Ximena ; or the battle of the Sierra Morena, and other poems ::

“I am a youthful traveler in the way.”
Henry Kirk White.

TO RUFUS W. GRISWOLD, As an Expression of Gratitude FOR THE KIND ENCOURAGEMENT HE HAS SHOWN THE AUTHOR, THIS VOLUME IS RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED.

XIMENA;

OR, THE BATTLE OF THE SIERRA MORENA.

Dark glooms the cloud o'er Spain's devoted land,
Gone is the glory that of old she wore;
The stern Hidalgo's halls no longer stand,
The minstrel's harp is vocal now no more,
And e'en an humble bard from that far shore
The weary Genoese toiled so long to gain,
Must sing, with stranger-tongue, her wondrous lore—
Must wake her slumbering lyre, perchance in vain,
Ere breaks the wave of Time, and Darkness rules again!

So much yet lingers still, her name around
Of wild romance, that Poesy loves to hear—
That stirs the soul, as doth the trumpet's sound,
'Till the dark Past seems living, breathing near;
He fain would weave one lay, tho' dry and sere
The laurel leaves he twines. Oh! for the fire
Of those old bards, who woke the smile or tear
By turns within their breasts who heard the lyre!
Alas! that such renown could with their names expire.

1. PART I.
THE MEETING.

Sunset upon Morena's hills?—
Day hath died in the vale below,
And the last faint beams on the leaping rills
And the forest pine-trees, softly glow!

The airy sweep of the white cascade,
That leaped, like a startled wood-nymph, down
From the beetling cliff to the sombre glade,
Where the iris fades in the shadows brown:
The feathery foliage, upward tost,
With mingling light and shadow crost—
The castled crags, that proudly rear
Their shattered turrets, wild and drear—
Glow in the last slow-fading ray—
The bright, the dying smile of day!
As soft and shadowy as the shore
Of that enchanted southern isle,
Which from his track the wanderer bore
And vanished, as a mist, the while.

Slow sank the sun—a darker shade
Fell on the mountain top, while strayed
Through the dim grove, the evening breeze,
And woke its low-breathed melodies.
On through the branches, twining high,
A thrilling sound floats gently by;
And one might deem the spirit forms
That strike the anthem of the storms,
With milder mood and softer tone
Descended in the twilight dim,
And 'round Earth's mountain-altar lone,
Had joined in Nature's vesper-hymn!

The sombre twilight's mantle brown
Upon the peak came slowly down;

A lingering ray of rosy light
Played for a while around its head,
Then slowly faded into night,
As if the mountain genii shed
A halo 'round their monarch's face
Ere darkness gave his first embrace!
Then with mild lustre, one by one,
Each star-king on his silver throne
Unveil'd again his watching light
Within the azure halls of Night.
The rising moon, with lustre meek
Looked o'er the farthest mountains peak,
When through the thick gloom came a maid,
Stealing along, as if afraid
E'en of the sound her light steps made!

Yet when she came from the grove's thick night
Out in the soft and starry light,
And backward threw her snowy veil,
And shone on her brow the moonbeam pale,
She seemed to be one of that fairy band
Whose chosen home is the soft cloud-land;
Who sport in the amber light of morn,
On its glowing wings through ether borne—
And make their home in the sunset's glow,
When fades the light from the earth below!
And 'mid the white folds of her veil
That to her beating breast she presses,
And floating 'round her forehead pale,
All darkly shine her raven tresses!

She glided on with a hurried tread,
And oft in fear she turned her head,
But heard no sound save the evening breeze
As it murmured through the arching trees,
Or the ceaseless chime of the dashing spray,
Where a stream, thro' the rude rocks, made its way.
A giant fir, whose rugged form
Had braved the lightning and the storm—
For many a day the mountain's pride—
Stood close the narrow path beside.
Within the gloom by its branches cast,
With a light and eager step she passed.

Down leaped, o'er crag and wild cascade,
O'er cliff and chasm and deep ravine,
A youth, in hunter's garb arrayed,
But yet of proud and lofty mien.
Not mountain chamois, winged with fear
And fleeing from the hunter's spear,
Sprung up Nevada's snowy side
With form more fleet and full of pride.
At last, beside the giant tree,
“Ximena!” softly whispered he.
She started up at that low sound,
Then saw the glitter of his crest
Through the twined boughs—a joyous bound—
And he had clasped her to his breast.

