Rhymes of travel, ballads and poems | ||
I.
Rhymes of Travel.
Adè nun, ihr Lieben, geschieden muss sein;
Adè nun, ihr Berge, du väterlich Haus,
Es treibt nach der Ferne mich mächtig hinaus.
Justinus Kerner.
THE POET'S AMBITION
A THOUGHT IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY.
Leads on to guilt and wrong,
Moves the pale monarch of the deathless Lyre—
The laureled lord of Song!
Of armies overthrown;
When pæans thunder from cathedral bells,
Drowning the captive's groan.
Along his glorious march;—
For him no blazoned banners flaunt the skies—
Stands no triumphal arch!
Born of his gift divine;
Whose stars forever shine.
To which his bright words stole,
And breathed the solace of his godlike art,
As to a brother-soul!
He gives a voice sublime—
And prophet-thoughts, whose lightning pinions go
Beyond the shores of Time!
He holds eternal sway;
What king sate ever on a prouder throne,
With vassals such as they?
TO ONE AFAR.
I.
The glorious landscape lay below,No more in Fancy's dreaming seen—
But, basking in the Autumn glow
Stood town and tower and forest green;
Beneath, the sounding Neckar rolled
Through hills which bore him purple wine,
And glimmered like a chain of gold,
Through the dim haze, the winding Rhine!
In breezeless rest, the fisher's sail
Gleamed idly downward with the tide,
And songs of peasants in the vale
Came faintly up the mountain side:
In the blue dimness of the air,
A vague, sweet sense of lingering sound,
Like echoes of the chimes of prayer,
Hallowed the beauty-haunted ground—
Lulled by that faint, ethereal strain,
I lay amid the heather flowers
Listening its echoes in my brain;
While, as the slow vibrations died,
My soul went back the Past on Memory's lapsing tide.
II.
Again my timid childhood came,And boyhood's struggling, doubt and tears,
Where one dear hope illumed thy name,
Belovèd of my early years!
And trembled o'er the soul's deep chords
Sweet memories of their earliest tone—
The music of thy gentle words,
The deep devotion of my own!
I heard thy tender, low replies,
Beside the rose's breathing bower,
When o'er us hung the moonlit skies
And angels blest our trysting hour!
I felt the dewy winds, whose kiss
Cooled the quick pulses of my brow,
When thrilling with the voiceless bliss
Of being loved by such as thou—
When o'er the cloudy doubts above
Stood broad and bright the glorious rainbow—Love!
III.
The hope which yearned for thee afar,The boyish worship, treasured long,
Dawned on my heart—a morning star
Before the rising orb of Song!
And the lone stream and solemn grove
That knew my spirit's gloom and glee,
Learned the dear secret of my love,
Till all their music spoke of thee!
On the calm midnight's breezy tide
Came the sweet breath of flowers afar;
The sentries of the forest sighed—
On the stream's bosom throbbed the star!
Low murmurs from the holy skies
Haunted, like song, the dreamy air,
And from my heart, the fond replies
Awoke prophetic echoes there;
For boyhood's prayer foretold the hour,
When with fulfillment came the blessing and the power!
IV.
I know not how the world may love—How, in a thousand hearts, the fire
May seem descended from above,
And yet in ashy gloom expire;
The lip may speak its holiest vow,
Yet shadows dim the spirit's truth
And pride and coldness change the brow;
I only know, how, from the mist
Of childhood's dreams, thine image grew—
A flower by Passion's sunbeams kissed
And fed by Hope's perpetual dew!
I only know how dear a worth
This restless being wins through thee,
Within whose sunshine, o'er the earth,
All beauty lives eternally!
And if my lays, in after-time,
Should win men's love,—the holiest fame;
If Sorrow's gifts of sweetest rhyme
Should brighten round my humble name—
Thy soul will light my footsteps on,
Up the long path of toil and tears,
And share with me the glory won—
Belovèd of my early years!
STARLIGHT IN THE ODENWALD.
The Odenwald, or Forest of Odin, one of the loneliest and wildest
mountain districts of Germany, is little known to foreign tourists. Lying
eastward of the celebrated road from Frankfort to Heidelberg, a wooded
chain of lofty hills separates it from the great plain of the Rhine, and the
Main and Neckar rivers, frequented in summer for the picturesque beauty
of their scenery, only touch its eastern and southern boundaries. In its
deep, secluded valleys, threaded by the clearest of streams and overhung
by mountains of pine where the deer and wild boar are still hunted by the
Counts of Erbach, dwell a rude and simple people, who retain with little
change the customs of three centuries past, and preserve a sincere faith
in the traditions of former times. Among these hills are the crumbling
ruins of Snellert and Rodenstein, between which the Wild Huntsman is
still chased by his pack of demon hounds, at the approach of war. Here
also is the Giant's Column, a massive relic of the old Teuton races, buried
in a wild wood, at the foot of the “Sea of Rocks.” It was on the top
of the Musau Height, a lonely ridge which the author crossed at nightfall,
that the poem was composed.
