifting light.
“Hard at the pumps!—The leak is gaining fast!
Lighten the ship!—The devil rode that blast!”

10

Ocean has swallowed for its food
Spoils thou didst gain in murderous glee;
Matt, could its waters wash out blood,
It had been well for thee.
Crime fits for crime. And no repentant tear
Hast thou for sin?—Then wait thine hour of fear.

11

The sea has like a plaything tost
That heavy hull the livelong night.
The man of sin,—he is not lost:
Soft breaks the morning light.
Torn spars and sails,—her lading in the deep,—
The ship makes port with slow and labouring sweep.

12

Within a Spanish port she rides.
Angry and soured, Lee walks her deck.
“So, peaceful trade a curse betides?—
And thou, good ship, a wreck!
Ill luck in change!—Ho! cheer ye up, my men!
Rigged, and at sea, and, then, old work again!”

13

A sound is in the Pyrenees!
Whirling and dark comes roaring down
A tide as of a thousand seas,
Sweeping both cowl and crown:
On field and vineyard, thick and red it stood;
Spain's streets and palaces are wet with blood.

14

And wrath and terrour shake the land;
The peaks shine clear in watchfire lights;
Soon comes the tread of that stout band,—
Bold Arthur and his knights.
Awake ye, Merlin! Hear the shout from Spain!
The spell is broke!—Arthur is come again!—

15

Too late for thee, thou young, fair bride!
The lips are cold, the brow is pale,
That thou didst kiss in love and pride;
He cannot hear thy wail,
Whom thou didst lull with fondly murmured sound:
His couch is cold and lonely in the ground.

16

He fell for Spain,—her Spain no more;
For he was gone who made it dear;
And she would seek some distant shore,
Away from strife and fear,
And wait amid her sorrows till the day
His voice of love should call her thence away.

17

Lee feigned him grieved, and bowed him low.
'Twould joy his heart, could he but aid
So good a lady in her woe,
He meekly, smoothly said.
With wealth and servants she is soon aboard,
And that white steed she rode beside her lord.

18

The sun goes down upon the sea;
The shadows gather round her home.
“How like a pall are ye to me!
My home, how like a tomb!
O, blow, ye flowers of Spain, above his head!
Ye will not blow o'er me when I am dead.”

19

And now the stars are burning bright;
Yet still she's looking toward the shore
Beyond the waters black in night.
“I ne'er shall see thee more!
Ye're many, waves, yet lonely seems your flow;
And I'm alone,—scarce know I where I go.”

20

Sleep, sleep, thou sad one on the sea!
The wash of waters lulls thee now;
His arm no more will pillow thee,
Thy fingers on his brow.
He is not near, to hush thee, or to save,
The ground is his, the sea must be thy grave.

21

The moon comes up; the night goes on.
Why, in the shadow of the mast,
Stands that dark, thoughtful man alone?
Thy pledge!—nay, keep it fast!
Bethink thee of her youth and sorrows, Lee:
Helpless, alone,—and, then, her trust in thee.

22

When told the hardships thou hadst borne,
Her words to thee were like a charm.
With uncheered grief her heart is worn:
Thou wilt not do her harm?
He looks out on the sea that sleeps in light,
And growls an oath,—“It is too still to-night!”

23

He sleeps; but dreams of massy gold
And heaps of pearl,—stretches his hands:
But hears a voice,—“Ill man, withhold!”
A pale one near him stands.
Her breath comes deathly cold upon his cheek:
Her touch is cold; he hears a piercing shriek;—

24

He wakes!—But no relenting wake
Within his angered, restless soul.
“What, shall a dream Matt's purpose shake?
The gold will make all whole.
Thy merchant trade had nigh unmanned thee, lad!
What, balk my chance because a woman's sad?”

25

He cannot look on her mild eye;
Her patient words his spirit quell.
Within that evil heart there lie
The hates and fears of hell.
His speech is short; he wears a surly brow.
There's none will hear the shriek. What fear ye now?

26

The workings of the soul ye fear;
Ye fear the power that goodness hath;
Ye fear the Unseen One ever near,
Walking his ocean path.
From out the silent void there comes a cry,—
“Vengeance is mine! Thou, murderer, too, shalt die!”

27

Nor dread of ever-during woe,
Nor the sea's awful solitude,
Can make thee, wretch, thy crime forego.
Then, bloody hand,—to blood!
The scud is driving wildly overhead;
The stars burn dim; the ocean moans its dead.

28

Moan for the living; moan our sins,—
The wrath of man more fierce than thine.
Hark! still thy waves!—The work begins,—
Lee makes the deadly sign.
The crew glide down like shadows. Eye and hand
Speak fearful meanings through the silent band.

29

They're gone.—The helmsman stands alone;
And one leans idly o'er the bow.
Still as a tomb the ship keeps on;
Nor sound nor stirring now.
Hush, hark! as from the centre of the deep,
Shrieks, fiendish yells! They stab them in their sleep!

30

The scream of rage, the groan, the strife,
The blow, the gasp, the horrid cry,
The panting, throttled prayer for life,
The dying's heaving sigh,
The murderer's curse, the dead man's fixed, still glare,
And fear's and death's cold sweat,—they all are there.

31

On pale, dead men, on burning cheek,
On quick, fierce eyes, brows hot and damp,
On hands that with the warm blood reek,
Shines the dim cabin lamp.
Lee looked. “They sleep so sound,” he, laughing, said,
“They'll scarcely wake for mistress or for maid.”

32

A crash! They force the door,—and then
One long, long, shrill, and piercing scream
Comes thrilling 'bove the growl of men.
'Tis hers!—O God, redeem
From worse than death thy suffering, helpless child!
That dreadful shriek again,—sharp, sharp, and wild!

33

It ceased.—With speed o'th'lightning's flash,
A loose-robed form, with streaming hair,
Shoots by.—A leap,—a quick, short splash!
'Tis gone!—and nothing there!
The waves have swept away the bubbling tide.
Bright-crested waves, how calmly on they ride!

34

She's sleeping in her silent cave,
Nor hears the loud, stern roar above,
Nor strife of man on land or wave.
Young thing! her home of love
She soon has reached! Fair, unpolluted thing!
They harmed her not!—Was dying suffering?

35

O, no!—To live when joy was dead,
To go with one, lone, pining thought,
To mournful love her being wed,
Feeling what death had wrought;
To live the child of woe, nor shed a tear,
Bear kindness, and yet share not joy or fear;

36

To look on man, and deem it strange
That he on things of earth should brood,
When all the thronged and busy range
To her was solitude,—
O, this was bitterness! Death came and pressed
Her wearied lids, and brought the sick heart rest.

37

Why look ye on each other so,
And speak no word?—Ay, shake the head!
She's gone where ye can never go.
What fear ye from the dead?
They tell no tales; and ye are all true men;—
But wash away that blood; then, home again!

38

'Tis on your souls; it will not out!
Lee, why so lost? 'Tis not like thee!
Come, where thy revel, oath, and shout?
“That pale one in the sea!—
I mind not blood.—But she,—I cannot tell!
A spirit was't?—It flashed like fires of hell!

39

“And when it passed there was no tread!
It leaped the deck.—Who heard the sound?
I heard none!—Say, what was it fled?
Poor girl! and is she drowned?—
Went down these depths? How dark they look, and cold!
She's yonder! stop her!—Now!—there!—hold her! hold!”

40

They gaze upon his ghastly face.
“What ails thee, Lee? and why that glare?”
“Look! ha! 'tis gone, and not a trace!
No, no, she was not there!—
Who of you said ye heard her when she fell?
'Twas strange!—I'll not be fooled!—Will no one tell?”

41

He paused. And soon the wildness passed.
Then came the tingling flush of shame.
Remorse and fear are gone as fast.
“The silly thing's to blame
To quit us so. 'Tis plain she loved us not;
Or she had stayed awhile, and shared my cot.”

42

And then the ribald laughed. The jest,
Though old and foul, loud laughter drew;
And fouler yet came from the rest
Of that infernal crew.
Note, Heaven, their blasphemy, their broken trust!
Lust panders murder; murder panders lust!

43

Now slowly up they bring the dead
From out the silent, dim-lit room.
No prayer at their quick burial said;
No friend to weep their doom.
The hungry waves have seized them one by one;
And, swallowing down their prey, go roaring on.

44

Cries Lee. “We must not be betrayed;
'Tis but to add another corse!
Strange words, we're told, an ass once brayed:
I'll never trust a horse!
Out! throw him on the waves alive!—he'll swim;
For once a horse shall ride; we all ride him.”

45

Such sound to mortal ear ne'er came
As rang far o'er the waters wide.
It shook with fear the stoutest frame:
The horse is on the tide!
As the waves leave, or lift him up, his cry
Comes lower now, and now is near and high.

46

And through the swift wave's yesty crown
His scared eyes shoot a fiendish light,
And fear seems wrath. He now sinks down,
Now heaves again to sight,
Then drifts away; and through the night they hear
Far off that dreadful cry.—But morn is near.

47

O, hadst thou known what deeds were done,
When thou wast shining far away,
Wouldst thou let fall, calm-coming sun,
Thy warm and silent ray?
The good are in their graves; thou canst not cheer
Their dark, cold mansions: Sin alone is here.

48

“The deed's complete! The gold is ours!
There, wash away that bloody stain!
Pray, who'd refuse what fortune showers?
Now, lads, we lot our gain!
Must fairly share, you know, what's fairly got?
A truly good night's work! Who says 'twas not?”

49

There's song, and oath, and gaming deep,
Hot words, and laughter, mad carouse;
There's naught of prayer, and little sleep;
The devil keeps the house!
“Lee cheats!” cried Jack. Lee struck him to the heart.
“That's foul!” one muttered.—“Fool! you take your part!—

50

“The fewer heirs, the richer, man!
Hold forth your palm, and keep your prate!
Our life, we read, is but a span.
What matters soon or late?”
And when on shore, and asked, Did many die?
“Near half my crew, poor lads!” he'd say, and sigh.

51

Within the bay, one stormy night,
The isle-men saw boats make for shore,
With here and there a dancing light,
That flashed on man and oar.
When hailed, the rowing stopped, and all was dark.
“Ha! lantern-work!—We'll home! They're playing shark!”

52

Next day at noon, within the town,
All stare and wonder much to see
Matt and his men come strolling down;
Boys shouting, “Here comes Lee!”
“Thy ship, good Lee?” “Not many leagues from shore
Our ship by chance took fire.”—They learned no more.

53

He and his crew were flush of gold.
“You did not lose your cargo, then?”
“Where all is fairly bought and sold,
Heaven prospers those true men.
Forsake your evil ways, as we forsook
Our ways of sin, and honest courses took!

54

“Would see my log-book? Fairly writ.
With pen of steel, and ink of blood!
How lightly doth the conscience sit!
Learn, truth's the only good.”
And thus, with flout, and cold and impious jeer,
He fled repentance, if he scaped not fear.

55

Remorse and fear he drowns in drink.
“Come, pass the bowl, my jolly crew!
It thicks the blood to mope and think.
Here's merry days, though few!”
And then he quaffs.—So riot reigns within:
So brawl and laughter shake that house of sin.

56

Matt lords it now throughout the isle;
His hand falls heavier than before;
All dread alike his frown or smile.
None come within his door,
Save those who dipped their hands in blood with him;
Save those who laughed to see the white horse swim.

57

“To night's our anniversary;
And, mind me, lads, we have it kept
With royal state and special glee!
Better with those who slept
Their sleep that night would he be now, who slinks!
And health and wealth to him who bravely drinks!”

58

The words they speak, we may not speak;
The tales they tell, we may not tell.
Mere mortal man, forbear to seek
The secrets of that hell!
Their shouts grow loud: 'Tis near mid-hour of night:
What means upon the waters that red light?

59

Not bigger than a star it seems.
And now 'tis like the bloody moon!
And now it shoots in hairy streams!
It moves!—'Twill reach us soon!
A ship! and all on fire!—hull, yard, and mast!
Her sails are sheets of flame!—she's nearing fast!

60

And now she rides upright and still,
Shedding a wild and lurid light
Around the cove, on inland hill,
Waking the gloom of night.
All breathes of terrour! men, in dumb amaze,
Gaze on each other in the horrid blaze.

61

It scares the sea-birds from their nests;
They dart and wheel with deafening screams;
Now dark,—and now their wings and breasts
Flash back disastrous gleams.
Fair Light, thy looks strange alteration wear;—
The world's great comforter,—why now its fear?

62

And what comes up above the wave,
So ghastly white? A spectral head!
A horse's head! (May Heaven save
Those looking on the dead,—
The waking dead!) There, on the sea he stands,—
The Spectre-Horse! He moves! he gains the sands;

63

And on he speeds! His ghostly sides
Are streaming with a cold, blue light.
Heaven keep the wits of him who rides
The Spectre-Horse to-night!
His path is shining like a swift ship's wake;
Before Lee's door he gleams like day's gray break.

64

The revel now is high within;
It bursts upon the midnight air.
They little think, in mirth and din,
What spirit waits them there.
As if the sky became a voice, there spread
A sound to appall the living, stir the dead.

65

The Spirit-Steed sent up the neigh;
It seemed the living trump of hell,
Sounding to call the damned away,
To join the host that fell.
It rang along the vaulted sky: the shore
Jarred hard, as when the thronging surges roar.

66

It rang in ears that knew the sound;
And hot, flushed cheeks are blanched with fear.
Ha! why does Lee look wildly round?
Thinks he the drowned horse near?
He drops his cup,—his lips are stiff with fright.
Nay, sit thee down,—it is thy banquet night.

67

“I cannot sit;—I needs must go:
The spell is on my spirit now.
I go to dread,—I go to woe!”
O, who so weak as thou,
Strong man! His hoofs upon the door-stone, see,
The Shadow stands! His eyes are on thee, Lee!

68

Thy hair pricks up!—“O, I must bear
His damp, cold breath! It chills my frame!
His eyes,—their near and dreadful glare
Speaks that I must not name!”
Art mad to mount that Horse!—“A power within,
I must obey, cries, ‘Mount thee, man of sin!’”

69

He's now upon the Spectre's back,
With rein of silk and curb of gold.
'Tis fearful speed!—the rein is slack
Within his senseless hold:
Borne by an unseen power, right on he rides,
Yet touches not the Shadow-Beast he strides.

70

He goes with speed; he goes with dread!
And now they're on the hanging steep!
And, now, the living and the dead,
They'll make the horrid leap!
The Horse stops short,—his feet are on the verge!
He stands, like marble, high above the surge.

71

And, nigh, the tall ship's burning on,
With red, hot spars and crackling flame;
From hull to gallant, nothing's gone;—
She burns, and yet's the same!
Her hot, red flame is beating, all the night,
On man and Horse, in their cold, phosphor light.

72

Through that cold light the fearful man
Sits looking on the burning ship.
Wilt ever rail again, or ban?
How fast he moves the lip!
And yet he does not speak, or make a sound!
What see you, Lee? the bodies of the drowned?

73

“I look, where mortal man may not,—
Down to the chambers of the deep.
I see the dead, long, long forgot;
I see them in their sleep.
A dreadful power is mine, which none can know,
Save he who leagues his soul with death and woe.”

74

Thou mild, sad mother, silent moon,
Thy last, low, melancholy ray
Shines towards him. Quit him not so soon!
Mother, in mercy, stay!
Despair and death are with him; and canst thou,
With that kind, earthward look, go leave him now?

75

O, thou wast born for worlds of love;
Making more lovely in thy shine
Whate'er thou look'st on: hosts above,
In that soft light of thine,
Burn softer; earth, in silvery veil, seems heaven.
Thou'rt going down!—hast left him unforgiven!

76

The far, low west is bright no more.
How still it is! No sound is heard
At sea, or all along the shore,
But cry of passing bird.
Thou living thing,—and dar'st thou come so near
These wild and ghastly shapes of death and fear?

77

And long that thick, red light has shone
On stern, dark rocks, and deep, still bay,
On man and Horse that seem of stone,
So motionless are they.
But now its lurid fire less fiercely burns:
The night is going,—faint, gray dawn returns.

78

That Spectre-Steed now slowly pales,
Now changes like the moonlit cloud:
That cold, thin light now slowly fails,
Which wrapt them like a shroud.
Both ship and Horse are fading into air.
Lost, mazed, alone, see, Lee is standing there!

79

The morning air blows fresh on him;
The waves are dancing in his sight;
The sea-birds call, and wheel, and skim.
O blessed morning light!
He doth not hear their joyous call; he sees
No beauty in the wave, nor feels the breeze.

80

For he's accursed from all that's good;
He ne'er must know its healing power.
The sinner on his sin shall brood,
And wait, alone, his hour.
A stranger to earth's beauty, human love,—
No rest below for him, no hope above!

81

The sun beats hot upon his head.
He stands beneath the broad, fierce blaze,
As stiff and cold as one that's dead:
A troubled, dreamy maze
Of some unearthly horrour, all he knows,—
Of some wild horrour past, and coming woes.