Earth's cares were then remembered not—
All worldly joy their hearts above;

The present's boding clouds forgot
Beneath the hallowed light of Love.
Oh! there are hours whose bliss outlives
The brightest smiles that Memory gives—
When the wild dreams that fill the breast,
Hopes, not unmixed with fear's alloy,
And calm, serene delights, seem prest
Into one bounding throb of joy!

And Nature's solemn hush around—
The drooping bough, the pale, dim ray,
While met their ears no earthly sound
Save the light streamlet's falling spray,
So mingled with the spirit's tone,
Its blissful visions hallowing,
That Love and Joy, 'twould seem, had flown
Their heavenly home on quivering wing,
To wake with high, yet calm control,
The music of the lyre of soul!

At length she raised her joy-dimmed eyes,
Which, from the stars whose splendours beam
Still brighter in the mountain skies,
Had caught their pure celestial gleam—
And first awaking silence there,
Her silver voice rose on the air.
“Gonsalvo, in my father's hall
The revel keeps till noon of night;
Till on yon crag the moonbeams fall,
He will not mark his daughter's flight.

And while brief space to us is given
I claim thy vow, made yester-even,
That I the fated deed should hear,
That made thy life so wild and drear!
And why this fastness thou didst seek,
And tread the wild Sierra's peak?
Then haste! the pale moon rises fast,
Haste! ere the midnight hour be past.”

“'Tis a wild tale: But yet 'tis well,
To thee, my stormy deeds to tell.
Two circling seasons scarce have past,
Since I from rank and wealth was cast,
And doomed to wander far from men
Nor seek my father's halls again.
My youth was passed in tumult wild,
I was a proud and wayward child;
My mind felt Passion's sway alone,
Where Reason should have reared her throne,
And when aroused, my vengeful ire
Was like the lava's scorching fire,
Withering all high and generous thought
Beneath the ruin it had wrought.

“One night around the festive board
The red wine was profusely poured,
And merry song and jest went 'round
That bade the lofty hall resound.
On helm and lance the torches shone,
The minstrel struck his blithest tone,

And it would seem that nought could break
The joyous mirth which brave hearts make,
When lance and helmet thrown aside,
They seek the halls of festive pride.

“Yet while all hearts with joy beat high
Unseen, a storm was lurking nigh,
Some hasty word aroused my ire,
I spoke in rude uncourteous tone
Which kindled up the contest higher,
Till Reason from my brain had flown,
And ere I scarce could think or feel,
His life-blood dimmed my flashing steel.
Need I tell more? I fled the hall,
But still remembrance, like a pall,
Hung darkly o'er my troubled soul
Through which no ray of sunshine stole.
Amid these wilds I refuge sought,
And here my soul a ray has caught
Of purer, higher, holier thought.
The hunter's rude and daring lot
Has tamed my spirit's haughty fire;
My lineage high is e'en forgot
And toil has calmed my flashing ire,
But in my breast there burns a flame,
Nor ill, nor sharpest wo, can tame.

“Full many a form of faultless grace,
A dark eye's glance, a soul-lit face

Have met my gaze in hall or bower;
Yet never, till that joyous hour,
When stricken by my hunter spear,
The wild wolf in his death-pang lay,
And thou, all trembling, pale with fear,
Could'st only clasp thy hands and pray,—
Did I Love's magic influence own,
Or breathed my soul's harp one sweet tone.

“As clouds that round the morning sky
Hang their dark drapery on high,
Gloomy and bleak and cheerless all—
Yet when the early sunbeams fall,
Their flaming banners are unrolled
From purple halls and towers of gold,
And seas of liquid amber glow
Where late the storm-cloud glided slow—
So fell the light of Love's soft power
Upon my soul in that sweet hour;
The strife that raged within my breast
Sank like the wave when twilight's star
Calms its wild heavings into rest,
With gentle influence from afar.
And changeless as yon planet's light,
Which beams, though clouds obscure the night
Is the deep love that fills my heart
Which time and change can never part.
Yet sometimes will that hour arise
In dark array, before my eyes,