The Odenwald, or Forest of Odin, one of the loneliest and wildest mountain districts of Germany, is little known to foreign tourists. Lying eastward of the celebrated road from Frankfort to Heidelberg, a wooded chain of lofty hills separates it from the great plain of the Rhine, and the Main and Neckar rivers, frequented in summer for the picturesque beauty of their scenery, only touch its eastern and southern boundaries. In its deep, secluded valleys, threaded by the clearest of streams and overhung by mountains of pine where the deer and wild boar are still hunted by the Counts of Erbach, dwell a rude and simple people, who retain with little change the customs of three centuries past, and preserve a sincere faith in the traditions of former times. Among these hills are the crumbling ruins of Snellert and Rodenstein, between which the Wild Huntsman is still chased by his pack of demon hounds, at the approach of war. Here also is the Giant's Column, a massive relic of the old Teuton races, buried in a wild wood, at the foot of the “Sea of Rocks.” It was on the top of the Musau Height, a lonely ridge which the author crossed at nightfall, that the poem was composed.
There lingers still a glow,
But twilight's gathering gloom has drest
The valleys far below;
No wild wind sways the mountain pine,
No breeze bends down the flower,
And dim and faint the star-beams shine
Upon the vesper hour.
I breathe the upper air,
And hear the low, sad voice of Night,
Inviting Earth to prayer!
Still deeper through the wide profound
The solemn shadows fall,
And rest upon the hills around
Like Nature's funeral pall.
In blended evening-hymn,
The chime of many a distant bell
From valleys deep and dim;
And as they fall, the warder-star
That guards the twilight pale,
Looks o'er the eastern hills afar
And dons his silver mail.
The rosy glow is gone,
And westward, towards my native land,
The sunset marches on!
Ye stars, with whose familiar glance
My thoughts are mingling free,
Shine, glimmering o'er the wide expanse,
And bear them home for me!
But to my spirit-ear
Kind voices float upon the air—
Fond eyes are beaming near.
The love, whose pinions never rest,
Soars, constant, o'er the sea,
And by the thrill within my breast
I know they speak of me!
Melts in the dew of tears,
And yielding to its spell of power
I muse on vanished years,
Till through the gloom, no more is heard
The solemn evening-chime,
And mourn the pine-boughs, faintly stirred,
The hurrying march of Time.
A SONG AT DUSK.
I.
Oh, gloomy up the welkin's archThe night in clouds comes striding on,
And gathers Time, on tireless march,
Another day to myriads gone!
The sun, that in his gray robe drest,
Stole down the veiled and dark'ning sky,
Yet shines behind the clouded West,
Where the green hills of childhood lie;
My heart goes with him o'er the sea,
To gaze, with all his beams, on thee!
II.
Turbid and dark with melted snows,The restless waters by me sweep
Impatient, to their parent deep;
But when the chafing shores are gone
And the blue ocean-wastes expand,
Perchance some storm will bear them on
To break upon my Fatherland!
With them careering, fast and free,
My heart speeds homeward, love, to thee!
III.
I hear the winds of evening moanThrough ivied towers, decayed and old,
Waving their tresses o'er the stone
In desolation, doubly cold;
Yet when o'er thousand leagues they blow,
Beyond this twilight's dusky line,
Their wings may stoop to waken low
The music of our trysting pine,
And, sighing with them in the tree,
My heart would whisper, love, to thee.
THE CRUSADES.
In the Imperial Armory at Vienna, are still to be seen the hat, sword, and breast-plate of Godfrey of Bouillon, the Crusader-king of Jerusalem, and the tattered fragments of the banners planted by his knights on the walls of the Holy City. Some of the shreds, cut by lances and mouldering away by age, retain outlines of the Red Cross and the Virgin and Child.
And Godfrey's falchion rusts in dull repose,
That pierced the war-cloud with its crimson flashes,
And clove the helmets of his swarthy foes;
These standards once led Europe's knights undaunted,
Their folds upon the winds of Syria flung,
As over plains by holy memories haunted
Their hymns of faith the pilgrim-warriors sung.