82

The gull has found her place on shore;
The sun gone down again to rest;
And all is still but ocean's roar:
There stands the man unblest.
But, see, he moves,—he turns, as asking where
His mates:—Why looks he with that piteous stare?

83

Go, get ye home, and end your mirth!
Go, call the revellers again!
They're fled the isle; and o'er the earth
Are wanderers, like Cain.
As he his door-stone passed, the air blew chill.
The wine is on the board; Lee, take your fill!

84

“There's none to meet me, none to cheer:
The seats are empty,—lights burnt out;
And I, alone, must sit me here:
Would I could hear their shout!”
He ne'er shall hear it more,—more taste his wine!
Silent he sits within the still moonshine.

85

Day came again; and up he rose,
A weary man, from his lone board;
Nor merry feast, nor sweet repose,
Did that long night afford.
No shadowy-coming night, to bring him rest,—
No dawn, to chase the darkness of his breast!

86

He walks within the day's full glare,
A darkened man. Where'er he comes,
All shun him. Children peep and stare;
Then, frightened, seek their homes.
Through all the crowd a thrilling horrour ran.
They point and say,—“There goes the wicked man!”

87

He turns, and curses in his wrath
Both man and child; then hastes away
Shoreward, or takes some gloomy path:
But there he cannot stay:
Terrour and madness drive him back to men;
His hate of man to solitude again.

88

Time passes on, and he grows bold;
His eye is fierce, his oaths are loud;
None dare from Lee the hand withhold;
He rules and scoffs the crowd.
But still at heart there lies a secret fear;
For now the year's dread round is drawing near.

89

He laughs, but he is sick at heart;
He swears, but he turns deadly pale;
His restless eye and sudden start,—
They tell the dreadful tale
That will be told: it needs no words from thee,
Thou self-sold slave to fear and misery.

90

Bond-slave of sin! again the light!
“Ha! take me, take me from its blaze!”
Nay, thou must ride the Steed to-night!
But other weary days
And nights must shine and darken o'er thy head,
Ere thou shalt go with Him to meet the dead.

91

Again the ship lights all the land;
Again Lee strides the Spectre-Beast;
Again upon the cliff they stand.
This once is he released!—
Gone ship and Horse; but Lee's last hope is o'er;
Nor laugh, nor scoff, nor rage, can help him more.

92

His spirit heard that Spirit say,
“Listen!—I twice have come to thee.
Once more,—and then a dreadful way!
And thou must go with me!”
Ay, cling to earth as sailor to the rock!
Sea-swept, sucked down in the tremendous shock,

93

He goes!—So thou must loose thy hold,
And go with Death: nor breathe the balm
Of early air, nor light behold.
Nor sit thee in the calm
Of gentle thoughts, where good men wait their close.
In life, or death, where look'st thou for repose?

94

Who's sitting on that long, black ledge,
Which makes so far out in the sea,
Feeling the kelp-weed on its edge?
Poor, idle Matthew Lee!
So weak and pale? A year and little more,
And bravely did he lord it round the shore.

95

And on the shingle now he sits.
And rolls the pebbles 'neath his hands;
Now walks the beach; now stops by fits.
And scores the smooth, wet sands;
Then tries each cliff, and cove, and jut, that bounds
The isle; then home from many weary rounds.

96

They ask him why he wanders so,
From day to day, the uneven strand?
“I wish, I wish that I might go!
But I would go by land;
And there's no way that I can find; I've tried
All day and night!”—He seaward looked, and sighed.

97

It brought the tear to many an eye,
That, once, his eye had made to quail.
“Lee, go with us; our sloop is nigh;
Come! help us hoist her sail.”
He shook.—“You know the Spirit-Horse I ride!
He'll let me on the sea with none beside!”

98

He views the ships that come and go,
Looking so like to living things.
O! 'tis a proud and gallant show
Of bright and broad-spread wings,
Making it light around them, as they keep
Their course right onward through the unsounded deep.

99

And where the far-off sand-bars lift
Their backs in long and narrow line,
The breakers shout, and leap, and shift,
And toss the sparkling brine
Into the air; then rush to mimic strife:
Glad creatures of the sea, and full of life!—

100

But not to Lee. He sits alone;
No fellowship nor joy for him;
Borne down by woe,—but not a moan,—
Though tears will sometimes dim
That asking eye. O, how his worn thoughts crave—
Not joy again, but rest within the grave.

101

The rocks are dripping in the mist
That lies so heavy off the shore;
Scarce seen the running breakers;—list
Their dull and smothered roar!
Lee hearkens to their voice.—“I hear, I hear
You call.—Not yet!—I know my time is near!”

102

And now the mist seems taking shape,
Forming a dim gigantic ghost,—
Enormous thing! There's no escape;
'Tis close upon the coast.
Lee kneels, but cannot pray.—Why mock him so!
The ship has cleared the fog, Lee, see her go!

103

A sweet, low voice, in starry nights,
Chants to his ear a plaining song;
Its tones come winding up the heights.
Telling of woe and wrong;
And he must listen till the stars grow dim,
The song that gentle voice doth sing to him.

104

O, it is sad that aught so mild
Should bind the soul with bands of fear;
That strains to soothe a little child,
The man should dread to hear.
But sin hath broke the world's sweet peace,—unstrung
The harmonious chords to which the angels sung.

105

In thick, dark nights he'd take his seat
High up the cliffs, and feel them shake,
As swung the sea with heavy beat
Below,—and hear it break
With savage roar, then pause and gather strength,
And, then, come tumbling in its swollen length.

106

But he no more shall haunt the beach,
Nor sit upon the tall cliff's crown,
Nor go the round of all that reach,
Nor feebly sit him down,
Watching the swaying weeds:—another day,
And he'll have gone far hence that dreadful way.

107

To-night the charmed number's told.
“Twice have I come for thee,” It said.
“Once more, and none shall thee behold.
Come! live one!—to the dead!”—
So hears his soul, and fears the gathering night;
Yet sick and weary of the soft, calm light.

108

Again he sits in that still room;
All day he leans at that still board;
None to bring comfort to his gloom,
Or speak a friendly word.
Weakened with fear, lone, haunted by remorse,
Poor, shattered wretch, there waits he that pale Horse.

109

Not long he waits. Where now are gone
Peak, citadel, and tower, that stood
Beautiful, while the west sun shone,
And bathed them in his flood
Of airy glory?—Sudden darkness fell;
And down they went, peak, tower, citadel.

110

The darkness, like a dome of stone,
Ceils up the heavens. 'Tis hush as death,—
All but the ocean's dull, low moan.
How hard he draws his breath!
He shudders as he feels the working Power.
Arouse thee, Lee! up! man thee for thine hour!

111

'Tis close at hand; for there, once more,
The burning ship. Wide sheets of flame
And shafted fire she showed before;—
Twice thus she hither came;—
But now she rolls a naked hulk, and throws
A wasting light; then settling, down she goes.

112

And where she sank, up slowly came
The Spectre-Horse from out the sea.
And there he stands! His pale sides flame.
He'll meet thee shortly, Lee.
He treads the waters as a solid floor;
He's moving on. Lee waits him at the door.

113

They're met.—“I know thou com'st for me,”
Lee's spirit to the Spectre said;
“I know that I must go with thee:
Take me not to the dead.
It was not I alone that did the deed!”—
Dreadful the eye of that still, Spectral Steed!

114

Lee cannot turn. There is a force
In that fixed eye, which holds him fast.
How still they stand,—the man and Horse!
“Thine hour is almost past.”
“O, spare me,” cries the wretch, “thou fearful One!”
“The time is come,—I must not go alone.”

115

“I'm weak and faint. O, let me stay!”
“Nay, murderer, rest nor stay for thee!”
The Horse and man are on their way;
He bears him to the sea.
Hard breathes the Spectre through the silent night;
Fierce from his nostrils streams a deathly light.

116

He's on the beach; but stops not there;
He's on the sea,—that dreadful Horse!
Lee flings and writhes in wild despair.
In vain! The Spirit-Corse
Holds him by fearful spell;—he cannot leap:
Within that horrid light he rides the deep.

117

It lights the sea around their track,—
The curling comb, and steel-dark wave:
And there sits Lee the Spectre's back;—
Gone! gone! and none to save!
They're seen no more; the night has shut them in.
May Heaven have pity on thee, man of sin!

118

The earth has washed away its stain;
The sealed-up sky is breaking forth,
Mustering its glorious hosts again,
From the far south and north;
The climbing moon plays on the rippling sea.
—O, whither on its waters rideth Lee?

THE CHANGES OF HOME.

If it be life to wear within myself
This barrenness of spirit, and to be
My own soul's sepulchre.
Byron. For hours she sate; and evermore her eye
Was busy in the distance, shaping things
That made her heart beat quick.
Wordsworth. Pine not away for that which cannot be.
The Pinner of Wakefield.

The Vale was beautiful; and, when a child,
I felt its sunny peace come warm and mild
To my young heart. Within high hills it slept,
Which o'er its rest their silent watches kept,
And gave it kindly shelter, as it lay
Like a fair, happy infant in its play.
The dancing leaves, the grain that gently bent
In early light, as soft winds o'er it went;
The new-fledged, panting bird, in low, short flight,
That filled my little bosom with delight,
Yet mixed with fear, lest that some unseen harm
Should spoil its just-born joy,—all these a charm
Threw round my morn of being. Here I stood,
Where from its covert in the thick-boughed wood,

The slender rill leaped forth, with its small voice,
Into the light, as seeming to rejoice
That it was free; and then it coursed away
With grass, and reeds, and pebbles holding play.

It seemed the Vale of Youth!—of youth untried,
Youth in the innocence and all the pride
Of its new life delighted; free from fears,
And griefs, and burdens, borne on coming years.

Such was the Vale. And then within it played
Edward, a child, and Jane, a little maid.
I see them now no more, where once they stood
Beside the brook, or 'neath the sloping wood.
The brook flows lonely on, o'er mimic mound
No longer made to leap with fairy bound.
Then, as they built the little dam and mill,
Their tongues went prattling with the prattling rill,
As if the babes and stream were playmates three,
With cheerful hearts, and singing merrily.
The tiny labour's o'er; the song is done
The children sang; the rill sings on alone.

How like eternity doth nature seem
To life of man,—that short and fitful dream!
I look around me; nowhere can I trace
Lines of decay that mark our human race.
These are the murmuring waters, these the flowers
I mused o'er in my earlier, better hours.
Like sounds and scents of yesterday they come.—
Long years have past since this was last my home!

And I am weak, and toil-worn is my frame;
But all the Vale shuts in is still the same:
Tis I alone am changed; they know me not:
I feel a stranger, or as one forgot.

The breeze that cooled my warm and youthful brow
Breathes the same freshness on its wrinkles now.
The leaves that flung around me sun and shade,
While gazing idly on them as they played,
Are holding yet their frolic in the air;
The motion, joy, and beauty still are there,—
But not for me!—I look upon the ground,
Myriads of happy faces throng me round,
Familiar to my eye; yet heart and mind
In vain would now the old communion find.
Ye were as living, conscious beings, then,
With whom I talked,—but I have talked with men!
With uncheered sorrow, with cold hearts have met;
Seen honest minds by hardened craft beset;
Seen hope cast down, turn deathly pale its glow;
Seen virtue rare, but more of virtue's show.

Yet there was one true heart: that heart was thine,
Fond Emmeline! and every beat was mine.
It stopt.—That stillness!—up it rose, and spread
Above me, awing, vast, strange, living,—dead!
No feeble grief that sobs itself to rest,—
Benumbing grief, and horrours filled my breast:
Dark death, and sorrow dark, and terrour blind,—
They made my soul to quail, they shook my mind,—
Wild rushings passed me as of driving wind.

The storm went o'er me. Once again I stand
Amid God's works,—his broad and lovely land.
It is not what it was,—no, not to me;
I cannot feel, though lovely all I see;
A void is in my soul; my heart is dry:
They touch me not,—these things of earth and sky.
E'en grief hath left me now; my nerves are steel;
Dim, pangless dreams my thoughts;—Would I could feel!
O, look on me in kindness, sky and earth!
Companions were we almost from my birth.
Yet stir once more within me that pure love,
Which went with me by fountain, hill, and grove.
Delights I ask not of ye; let me weep
Over your beauties; let your spirit sweep
Across this dull, still desert of the mind;
O, let me with you one small comfort find!
The world, the world has stript me of my joy:—
Bless me once more; ye blest me when a boy.

Where are the human faces that I knew?
All changed; and even of the changed how few!
No tongue to give me welcome, bid me rest,
In sounds to stir the heart, like one new blest.

There stands my home,—no more my home; and they
Who loved me so,—they, too, have passed away.
The sun lies on the door-sill, where my book
I daily read, and fitted line and hook,
And shaped my bow; or dreamed myself a knight
By lady loved, by champion feared in fight.

—Gone's thy fantastic dream; thy lance is broke,
Thy helmet cleft!—No knight that struck the stroke.
'Twas Time, who his strong hand upon thee laid,
Unhorsed thee, boy, and spoiled thee of thy maid.

Thus stood I yesterday; and years far gone,
Present and coming years, to me were one;
And long have been so; for the musing see
Inward, and time they make eternity;
Or put the present distant, till it blends
With sad, past thoughts, or bright ones that hope sends.

While dreaming so, I saw an aged man
Draw near. He bowed and spoke; and I began,—

“Canst tell me, friend, I pray, whose home may be
The ancient house beneath that old, gray tree?”

“They are a stranger race; and since they came
We've learned but little of them save the name.
The rumour ran they better days had known;
And we, in pity, would have kindness shown,—
Kindness of fellowship; not proffered aid,
To be with forced and humbling thanks repaid.
We saw they liked it not. A show of scorn
Was in their smile. O, they were higher born,
And sought out our retirement where to hide
Their fortune's fall.”

“They should have hid their pride,—
Should have subdued it rather. 'Tis a thorn
That frets the heart; a chain it is that's worn

On man's free motions, making him the slave
Of those he hates, because he dares not brave;—
The shrewd man's sober scorn, the idler's jeer;
Bound to the shame of which he lives in fear.”

“Ay! on its neighbour, too, it shuts the door.
As that is shut. It was not so before;
For there, with wife and son, did Dalton dwell.
'Twas cheerful welcome then and kind farewell:
Farewell so kind, so dwelling on the heart,
You wished to meet, were't but again to part.
—The pair within the silent grave are laid.”

“But he, their son? They had a son, you said?”

“A rich relation saw the boy had mind.
‘Such minds a market in the world must find’;—
So said he.—‘And the boy must learning have;
For learning, power, and wealth, and honours gave.’
‘Mind and a market!—Will he sell the child
As slaves are sold?’ they ask. The uncle smiled.
‘And does not Nathan teach to read and write,
To spell and cipher,—letters to indite?
What's learning, then, that he must needs go seek
So far from home?’—‘They call it Latin,—Greek.’
Wisely all farther question they forbore;
And looked profound, though puzzled as before.

“The years passed on. Kind, frequent letters came,
Which showed the man and boy in heart the same;
By a hard world not hardened, nor yet vain
That much he knew, nor proud with all his gain.

“And he his own green Vale would see again,
And playmate boys, now turned to thoughtful men.
But ere the time, a fever, like a blast,
Swept through our homes; and fearful, sudden, fast,
It struck down young and old: To see them fall,
But not the hand that smote them, shook us all.
It took the parents in their hopes and joy;
They went, and never saw again their boy.”

“But he?”

“Within his grief there lived a power,
Withheld him,—that withholds him to this hour.
Though of his marriage first there went a tale,
Yet soon a mournful story reached the Vale.
A cloud shut out the light that brightly shone,
Set him in darkness, sorrowing and alone.

“Thy cheek is sudden pale! thine eye is dim!
Thou art not well!”

“Nay, on! say what of him?”

“No more is known. Time hath assuaging balm,
And time the tossing of the mind may calm.
But there's a silent grief that finds no close,
Till death has laid us down to long repose.
That sleep may now be his; or he may go
In search of rest, no rest on earth to know.

“But why so sad? Why should a stranger grieve
When strangers mourn? For all must mourn who live!”

“Thou sayest true. But grief makes strangers kin.
'Tis thine from crime and sorrow man to win.

To preach, woe came with sin; yet kindly given
To touch our hearts and lead us back to heaven:—
For such thy garb bespeaks thee; and though old.
Thine air, thy talk, seem slowly to unfold
One who within the Vale, in manhood's prime,
Lifted the lowly soul to thoughts sublime.”

“And, stranger, who art thou, that in such tones
Greet'st me as one who old acquaintance owns?
Thy face is as a book I cannot read;
Nor does thy voice my spirit backward lead,
Stirring old thoughts.”

“Nay, nay, thou look'st in vain!
For on my face the sea's and desert's stain;
And yet, both boy and man, I'm in thy mind.
Canst nothing here of Harry Dalton find?”