And then the memory of my foe,
The young De Novo—”

“He? oh! no,”—
She almost shrieked; for while he spoke
No sound had from her pale lips broke,
But in her face and flashing eye
Was seen a deep anxiety.
But now a thought glanced o'er her brain,
And pale with doubt, she spoke again:

“De Novo! he for whom my sire
Had marked me as a fitting bride!
How canst thou hope to quell his ire,
Though loved by me o'er all beside?
For trust me, 'gainst his wish I strove,
But tears and prayers alike were vain,—
Nought could his rigid mandates move,
At length they told me he was slain!
Then fear my sire, whose vengeance proud,
Has long upon thy head been vowed,
Oh! like yon stream, whose genial wave
Bids leaning flowers its bosom lave,
Yet bears them from their stems away
When fierce and high its waters play—
My heart too fondly clings to bliss,
Too fondly dreams of love like this,
Till on the tide its hopes are borne,
Forever from the bosom torn!”

“But hear me still. Thou know'st me not;
For mine was once a splendid lot,
Nor fairer halls, nor loftier towers
Are found within this land of ours,
Than those o'er which my sire holds sway,
And whence, afar, unknown, I stray.
Nor am I yet unknown to Fame,
Though known to thee by humble name.
Hath thy sire told of a gallant knight,
Found with the brave, in hall or fight—
That few have battled for the free
Like Alvar Nunez? I am he!”

“Well do I know thee now!—thy name—
Though long hath it been yoked with shame:
But sure my sire with joy will greet
The knight who lays before his feet
The proudest name in Spain's broad land,
But to receive a maiden's hand.”

“Nay, love, thou dost forget; my name
Is sullied with a dark, deep crime;
I must retrieve my fallen fame,
And kindle glory's torch sublime;
By daring valour I must win
A title to efface the stain—
To wash away all trace of sin
My tried blade must unsheath again;
And Heaven be praised! the day is nigh,
When I the boon may win—or die!”

“From Mauritania's sultry coast
Approach the unbelieving host;
Cordova's walls their hordes receive
Thick as the marsh's gnats at eve,
And by the crystal Guadalquiver
At morn ascends the Moslem's prayer—
Beside the Darro's rushing river
His battle-shout peals on the air,
And lance and pennon brightly beam,
Reflected on the sparkling stream—
Beneath the cloudless sky of Spain,
From many a mosque and pagan fane
The Crescent banners proudly wave
Defiance to the Christian brave.
The Moor has come—from Spanish hills—
By wild Nevada's mountain rills—
From stranger-lands beyond the sea—
The burning plains of Araby,
And where the red-cross standards shine
Beneath the skies of Palestine!—
Mournenin is their chieftain old,
A pagan bigot, stern and cold,
Who like the tempest's bursting wrath,
With havoc marks his onward path.

“Nor doth our monarch toil in vain;
Castile sends up from every plain
Her hardy warriors, stout and bold,
And every shadowy Lusian wold
That bends o'er Ebro's winding wave,
Echoes the war-cry of the brave,

And where the stormy Pyrenees
Lift high to heaven their glittering spears,
The wolf hears, borne upon the breeze,
The sound of gathering mountaineers,
And seeks the forest's dark profound,
Scared by the wild, unwelcome sound.
On yonder dark Sierra's side,
The final conflict will be tried,
And all my heart and arm can do,
I'll dare, to win my name and thee;
To thy pure love forever true,
From crime and shame forever free!”

Yet while he spoke, unconsciously,
The rising moon wheeled up the sky,
And streaming down the dusky dell,
Upon the signal-crag it fell.
A chance ray glimmering through the bough,
Fell softly on her lifted brow,
As with a full, foreboding heart,
She turned in sadness to depart,
Yet Alvar saw within her eye,
A deep, abiding constancy—
A high resolve, no fear could cover,
But firm as were the rocks above her.
“Time with his moonbeam pencil, tells
The midnight hour at last has come,
And festive music faintly swells,
Where shines afar, my sire's proud home;
But think, where swells the battle-shout,
And trumpets peal in glory out,

One heart is thine, forever true,
And strike to win it. Now adieu!”