With dews from soft Judean skies was wet;
Those plumes have waved beside Bethesda's fountain,
And stood with Godfrey on Mount Olivet!
And once the banners, now all rent and shivered,
Waved on the holy walls from Moslems won,
Or by the Lion-hearted king have quivered,
Upon the sands of fated Ascalon!
Thrilled through my boyish soul, come back again,
As when the blood unto my brow hath started
At thought of battle on the Syrian plain—
When Richard's glory fired my young ambition,
In sweeping charge to break th' embattled line,
And oft I saw, in dream-enraptured vision,
The deep-blue heaven that burns o'er Palestine!
The spell that bound them in the wondrous Past,
For, long ere this, had other voices spoken,
Nor leaped my heart unto that clarion-blast.
All dust and ruin, let those ages moulder
Like these rent banners crumbling on the wall;
The Earth learns wisdom as she waxes older—
The proudest glory of the Past shall fall!
Shall knights anointed crowd the battle-sod,
But Earth itself, which God created holy,
And now so long by unbelievers trod!
For Earth, where, Freedom's sepulchre profaning,
A brood of tyrants laugh at Mankind's loss,
They vow to fight, till Wrong's pale crescent, waning,
Forever yield to Freedom's hallowed cross!
No dreams of battles on Judea's strand!
The world has need of many a Lion-hearted,
And Truth is gathering her Crusader-band.
I seize the blade the lofty cause will hallow,
And swing the banner in the light of morn,
Through the long march of Life the cross to follow,
Which martyred Freedom's holy hands have borne!
Oppression's armies o'er the groaning Earth,
When from the foe her sepulchre is wrested,
And the raised tombstone lets the captive forth,
Will she arise, in beauty such as never
Dawned on the Poet's most ecstatic dream—
A blessing that the soul will clasp forever—
A world renewed in God's eternal beam!
TO MY MOTHER.
That bends, dear mother! o'er thy child,
And cloudy masses, wild and high,
In the night-heaven are piled.
I hear the swift wings of the blast,
Whose rainy cisterns, poured around,
Fall drearily and fast.
The glimmering lights of Florence shine,
And wintry gusts, incessant, sweep
The shrouded Appenine.
Gone is the pomp Day spreads around—
Lost are the vales and seas of light
In storm and mingling sound!
I hear the rush of well-known floods;
The rattling of the rain I hear,
Through gray, primeval woods.
Where all the haunts of boyhood stand;
To-night the sea's wide waste is passed—
I walk my native land!
Dear mother! and I seem to feel
The glow of childhood o'er my brow
And through my bosom steal.
I clung for safety to thy side,
When shadows of the thunder-shower
Hung o'er the meadows wide.
Which filled my soul in autumn hours,
When forest-leaves fell like this rain
And hid the dying flowers.
How the wet boughs by storms are tost,
Till all the woods are lost.
I couch on mosses, warm and soft,
Or, lulled by beat of myriad drops,
Dream in the dusky loft.
I walk amid the world of men,
And childhood's soul must learn a lore
It ne'er foreboded then.
Shall find thy love a sheltering bough,
And there with holier trust shall cling
To all it worships now.
IMPATIENCE.
This poem was written under the pressure of somewhat trying circumstances, and from the impulse of an impatient spirit. It has been retained for the lesson it bears to the author, rather than any poetic merit.
That the feeling which it expresses is not habitual with him, is shown by
the poem which succeeds it.
This poem was written under the pressure of somewhat trying circumstances, and from the impulse of an impatient spirit. It has been retained for the lesson it bears to the author, rather than any poetic merit. That the feeling which it expresses is not habitual with him, is shown by the poem which succeeds it.
Ye boding shadows, that upon me rest!
Let but a wave from Morn's o'erflowing springs
Steal in upon the bound and struggling breast,
That like a half-fledged bird, impatient sings,
Beating its weary nest!
Unknown, and scorned perhaps, amid the throng—
The curse of want, twin with mistrust, to know,
That mocks the pride of ever-soaring song,
And drags the soul revolting down, to grow
Familiarized with wrong?
The spirit's manhood made a thing of scorn?
To conquer Pride's restraining voice, and kneel
But must the gathered shadows still conceal
The mounting rays of morn?
Thrill, tremble with their new-awakened might,
'Tis hard to view afar the shining goal
And grope beneath in slow-receding night;
But harder yet, when hostile fates control
Life's common beams of light.
Acknowledged, known at last, would calm the brain,
And for the world, the bright and lavish dower
Of thoughts, long-hoarded, were not given in vain;
But oh, how long must clouds, low-brooding, lower,
And noteless rise the strain?