He looked again. A gleam of joy arose,
An instant gleam, then sank in sad repose;
For lines he saw of trouble, more than age,
And words of grief thick written on the page.
Then laughing eyes and cheeks of youthful glow
Came to his mind, and grief that it was so
That joy and youth so soon away should go.

He gave his hand; but nothing either said,
And slowly turning, home in silence led.

Low were the words at our repast, and few;
Each felt the silence to the other due.

At length upon our thoughtful minds there stole
Converse that gently won the saddened soul.

Then toward the village we together walked,
And of old friends and places much we talked.
Who died, who left them, he went on to tell,
And who within their fathers' mansions dwell.

We reached a shop. No lettered sign displayed
The owner's name, or told the world his trade.
But on its door, cracked, rusty hinges swung;
And there a hook and well-worn horseshoe hung.
The trough was dry; the bellows gave no blast;
The hearth was cold; nor sparks flew red and fast;
Labour's strong arm had rested. Where was he,
Brawny and bare, who toiled, and sang so free?

But soon we came where sat an aged man.
His thin and snow-white hairs the breezes fan,
While he his long staff fingered, as he spoke
In sounds so low, they scarce the stillness broke.

“Good father!” said my guide. He raised his head,
As asking who had spoke; yet nothing said.
“The present is a dream to his worn brain;
And yet his mind will things long past retain.”

My friend then questioned him of former days,
Mingling with what he asked some little praise.
His old eyes cleared; a smile around them played,
As on my friend his shaking hand he laid,

And spoke of early prowess. Friends he named;
And some he praised: they were but few he blamed.

“Dost thou remember Dalton?” asked my guide.

“Dalton? Full well! His little son beside,—
A waggish boy!—It will not from my thought,—
His curious look as I my iron wrought.
And, as the fiery mass took shape, his smile
Made me forget my labour for a while.
Before he left us, and when older grown,
He told of one who out from heaven was thrown,
Who forged huge bolts of thunder when he fell;
One-eyed his workmen, and his shop a hell;
So, called me Vulcan.”

“Vulcan,—John,—art thou?
What! long-armed John, with moist and smutty brow?”

He gazed upon me, wondering and half lost;
Something it could not grasp his mind had crossed.
A moment's struggle in his face betrayed
The effort of the brain; and then he said,
Eager and quick,—“What! come!—Where, where's the boy?
And looks the same? 'Twill give his parents joy!”
Then talked he to himself. His eyes grew dead;
He felt his hands; nor did he raise his head,
Or miss us as we left him, on our way
Along the street where the thick village lay.

To pass the doors where I had welcomed been,
And none but unknown voices hear within;

Strange, wondering faces at those windows see,
Once lightly tapped, and, then, a nod for me!—
To walk full cities and to feel alone,
From day to day to listen to the moan
Of mourning trees,—'twas sadder here unknown!

The village passed, we came where stood aloof
An aged cot with low and broken roof.
The sun upon its walls in quiet slept;
Close by the door the stream in silence crept;
No rustling birds were heard among the trees,
That high and silent stood, as slept the breeze.
The cot wide open; yet there came no sound
Of busy steps:—'twas all in stillness bound:
Solemn, yet lovely stillness, as a spell,
On this sweet rest and mellow sunshine fell.

And there, at the low door, so fixed is one,
As if for years she'd borne with rain and sun,
All mindless of herself, and lost in thought
Which to her soul a far-off image brought.
About her shoulders hangs her long, white hair;
She clasps the post with fingers pale and spare,
And forward leans.

“What sees she in these hills?”

“'Tis a vain fancy that her vision fills.
Or, rather, nothing sees she. Hope delayed,
Worn, feeble hope, which long her mind has swayed,—
Born and to die in grief,—the hope she knows;
A something gathered, 'mid her cherished woes,

From sad remembrances, from wishes vain,—
Dim fiction of the mind to ease its pain.”

“Her name, I pray thee!”

“Dost thou wish to hear
Of two true lovers, Jane, and Edward Vere?”

“She, Jane? and look so old?—And can it be
That woe has done so well time's work with thee!”

“It struck her in her youth, as doth the blast
The opening flower! and then she withered fast.”

“Her story let me hear.”

“It soon is told;
Simple though sad; no mystery to unfold,
Save that one great, dread mystery, the mind,
Which thousands seek, but few, in part, can find.
We'll rest us here, beneath the broad tree's shade;
The sun is hot upon the open glade.”

“A little farther! Let us not obtrude
Upon her sorrows' sacred solitude.”

“She marks us not: The curious passer-by,
Children who pause, and know not why they sigh,
Unheeded all by that fixed, gleamy eye.
But to her story.—She and that fair boy
Shared with each other childhood's griefs and joy.
Their studies one; and as they homeward went
With busy looks, on little schemes intent,

Their earnest, happy voices might be heard
Along the lane where sang the evening bird.
“Why should I speak of what you know so well?
What chanced when you had left us let me tell.

“Time changes innocence to virtues strong,
Or mars the man with passions foul and wrong;
To warm and new emotions time gives life,
Fluttering the heart in strange yet pleasing strife,
Filling the quickened mind with visions fair,—
Hues like bright clouds, that rest, like clouds, on air,
Deepening each feeling of the impassioned soul,
Round one loved object gathering then the whole.
So deepened, strengthened, formed, the love that grew
From childhood up, and bound in one the two.
So opened their fresh hearts, as to the sun
The young buds open: life was just begun.
For this it is to live,—the stir to feel
Of hopes, fears, wishes, sadness, joy, the zeal
That bands us one in life, death, woe, and weal.
And life it is, when a soft, inward sense
Pervades our being, when we draw from thence
Delights unutterable, thoughts that throw
Unearthly brightness round this world below;
Making each common day, each common thing,
Something peculiar to our spirit bring.”

I saw in him a gentler sense, that played
'Mid saddened thoughts on this once young, fair maid,
As plays the little child, unconscious why
The rich, black pall, and that long, tremulous sigh.

“Thy talk of love,” said I, “restores thy youth.
I know, decay nor age awaits on truth;
And he who keeps a simple heart and kind
May something there of early feelings find.
For in all innocent and tender hearts
A spirit dwells that cheerful thoughts imparts;
'Midst sorrows, sunny blessings it bestows
On those who think upon another's woes.”

My friend went on.

“At length drew near the time
That he must travel to some distant clime
In search of gain. ‘A few short hours of life,’
He fondly said, ‘and thou wilt be my wife!
Then long, bright days, all bright, without a cloud!’
They never came; and he is in his shroud.
She gazed up in his hopeful face, and tried
To share his hope; then hung on him and sighed.
Her cheek turned pale, and her dark eye grew dim;
And then through tears again she'd look on him.
In his full, clear blue eye an answering tear
Spoke comfort; for it told that she was dear,
That love was strong as hope; that though it grew
'Mid thoughts less sad than hers, 'twas no less true,
And that in his bold, free, and cheerful mind
Her timid love its home would always find.

“The last day came,—a long, sad, silent day
It shone on two sick hearts; he must away.
And then he felt how hard it is to go
From one so dear, and leave to lonely woe

A spirit yearning for its place of rest,
And kindly sympathies,—a lover's breast.

“And he is gone, gone o'er the dreadful wave.
‘Spare him ye dark, wild waters! Heaven him save!’
So prayed she; and the earnest prayer was heard.
A year past by: he came before the third.

“Then from the sealed-up heart joy gushed once more,
For he had come, come from the stranger's shore,
To his own Vale, far through the ocean's roar.

“Ah! sweet it is to gaze upon the face
Long seen but by the mind, to fondly trace
Each look and smile again: 'tis life renewed,—
How fresh! How dim was that by memory viewed!
And, O, how pines the soul! how doth it crave
Only a moment's look! 'Tis in the grave,
That lovely face; no more to bless thine eyes.
Nay, wait, thou'lt meet it soon in yonder skies.

“The throbbing pulse beats calm again; and they,
Too deeply happy to be loud or gay,
Through all their childhood's walks—the lane, the grove,
Along the silvery rill—would slowly move,
Mingling their hopes' bright lights with softening shades
That memory threw 'mong hill-tops, streams, and glades;
For love is meditative; close it clings,
And thoughtful, to earth's simple, silent things.

“And thus they wandered; nearer heart to heart;
For they had known how hard it is to part,
To live in love, yet no communion hold,—
Day following day, yet all we feel untold.

“And she would listening sit, and hear him speak
Of fierce and tawny Turk, and handsome Greek,
Of the young crescent moon on sullen brow,—
The Cross of Christ profaned and made to bow.
—And what! Shall He, who hung above our head
That gentle light, see that whereon He bled
Bend to the image of the thing He framed?
Throng to the Cross! Our Saviour's Cross is shamed!

“He spoke of men of far more distant climes,
Their idol worship stained with fearful crimes;
Of manners strange and dresses quaint would tell;
But most upon the sea he loved to dwell,
Its deep, mysterious voice, its maddened roar,
Its tall, strong waves, the white foam, and the shore,
The curse that on its gloomy spirit hung,—
‘Thou ne'er shalt sleep!’ through all its chambers rung;
Till closer to his side she'd trembling draw,
As if some dim and fearful thing she saw;—
So would this awful mystery fold her round:
She quailed as though she heard the very sound.

“‘And must you on the heaving sea again,—
Mighty destroyer, deep, broad grave of men?’
‘This once!’ said he, ‘no more!’ She raised her eyes
To his: her voice upon her pale lip dies.
Her first-felt sorrow came upon her mind,
And back she shrunk, as shrinks he whom they bind

Once more upon the rack:—poor, weakened wretch!
Save him! O, not again its fiery stretch!

“Sharp our first pangs; but in the mind is life;
Our hearts beat strong, and fit us for the strife;
A joyous sense still breathes amid our grief,
As shoots, in drooping boughs, a tender leaf.
But when woe comes again, our spirits yield,
Our hearts turn faint, we cannot lift the shield;
There is no strength in all our bones; we fall,
And call for mercy,—trembling, prostrate, call.

“The sun was down, and softened was the glow
On cloud and hill,—but now a joyous show.
Quiet the air. Its light the young moon sent
On this sad pair as up the Vale they went.
O, gentle is thy silver ray, fair moon!
Meet guide art thou for those to part so soon;
There's pity in thy look; and we below
Do love thee most, who feel the touch of woe.

“And up among the distant hills are they,
To meet the weekly coach upon its way.
They lingered till was heard a rumbling sound,
Which spread among the hills that lay around.
Soon rung the smart-cracked whip; and then the cheer,
And quick, sharp tramp told the strong steeds were near.
'Twas one imploring look; and then she fell
Upon his neck; they uttered no farewell;
One short, convulsive clasp, one heart-sick groan;
No other look,—that one weak, bitter moan,—

And then her arms fell from him. All is o'er!
Poor woe-struck girl, she never clasped him more!

“The coach which bore him sank behind the hill.
The short, quick bustle passed, the earth is still;
The agony is over; a dull haze
Hangs round her mind,—upon the void her gaze.
A fearful calm is on that fair, sad brow!
O, who shall gently part its dark locks now,
Or press its saintly whiteness?—He is gone
Who, blessing, kissed thee; thou must go alone,
Alone must bear thy sorrows many an hour,
Widowed of all thy hopes,—thy grief thy dower!

“She sought amid her daily cares for ease,
To lose all sense of self, and others please.
The heart lay heavy. With her grief was fear.
She thought a gloomy something always near,
That o'er her like a mighty prophet stood,
Uttering her doom,—‘For thee no more of good!
Thy joys are withered round thee! Read the date
Of all thy hopes! Thou art set desolate!’

“A year went by. Another came and passed.
‘This third,’ her friends would say, ‘must be the last’;
Spake of his coming, then, and how he'd look.
She turned more pale; her head she slowly shook,
And something muttered, as in talk with one
Whom no one saw; then said,—‘It must be done!’

“And when the tale was told, the ship had sailed,
That nothing more was known, that hope had failed;

‘It is fulfilled!’ she said; ‘Prophetic Power,
Thou told'st me true! 'Tis come,—the fated hour!’

“Her look was now like cold and changeless stone.
She left her home, for she would be alone;
Wandered the fields all o'er; and up the hill,
Where last they parted, stood at morning still,
And far along that region gazed, as she
In the blue distance saw the moving sea;
And of the far-off mountain-mist would frame
Long spars, and sails, and speak the lost ship's name;
And watch with glee, to see how fast it neared;
Grow restless then,—‘It ne'er will come,’ she feared.
“Soon rolls the mist away; and she is left,
Of sea, ship, lover, shaping hopes bereft.
Through glistening tears she'd look, and see them go;
Then to the Vale, to dwell upon her woe,
And listen to the dark pine's murmuring,
Thinking the spirit of the sea did sing
Its sad, low song: for, ‘Such,’ would Edward say,
‘Its mourning tones, where long sand-beaches lay.’

“But when through naked trees the strong wind went,
Roaring and fierce, and their tossed arms were rent,—
With sullen mutterings, then a moaning sigh,—
‘Hear them!’ she'd shriek; ‘the waves run mountain-high!—
They're mad!—They shake her in their wrath!—she's down!—
Went to the bottom, said they?—Did all drown?
He told me he would come, and I should be
His own, own wife!—There's mercy in the sea?’

“The spring was come again.—There is a grief
Finds soothing in the bud, and bird, and leaf;
A grief there is of deeper, withering power,
That feels death lurking in the springing flower,
That stands beneath the sun, yet circled round
By a strange darkness,—stands amid the sound
Of happy things, and yet in silence bound;
Moves in a fearful void amid the throng,
And deems that happy nature does it wrong;
Thinks joy unkind; feels it must walk alone,
That not on earth is one to hear its moan,
Or bring assuaging sympathies, or bind
A broken heart, or cheer a desert mind.
—And thus she walks in silent loneliness;
Sounds come, and lovely sights around her press;
Yet all in vain! She something sees and hears,
But feels not,—dead to pangs, to joys, to fears;
Nor wishes aught. The mind, all waste and worn,
Lives but to faintly know itself forlorn;
Remembrance of past joys wellnigh forgot,
As if one changeless gloom had been her lot;
And, sure, had thought it strange that there should be
Blessings in store for one so poor as she.

“She wandered in this dull and fearful mood,
A shadow 'mid the shadows of the wood;
Would sit the livelong day and watch the stream,
And pore, when shed the moon its fainter beam,
In dreamy thought, upon its dreamy light.—
How few of grief have felt, can feel, the might!

“Season of thought! The leaves are dropping now,
Tawny or red, from off their parent bough;

Nor longer plays their glossy green in air,
Over thy slender form and long, dark hair.
Myriads of gay ones fluttered over thee;—
Thou now look'st up at that bare, silent tree.
Thou, too, art waste and silent: in thy spring
The cold winds came, and struck thee blossoming!
Nor sound, nor life, nor motion, in thy mind:
All lost to sense, what would thy spirit find?

“They led her home. She went; nor asked to stay.
The same to her the wood, the house, the way.
The talk goes on, the laugh, the daily tasks:
She stands unmoved; she nothing heeds nor asks.
Above the fire, sea-shells, from distant lands,
Once ranged by her, she feels with idle hands.
And what the soul's communion none could trace:
No gleamings of the past in that still face!

“They marked, when spring returned and warmer days,
She stood, as now, on yonder hill her gaze.
They thought not what it meant, nor cared to know
The glimmerings of a mind whose light was low.
They saw, as up the hill the hot steeds came,
A strange and sudden shuddering take her frame;
And then a childish laugh; and gleamed her eye.
The coach went down,—they heard a scarce breathed sigh.
A shade passed o'er her face, as quickly go
Shadows of sailing clouds on fields below;
Then all was clear and still: the unmeaning smile,
The senseless look returned, which fled awhile.

And thus her dreamy days, months, years are gone:
Not knowing why she looks, she yet looks on.
—We'll homeward now!”

Death is a mournful sight,
But what is death, to this dread, living blight!

Thou who didst form us with mysterious powers,
And give a conscious soul, and call it ours;
Thou who alone dost know the strife within
Wilt kindly judge, nor name each weakness sin.
Thou art not man, who only sees in part,
Yet deals unsparing with a brother's heart;
For Thou look'st in upon the struggling throng
That war,—the good with ill,—the weak with strong.
And those Thy hand hath wrought of finer frame,
When grief o'erthrows the mind, Thou wilt not blame;
But say, “It is enough!”—and pity show,—
“Thy pain shall turn to joy, thou child of woe!
Thy heart at rest, and dark mind cleared away,
Heaven's light shall dawn on thee, a calmer day.”