She paused. One clasp of hands were given—
One burning kiss upon her brow;
One farewell word—oh! she had striven
Against her fears most nobly; now
The soul resumed its former tone,
And tears burst forth—she was alone!
And who might tell, within her breast,
What doubts, what hopes and fears, had rest?
What mingled feelings wildly stole
Like tempests through her troubled soul?
How strong her trust, how deep her prayer,
Or what her constant love might dare?

He bounded up the mountain side;
But still she looked with eager eyes,
And when the last faint echo died
And nought was seen but hills and skies,
Cold and unconscious down she sank
Upon the dewy streamlet bank.

Oh! a sunny gleam upon youth's bright page,
That glows through the deepening gloom of age,
Is the bliss of a pure and holy love,
A fadeless light from the flame above.
And ever the soul, from sorrow's track,
Will fondly turn to the loved one back,

And oft, as it wearies of life's dull play,
And holier feelings around it stray,—
Will he seek through the silent lapse of Time
The wild romance of his youthful prime,
And gather the beams that around it glow
To nerve his way through this vale of wo!

2. PART II.
THE BATTLE.

“Shout for the spears of Spain!
The Moor o'er the deep hath come,
And the wild breeze bears again
The sound of his battle-drum.
Pour through our sunny land
The charging trumpet's peal;
Shout for the Christian band
And the spears of old Castile!

“Ye that have proved of yore
The might of your dauntless souls—
Ye who the lance ne'er bore
Where the tide of conflict rolls—
Strike, 'till the streams be dyed
With the battle's crimson rain:
With an arm of steel and a heart of pride,
For God and the hills of Spain!

“Shall your vales and proud hills be
By the Moslem's foot profaned?
Has the soul of your father's free,
In their children's bosoms waned!
With the hearts of your glorious sires,
Thunder the stirring peal;
Shout for your homes and altar-fires,
And the spears of old Castile!”

Such was the warrior-song that rose
Through the still air, at evening's close,
And blended with the trumpet's clang
Amid the rugged cliffs it rang,
'Till rocks and woods, in twilight dim,
Resounded with the battle-hymn.

As swelled the wild and stirring peal,
How drew each knight his flashing steel!
How beamed and burned each kindling eye—
How throbbed each bold heart free and high!
And dimly glowed amid the gloom,
Lit by the torch's lurid glare,
The burnished shield, and lance and plume,
Worn by the stalwart warriors there.

The hours flew by—the song was hushed,
Which but so late had wildly gushed;
The clash of steel was heard no more,
But stretched upon the rocky floor,
Toil-worn and faint, in dreams of bliss,
They wander far from scenes like this,
Throw by the buckler, and the brand,
And fondly clasp the loved one's hand.
The drooping banners to and fro
Swing with a strange and noiseless flow,
Like pale ghosts of the unburied slain
Who nightly walk the battle-plain,
And count the living who must die
Ere eve again steals o'er the sky!

[OMITTED]

Long had the sleeping warriors lain,
And the pennon waved in the chilly air,
But now the stars are on the wane
And the trumpet calls to matin-prayer.
Slowly the freshening breeze unrolls
The red-cross banner's drooping folds,

As proudly flung to the wind on high
They glow like flames in the morning sky.
The tents are raised and the trumpets blown—
The proud steeds neigh at the thrilling tone.
The lances gleam and the snow plumes wave
O'er the brows of the fearless and the brave;
Each breast is filled with a knightly fire
And throbs with a wild and strong desire;
Each brow is lit with a restless flame—
With the high resolve to win a name
That shall glow for aye, with a fadeless light—
A meteor on the brow of night!

The mist, that hung on the mountain side
Is scattered by the sunbeam's glance,
As a trembling host, by the gory tide
Of some fame-wedded warrior's lance;
Slow up the towering crags it rolled,
And, balanced on its wings of gold,
It seemed a fitting canopy
For that vast temple of the free,
Whose pillars are the untrod hills,
Whose organ-chime, the leaping rills,
And soaring peaks, by thunder riven,
The lofty spires that point to Heaven!

Then winding through the narrow way,
They saw the Moorish hordes appear;
Their sabres gleaming to the day,
As the loud war-cry echoed near.