ASPIRATION.
My soul from the night of its boding emerges,
Lifting its front to Life's sorrows, unveering—
Boldly as thou to the mad wind's careering!
Buried on shores that have vanished forever!
My soul gathers nerve as the billows grow frantic:
There's strength in thy heaving, oh stormy Atlantic!
I see the dim land of the Mind's new creation;
Looming sublime as a cloud-hidden summit,
That stands in an ocean unsounded by plummet!
Feeling the breath of Eternity near it—
Walking with bards through the spaces Elysian,
Where God only baffles their grandeur of vision!
II.
Picturesque Ballads of California.
Away we go!
Through fire and snow,
And rivers, whereto
All others are rills.
Through lands of silver,
And lands of gold;
Through lands untrodden
And lands untold!”
Festus.
[Three of of the ballads which follow, originally appeared in the Literary World, under fictitious initials, and accompanied by a letter dated from St. Louis, in which it was stated that they had been translated from the rude songs of California, by a Western naturalist who had resided on the Pacific Coast. This ruse, however, was only partially successful; they were attributed by journals in other cities, to Mr. Hoffman, then Editor of the Literary World, and frequently published under his name. Several other ballads having since been written, the author now corrects this error, so flattering to himself, and gives them together to the public.]
EL CANALO.
El Canalo, or the cinnamon-colored, is the name of the choicest breed of the Californian horse. These animals are capable of extraordinary speed and endurance, and between them and their riders exists the same constant friendship which characterizes the Arab and his steed. The noted ride of Col. Fremont from Pueblo de los Angeles to Monterey furnishes an evidence of what these horses have accomplished.
Down in the flowery vega, is stirring through the corn;
The thin smoke of the ranches grows red with coming day,
And the steed's impatient stamping is eager for the way!
Thy slender ears pricked forward, thy nostril straining wide;
And as thy quick neigh greets me, and I catch thee by the mane,
I'm off with the winds of morning—the chieftain of the plain!
From the flinty-paved sierra, the sparks go streaming back;
Where the red guerilla watches for many a lonely mile!
We've passed the bleak Nevada, and Tulé's icy stream;
But where, on sweeping gallop, my bullet backward sped,
The keen-eyed mountain vultures will circle o'er the dead!
From peaks upholding heaven, from deserts far below—
We've thundered through the forest, while the crackling branches rang,
And trooping elks, affrighted, from lair and covert sprang!
The baying wolves of Pinos, that panted with the chase;
And still thy mane streams backward, at every thrilling bound,
And still thy measured hoof-stroke beats with its morning sound!
And like a sheathless sabre, the far Pacific shines;
Thy hot and smoking haunches beneath his silver wave!
We'll sleep as trusty brothers, from out the mountain land;
The pines will sound in answer to the surges on the shore,
And in our dreams, Canalo, we'll make the journey o'er!
RIO SACRAMENTO.
Down the rough Nevada foaming,
Fain my heart would join thy water
In its glad, impetuous roaming,
For thy valley's fairest daughter
Watches oft to see thee coming!
From the shining threads that wove thee—
From the mountain woods that darken
All the mountain heaven above thee,
Teach her ear thy song to hearken
And, for what it says, to love thee!
Lead me downward to the glory
Of thy green and flowery meadows;
I will leave the deserts hoary,
And my love's impassioned story.
Every dancing rainbow broken
When thy falling waves are shattered,
Is a glad and beckoning token
Of the hopes so warmly scattered
And the vows that we have spoken!
She, beside thee, waits my coming;
Teach my step thy bounding fleetness,
Towards the bower of beauty roaming,
Where she stands, in maiden sweetness,
Gazing idly on thy foaming!
THE LAY OF LAS PALMAS.
A LEGEND OF OLD CALIFORNIA.
Over the waters,
Fronting the sunset
Lingered the maid;
Below, through the flashing
Of blue billows dashing,
Glided the shallop
Storms had delayed!
On the keel grated,
Leaped the young boatman
Shoreward amain;
And in the blessing
Of love's quick caressing,
Soon were forgotten
Peril and pain.
Low in the twilight;
Night on the waters
Deepened afar;
Under their cover
Clasped she her lover,
While their hearts' throbbings
Answered each star!
Under the palm-trees—
Dark was the midnight
When he had gone!
Tempests uprisen
Burst their cloud-prison;
Under their lightnings, burned
Dimly the dawn.
Rent by the red bolt,
While its lone brother
Sighed in the gale:
Shattered the shallop
Sank in the surges;
Wild was the maiden's
Desolate wail!