The sun was nigh its set, as we once more,
With saddened spirits, reached the good man's door.
And there we rested, with a gorgeous sight
Above our heads,—the elm in golden light.
Thoughtful and silent for a while, he then
Talked of my coming:—“Thou wilt not again
From thine own Vale? And we will make thy home
Pleasant; and it shall glad thee to have come.”
Then of my garden and my house he spoke,
And well-ranged orchard on the sunny slope;

And grew more bright and happy in his talk
Of social winter eve and summer walk.
And, while I listened, to my sadder soul
A sunnier, gentler sense in silence stole;
Nor had I heart to spoil the little plan
Which cheered the spirit of the kind old man.

At length I spake:—

“No! here I must not stay.
I'll rest to-night,—to-morrow go my way.”

He did not urge me.—Looking in my face,
As he each feeling of the heart could trace,
He pressed my hand, and prayed I might be blessed,
Where'er I went,—that Heaven would give me rest.

The silent night has passed into the prime
Of day,—to thoughtful souls a solemn time.
For man has wakened from his nightly death
And shut-up sense, to morning's life and breath.
He sees go out in heaven the stars, that kept
Their glorious watch while he unconscious slept,—
Feels God was round him while he knew it not,—
Is awed,—then meets the world, and God's forgot.
So may I not forget thee, holy Power!
Be ever to me as at this calm hour.

The tree-tops now are glittering in the sun:
Away! 'Tis time my journey was begun!

Why should I stay, when all I loved are fled,
Strange to the living, knowing but the dead,—

A homeless wanderer through my early home,—
Gone childhood's joy, and not a joy to come!
To pass each cottage, and to have it tell,
Here did thy mother, here a playmate, dwell!
To think upon that lost one's girlish bloom,
And see that sickly smile, and mark her doom,—
It haunts me now,—her dim and wildered brain;
I would not look upon that eye again!

Let me go, rather, where I shall not find
Aught that my former self will bring to mind.
These old, familiar things, where'er I tread,
Are round me like the mansions of the dead.
No! wide and foreign lands shall be my range:
That suits the lonely soul, where all is strange.

Then, for the dashing sea, the broad, full sail!
And fare thee well, my own green, quiet Vale.

FACTITIOUS LIFE.

The world is too much with us; late or soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers:
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon.
Wordsworth. But if his word once teach us,—shoot a ray
Through all the heart's dark chambers, and reveal
Truths undiscerned but by that holy light,—
Then all is plain. Philosophy, baptized
In the pure fountain of eternal love,
Has eyes indeed.
Cowper.

The severe schooles shall never laugh me out of the philosophy of Hermes, that this visible world is but a picture of the invisible, wherein, as in a pourtract, things are not truly, but in equivocal shapes, and as they counterfeit some more real substance in that invisible Fabrick.

Sir Thomas Browne.

Scarce two-score years are gone since life began,
Yet many changes have I seen in man.
But when I'm seated in my easy chair,
(My “stede of bras,”) and up through viewless air
Go flying on by generations back,
O, then, what changes pass I in my track!
“Cambuscan bold” might course o'er many a clime;
I in a moment compass earth and time,
Seeing what is and hath been; and I view
Much very old, that some think very new.

The grandam to the modern belle complains,
You've stole my waist. May you endure its pains,—
Steel and the cord!—In his fine dandy son
The ghost of Squaretoes sees himself outdone.
“Pull off my boots,” he cries, with crazy Lear;
And squaretoed boots and Squaretoes disappear.—
Fie, scant-robed ghost, to thus cut roundabout
That modest miss, and so play “Pedler Stout.”
O, take no more than is thy own,—the train;
Shame to pure eyes!—the rest give back again.
If on such errands you come back to earth,
You'll leave us all as naked as at birth.
Wife, virgin, mother, see them, there they walk!

Dress as they may, good Sir, you must not talk.
For learn, in times like these you're not to say
What others do, though done in open day.
Our language, not our conduct, marks the mind.
Let that be pure, and this must be refined.
Ophelia's words would shock a modern belle.

Prince Hamlet, had Ophelia's robe that swell?
Did the wind sway it thus? the janty tread?
What said Laertes at his parting, maid?
“The chariest maid is prodigal enough,
If she unmask her beauties to”—

O, stuff!
Have you no other subject for your song,
Than whether we go dressed too short or long?
If such the theme on which you mean to prose,
Excuse me, while you lecture, if I doze.

Nay, I am done! and rest on this as true:—
Though Fashion's absolute, she's fickle too.
E'en while I write, a transformation strange
Is going on, and shows that all is change.
And by the time these lines shall be in press,
They'll need a learned note, in prose, on dress.

Not dress alone; opinions have their day:
That is deposed, and this awhile bears sway:
That mounts the throne in glistering robes once more:
They who adored, then scorned, again adore,
To scorn again: in one thing constant still,—
Themselves ne'er wrong, whoe'er the throne may fill.

Be it opinion, notion, fancy, whim,—
E'en what you will,—'tis all the same to him,
The grave philosopher; he wheels about
His system to the crowd; then wheels it out,
And shoves another in; as at a show
Trees, houses, castles, towns, move to and fro;—
Ransacks the lumber-room of ancient time,
The older, better, best in farthest clime;
For farthest off less likely to be known
The learned theft: the thing is all his own!
Old furniture, new varnished and new named,
Serves all his ends; the charlatan is famed.
O simple world, well gulled! he cries, with glee;
Blest “second-hand originality!”

From Asia, Africa, from Greece, behold
Rise from their antique tombs the sages old.
This modern son of light descries, with dread,
Their shadowy forms: They come, the mighty dead!

For pardon, wronged ones, at your feet I fall.
I own the theft; but strip me not of all!
Leave me my name, at least, if nothing more;
Save one from general scorn whom men adore.

The name, dishonored, keep, they with a frown
Reply; then turn, and to their graves go down.

Although upon the shore of time we stand,
And watch the ebb and flood along the strand;
Although what is has been, we yet may trace
A silent change upon the world's wide face.
'Mid renovated philosophic schemes,
And arts restored or lost, plans, fashions, dreams,
That, idly eddying, jostle side by side,
Down through them all there runs a steady tide
Of subtile alteration, scarce perceived;
As age, of hope and youthful warmth bereaved,
But faintly notes a change so soft and slow;
So gently dropped the leaves that lie below.
But bring the extremes together; let them greet,—
The elastic boy, and man on tottering feet.
We ask amazed, Can these indeed be one?
Yes, even so; we see what Time has done,—
That cunning craftsman, he that works alway,
Makes and unmakes, nor stops for night nor day,
(For they his bondmen are,) rules while he toils,
And laughs to think what purposes he foils
In vain, forecasting man; that, fool or knave,
(All but the truly wise) he holds a slave.

Thou universal Worker, thou hast wrought
Vast changes in the world of heart and thought.

Once flowed the stream of feeling, like a brook,
In natural windings; now we feel by book.
And once, as joy or sorrow moved the man,
He laughed or wept, unguided by a plan
Of outward port; for in his riper years
The boy still lived; and anger, love, and fears
Spoke out in action vehement:—'twas strength,
Strong heart, strong thought; thought, feeling, ran their length
In a wild grandeur, or they passive lay,
Like waters circled in a wooded bay,
That take from some slow cloud the quivering lights
Flung from its snowy rifts and glittering heights.

Yes, free and ever-varying played the heart;
Great Nature schooled it; life was not an art.
And as the bosom heaved, so wrought the mind;
The thought put forth in act; and unconfined,
The whole man lived his feelings. Time shall say
If man's the same in this our latter day.

The same! I scarcely know my work! For when
I take my rounds among the throngs of men,
E'en he who almost rivals me in years
Apes youth so well, his head of hair appears
So full and bright, I fain would hide my pate,
Rub out old scores, and start with fresher date.

The youth enacts the sage, contemns the dead,
Lauds his own times, and cries, Go up, bald head!
Misses and little masters read at school
Abridged accounts of governments and rule;

Word-wise, and knowing all things, nothing know;—
Would reap the harvest ere the ground they sow.
The world's reversed; boy politicians spout;
And age courts youth, lest youth should turn him out.

The child is grown as cautious as threescore;
Admits, on proof, that two and two are four.
He to no aimless energies gives way;
No little fairy visions round him play;
He builds no towering castles in the sky,
Longing to climb, his bosom beating high;
Is told that fancy leads but to destroy;
You have five senses; follow them, my boy!
If feeling wakes, his parents' fears are such,
They cry, Don't, dearest, you will feel too much.

Does Time speak truth? I think so. Let us take
A single passion, for example's sake.

They talk of Love, or, rather, once they did,
When I was young: I'm told 'tis now forbid;
That love, with ghosts, is banished clean away,
And heads well crammed, the system of the day;
That should you beg a maid her ear incline
To your true love, she bids you love define;
Then talks of Dugald Stewart and of Brown,
And with philosophy quite puts you down;
On mood synthetical, analysis,
Descants awhile.—Most metaphysic Miss!
Who'd win her must not like a lover look,
But grave philosopher, and woo by book.
Gaze on her face, and swear her eyes are stars;
She talks of Venus, Jupiter, and Mars.

Speak of the moon; its phases and eclipse
How caused, you hear from learned and ruby lips.
Vow you will pour your heart out like a flood;
She treats on venous and arterial blood;
Drives you half mad, then talks of motive nerve,
And nerves of sense, how they their purpose serve,
And how expression to the face impart,
How all-important to the painter's art,
Then wonders that our eyes had seen so well
Before we read about their nerves in Bell;
Thus, for love's mazes, leads you round about,
Through arts and sciences, an endless route.

O, no, it was not so when I was young;
No maiden answered love in such a tongue,
Or cared for planets in conjunction brought;
With her, 'twas heart to heart, and thought to thought.
She tell what blood her veins and arteries fill!
Enough for her to feel its burning thrill.
She gaze upon the moon, as if she took
An observation! Love was in her look,
All gentle as the moon. Herself perplex
With light original, or light reflex!
Enough for her, “By thy pale beam,” to say,
“Alone and pensive, I delight to stray;
And watch thy shadow trembling in the stream.”
O maid, thrice lovelier than thy lovely dream!

And is the race extinct? Or where is hid
She, with the blushing cheek and downcast lid,
Tremblingly delicate, and like the deer,
Gracefully shy, and beautiful in fear?

Who wept with good La Roche, heard Harley tell
His secret love, then bid to life farewell?—
Dreamed of Venoni's cottage in the vale,
And of Sir Edward senseless, bleeding, pale?

Here guard thy heart; nor let the poison creep
Through the soul's languor, like delicious sleep.
Wake ere its rancour eats into the core:
His is not love; 'tis appetite,—no more,—
A finer appetite, like love so dressed,
Thou'dst be its victim, pitied and distressed;
Than smiles or innocence wouldst hold more dear
A wooing sadness, soft, repentant tear:
Tears, and dark falling locks, and snowy arm,—
In aught so beautiful can there be harm?

Ah! shun Sir Edward, maiden, for thy life;
Nor, once his mistress, think to be his wife;
Or, doomed for all thy days, if wife in name,
To live thy own, thy child's, thy husband's shame,
Be taunt's, suspicion's slave; nor dare to raise
Thine eye, though wronged, nor hope a husband's praise.
There's reverence in true love; it dreads, abhors,
The tainted heart; it sues, protects, adores.
Then win thee reverence, if that thou wouldst win
True love: it holds no fellowship with sin.

Then why complain romantic love is dead,
If to uncertain paths it woo, and lead
The innocent, half doubting, yet half won,
Through softening twilight, mingled shade and sun,
While slowly steal the lights away, and creep
The shadows by, till on the fearful steep

She stands awhile at pause; then looks below;
Then leaps;—the closing waves above her flow,
And down she sinks for ever?
Very true.
But these the only dangers in your view?—
Or would you lay fair-flowering nature bare
Because, forsooth, you fear a canker there?
If love may lure romantic minds astray,
Will shrewder heads point out a surer way?

To live alone, cries one, how dull a life!
I think I'll marry; and straight takes a wife.
Soon tired of home, and finding life still dull,
He joins his club, keeps horses and a trull;
Of jokes on loving husbands cracks a score,
And coarse as heartless, votes a wife a bore.
The widow-wife secures, her loss to mend,
A kinder husband in her husband's friend;
Or, unrestrained by love, yet held by vows,
Though scarce more fond, less faithless than her spouse.

One weds with age: and should she keep her truth,
As once she sighed for wealth, now sighs for youth;
Looks on its mantling cheek, and brown, crisp hair,
Then turns to age and wrinkles, in despair;
Her husband's harlot, feigns love's playful wiles,
So deals her bargained coaxings and her smiles,
The dotard dreams she loves;—thus acts her part,
And, robbed the joys of sin, still sins in heart.

But here a youthful pair. What think you now?
The friends agreed: say, shall they take the vow?

Connections quite respectable all round,
And ample property, and titles sound.

Most certainly an eligible match,
Estates so fit, like patch well set to patch.

'Tis strange none thought of it before!

My friend,
How fit their minds? And do their feelings blend?

Why, as to these I have not yet inquired.
What more than I have said can be desired?
They'll learn to like each other by and by.
'Tis not my business into hearts to pry
After such whims. Besides, what them contents,
Contents me too. Come, let us sum their rents.
Houses in town,—say ten—

Nay, join their hands.
Boggle at hearts! We ne'er should join their lands!
Though rough and sharp below, what then, forsooth?
Custom and art will make the surface smooth
To the world's eye, o'er this McAdam way
Of wedded life. We'll have no more delay,
But join them straight.—The pair have made a trade,—
Contract in lands and stocks 'twixt man and maid!
Partners for life, club chances,—weal or woe!
Hang out the sign! There, read!—A. B. & Co.!

And do unsightly weeds choke up the gush
Of early hearts? Are all the feelings hush

And lifeless now, that would have sent their sound
In unison, where young hearts throb and bound?
Tear up the weeds and let the soul have play;
Open its sunless fountains to the day;
Let them flow freely out; they make thy wealth.
Bathe thy whole being in these streams of health,
And feel new vigour in thy frame!—A boy!
And weigh thy pelf with love!—against a joy
That lifts the mind and speaks it noble, gives
Beauty ethereal, in which it lives
A life celestial here, on earth,—e'en here!
What canst thou give for this, and call it dear?
O, it is past all count! Pray, throw thee by
Thy tables; trust the heart; the tables lie.
Let not thy fresh soul wither in its spring.
Water its tender shoots, and they shall bring
Shelter to age. Then sit and think how blest
Have been thy days, thank God, and take thy rest.
Sell not thy heart for gold, then, nor for lands;
'Tis richer far than all Pactolus' sands;
And where on earth would run the stream to lave
The curse away, and thy starved soul to save?

But all are reasoners,—father, mother, child;
And every passion's numbered, labelled, filed,
And taken down, discussed, and read upon.

We read, last night, Mamma, through chapter one,
And left the second in the midst. Shall we
Go through with that?
The second? Let me see!—
The second treats of Grief.—Read, child!

Fourth head,
Concerning grief, is sorrow for the dead.

Know, happiness is duty. Then, be wise:
You're not to grieve though one you care for dies.
Have many friends, and then you'll scarcely know
When one departs, and save a world of woe.
Nor do we now retire to mourn; we live
Only in taking pleasure, or to give.

Is sorrow sin, Mamma?
It is a waste.
Sin, child! How vulgar! Mind me; say, bad taste.

But what is pleasure? Men have said of old,
'Tis found in neither luxury, nor gold,
Nor fashion, nor the throng; but only true
Where minds are calm, and friends are dear and few;
That life's swift whirl wears out our finer sense,
Sucks down the good, and gives out nothing thence
But a tossed wreck, which, once the comely frame
Of some true joy, saves nothing but the name,
And drifts, a shattered thing, upon the shore,
Where lie the unsightly wrecks of thousands more.

To flee from sorrow, and alone to keep
The eye on happiness, leaves nothing deep
E'en in our joys. To put aside in haste
The cup of grief, makes vapid to the taste
The cup of pleasure. Think not, then, to spare
Thyself all sorrow, yet in joy to share.

Take up thy many-stringed harp, and thrum
On that one chord, and with a single thumb.
Now thrill the fibres of thy soul? or flow
In sounds of varying measure, swift or slow,
The full rich harmonies? Nay, listen on!
Thy soul has myriad strings where this has one!
Wearied so soon? Then take it up and play
On all its strings, but let its notes be gay.
Wearied again? and glad to throw it by?

Yes, tired, in faith; I long to hear it sigh;
I'm worn with very glee. O, let me give
One note to touch my heart, and feel it live!

And thus the soul is framed; that if, alone,
We loose one chord, the harp will fail its tone,
The mighty harmonies within, around,
Die all away, or send a jarring sound.

Give over, then, and wisely use thy skill
To tune each passion rightly, not to kill.
To joy thee in the living, mourn the dead;
And know thou hast a heart, as well as head,—
A heart that needs, at times, the softening powers
Of grief, romantic love, and lonely hours,
And meditative twilight, and the balm
Of falling dews, and evening stars, and calm.