Sounded the clarion's thrilling blast
As king Alfonso toward them passed;
Toledo's bishop, by his side
Rode with a grave and stately pride,
Lifting high in the calm sunshine,
The glowing cross of Constantine!

Amid the knights that 'round them throng,
Who for the fight have waited long,
Was one in sable armor drest,
With crimson plumes upon his crest,
While now and then they could descry
Through the barr'd vizor his dark eye,
Ah! little thought they, that stern form
Had braved with them the battle storm,
Had drained with them the red wine oft,
When festive bowls were held aloft,
And trod, in pride, the knightly ground,
The victor of the tourney crowned!

But louder rolls the battle-drum,
And nearer through the pass they come,
And wilder swells the tecbir-shout,
Ringing upon the free air out.
In the midst, upon his charger, came
Alnazir, of the dreaded name;
Bright gems upon his mantle glow,
And his steed's rich trappings hanging low.
The prophet's sacred book he bore,
And the brand, oft dimmed with Christian gore;

This was the creed of the Moslem horde—
Offering the Koran or the sword!

A thunder-crash when the storm is high
And the big clouds meet in air;
That shakes the halls of the upper sky,
So deep are its echoes there—
The sound of the avalanche, dull and dread,
As it sweeps to the vale below;
A herald of death, by the ice-bolt sped
From the realm of eternal snow—
Such was the sound of the meeting foes,
That the far-off echoes stirred;
Such were the charging shouts that rose,
Through the din of conflict heard.

'Twas a narrow and a dark defile,
As if by some convulsion riven,
Where down through the giant mountain pile
The thunderbolt had once been driven;
Rocks, jutting crags, that seemed bestrown
By some demoniac power alone,
Amid whose chasms, dark and deep,
The flashing rills in sunshine leap,
And down to the sunny valleys go,
Fresh from their founts in the trackless snow!
And well it was, that the final strife
For spotless Freedom and for life,
Should be tried amidst the dark defiles
Of old Morena's rugged wilds:

The soaring peaks, that lift sublime
Their snowy summits, mocking Time,
Are the shrines of Freedom; for she dwells
Not in the dark, monastic cells,
Not in the pomp of courts and kings,
Where the soul is wedded to meaner things—
But 'mid the proud and ancient hills
And the rifted chasms, high and far—
By the snow-fed source of the mountain rills,
Her holiest altars are!
And the warrior's heart as he looks around,
And treads upon the enchanted ground,
Will gain yet a deeper, higher glow
To strike for the dear loved land below,
As if the goddess, lingering there,
Had breathed her soul in the mountain air!

Like lightning-gleams through summer's cloud,
That shoot to earth, with death endowed,
The Moorish sabres flash and fall
Amid the cloud that covers all.
The lines of spear-heads gleam on high
Like stars upon a midnight sky,
And like the crests of Ocean's wave
When winter tempests wildly rave,
The white plumes of the Christian band
Break on the battle's bloody strand.
The turbaned and the helmed head
Together in the combat fell;
Together from their gory bed
Their charging shouts, expiring, swell!

'Till fiery noon glowed in the sky,
Still raged the tide of conflict high;
At last, within her balanced scale
Fate saw the Moslem host prevail.
Back through the pass the Christians go,
O'erwhelmed by myriads of the foe.
A deep fear seized Alfonso then—
But the sable knight rode forth alone,
And, shouting to the Christian men,
Against the opposing horde is gone!
Straight through the flying host he passed,
And blew a thrilling clarion-blast;
The red-cross banner, pressed by foes,
Like a wave-tossed feather, sunk and rose,
But as the lightning bolt which cleaves
The oak's green wealth of summer leaves,
And scatters 'round on every side
The lofty boughs which waved in pride,—
So 'neath the stroke of his ringing blade,
The frighted Moslems low were laid.
Back rolled the tide of fight once more
As the wave rebounds from a rocky shore;
Again the brave and fearless band
Thronged 'round the banner of their land,
While rose, amid the clash of steel—
“God and our swords for Old Custile!”

Then on his steed Alnazir came
And cried aloud—“Shame, ever shame
Shall rest on the head of the craven low
Who turns his back to a Christian foe!