Palm of the summit;
Faded the maiden's
Life with its own:
Now on the rocky
Front of Las Palmas,
Mourn the wild sea-gusts,
Drear and alone.
III.
Life-Tones.
Glisse de corde en corde, arrachant á la fois
A chaque corde une ame, á chaque ame une voix!”
Lamartine.
THE ENCHANTED KNIGHT.
The dreams it has sighed for long,
I mused o'er the charmed, romantic leaves
Of a book of German Song.
Ride out to the feudal fray;
I heard the ring of meeting swords
And the Minnesinger's lay!
Went the Erl-king with a moan,
Where the wizard willow o'erhung the stream
And the spectral moonlight shone.
In harness and helmet bright,
Through a wood where hostile elves abode,
In the glimmering noon of night.
Amid the shadows far,
And a misty stream, from the mountain side,
Dropped like a silver star.
And quaffed from his helm unbound;
Then a mystic trance o'er his spirit crept
And he sank to the elfin ground.
By the faery spell possessed,
His head sunk down, and his gray beard rolled
On the rust of his armèd breast!
And the crashing thunder fell,
He raised the sword from its mould'ring ease
And strove to burst the spell.
Like a knight to the field of foes,
Drink of the chill world's tempting tides
And sink to a charmed repose.
Will die in the frozen breast—
Be charmed to a palsied rest!
The chill of that torpor's breath;
The slumbering soul shall be wakened first
By the Disenchanter, Death!
GAUTAMA'S SONG OF REST.
The Hindoo philosopher Gautama, now worshiped under the name of
Buddha, lived in the fifth century before Christ. He taught the unity of
God and Nature, or rather, that the physical and spiritual worlds are merely
different conditions of an Eternal Being. In the spiritual state, this Being
exists in perfect and blissful rest, whose emanations and overflowings enter
the visible world, first in the lowest forms of nature, but rising through
gradual and progressive changes till they reach man, who returns after
death to the original rest and beatitude.
The Hindoo philosopher Gautama, now worshiped under the name of Buddha, lived in the fifth century before Christ. He taught the unity of God and Nature, or rather, that the physical and spiritual worlds are merely different conditions of an Eternal Being. In the spiritual state, this Being exists in perfect and blissful rest, whose emanations and overflowings enter the visible world, first in the lowest forms of nature, but rising through gradual and progressive changes till they reach man, who returns after death to the original rest and beatitude.
Ere Thy last toils on this worn being close,
And trembling with its sudden glory-birth,
Its wings are folded in the lost repose!
Through weary wastes of labor and of pain,
Where the soul falters, as its Paradise
In far-off mirage fades and flies again.
The quickening glories of Thy slumber shine,
Kindling to birth the lifeless world's alloy,
Till its dead bosom bears a seed divine.
Which now to meet its near Elysium burns;
Through toilsome ages, circling toward Repose,
The sphere of Being on its axle turns!
Through many-changed existence, up to Man,
The sighing airs of scented Ceylon blow,
And desert whirlwinds whelm the caravan.
It moves forever in the heaving tide;
And, throned on giant Himalaya's steep,
It hurls the crashing avalanche down his side!
Bursting in thunder rock-bound hills apart,
And the deep globe itself, complains to bear
The earthquake beatings of its mighty heart!
And in their caverns swoon the winds away,
A thousand germs break through the yielding soil,
And bees and blossoms charm the drowsy day.
Sick for the far-off rest, the work goes on
In deep old forests, like a silent dream,
And sparry caves, that never knew the dawn.
The struggling atoms rise in Nature's plan,
Till lowliest being finds its bloom in Man!
The gathered burdens of existence rest,
And like a sea whose surges never cease
Heaves with its care the weary human breast.
Break the worn band, and wide thy portals roll!
With silent glory flood the solemn hour
When star-eyed slumber welcomes back the soul!
Like some rich blossom drunk with noontide's beam,
Or the wild bliss of music, sent to crown
The wakening moment of a midnight dream.
Stirs not a trembling wave, to break the rest;
But fragrance, and the silent sense of prayer,
Charm the eternal slumber of the Blest!
THE SOUL'S SONG OF ACTION.
Widening forward and forever through eternities of space,
Moves the human soul in longings and in thought and deed sublime,
On from summit unto summit, o'er the solemn hills of Time!
From the sun's o'erbrimming chalice on the thirsty gloom to pour,
And the spirit-planet darkens in its orbit blind and chill,
When its flaming wings are folded and its pulse of lightning still.