For, ever in the world, there forms a crust
About thy soul, and all within's adust.
With sense beclouded, and perverted taste,
You toil abroad, and leave the heart a waste;

Dead while alive, and listless in the stir,
See all awry, deem manner character;
Not sentient of the right, nor loathing wrong,
You smile, and that call rude, which God calls strong;
No honest indignation in your breast,
Nor ardent love, but all things well expressed;
Your manner, like your dress, a thing put on:
The seen, not that beneath, your care alone.

The dress has made the form by nature given
Unlike aught ever seen in earth or heaven.
Where, girl, thy flowing motion, easy sweep,
Like waves that swing, nor break the glassy deep?—
All hard, and angular, and cased in steel!
And is it human? Can it breathe and feel?
The bosom beautiful of mould,—alas!
Where, now, thy pillow, youth? (but let it pass,)
And shapes in freedom lovely? I will bear
Distorted forms, leave minds but free and fair.
All, all alike conventional; the mind
Is tortured like the body, cramped, confined;
A thing made up by rules of art, for life:
Most perfect when with nature most at strife;
Till the strife ceases, and the thing of art,
Forgetting nature, no more plays a part;
Sees truth in the factitious;—pleasure's slave,—
Its drudge, not lord; in trifles only grave.

And with the high brought low, the little raised,
Nature forgotten, the factitious praised,
The world a gaud, life's stream a shallow brawl,
What, worldling, holds up virtue from a fall?

Virtue? Nay, mock it not. There sits its Form:
Thy hand upon its heart! Does't beat? Is't warm?

No pulse! and cold as death!

Then paint its face,
And dress it up, and give the thing a grace,
For sake of decency. Why, just look there!
How like it is! And what a modish air!
How very proper! Sure, it can't but pass,
And serve in time to come for fashion's glass.

With etiquette for virtue, heart subdued,
The right betraying, lest you should be rude,
Excusing wrong, lest you be thought precise,
In morals easy, and in manners nice;
To keep in with the world your only end,
And with the world to censure or defend,
To bend to it each passion, thought, desire,
With it genteelly cold, or all on fire,
What have you left to call your own, I pray?
You ask, What says the world? and that obey;
Where singularity alone is sin,
Live uncondemned, and prostrate all within.
You educate the manners, not the heart;
And morals make good-breeding and an art.
Though coarse within, yet polished high without,
And held by all respectable, no doubt,
You think, concealed beneath these flimsy lies,
To keep through life the set proprieties.

Ah, fool, let but a passion rise in war,
Your mighty doors of Gaza, posts and bar,

'Twill wrench away. The Dalilah of old—
Your harlot virtue—thought with withes to hold
Her strong one captive; the Philistines came;
He snapped the bands as tow, and freed his frame,
And forth he walked. And think you, then, to bind
With cords like these the Samsons of the mind,
When tempters from abroad beset them? Nay!
They'll out, and tread like common dust your sway.

You strive in vain against the eternal plan.
Set free the sympathies, and be a man;
And let the tear bedew thine honest eye,
When good ones suffer, and when loved ones die;
Deem not thy fellow as a creature made
To serve thy turn in pleasure or in trade,
And then thrown by. It breaks thy moral power
To wrap the eternal up in one short hour,
And ask what best will serve to help you on,
Or furnish comforts till your life is done.

And is it wise or safe to set at naught
The finer feelings in our nature wrought,
That throw a lovelier hue on innocence,
And give to things of earth a life intense,
Drawing a charmed circle round our home,
That nothing gross or sensual there may come?
Yet, what makes virtue beauty you would bend
To worldly purposes,—a prudent end!

From virtue take this beautiful regard,
And leave her homely prudence, duty hard;
Let passions unrefined, fed appetites,
Awake, and call aloud for gross delights;

Think you the paltry barriers you have built
Will stand the tug, and keep out shame and guilt?

Then leave your cold forecastings, sharp, close strife
For vantage; quit the whirl you call your life,
And see how God has wrought. This earth was made
For use of man, its lord, you hear it said.
Yes, it is full of uses; you may see
How plainly made for use is yonder tree,
To bear thee o'er the seas, or house thee dry,
When rains beat hard, and winds are bleak and high.

No, naught of this! But leaves, like fluttering wings,
Flash light; the gentle wind among them sings,
Then stops, and they too stop; and then the strain
Begins anew; and then they dance again.
I see the tinted trunk of brown and gray,
And rich, warm fungus, brighter for decay,
Whence rays of light, as from a fountain, flow;
I hear the mother robin talking low
In notes affectionate; the wide-mouthed brood
Chattering and eager for their far-sought food.
The air is spread with beauty; and the sky
Is musical with sounds that rise, and die
Till scarce the ear can catch them; then they swell;
Then send from far a low, sweet, sad farewell.
My mind is filled with beauty, and my heart—
With joy? Not joy,—with what I would not part.
It is not sorrow, yet almost subdues
My soul to tears; it saddens while it woos.
My spirit breathes of love; I could not hate.
O, I could match me with the lowliest state

And be content, so I might ever know
This—what? I cannot tell,—not joy or woe!

Come, look upon this stream. Now stoop and sip;
And let it gurgle round your parching lip.
It runs to slake the thirst of man and beast;
The simple beverage to great nature's feast.

My thirst is quenched; but still my spirit drinks.
And my heart lingers, and my mind,—it thinks
Thoughts peaceful, thoughts upon the flow of time,
And tells the minutes by this slender chime,
Music with which the waters gladly pay
Blossoms and shrubs that make their surface gay.

Thou little rill, why wilt thou run so fast
To mingle with rough ocean and his blast?
Thou thoughtless innocent, a world of strife
Is there! Then stay; nor quit thy peaceful life,
And all thy shining pebbles, and the song
Thou sing'st throughout the day, and all night long,
Up to the sun, the stars, the moon when she
Kisses thy face, half sadness and half glee.
Thus pity fills my heart, and thus I dream,
When standing caring for the unconscious stream.

Now stretch your eye off shore, o'er waters made
To cleanse the air and bear the world's great trade,
To rise, and wet the mountains near the sun,
Then back into themselves in rivers run,
Fulfilling mighty uses far and wide,
Through earth, in air, or here, as ocean-tide.

Ho! how the giant heaves himself, and strains
And flings to break his strong and viewless chains;
Foams in his wrath; and at his prison doors,
Hark! hear him! how he beats and tugs and roars,
As if he would break forth again, and sweep
Each living thing within his lowest deep!

Type of the Infinite! I look away
Over thy billows, and I cannot stay
My thought upon a resting-place, or make
A shore beyond my vision, where they break;
But on my spirit stretches, till 'tis pain
To think; then rests, and then puts forth again.
Thou hold'st me by a spell: and on thy beach
I feel all soul; and thoughts unmeasured reach
Far back beyond all date. And, O, how old
Thou art to me! For countless years thou'st rolled.
Before an ear could hear thee, thou didst mourn,
Prophet of sorrows, o'er a race unborn,
Waiting, thou mighty minister of death,
Lonely thy work, ere man had drawn his breath.
At last thou didst it well! The dread command
Came, and thou swept'st to death the breathing land;
And then once more unto the silent heaven
Thy lone and melancholy voice was given.

And though the land is thronged again, O Sea!
Strange sadness touches all that goes with thee.
The small bird's plaining note, the wild, sharp call.
Share thine own spirit: it is sadness all!
How dark and stern upon thy waves looks down
Yonder tall Cliff!—he with the iron crown.

And see! those sable Pines along the steep
Are come to join thy requiem, gloomy Deep!
Like stoléd monks they stand and chant the dirge
Over the dead, with thy low-beating surge.

These are earth's uses. God has framed the whole,
Not mainly for the body, but the soul,
That it might dawn on beauty, and might grow
Noble in thought from nature's noble show,
Might gather from the flowers an humble mind,
And on earth's ever-varying surface find
Something to win to kind and freshening change,
And give the powers a wide and healthful range;
To furnish man sweet company where'er
He travels on.—a something to call dear,
And more his own, because it makes a part
With that fair world that dwells within the heart.

Earth yields to healthful labour meat and drink,
That man may live,—for what? To feel and think;
And not to eat and drink, and, like the beast,
Sleep, and then wake and get him to his feast.
Over these grosser uses nature throws
Beauties so delicate, the man foregoes
Awhile his low intents; to soft delights
Yields up himself, and, lost in sounds and sights,
Forgets that earth was made for aught beside
His doting; and he woos it as his bride.
Beautiful bride! thou chaste one, innocent!
To win and make man like thee, thou wast lent.
Call with thy many pleasant voices, then;
The wanderer will turn to thee again.

Yes, now he turns! And see! the breaking day!
And through its dawn, the wanderer on his way!

Thou who art Life and Light, I see Thee spread
Thy glories through these regions of the dead;
I hear Thee call the sleeper:—Up! behold
The earth unveiled to thee, the heavens unrolled!
On thy transformed soul celestial light
Bursts; and the earth, transfigured, on thy sight
Breaks, a new sphere! Ay, stand in glad amaze,
While all its figures, opening on thy gaze,
Unfold new meanings. Thou shalt understand
Its mystic hierograph, thy God's own hand.

Yes! man shall read aright when he shall part
With human schemes, and in the new-born heart
Feel coursing new-born life; when from above
Shall flow, throughout his soul, joy, light, and love;
And he shall follow up these streams, and find
The One the source of nature, grace, and mind.
There, he in God and God in him, his soul
Shall look abroad and feel the world a whole;
“From nature up to nature's God,” no more
Grope out his way through parts, nor place before
The Former the thing formed: Man yet shall learn
The outward by the inward to discern,—
The inward by the Spirit.

Here begin
Thy search, Philosopher, and thou shalt win
Thy way deep down into the soul. The light
Shed in by God shall open to thy sight

Vast powers of being; regions long untrod
Shall stretch before thee filled with life and God;
And faculties come forth, and put to shame
Thy vain and curious reasonings. Whence they came
Thou shalt not ask; for they shall breathe an air
From upper worlds around, that shall declare
Them sons of God, immortal ones; and thou,
Self-awed, in their mysterious presence bow;
And while thou listenest, with thy inward ear
The ocean of eternity shalt hear
Along its coming waves; and thou shalt see
Its spiritual waters, as they roll through thee;
Nor toil in hard abstractions of the brain,
Some guess of immortality to gain;
For far-sought truths within thy soul shall rise,
Informing visions to thine inward eyes.

Believe thyself immortal? Thou wilt know,
Wilt feel thyself immortal, when shall flow
Life from the Eternal, and shall end the strife
To part philosophy and heavenly life.
The soul to its prime union then restored,
The reason humbled and its God adored,
Inward beholdings, powers intuitive,
Shall wake that soul, and thought in feeling live,
And truth and love be one, and truth and love,
Felt like its life-blood, through the soul shall move.

But as the abstract takes visual form, and thought
Becomes an inward sense; so man is brought
In outward forms material to own
A character with mind in unison.

A spirit that with his may kindly blend,
And sprung with him from One, in One to end.
Set in his true relation, he shall see
Self and surrounding things from Deity
Proceeding and supplied; that earth but shows
What, ere in outward forms they first arose,
Lived spiritual, fair forms in God's own mind,
And now revealed to him, no longer blind,
Open relations to the world within,
And feeling, truth, and life in man begin.
In sympathy with God, his sympathies
Spread through the earth and run into the skies.
Full, yet receiving; giving out, yet full;
Thoughtful in action; quiet, yet not dull,
He stands 'tween God and earth: A genial light
Dawns in his soul; and while he casts his sight
Abroad, behold the sun! As on its track
It mounts high up the heavens, its fires give back
Only the effluence of that inward fire,
The reflex of the soul, and God its sire.
Where'er the soul looks forth, 'tis to behold
Itself in secondary forms unfold.
Mysterious Archetype! see, wide unfurled
Before thine eye, thy own, thy inner world!

Now all is thine; nor need'st thou longer fear
To take thy share in all. The far, the near
To thee, are God's,—so, thine; and all things live
To higher ends than earth; and thou dost give
That life which God gives thee; and to impart
Is to receive; and o'er thy new-born heart
The earth and heavens pour out a living flood;
And thou, as God at first, seest all is good.

Now, Love his life, and Truth his light, alone,
His spirit even, head and heart at one,
A rule within that will no more deceive,
Man sees to love, and loves but to believe;
With mind well balanced, sees and loathes deceit,
And, loving truth, detects its counterfeit;
With all-pervading truth his only guide,
Hath naught that he would feign, and naught to hide:—
No selfish passion, and his vision just,
And claiming trust himself, he dares to trust;
And kind as trustful, ne'er to merit blind,
But liking widely, never fails to find,
Through all their varied forms, the good and true;
Nor seeks a substitute for narrowed view
In fond excess; nor meanly learns to rate
His love of some, as he may others hate;
Feeds not that love with venom; nor would raise
On one man's ruin piles to others' praise;—
Through nature, through the works of art, he feels
'Tis ever changing beauty finely steals,
Which, varying, still is one; and thus he draws
From one, delight in all, through genial laws;
Feels that in love's expanse love's safety lies,
Nor what God proffers to himself denies;
That every attribute, when duly used,
Is wisdom, not our being's gifts refused,
And losing self in others, nobler end
Than self denied; to let our being blend
With general being, wakes intenser life;
And others' good our aim, ends inward strife;
That truth binds all things by a common tie;
And Love is universal harmony;

And man, to Truth and Love once more restored,
Shall hold with God and nature sweet accord.

O World, that thou wert wise! Hast thou not toiled
For seeming good enough?—enough been foiled?
How long must speak the void and aching heart?
I'm weary of my task, this player's part—
Of smiles I cannot feel, feigned courtesy,
With feigning paid again,—my life a lie,—
I've chased the false so long! and yet I know
The false hath naught for me but secret woe;
Yet knowing, still pursue with blinded haste,
Through systems, morals, fashions, manners, taste;
I've bartered love for wealth, distinction sought,
And vain and loveless cares and envy bought;
Have climbed ambition's heights to feel alone,
Looked down, and seen how poor a world is won;
Have lost the simple way of right, and tried
Expedients curious, then for truth have sighed;
And, weak from energies on nothings spent,
Have sought, and then put by, what nature lent
For kind repair,—e'en like a pettish child,—
Sick of pretence, yet willingly beguiled.
Simplicity, and all the fair array
Of outward forms, that, varying, still obey
One law of truth, seemed tamely effortless;
I've craved conceit, sharp contrast, and excess;
Have cast my noble nature down, and all
The outward world has felt and shared the fall.
Still dimly conscious of my low estate,
Conscious how soon the world and senses sate,
Groveller on earth, yet wanting will to rise,
Tired of the world, unfitted for the skies,

As to the abject, helpless slave, to me
Would come, with dire import, the word, Be free!
Poor, self-willed slave, a bondage hard is thine!
A bondage none can break but Power divine.

Spirit of Love, thou Power Divine, come down;
And where thou walk'dst a sufferer, wear thy crown;
Bid the vexed sea be still, the tumult cease;
Prophet, fulfil thy word,—reign Prince of Peace!
O, give that peace the world knows not, and throw,
Light of the world! thy light on all below;
Shine through the wildered mind, that man may see,
Himself and earth restored, God, all, in Thee!

THOUGHTS ON THE SOUL.

And when thou think'st of her eternity,
Think not that death against her nature is;
Think it her birth.
Davies. But it exceeds man's thoughts to think how high
God hath raised man.
Ibid.

It is the Soul's prerogative, its fate,
To shape the outward to its own estate.
If right itself, then all around is well;
If wrong, it makes of all without a hell.
So multiplies the Soul its joy or pain,
Gives out itself, itself takes back again.
Transformed by thee, the world hath but one face.
Look there, my Soul, and thine own features trace!
And all through time, and down eternity,
Where'er thou goest, that face shall turn on thee.

We look upon the outward state, and then
Say who is happiest, saddest who, of men;
We look upon the face, and think to know
The measure of the bosom's joy or woe.

A healthy man is that, and full his hoard,
His farm well stocked, and well supplied his board,
His helpmate comely, and a thrifty dame
Of cheerful temper, morn, noon, eve, the same.
How pale looks yonder man! his wife a scold,
His children sickly, starved with want and cold.
And there goes one, a freeman all his life,
Who ne'er had plagues of home, or child, or wife.
Another lives in that large, silent hall,
Bereft of friends, of wife, and child, and all.

Now, of the four, who's happiest, saddest? Say!
I thought thou knewest. Well, then, why delay?
O, Hamlet-like, thou wouldst peruse the face.
And canst thou now the bosom's secrets trace?
The face is called the index of the mind;
Yet dost not read it, wise one? Art thou blind?
It is the Soul made visible. Behold
The shapes it takes. Speak! What may his unfold?

Why, joy, be sure; you saw how sweet it smiled.

Thou read a face! Go, read thy horn-book, child!