But with thrills of power and glory, goes the spirit to its toil—
Like the throbbing of the firefly for the lustre of the star!
Beating vainly for the freedom of the far empyreal air;
But above Earth's wail and struggling, like a trumpet in the van,
Through the dim and listening ages, speaks the Destiny of Man!
Filled with deep, resistless longing, when the fading beams depart—
When the holy shadows gather and the stars are in the sky,
And a saddened fire of feeling kindles in the dewy eye.
On the forest's branching columns, on its broken foliage-walls—
Comes that starry presence nearer, hushing all the fearful air,
Till the soul has prophet-glimpses of the glory it shall wear.
Outward types of weary toiling—are its oracles revealed;
But in shadows and in whispers from the void and vast Unknown,
And in thoughts whose holy beauty seems to come from God alone.
As if that sublime existence were foreshadowēd unto this;
And the spirit, onward speeding, to the summit yet untrod,
Sees the shining path of angels leading upward unto God.
Rests its purer gaze, rejoicing, on the shores of better lands;
In the Night it triumphed over, lie the fetters it has worn,
And it floats with wing unshackled on the golden tides of morn!
Adding realms of conquered Darkness to the wide dominion won:
There the lore of Truth Eternal shall the angel-mind employ,
And in active being blossom the immortal flowers of Joy!
AN AUTUMN THOUGHT.
And hides the heaven of blue,
Save where a dim and lonely ray is stealing
The twining branches through.
To prop the mighty hall;
Nought breaks the silence, undisturbed and solemn,
Save when the dry leaves fall.
Alone I tread its floor;
What joy, to feel a purer thought upspringing,
Within the wood once more!
Come to my side again,
And by their presence is my soul rewarded
For many an hour of pain.
May be with sadness fraught,
Yet, wandering through her long pavilions faded,
I read a joyous thought.
Fall like this forest-rain;
But, the stern winter of Misfortune over,
They bloom as fresh again!
Beneath some frosty care,
But many a bud which Sorrow learned to cherish
Will bloom again as fair.
That beamed on Childhood's brow,
And when thy soul Life's Autumn shall inherit,
Thou shalt rejoice as now!
UPWARD!
Silence awhile, 'tis but the hour of birth!
Spurn not impatiently the mind's control,
Nor seek the clouds ere ye have looked on earth!
Still your strong beating till the day has gone
And starry eve comes on!
With fearless wing the snow-crowned hills above,
Where the strong eagle scarcely dares to fly
And the cloud-armies thunder as they rove—
Make in the solitude of storms your path
And tempt the lightning's wrath?
Till the first feebleness of youth is o'er,
In the bright Present, and desire no more?
Lulled among blossoms, down Life's morning stream
Glide, in Elysian dream?
Hopes unfulfilled and glory yet afar,
Vague, restless longings, that would seek the skies,
And back in flame come like a falling star.
I hear ye in the heart's loud beating seek
A voice wherewith to speak.
Find on the earth the freedom they desire?
Can the strong spirit fold its pinions here
And give to joy the utterance of its lyre?
Can the fledged eaglet, born where sunbeams burn,
Back into darkness turn?
Through realms undarkened by the breath of sin,
Dare in its earliest flight the trackless deep,
Nor faint and feebly on the earth begin—
Mount as a soaring lark, in morning's glow,
And leave the mists below?
Is God-given Truth and brother-love of man;
Who builds in hearts the altars of his fame,
And ends in love what sympathy began.
Spirit, ascend! though far thy flight may be,
God then is nearer thee.
IV.
Miscellaneous Poems.
That we must ever wonder how and whence
It came.”
Keats.
“LITTLE PAUL.”
With a sudden gush of joy,
Where, upon his bed of weakness,
Lay the dying little boy.
On the rising airs of Evening
Balmy sounds of Summer came,
And a Voice amid their music
Seemed to call him by his name:
And the golden waves were dancing
On the flooded chamber-wall—
On the sunny hair of Florence
And the brow of little Paul!
Ebbed again into the sky,
Passed the faint hue from his features
And the lustre from his eye;
As if up the rosy surges
Of that shining river's flow,
Who had claimed it long ago!
Fonder still, and full of yearning,
Seemed to come her gentle call,
And the throb of life grew fainter
In the heart of little Paul!
Like a link around him lay,
Chaining back his fluttering spirit
To the love which was its stay;
And his own weak arms were folded
In a clinging, dear embrace,
Till his cheek and dewy forehead
Rested gently on her face.
Slowly sank his weary eyelids;
One faint breathing—that was all,
And no more the kiss of Florence
Thrilled the lips of little Paul!