By summing that man's cattle by the head,
His friends alive, or wife and children dead,
Dost think to learn his spirit's breadth and length?
To find his joys' and sorrows' depth and strength?
Come! of these joys and sufferings make thy cast.
Now tell me, pray, how foot they up at last?
Of outward things thou canst not find the amount;
Think'st thou the Soul's emotions, then, to count?

To range upon the face the thoughts that fly
Swifter than light?—That rainbow, in the sky,
Severs each hue; but what prismatic glass
Hast thou to mark the feelings as they pass?
Or what wherewith to sound or tell the flow
Of that man's deep, and dark, and silent woe?
To name their kind, or reckon their degree,
When joys play through him like a sparkling sea?

Ocean and land, the living clouds that run
Above or stand before the setting sun,
Taking and giving glory in his light,
Live but in change too subtile for thy sight.
The lot of man,—see that more varied still
By ceaseless acts of sense, and mind, and will.
Yet couldst thou count up all material things,
All outward difference each condition brings,
Then wouldst thou say, perhaps, Lo, here the whole!
The whole? One thing thou hast forgot,—the Soul!

Life in itself, it life to all things gives;
For whatsoe'er it looks on, that thing lives,—
Becomes an acting being, ill or good,
And, grateful to its giver, tenders food
For the Soul's health; or, suffering change unblest,
Pours poison down to rankle in the breast:
As acts the man, e'en so it plays its part,
And answers, thought to thought, and heart to heart.

Yes, man reduplicates himself. You see
In yonder lake reflected rock and tree.
Each leaf at rest, or quivering in the air,
Now rests, now stirs as if a breeze were there

Sweeping the crystal depths. How perfect all!
And see those slender top-boughs rise and fall,
The double strips of silvery sand unite
Above, below, each grain distinct and bright.
Yon bird, that seeks her food upon that bough,
Pecks not alone; for look! the bird below
Is busy after food, and happy, too.
They're gone! Both pleased away together flew.

Behold we thus sent up, rock, sand, and wood,
Life, joy, and motion from the sleepy flood?
The world, O man, is like that flood to thee:
Turn where thou wilt, thyself in all things see
Reflected back. As drives the blinding sand
Round Egypt's piles, where'er thou tak'st thy stand,
If that thy heart be barren, there will sweep
The drifting waste, like waves along the deep,
Fill up the vale, and choke the laughing streams
That ran through grass and brake, with dancing beams,
Sear the fresh woods, and from thy heavy eye
Veil the wide-shifting glories of the sky.

The rill is tuneless to his ear who feels
No harmony within; the south wind steals
As silent as unseen among the leaves:
Who has no inward beauty, none perceives,
Though all around is beautiful. Nay, more,—
In nature's calmest hour he hears the roar
Of winds and flinging waves; puts out the light,
When high and angry passions meet in fight;
And, his own spirit into tumult hurled,
He makes a turmoil of a quiet world;

And fiends of his own bosom people air
With kindred fiends, that hunt him to despair.
Hates he his fellow? Self he makes the rate
Of fellow-man, and cries, 'Tis hate for hate.

Soul! fearful is thy power, which thus transforms
All things into thy likeness; heaves in storms
The strong, proud sea, or lays it down to rest,
Like the hushed infant on its mother's breast;—
Which gives each outward circumstance its hue,
And shapes the acts and thoughts of men anew,
Till they, in turn, or love or hate impart,
As love or hate holds rule within the heart.

Then dread thy very power; for works it wrong,
It gives to all without a power as strong
As is its own,—a power it can't recall:
Such as thy strength, e'en so will be thy thrall.
The fiercer are thy struggles, wrath, and throes,
Thou slave of sin, the mystic chain so grows
Closer and heavier on thee. Thus, thy strength
Makes thee the weaker, verier slave, at length,
Working, at thy own forge, the chain to bind,
And wear, and fret thy restless, fevered mind.

Be warned! Thou canst not break nor scape the power
In kindness given in thy first breathing hour.
Thou canst not slay its life: It must create;
And good or ill, there ne'er will come a date
To its tremendous energies:—The trust,
Thus given, guard, and to thyself be just.

Nor dream with life to shuffle off the coil;
It takes fresh life, starts fresh for further toil,
And on it goes, for ever, ever, on,
Changing, all down its course, each thing to one
With its immortal nature: All must be,
Like thy dread self, one dread eternity.

Blinded by passion, man gives up his breath,
Uncalled by God. We look, and name it Death.
Mad wretch! the soul hath no last sleep; the strife
To end itself but wakes intenser life
In the self-torturing spirit. Fool, give o'er!
Hast thou once been, yet think'st to be no more?
What! life destroy itself? O, idlest dream
Shaped in that emptiest thing, a doubter's scheme!
Think'st in a Universal Soul will merge
Thy soul, as rain-drops mingle with the surge?
Or, scarce less skeptic, sin will have an end,
And thy purged spirit with the holy blend
In joys as holy? Why a sinner now?
As falls the tree, so lies it. So shalt thou.
God's Book, rash doubter, holds the plain record:
Dar'st talk of hopes and doubts against that Word?
Or palter with it in a quibbling sense?
That Book shall judge thee when thou passest hence.
Then,—with thy spirit from the body freed,—
Then shalt thou know, see, feel, what's life indeed!

Bursting to life, thy dominant desire
Shall upward flame, like a fierce forest fire;
Then like a sea of fire heave, roar, and dash,—
Roll up its lowest depths in waves, and flash

A wild disaster round, like its own woe;
Each wave cry, “Woe for ever!” in its flow,
And then pass on;—from far adown its path
Send back commingling sounds of woe and wrath:
The indomitable Will shall know no sway:
God calls;—Man, hear Him; quit that fearful way!

Come, listen to His voice who died to save
Lost man, and raise him from his moral grave;
From darkness showed a path of light to heaven;
Cried, Rise and walk; thy sins are all forgiven.

Blest are the pure in heart. Wouldst thou be blest?
He'll cleanse thy spotted soul. Wouldst thou find rest?
Around thy toils and cares He'll breathe a calm,
And to thy wounded spirit lay a balm;
From fear draw love; and teach thee where to seek
Lost strength and grandeur,—with the bowed and meek.

Come lowly; He will help thee. Lay aside
That subtle, first of evils,—human pride.
Know God, and, so, thyself; and be afraid
To call aught poor or low that He has made.
Fear naught but sin; love all but sin; and learn
In all beside 'tis wisdom to discern
His forming, his creating power, and bind
Earth, self, and brother to the Eternal Mind.

Linked with the Immortal, immortality
Begins e'en here. For what is time to thee,
To whose cleared sight the night is turned to day,
And that but changing life, miscalled decay?

Is it not glorious, then, from thy own heart
To pour a stream of life? to make a part
With thy eternal spirit things that rot,—
That, looked on for a moment, are forgot,
But to thy opening vision pass to take
New forms of life, and in new beauties wake?

To thee the falling leaf but fades to bear
Its hues and odours to a fresher air;
Some passing sound floats by to yonder sphere,
That softly answers to thy listening ear.
In one eternal round they go and come;
And where they travel, there hast thou a home
For thy far-reaching thoughts.—O Power Divine!
Has this poor worm a spirit so like thine?
Unwrap its folds, and clear its wings to go!
Would I could quit earth, sin, and care, and woe!
Nay, rather let me use the world aright:
Thus make me ready for my upward flight.

Come, Brother, turn with me from pining thought,
And all the inward ills that sin has wrought;
Come, send abroad a love for all who live,
And feel the deep content in turn they give.
Kind wishes and good deeds,—they make not poor;
They'll home again, full laden, to thy door.
The streams of love flow back where they begin;
For springs of outward joys lie deep within.

E'en let them flow, and make the places glad
Where dwell thy fellow-men. Shouldst thou be sad,
And earth seem bare, and hours, once happy, press
Upon thy thoughts, and make thy loneliness

More lonely for the past, thou then shalt hear
The music of those waters running near;
And thy faint spirit drink the cooling stream,
And thine eye gladden with the playing beam,
That now upon the water dances, now,
Leaps up and dances in the hanging bough.

Is it not lovely? Tell me, where doth dwell
The power that wrought so beautiful a spell?
In thy own bosom, Brother? Then, as thine,
Guard with a reverent fear this power divine.

And if, indeed, 'tis not the outward state,
But temper of the Soul, by which we rate
Sadness or joy, e'en let thy bosom move
With noble thoughts, and wake thee into love;
And let each feeling in thy breast be given
An honest aim, which, sanctified by Heaven,
And springing into act, new life imparts,
Till beats thy frame as with a thousand hearts.

Sin clouds the mind's clear vision; man, not earth,
Around the self-starved Soul has spread a dearth.
The earth is full of life: the living Hand
Touched it with life; and all its forms expand
With principles of being made to suit
Man's varied powers, and raise him from the brute.
And shall the earth of higher ends be full,—
Earth which thou tread'st,—and thy poor mind be dull?
Thou talk of life, with half thy soul asleep!
Thou “living dead man,” let thy spirits leap
Forth to the day; and let the fresh air blow
Thro' thy soul's shut-up mansion. Wouldst thou know

Something of what is life, shake off this death;
Have thy soul feel the universal breath
With which all nature's quick, and learn to be
Sharer in all that thou dost touch or see;
Break from thy body's grasp, thy spirit's trance;
Give thy Soul air, thy faculties expanse;
Love, joy, e'en sorrow,—yield thyself to all!
They make thy freedom, groveller, not thy thrall.
Knock off the shackles which thy spirit bind
To dust and sense, and set at large the mind!
Then move in sympathy with God's great whole;
And be, like man at first, A LIVING Soul!

Though nothing once, and born but yesterday,
Like Him who knows nor ending nor decay,
So shalt thou live, my Soul, immortal one!
Strong as the firm, the dread, eternal throne,
Endless as God, who sits for aye thereon.

Infinite Father! shall thy creature dare
Look forth, and say, Eternity I share
With Him who made me? May he forward send
His thoughts, and say, Like God, I know no end?—
Stretch onward, age on age, till mind grows dim,
Yet, conscious, cry, There still am I with Him?
Worm of the dust! thought almost blasphemy!
Dread glory!—I, like God, shall ever be!

O Goodness searchless! Thou who once didst walk
With man on earth, with man familiar talk,

Bringing Thyself to him, to lead the way
From darkness up to glory and to day,
Uniting with our form, that man, when blind
To all but sense, the high intent might find
Of his own soul, his never-dying mind.—
Teach us, in this thy Sacrifice, to see
Thy love,—our worth, in this great mystery.

Poorly of his own nature he must deem,—
His very immortality a dream,—
Whose God's so strange He may not condescend
With his own last and greatest work to blend;
But rather his lost creatures must forsake,
Than deign to dwell with that He deigned to make.
Though veiled in flesh, did God his glory hide?
God counts not glory thus, but human pride.

Debased by sin, and used to things of sense,
How shall man's spirit rise and travel hence,
Where lie the Soul's pure regions without bounds,
The mind at large, where passion ne'er confounds
Clear thought, and thought is sight,—the far brings nigh,
Calls up the deep, and, now, calls down the high.

Cast off thy slough, and send thy spirit forth
Up to the Infinite, then know thy worth.
With That, be infinite; with Love, be love;
Angel, 'mid angel throngs that move above,—
Ay, more than Angel; nearer the great Cause,
Through his redeeming power, now read his laws,—
Nor with thy earthly mind, that half detects
Something of outward things by slow effects;

Viewing creative causes, learn to know
The hidden springs, nor guess, as here below,
Laws, purposes, relations, sympathies,
In errours vain: Clear Truth's in yonder skies.

Creature all grandeur, son of truth and light,
Up from the dust! the last great day is bright,—
Bright on the Holy Mountain, round the Throne,
Bright where in borrowed light the far stars shone.
Look down! the Depths are bright!—and hear them cry,
“Light! light!”—Look up! 'tis rushing down from high!
Regions on regions, far away they shine:
'Tis light ineffable, 'tis light divine!
“Immortal light, and life for evermore,”
Off through the deeps is heard from shore to shore
Of rolling worlds!—Man, wake thee from the sod;
Awake from death! awake, and live with God!

THE HUSBAND AND WIFE'S GRAVE.

Husband and wife! No converse now ye hold,
As once ye did in your young day of love.
On its alarms, its anxious hours, delays.
Its silent meditations and glad hopes,
Its fears, impatience, quiet sympathies;
Nor do ye speak of joy assured, and bliss
Full, certain, and possessed. Domestic cares
Call you not now together. Earnest talk
On what your children may be moves you not.
Ye lie in silence, and an awful silence;
Not like to that in which ye rested once
Most happy,—silence eloquent, when heart
With heart held speech, and your mysterious frames,
Harmonious, sensitive, at every beat
Touched the soft notes of love.
A stillness deep,
Insensible, unheeding, folds you round;
And darkness, as a stone, has sealed you in:
Away from all the living, here ye rest:
In all the nearness of the narrow tomb,
Yet feel ye not each other's presence now:
Dread fellowship!—together, yet alone.

Is this thy prison-house, thy grave, then, Love?
And doth death cancel the great bond that holds
Commingling spirits? Are thoughts that know no bounds,
But, self-inspired, rise upward, searching out
The Eternal Mind, the Father of all thought.—
Are they become mere tenants of a tomb?—
Dwellers in darkness, who the illuminate realms
Of uncreated light have visited and lived?—
Lived in the dreadful splendour of that throne,
Which One, with gentle hand the veil of flesh
Lifting that hung 'twixt man and it, revealed
In glory?—throne, before which even now
Our souls, moved by prophetic power, bow down
Rejoicing, yet at their own natures awed?—
Souls that Thee know by a mysterious sense,
Thou awful, unseen Presence,—are they quenched?
Or burn they on, hid from our mortal eyes
By that bright day which ends not, as the sun
His robe of light flings round the glittering stars?

And do our loves all perish with our frames?
Do those that took their root and put forth buds,
And their soft leaves unfolded in the warmth
Of mutual hearts, grow up and live in beauty,
Then fade and fall, like fair, unconscious flowers?
Are thoughts and passions that to the tongue give speech,
And make it send forth winning harmonies,—
That to the cheek do give its living glow,
And vision in the eye the soul intense
With that for which there is no utterance,—

Are these the body's accidents?—no more?—
To live in it, and when that dies, go out
Like the burnt taper's flame?

O, listen man!
A voice within us speaks the startling word,
“Man, thou shalt never die!” Celestial voices
Hymn it around our souls; according harps,
By angel fingers touched when the mild stars
Of morning sang together, sound forth still
The song of our great immortality;
Thick-clustering orbs, and this our fair domain,
The tall, dark mountains, and the deep-toned seas,
Join in this solemn, universal song.
O, listen, ye, our spirits; drink it in
From all the air! 'Tis in the gentle moonlight;
Is floating in day's setting glories; Night,
Wrapped in her sable robe, with silent step
Comes to our bed and breathes it in our ears:
Night and the dawn, bright day and thoughtful eve,
All time, all bounds, the limitless expanse,
As one great mystic instrument, are touched
By an unseen, living Hand, and conscious chords
Quiver with joy in this great jubilee.
The dying hear it; and as sounds of earth
Grow dull and distant, wake their passing souls
To mingle in this heavenly harmony.

Why is it that I linger round this tomb?
What holds it? Dust that cumbered those I mourn.
They shook it off, and laid aside earth's robes,
And put on those of light. They're gone to dwell
In love,—their God's and angels'. Mutual love,

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That bound them here, no longer needs a speech
For full communion; nor sensations strong,
Within the breast, their prison, strive in vain
To be set free, and meet their kind in joy.
Changed to celestials, thoughts that rise in each,
By natures new impart themselves, though silent.
Each quickening sense, each throb of holy love,
Affections sanctified, and the full glow
Of being, which expand and gladden one,
By union all mysterious, thrill and live
In both immortal frames:—Sensation all,
And thought, pervading, mingling sense and thought!
Ye paired, yet one! wrapt in a consciousness
Twofold, yet single,—this is love, this life!

Why call we, then, the square-built monument,
The upright column, and the low-laid slab,
Tokens of death, memorials of decay?
Stand in this solemn, still assembly, man,
And learn thy proper nature; for thou seest,
In these shaped stones and lettered tables, figures
Of life. Then be they to thy soul as those
Which he who talked on Sinai's mount with God
Brought to the old Judeans,—types are these
Of thine eternity.

I thank Thee, Father,
That at this simple grave on which the dawn
Is breaking, emblem of that day which hath
No close, Thou kindly unto my dark mind
Hast sent a sacred light, and that away
From this green hillock, whither I had come
In sorrow, Thou art leading me in joy.

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THE DYING RAVEN.

Come to these lonely woods to die alone?
It seems not many days since thou wast heard,
From out the mists of spring, with clamorous note,
Calling upon thy mates,—and their clear answers.
The earth was brown then, and the infant leaves
Had not put forth to warm them in the sun,
Or play in the fresh air of heaven. Thy voice,
Shouting in triumph, told of winter gone.
And, prophesying life to the sealed ground.
Did make me glad with thoughts of coming beauties.
And now they're all around me,—offspring bright
Of earth, a mother, who, with constant care,
Doth feed and clothe them all. Now o'er her fields,
In blessed bands, or single, they are gone:
Or by her brooks they stand, and sip the stream;
Or peering o'er it,—vanity well feigned.—
At quaint approval seem to glow and nod
At their reflected graces. Morn to meet
They in fantastic labours pass the night
Catching its dews, and rounding silvery drops
To deck their bosoms. There, on high, bald trees,
From varnished cells some peep, and the old boughs

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Make to rejoice and dance in warmer winds.
Over my head the winds and they make music;
And grateful, in return for what they take,
Bright hues and odours to the air they give.

Thus mutual love brings mutual delight,—
Bring beauty, life; for love is life,—hate, death.

Thou Prophet of so fair a revelation!
Thou who abod'st with us the winter long,
Enduring cold or rain, and shaking oft
From thy dark mantle falling sleet or snow,—
Thou, who, with purpose kind, when warmer days
Shone on the earth, 'mid thaw and steam cam'st forth
From rocky nook, or wood, thy priestly cell,
To speak of comfort unto lonely man,—
Didst say to him, though seemingly alone
'Mid wastes and snows, and silent, lifeless trees,
Or the more silent ground, it was not death,
But nature's sleep and rest, her kind repair;
That thou, albeit unseen, didst bear with him
The winter's night, and, patient of the day,
And cheered by hope, (instinct divine in thee,)
Waitedst return of summer.

More thou saidst,
Thou Priest of Nature, Priest of God, to man!
Thou spok'st of Faith, (than instinct no less sure,)
Of spirits near him, though he saw them not;
Thou bad'st him ope his intellectual eye,
And see his solitude all populous;
Thou show'dst him Paradise and deathless flowers;

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And didst him pray to listen to the flow
Of living waters.

Preacher to man's spirit!
Emblem of Hope! Companion! Comforter!
Thou faithful one! is this thine end? 'Twas thou,
When summer birds were gone, and no form seen
In the void air, who cam'st, living and strong,
On thy broad, balanced pennons, through the winds.
And of thy long enduring, this the close?
Thou Conqueror of Storms, thy kingly strength
Thus low brought down?
The year's mild, cheering dawn
Shone out on thee, a momentary light.
The gales of spring upbore thee for a day,
And then forsook thee. Thou art fallen now;
And liest among thy hopes and promises—
Beautiful flowers and freshly springing blades—
Gasping thy life out. Here for thee the grass
Tenderly makes a bed, and the young buds
In silence open their fair, painted folds;
To ease thy pain, the one,—to cheer thee, these.
But thou art restless; and thy once keen eye
Is dull and sightless now. New-blooming boughs,
Needlessly kind, have spread a tent for thee.
Thy mate is calling to the white, piled clouds,
And asks for thee. They give no answer back.
As I look up to their bright angel faces,
Intelligent and capable of voice
They seem to me. Their silence to my soul
Comes ominous. The same to thee, doomed bird,
Silence or sound: For thee there is no sound.

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No silence. Near thee stands the shadow, Death.
And now he slowly draws his sable veil
Over thine eyes: thy senses softly lulls
Into unconscious slumbers. The airy call
Thou'lt hear no longer; 'neath sun-lighted clouds,
With beating wing, or steady poise aslant,
Wilt sail no more. Around thy trembling claws
Droop thy wings' parting feathers. Spasms of death
Are on thee.

Laid thus low by age? Or is't
All-grudging man has brought thee to this end?
Perhaps the slender hair, so subtly wound
Around the grain God gives thee for thy food,
Has proved thy snare, and makes thine inward pain.

I needs must mourn for thee. For I, who have
No fields, nor gather into garners.—I
Bear thee both thanks and love, not fear nor hate.

And now, farewell! The falling leaves ere long
Will give thee decent covering. Till then,
Thine own black plumage, that will now no more
Glance to the sun, nor flash upon my eyes,
Like armour of steeled knight of Palestine,
Must be thy pall. Nor will it moult so soon
As sorrowing thoughts on those borne from him fade
In living man.

Who scoffs these sympathies,
Makes mock of the divinity within;
Nor feels he gently breathing through his soul

105

The universal spirit. Hear it cry,—
How does thy pride abase thee, man, vain man!
How deaden thee to universal love,
And joy of kindred with all humble things,—
God's creatures all!

And surely it is so.
He who the lily clothes in simple glory,
He who doth hear the ravens cry for food,
Hath on our hearts, with hand invisible,
In signs mysterious, written what alone
Our hearts may read.—Death bring thee rest, poor Bird.

106

FRAGMENT OF AN EPISTLE.

WRITTEN WHILE RECOVERING FROM SEVERE ILLNESS.

No more, my friend,
A weary ear I urge you lend
My tale of sickness, aches I've borne
From closing day to breaking morn,—
Long wintry nights and days of pain,—
Sharp pain. 'Tis past; and I would fain
My languor cheer with grateful thought
On Him who to this frame has brought
Soothing and rest; who—when there rose
Within my bosom's dull repose
A troubled memory of wrong
Done in health's day, when passions strong
Swayed me—repentance spoke and peace,
Hope, and from dark remorse release.

Lonely, in thought, I travelled o'er
Days past, and joys to come no more;
Sat watching the low beating fire,
And saw its flames shoot up, expire,

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Like cheerful thoughts that glance their light
Athwart the mind, and, then, 'tis night.
For ever night?—The Eternal One,
With sacred fire from forth his throne,
Has touched my heart. O, fail it not
When days of health shall be my lot!

Beside me, Patience, suffering's child,
With gentle voice and aspect mild,
Sat chanting to me song so holy,
A song to soothe my melancholy;
Won me to learn of her to bear
Sorrows, and pains, and all that wear
Our hearts,—me, chained by sickness, taught,
Prisoner to none the free of thought:
A truth sublime, but slowly learned
By one who for earth's freshness yearned.

From open air and ample sky
Pent up,—thus doomed for days to lie,—
'Twas trial hard to me, a stranger
To long confinement, me, a ranger
Through bare or leafy wood, o'er hill,
O'er field, by shore, or by the rill,
When taking hues from bending flowers,
Or stealing dark by crystal bowers
Built up by winter, on its bank,
Of branches shot from vapour dank;
And hard to sit, and see boys slide
O'er crusted plain stretched smooth and wide,
Or down the steep and shining drift,
With shout and call, shoot light and swift.

108

But I could stand at set of sun,
And see the snow he shone upon
Change to a path of glory,—see
The rainbow hues 'twixt him and me,—
Orange, and green, and golden light.
I thought on that celestial sight,
That city seen by aged John,
City with walls of precious stone.
Brighter and brighter grew the road
'Twixt me and the descending god;
And while I yearned to tread its length,
Down went the Sun in all his strength.

And gone his path, like the steps of light
By angels trod at dead of night,
While Jacob slept. Around my room
The shadows deepen; while the gloom
Visits my soul, in converse high
Lifted but now, when heaven was nigh.

Why could not I, in spirit, raise
Pillar of Bethel to His praise
Who blessed me, and free worship pay,
Like Isaac's son upon his way?
Are holy thoughts but happy dreams
Chased by despair, as starry gleams
By clouds?—Nay, turn, and read thy mind;
Nay, look on Nature's face, and find
Kind, gentle graces, thoughts to raise
The tired spirit,—hope and praise.

O, kind to me, in darkest hour
She led me forth, with gentle power,

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From lonely, thought, from sad unrest,
To peace of mind, and to her breast
The son, who always loved her, pressed;
Called up the moon to cheer me; laid
Its silver light on bank and glade.
And bade it throw mysterious beams
O'er ice-clad hill, which steely gleams
Sent back, a knight who took his rest,
His burnished shield above his breast.
The fence of long, rough rails, that went
O'er trackless snows, a beauty lent;
Glittered each cold and icy bar
Beneath the moon, like shafts of war.
And there a lovely tracery
Of branch and twig that naked tree
Of shadows soft and dim has wove,
And spread so gently, that above
The pure white snow it seems to float
Lighter than that celestial boat,
The silver-beaked moon, on air,—
Lighter than feathery gossamer:
As if its darkening touch, through fear,
It held from thing so saintly clear.

Thus Nature threw her beauties round me;
Thus from the gloom in which she found me,
She won me by her simple graces,
She wooed me with her happy faces.

The day is closed; and I refrain
From further talk. But if of pain

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It has beguiled a weary hour,
If to my desert mind, like shower
That wets the parching earth, has come
A cheerful thought, and made its home
With me awhile, a friend may share,
Who feels with me in ills I bear.

111

THE PLEASURE-BOAT.

Come, hoist the sail, the fast let go!
They're seated side by side;
Wave chases wave in pleasant flow;
The bay is fair and wide.

The ripples lightly tap the boat.
Loose! Give her to the wind!
She shoots ahead: they're all afloat:
The strand is far behind.

No danger reach so fair a crew!
Thou goddess of the foam,
I'll ever pay thee worship due,
If thou wilt bring them home.

Fair ladies, fairer than the spray
The prow is dashing wide,
Soft breezes take you on your way,
Soft flow the blessed tide!

112

O, might I like those breezes be,
And touch that arching brow,
I'd dwell for ever on the sea
Where ye are floating now.

The boat goes tilting on the waves;
The waves go tilting by;
There dips the duck.—her back she laves;
O'erhead the sea-gulls fly.

Now, like the gulls that dart for prey,
The little vessel stoops;
Now, rising, shoots along her way,
Like them, in easy swoops.

The sunlight falling on her sheet,
It glitters like the drift,
Sparkling in scorn of summer's heat,
High up some mountain rift.

The winds are fresh; she's driving fast
Upon the bending tide;
The crinkling sail, and crinkling mast,
Go with her side by side.

Why dies the breeze away so soon?
Why hangs the pennant down?
The sea is glass; the sun at noon.—
Nay, lady, do not frown;—

113

For, see, the winged fisher's plume
Is painted on the sea:
Below, a cheek of lovely bloom.
Whose eyes look up at thee?

She smiles; thou need'st must smile on her.
And, see, beside her face
A rich, white cloud that doth not stir:
What beauty, and what grace!

And pictured beach of yellow sand,
And peaked rock, and hill,
Change the smooth sea to fairy land:
How lovely and how still!

From that far isle the thresher's flail
Strikes close upon the ear;
The leaping fish, the swinging sail
Of yonder sloop, sound near.

The parting sun sends out a glow
Across the placid bay,
Touching with glory all the show.—
A breeze! Up helm! Away!

Careening to the wind, they reach,
With laugh and call, the shore.
They've left their foot-prints on the beach,
But them I hear no more.

114

THE EARLY SPRING BROOK.

Wellnigh a year, swift-running Brook, is past
Since I, upon thy fresh green side,
Stood here, and saw thy waters glide,
But not, as now they flow, rough, turbid, fast.

'Twas twilight then; and Dian hung her bow
Low down the west; and there a star
Kindly on thee and me, from far,
Looked out, and blessed us through the passing glow.

A goodly fellowship of day and night;
The day, the moon, the stars, in one,—
Night scarcely come, day scarcely gone,—
In mutual love they shed harmonious light.

It fell in peace upon thy face, fair Brook,—
The glittering starlight, paler moon,
Day's last, warm glow: but that full soon
Faded, e'en while I stood to feel and look.

115

And then thy tiny beach, no longer red,
Took from the other lamps its hue,
As star on star, in order due,
Came out and lighted up thy pebbly bed.

The ground-bird in thy bank had made her nest.
She sat and dreamed about her brood,
And where next day to gather food;
And with thy song well soothed, she took her rest.

It pained me that my footsteps caused her fear;
For I had come with weary heart
To sit with her and take a part
In star and moon, and thy low song to hear.

Fly not the broken-hearted, bird! I crave
Thy innocence, thy gentle trust.
Chirp by me now, and when I'm dust,
Come, make thy habitation by my grave.

So wished I then; and more my spirit spoke;
And hopes and wishes, mingling, said,
Thou shalt within thy grave be laid
Ere other spring return:—my heart was broke.

Yet still, more sad and lonely, here I tread
Thy banks again, unfettered Brook.
Now, by the living I'm forsook:
Before, I mourned your loss alone, ye dead.

116

The cords of sympathy nigh all untied!
And when I raise an eye by chance,
The half-hid sneer, the sidelong glance.
Say, Not of us!—Would I had long since died!

And those of hearts of all too gentle mould
To pain the pained, by silence say,
We ne'er can walk the selfsame way!
And shake them loose, where all my hopes took hold.

Why, I can bear hot anger and the frown.—
Much better far than feigned regard,—
I mind them not; they make me hard:
But severed and yet kind!—it weighs me down.

Come, teach me patience, then, O Thou, for whom
I take this sorrow to my breast;
Speak to me, give my spirit rest,
And make me ready for the last great doom.

Here, too, there has been sadness since that I
Last talked with thee. Thy banks were green.
Bright reeds and flowers no more are seen.
And where are they? Alas! do they, too, die?

Thou then wast all o'er beauty, softness, youth;
In self-wove garments mad'st thee gay:
Didst play and dance by night and day:
But now!—How simple nature teaches truth!

117

Thy cold, damp, frost-bound bank is like a rock;
Thy green, unsightly brown; and bare
The stems that made and took a share
Of beauty with thee:—all have felt the shock.

A frost like death came in, and changed the face
Of tree and herb. Up rose the wind,
And loud and strong, with fury blind,
Broke through, nor of thy beauty left a trace.

Awhile it roared; the faded leaves it tossed,
Then dashed them in thy face in scorn;
'Tis I, it said, thy bowers have torn!
And, rushing on, far in the woods was lost.

Thus ended thy bright festival. Thy hall,—
The place of song and dance before,—
Silent, and barred its icy door;
And o'er thee winter threw his cold, white pall.

Its folds unwrapped, thy doors now open thrown,
Drops from the shelving ice fall fast;
The light, too, shining in at last,
Shows straws and leaves along thy bottom strown.

But soon thy channel will again run clear;
Along thy clean and pebbly bed
The spring-flowers on thy brim be fed,
And earth's and thy own music thou shalt hear.

118

Thou'lt be too merry then to mind the sigh
Heaved by the lonely, broken heart,
Though near thee. Here, then, let us part,
For there's no spring for joys like mine, that die.

The blasted spirit of fond, thoughtful men
Can feel no second earthly youth:
Their sorrows share the strength of truth.—
At leaf-fall, Brook, I'll visit thee again.

119

“THE CHANTING CHERUBS.”

[_]

This group, executed by Horatio Greenough, for J. Fenimore Cooper, gives you a feeling of unmingled happiness as you cast your eyes upon it. The two little creatures are themselves instinct with it; and no sadness creeps over your spirit, as it does when you look upon a child: for then comes in the thought of frailty; and you know that when the sun opens that bud, the dew of its youth will dry up, and that it will fade soon, and its freshness and odour be lost. But these little beings seem to have lighted here from a better world, where happiness is as lasting as it is pure. And so busy and pleased are they in their song of praise, as not to heed us poor creatures, who stand gazing on them,—blessed spirits!

The execution of this group is not inferior to the conception. Mr. Greenough shows himself to be a close student of nature, and to have a hand as true as his eye. What flesh, too! you are almost persuaded that it will yield to your touch. The action, also, and the dependent attitude of the younger Cherub are beautifully contrasted with the more erect posture and the repose of the older figure. Not the least pleasing thought connected with this work of art is, that, while so many men of genius disgrace themselves by envyings and detraction, this group was executed by the first American Sculptor, for one who, with Charles Brockden Brown, stands at the head of American Novelists.

It is a sin against God, and a base vice, to envy another his excellence. If man would remember and feel the words, It is not of yourselves: it is the gift of God: he would be humble, and able to rejoice in another's well-doing.

1

Whence come ye, Cherubs? from the moon?
Or from a shining star?
Ye, sure, are sent, a blessed boon,
From kinder worlds afar;
For while I look, my heart is all delight:
Earth has no creatures half so pure and bright.

120

2

From moon nor star we hither flew;
The moon doth wane away,—
The stars, they pale at morning dew:
We're children of the day;
Nor change, nor night, was ever ours to bear;
Eternal light, and love, and joy, we share.

3

Then, sons of light, from Heaven above,
Some blessed news ye bring.
Come ye to chant eternal love,
And tell how angels sing,
And in your breathing, conscious forms to show,
How purer forms above live, breathe, and glow?

4

Our parent is a human mind;
His winged thoughts are we;
To sun nor stars are we confined:
We pierce the deepest sea.
Moved by a brother's call, our Father bade
Us light on earth: and here our flight is stayed.

121

THE MOSS SUPPLICATETH FOR THE POET

Though I am humble, slight me not,
But love me for the Poet's sake;
Forget me not till he's forgot;
For care or slight with him I take.