RE-UNION.
FROM THE GERMAN OF KARL CHRISTIAN TENNER.
Sit father and mother and boy;
So fondly in love united,
Their hearts run over with joy.
What may the knocking be?
Knocking and quietly calling:
“Come, father, come to me!”
Struggles with fevered pain,
Clasping the mournful mother
And trembling child in vain.
What may the knocking be?
“Come, mother, come to me!”
Holdeth the boy to her heart,
Closely and warm, as if never
Her fond embrace would part.
In the leaves of the threshold-tree,
Sadly and quietly calling:
“Come, brother, come to me!”
The boy in the fading beam;
And, folding his small hands meekly,
He sinks to a peaceful dream.
'Tis silent, as ne'er before:
There echo the dear home-voices
From lips of love no more.
The night-wind, cold and wild,
Sweeps over the gleaming grave-stones
Of father and mother and child.
FREEDOM.
Is there no haven, where the heart may restIn the warm folding of its love and truth?
No prairie freedom, where the steed of Youth
Careers at will, by Life's strong curb unprest,
Nor spurred to foam by hot Necessity?
Dare the great soul a lavish largess take
Of Being, and its own brave journey make
O'er grandest hills and by the loudest sea?
Alas! a cruel hand is at the rein,
And the fair heights whose summits lie so near,
In the thick dust of travel disappear,
And the fierce spirit chafes its curb of pain;—
Yet, having thee, all this the heart may dare,
In the unbounded freedom of Love's air.
EVIL.
O Power of Evil, whatsoe'er thou art,What if I shudder with a freezing dread,
When, heralded by no far-coming tread,
I feel thy sudden shadow on my heart?
What if my being, with a shrinking start,
Cries through the darkness, when thy mocking laugh
Readest each broken Hope's sad epitaph?
Though in their ruin thou hast borne thy part,
They slumber yet in consecrated ground,
Watered by tears my better angel sheds,
And when my soul beneath their cypress treads,
Deem not thy fierce, dark whispers there may sound:
The Good which blessed me, in the very grave
Dug by thy hands, is mighty still to save!
THE DEMON OF THE MIRROR.
This poem was suggested by a ballad which appears in a volume of
modern Sicilian poetry, published at Naples in 1845. The author, Antonio Bisazza, is quite young, and unknown out of Italy. The plot of the
story has been materially changed in the present poem, and the language
bears no resemblance to the Italian. For the apparition in the mirror,
however, from which the whole story grew, I freely acknowledge my
indebtedness to the young Sicilian poet.
This poem was suggested by a ballad which appears in a volume of modern Sicilian poetry, published at Naples in 1845. The author, Antonio Bisazza, is quite young, and unknown out of Italy. The plot of the story has been materially changed in the present poem, and the language bears no resemblance to the Italian. For the apparition in the mirror, however, from which the whole story grew, I freely acknowledge my indebtedness to the young Sicilian poet.
On the sunny garden-side,
In a rare and rich pavilion
Sat the beautiful Sicilian—
Sat the Count Alberto's bride,
Musing sadly on his absence, in the balmy evening-tide.
Like her own delicious clime—
With the warmth and radiance showered
On its gardens, citron-bowered,
And its winds that woo in rhyme:
With its fiery tropic fervors, and its Etna-throes sublime!
Once a shepherd's humble child,
Who with tender hand was twining
Through her tresses, raven-shining,
And the Lady in the mirror saw their braided gleam, and smiled.
Swept her dark and glossy hair;
And the flash on Etna faded,
As Bianca slowly braided
With her fingers small and fair,
While a deeper shadow gathered o'er the chamber's scented air.
Spake the Lady not a word,
When, within its picture certain,
Slowly moved the silken curtain,
Though the breezes had not stirred,
And its faintly falling rustle on the marble was unheard.
Came a strange and sudden fear;
With a nameless, chill foreboding,
All her fiery spirit goading,
Listened she with straining ear;
Through the dusky laurel foliage, all was silent, far and near!
On the tesselated floor;
Yet she saw, with secret terror,
Count Alberto, in the mirror,
Stealing through the curtained door,
Like a fearful, shadowy spirit, whom a curse is hanging o'er.
Has he left the feast of pride—
Has he left the knightly tourney
For the happy homeward journey
And the greeting of his bride?
Coldly, darkly, in her bosom, the upspringing rapture died!
On the maid he softly smiled,
And the answering smile, and token
In her glowing blushes spoken,
Well betrayed the shepherd's child:
To her gaze, within the mirror, stood that picture dim and wild!