For oft he passed the blossoms by,
And turned to me with kindly look;
Left flaunting flowers and open sky,
And wooed me by the shady brook.

And like the brook his voice was low:
So soft, so sad the words he spoke,
That with the stream they seemed to flow:
They told me that his heart was broke.

They said the world he fain would shun,
And seek the still and twilight wood,—
His spirit, weary of the sun,
In humblest things found chiefest good;

122

That I was of a lowly frame,
And far more constant than the flower,
Which, vain with many a boastful name,
But fluttered out its idle hour;

That I was kind to old decay,
And wrapped it softly round in green,
On naked root, and trunk of gray,
Spread out a garniture and screen.

They said, that he was withering fast,
Without a sheltering friend like me;
That on his manhood fell a blast,
And left him bare, like yonder tree;

That spring would clothe his boughs no more,
Nor ring his boughs with song of bird,—
Sounds like the melancholy shore
Alone were through his branches heard.

Methought, as then he stood to trace
The withered stems, there stole a tear,—
That I could read in his sad face,
Brothers, our sorrows make us near.

And then he stretched him all along,
And laid his head upon my breast,
Listening the water's peaceful song:—
How glad was I to tend his rest!

123

Then happier grew his soothed soul;
He turned and watched the sunlight play
Upon my face, as in it stole,
Whispering, Above is brighter day!

He praised my varied hues,—the green,
The silver hoar, the golden, brown;
Said, Lovelier hues were never seen;
Then gently pressed my tender down.

And where I sent up little shoots,
He called them trees, in fond conceit:
Like silly lovers in their suits
He talked, his care awhile to cheat.

I said, I'd deck me in the dews,
Could I but chase away his care,
And clothe me in a thousand hues,
To bring him joys that I might share.

He answered, earth no blessing had
To cure his lone and aching heart;
That I was one, when he was sad,
Oft stole him from his pain, in part.

But e'en from thee, he said, I go,
To meet the world, its care and strife,
No more to watch this quiet flow,
Or spend with thee a gentle life.

124

And yet the brook is gliding on,
And I, without a care, at rest,
While he to toiling life is gone;
Nor finds his head a faithful breast.

Deal gently with him, world, I pray;
Ye cares, like softened shadows come:
His spirit, wellnigh worn away,
Asks with ye but awhile a home.

O, may I live, and when he dies
Be at his feet a humble sod;
O, may I lay me where he lies,
To die when he awakes in God!

125

A CLUMP OF DAISIES.

1

Ye daisies gay,
This fresh spring day
Close gathered here together,
To play in the light,
To sleep all the night,
To abide through the sullen weather;

2

Ye creatures bland,
A simple band,
Ye free ones, linked in pleasure,
And linked when your forms
Stoop low in the storms,
And the rain comes down without measure;

3

When wild clouds fly
Athwart the sky,
And ghostly shadows, glancing,
Are darkening the gleam
Of the hurrying stream,
And your close, bright heads gayly dancing;

126

4

Though dull awhile,
Again ye smile;
For, see, the warm sun breaking;
The stream's going glad,
There's nothing now sad,
And the small bird his song is waking.

5

The dew-drop sip
With dainty lip!
The sun is low descended.
And, Moon! softly fall
On troop true and small!
Sky and earth in one kindly blended.

6

And, Morning! spread
Their jewelled bed
With lights in the east sky springing!
And, Brook! breathe around
Thy low murmured sound!
May they move, ye Birds, to your singing!

7

For in their play
I hear them say,
Here, man, thy wisdom borrow;
In heart be a child,
In word, true and mild:
Hold thy faith, come joy, or come sorrow.

127

CHANTREY'S WASHINGTON.

And thou art home again in marble!
Remembered be thy name in poets' story,
Who led the land through fire and blood to glory;—
Our Father, next to Him in heaven!

Father and Chief, how calm thou stand'st once more
Upon thine own free land, thou wonn'st with toil!
Seest thou upon thy Country's robe a soil,
As she comes down to greet thee on the shore?

For thought in that fine brow is living still,—
Such thought, as, looking far off into time,
Casting by fear, stood up in strength sublime,
When odds in war shook vale and shore and hill;—

Such thought as then possessed thee, when was laid
Our deep foundation,—when the fabric shook
With the wrathful surge which high against it broke,—
When at thy voice the blind, wild sea was stayed.

128

Hast heard our strivings, that thou look'st away
Into the future, pondering still our fate
With thoughtful mind? Thou readest, sure, the date
To strifes,—thou seest a glorious coming day.

For round those lips dwells sweetness, breathing good
To sad men's souls, and bidding them take heart,
Nor live the shame of those who bore their part
When round their towering chief they banded stood.

No swelling pride in that firm, ample chest!
The full rich robe falls round thee, fold on fold,
With easy grace, in thy scarce conscious hold:
How simple in thy grandeur,—strong in rest!

'Tis like thee: Such repose thy living form
Wrapped round. Though some chained passion, breaking forth,
At times swept o'er thee like the fierce, dread north,
Yet calmer, nobler, cam'st thou from the storm.

O mystery past thought! that the cold stone
Should live to us, take shape, and to us speak,—
That he, in mind, in grandeur, like the Greek,
And he, our pride, stand here, the two in one!

There's awe in thy still form. Come hither, then,
Ye that o'erthrong the land, and ye shall know
What greatness is, nor please ye in its show,—
Come, look on him, would ye indeed be men!

129

THE LITTLE BEACH-BIRD.

1

Thou little bird, thou dweller by the sea,
Why takest thou its melancholy voice,
And with that boding cry
Along the breakers fly?
O, rather, Bird, with me
Through the fair land rejoice!

2

Thy flitting form comes ghostly dim and pale,
As driven by a beating storm at sea;
Thy cry is weak and scared,
As if thy mates had shared
The doom of us: Thy wail,—
What doth it bring to me?

3

Thou call'st along the sand, and haunt'st the surge,
Restless and sad; as if, in strange accord
With the motion and the roar
Of waves that drive to shore,
One spirit did ye urge,—
The Mystery,—the Word.

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4

Of thousands, thou, both sepulchre and pall,
Old Ocean! A requiem o'er the dead,
From out thy gloomy cells,
A tale of mourning tells,—
Tells of man's woe and fall,
His sinless glory fled.

5

Then turn thee, little Bird, and take thy flight
Where the complaining sea shall sadness bring
Thy spirit never more;
Come, quit with me the shore,
And on the meadows light,
Where birds for gladness sing!

131

GREENOUGH'S STATUE OF MEDORA.

Medora, wake!—nay, do not wake!
I would not stir that placid brow,
Nor lift those lids, though light should break
Warm from the twin blue heavens that lie below.

Sleep falls on thee, as on the streams
The summer moon. Touched by its might,
The soul comes out in loving dreams,
And wraps thy delicate form in living light.

Thou art not dead!—These flowers say
That thou, though more thou heed'st them not,
Didst rear them once for him away,
Then loose them in thy hold like things forgot,

And lay thee here where thou might'st weep,—
That Death but hushed thee to repose,
As mothers tend their infants' sleep,
And watch their eyelids falter, open, close,—

132

That here thy heart hath found release,
Thy sorrows all are gone away,
Or touched by something almost peace,
Like night's last shadows by the gleaming day.

When he who gave thee form is gone,
And I within the earth shall lie,
Thou still shalt slumber softly on,
Too fair to live, too beautiful to die.

133

TO A GARDEN-FLOWER SENT ME BY A LADY.

No, not in woods, nor fells, nor pastures wild.
Nor left alone to changeful nature's care,
You opened on the light and breathed the air:
But one with blush like thine, and look as mild
As dewed morn, with love all undefiled,
Chose out a kindly spot, and made thy bed
Safe from the cruel blast and heedless tread,
And watched thy birth, and took thee for her child.
And human hands solicitous have trained
Thy slender stalk, and eyes on thee have dwelt
Radiant with thought, and human feelings rained
Into thy bosom, e'en till thou hast felt
That through thy life a human virtue ran;
And now art come to greet thy fellow-man.

134

I SAW HER ONCE.

I saw her once! and still I see
That thoughtful eye and placid brow;
That voice, it spoke but once to me,—
That quiet voice, I hear it now!

Where'er I go, my soul is blest;
She meets me there, a cheering light,
And when I sink away to rest,
She murmurs near, Good night, good night!

Our earthly forms are far apart;
But can our spirits be so nigh,
Nor I a home within her heart?
And love but dream her fond reply?

O, no! The form that I behold,—
No shaping this of memory!
Her self, her self, is here ensouled!—
I saw her once,—and still I see!

135

ON RECEIVING FLOWERS, DURING ILLNESS, FROM A LADY.

1

I loved you ever, gentle flowers,
And made you playmates of my youth;
The while your spirit stole
In secret to my soul,
To shed a softness through my ripening powers,
And lead the thoughtful mind to deepest truth.

2

And now, when weariness and pain
Had cast you almost from my breast,
With each a smiling face,
In all your simple grace,
You come once more to take me back again
From pain to ease, from weariness to rest.

3

Kind visitants, through my sick room
You seem to breathe an air of health,
And with your looks of joy
To wake again the boy,
And to the pallid cheek restore its bloom,
And o'er the desert mind pour bounteous wealth.

136

4

And whence you came, by brimming stream,
'Neath rustling leaves with birds within,
Again I musing tread,—
Forgot my restless bed
And long, sick hours:—Too short the blessed dream!
I wake to pain and all the city's din.

5

But time nor pain shall ever steal
Or youth or beauty from my mind;—
And, blessings on you, flowers!
Though few with me your hours,
The youth, and beauty, and the heart to feel
In her who sent you ye will leave behind!

137

THE DEATH OF WASHINGTON ALLSTON.

I look through tears on Beauty now;
And Beauty's self less radiant looks on me;
Serene, yet touched with sadness is the brow,
Once bright with joy, I see.

Joy-waking Beauty, who so sad?
Tell where the radiance of the smile is gone,
At which my heart, and earth, and skies were glad,—
That linked us all in one.

It is not on the mountain's breast;
It comes not to me with the dawning day;
Nor looks it from the glories of the west,
As slow they pass away.

Nor on those gliding roundlets bright,
That steal their play among the woody shades,
Nor on thine own dear children doth it light,—
The flowers along the glades.

138

And altered to the Living Mind
(That great high-priestess, with her thought-born race
Who round thine altar aye have stood and shined)
The comforts of thy face.

Why shadowed thus thy forehead fair?
Why on the mind low hangs a mystic gloom,
And spreads away upon the genial air,
Like vapours from the tomb?

Why should ye shine, you lights above?
Ye little flowers, why open to the heat?
No more within the heart ye filled with love
The living pulses beat.

Well, Beauty, may you mourning stand!
The fine-beholding eye, whose constant look
Was turned on thee, is dark; and cold the hand
Gave more than vision took.

Nay, heart, be still! Of heavenly birth
Is Beauty sprung:—Look up!—behold the place!
There He, who reverent traced Her steps on earth,
Now sees Her, face to face.

139

DAYBREAK.

The Pilgrim they laid in a large upper chamber, whose window opened towards the sun-rising: the name of the chamber was Peace: where he slept till break of day, and then he awoke and sang. —The Pilgrim's Progress.

1

Now, brighter than the host that all night long,
In fiery armour, far up in the sky
Stood watch, thou com'st to wait the morning's song,
Thou com'st to tell me day again is nigh,
Star of the dawning! Cheerful is thine eye;
And yet in the broad day it must grow dim.
Thou seem'st to look on me, as asking why
My mourning eyes with silent tears do swim:
Thou bidd'st me turn to God, and seek my rest in Him.

2

Canst thou grow sad, thou sayest, as earth grows bright?
And sigh, when little birds begin discourse
In quick, low voices, ere the streaming light
Pours on their nests, from out the day's fresh source?
With creatures innocent thou must perforce
A sharer be, if that thine heart be pure.
And holy hour like this, save sharp remorse,
Of ills and pains of life must be the cure,
And breathe in kindred calm, and teach thee to endure.

140

3

I feel its calm. But there's a sombrous hue,
Edging that eastern cloud, of deep, dull red;
Nor glitters yet the cold and heavy dew;
And all the woods and hill-tops stand outspread
With dusky lights, which warmth nor comfort shed.
Still—save the bird that scarcely lifts its song—
The vast world seems the tomb of all the dead;
The silent city emptied of its throng,
And ended, all alike, grief, mirth, love, hate, and wrong.

4

But wrong, and hate, and love, and grief, and mirth
Will quicken soon; and hard, hot toil and strife,
With headlong purpose, shake the sleeping earth
With discord strange, and all that man calls life.
With thousand scattered beauties Nature's rife;
And airs, and woods, and streams breathe harmonies:—
Man weds not these, but taketh art to wife;
Nor binds his heart with soft and kindly ties:—
He feverish, blinded, lives, and feverish, sated, dies.

5

It is because man useth so amiss
Her dearest blessings, Nature seemeth sad;
Else why should she in such fresh hour as this
Not lift the veil, in revelation glad,
From her fair face?—It is that man is mad!
Then chide me not, clear Star, that I repine,
When Nature grieves; nor deem this heart is bad.
Thou look'st toward earth; but yet the heavens are thine;
While I to earth am bound:—When will the heavens be mine?

141

6

If man would but his finer nature learn,
And not in life fantastic lose the sense
Of simpler things; could Nature's features stern
Teach him be thoughtful, then, with soul intense,
I should not yearn for God to take me hence,
But bear my lot, albeit in spirit bowed,
Remembering humbly why it is, and whence:
But when I see cold man of reason proud,
My solitude is sad,—I'm lonely in the crowd.

7

But not for this alone the silent tear
Steals to mine eyes, while looking on the morn,
Nor for this solemn hour: fresh life is near;
But all my joys,—they died when newly born.
Thousands will wake to joy; while I, forlorn,
And like the stricken deer, with sickly eye
Shall see them pass. Breathe calm,—my spirit's torn;
Ye holy thoughts, lift up my soul on high!
Ye hopes of things unseen, the far-off world bring nigh!

8

And when I grieve, O, rather let it be
That I,—whom Nature taught to sit with her
On her proud mountains, by her rolling sea,—
Who, when the winds are up, with mighty stir
Of woods and waters, feel the quickening spur
To my strong spirit,—who, as my own child,
Do love the flower, and in the ragged bur
A beauty see,—that I this mother mild
Should leave, and go with care, and passions fierce and wild!

142

9

How suddenly that straight and glittering shaft
Shot 'thwart the earth! In crown of living fire
Up comes the Day! As if they conscious quaffed
The sunny flood, hill, forest, city, spire,
Laugh in the wakening light.—Go, vain desire!
The dusky lights are gone; go thou thy way!
And pining discontent, like them, expire!
Be called my chamber Peace, when ends the day;
And let me with the dawn, like Pilgrim, sing and pray.

143

NOTES.

Preface to “The First Edition of the Poems.”—The felicity and truth of the Lord Byron's expression, in relation to the octo-syllabic verse, (quoted by me in the last paragraph but one of the Preface,) left that expression impressed upon my mind after the exception made by him was so far forgotten, that, when reminded of it by some newspaper notice of my poems. I knew not where to turn to in Byron for the passage. Having since found it, I give it entire:—“Scott alone, of the present generation, has hitherto completely triumphed over the fatal facility of the octo-syllabic verse; and this is not the least victory of his fertile and mighty genius.”

After this opinion from a great modern master of English verse respecting that wonderful man, it may be thought that it would have become me better to have altogether omitted, at this time, the passage in the Preface. And I would gladly have done so, could I have done it honestly after my oversight, and while my convictions remained unchanged. The newspaper notice to which I have referred, and which the passage in Byron has kept in my mind, insinuates, if I rightly recollect, that I used so much of Byron as made for my opinion, and purposely omitted the rest. Had the writer of that article known me, he would not have said this; and, not knowing me, he should not have presumed it.

As this is a question of fair-dealing with the reader, I need make no apology for the length of the note.

Page 8, stanza 14.—In that passage in Lycidas, which fills us with such awe, Milton says:—

“The great Vision of the guarded mount
Looks towards Namancos and Bayona's hold.”

144

Although the cases are not quite parallel, I hope I shall not be thought extravagant in calling upon old Merlin to

“Hear the shout from Spain.”

Page 60.—It has been suggested to me that my allusion to the story of “Pedler Stout” may not be understood by those born since my nursery days. Were it not too long, I would insert it here, for the benefit of such persons. The effect which the Pedler's treatment had upon the little egg-woman, (the nature of which treatment my allusion will sufficiently explain,) in leading her to question herself upon her personal identity; the means which she took to solve so important a question: and the melancholy conclusion to which these brought her, that she was not herself, or, to use her own words,— “Sure, this is none of I!”— all serve to render it, not only a tale of deep interest to the general reader, but also one well worthy the study of philosophers in the high matters of Self-consciousness and the Ego, at the present day.