As he passed without a sound;
Died within the lonely chamber,
And the darkness gathered round,
While in passion's fierce delirium was the Lady's bosom bound.
In the twilight of the room,
And the thoughts, vibrating changeful
Through her spirit, grew revengeful
With their whisperings of doom:
Starting suddenly, she vanished far amid the deep'ning gloom.
Falls a timid, trembling gleam,
With a ruby radiance sparkling
On the rill that ripples darkling
Through the thicket, like a dream:
'Tis from out the secret chamber, where are met the Holy Vehm!
I am aware that the name of the Holy Vehm—that dreaded Order of the Middle Ages—belongs properly to Germany; but as branches of it were known to exist in Italy and Sicily, I have thought best to retain the title. The abject obedience to its laws, imposed by this Order on its members, made it one of the most powerful, and at the same time the most dreaded body, which sprang from conditions of society during that period.
Dark and grim, like sentries, stand;
Sits the gloomy Baron Otto,
Chieftain of the dreaded band,
Who in darkness and in secret ruled Sicilia's sunny land.
Sat the ministers of doom,
Came a step by terror fleetened,
And the dank, foul air was sweetened
With the orange-buds' perfume,
And the starry eyes of jewels shone amid the sullen gloom.
Sternly wrinkled was his brow;
“Why this sudden, strange intrusion
On the holy Vehm's seclusion?
Why thus madly comest thou,
Noble Lady, claiming vengeance from the Brothers of the Vow?”
Whom I dare to sue for aid:
Will a brother's dagger falter,
When the bridegroom from the altar
Hath his bosom's vow betrayed,
And the princely bride is slighted for a low-born peasant maid?”
Out into the starry air;
Cold the silence seemed, and dreary,
And the moments grew more weary,
While the Lady waited there
With a deep, uncertain anguish, which her spirit scarce could bear.
Madly battled in her brain;
All her bosom's passionate feeling
Struggled with the dread revealing,
Till her eyes o'ergushed in rain—
Then anon they flashed and kindled, and her soul grew stern again!
Nigh her fiery will had won—
When the silver lamp of Hesper
Twinkled through the silent vesper,
And their bosoms beat as one,
Thrilling o'er with too much fervor, like a blossom in the sun.
Through her heart's forsaken bowers;
And the spirit-voice was stifled,
Which would tell of tender hours;
Nevermore might second sunshine bid re-bloom its perished flowers!
Over all her pride and hate,
Like a stifling mist, that ever
Hangs above a burning river
With its dull and stagnant weight:
Slowly up the spectral Future crept the shadows of her fate.
And the midnight watch was o'er,
When her long suspense was broken
By a hasty watchword spoken,
And a dark form passed the door.
Blood was on his golden scabbard, and the sable robe he wore.
Have I done thy will aright!”
Then, upstarting from her languor,
Cried she, in returning anger:
Didst thou tear him from her clasping—strike him down before her sight?”
Where the tourney's torches shine—
In the gardens of the palace,
Did the green earth, from its chalice
Drink his bosom's brightest wine,
And the latest name that faltered on his dying lips, was thine!”
In its horror and despair,
As if life's last hold were started,
Ere the soul in torture parted,
Stood she, pale and shuddering there,
With her face of marble lifted in the cavern's noisome air.
On the mirror's surface thrown!
Not Alberto, but a demon,
Looked on her as on a leman,
And the guilt is mine alone!
Now that demon-shadow haunts me, and its curse is made my own!
Through the darkness, steadily;
And it holds a cloudy mirror,
Imaging that scene of terror,
Which was bloody death to thee!
Mocking now thy noble features, turns its fearful gaze on me!
How the demon features glow!
Ghastly shadows rise before me,
And the darkness gathers o'er me,
With its never-ending wo—
Now I feel, avenging spirits! how your spells of madness grow!”
Through the wood she fled afar,
Where the air was awed and fearful,
And between the boughs the tearful
Shining of a dewy star
Pierced alone the solid darkness which enclosed her as a bar.
From the crag and from the glen
Came those cries, the quiet breaking,
Till the shepherd dogs, awaking,
And the vintager, benighted, trembled on the distant plain.
Rang in castle, bower and hall;
Yet the shrieks, at midnight ringing,
Spoke the curse upon it clinging,
And they left it to its fall,
And an utter desolation slowly settled over all.
Livid shades begin to roll,
Tell the simple herdsman, daunted
By the twilight, terror-haunted,
How she felt the fiend's control,
And they sign the cross in saying—“God in mercy keep her soul!”
Rhymes of travel, ballads and poems | ||