Back! cowards, back! Who flies shall be
Branded with endless infamy!”
He said, and met the sable knight;
Their falchions flashed so broad and bright,
That one might deem a starry world,
Had from its course on high been hurled.
Hard was the strife; the wily foe
Upon his buckler caught the blow,
And when its sudden force had broke,
Gave the black knight a stunning stroke.

Yet ere he could renew the blow
Or snatch the sword from the fallen foe,
Down through the dark and rugged way
They saw a stranger knight appear;
A sudden calm stole o'er the fray
And rose a half-checked cry of fear.
Like a feathery shaft from an Arab bow
O'er cliff and yawning gulf he sped,
Where mortal foot had not dared to go,—
Chasms beneath and rocks o'erhead!
White as Morena's trackless snows,
A waving robe around him flows—
A white plume floats o'er his gleaming crest—
A silver cross is on his breast;
And by that sign the Christian saw
With deep and still and solemn awe,
That he whom foe could never quell
Had left, once more, his holy grave—
A sudden fear on the Moslem's fell,
While quailed the bravest of the brave,

Or trembling whispered each to each,
With lips that scarce could master speech,
“The Cid! the Cid! the Campeador!”
And well the warriors knew of yore
That knight; oft had they felt his power
'Mid clashing blades, in battle-hour,
When their frail strength was swept away
Beneath his arm, in mortal fray.
And well they knew the legend old,
By many a Moorish mother told—
When from his tomb the Campeador
Should ride on his good steed once more,
The cross should win the bloody field
And the pale vanquished crescent yield!

Wildly they gazed, in awe and fear,
As that pale horseman came more near,—
And when he slowly raised his lance
Awaking from their sudden trance
In wild dismay they turned and fled—
Followed their flying host the Dead!
A mingled shout pealed on the air,
A shout of joy and of despair,
As, like the Simoom's withering blast,
The charging Christians onward passed.
Adown the crags the foemen go,
Scarce heeding the dread death below
So wild they fled, when through the fight
They saw the white cross of the knight.

A few, faint struggling blows they gave
Like one when sinking 'neath the wave;
Behind them still the Christian host
Followed their ancient leader's ghost,
And few shall tell, by Darro's wave,
How fought and tell the Moslem brave;
And few, amid Grenada's walls
Where music ever softly falls
From crystal founts, whose airy play
Is tinged with gold by sunset's ray—
Relate, with troubled brow, the story
Of Moslem shame and Christian glory!

Yet whether, 'mid the gory fray,
He passed on Battle's wing away
Or whether up the crags he rode,
Where eagles make their lone abode,
No mortal knows; but minstrel's lay
Oft woke the glories of that day,
When he, with more than mortal might
Turned back the sanguine tide of fight;
And o'er his tomb the censer's flame
Breathes forth the odor meet for Fame!

The day was o'er; and when the sun
Sank slowly to the western wave,
Heaped with the slain lay many a one
Whose heart at morn beat high and brave.
The Christian there, lay cold and pale,
And by his side the lifeless foe—

Ah! many a mother long shall wail
For him whose proud form now lies low,
And bride, at eve, from bastion'd tower
Watch for his plumy crest afar,
Who now hath slumbered many an hour,
All coldly 'neath the evening star!
The moon again rose up the sky;
But ever closed was many an eye
That last night beamed so free and bright,
It seemed to be a quenchless light.
Last eve she shone on burnished crest
And sparkled back from mailed breast,
But now that crest in dust was laid
And dim with gore the shield and blade.
How wan and ghostlike seemed each face
Amid the pale and sickly beam!
A lurid glow, as if the trace
Of wizard-fires, by marshy stream
Seemed playing on each stony brow
Like sea-fires round some vessel's prow!

Yet, kneeling on the battle plain
At that still hour amid the slain,
The victors swelled the grateful hymn,
And solemn chant and fervent prayer
Ascended in the twilight dim,
Borne heavenward by the mountain air.

3. PART III.
THE RETURN.

Amid the wan moon's ghastly light
They sought the battle-plain that night,
And bore the wounded knights away,
Who in the bloody carnage lay.
Where strongest poured the battle's tide
And man and steed together died,
Stretched on a heap of lifeless foes
They found the knight, whose crimson plume
Through the dim war-cloud fell and rose,
And guided in the thickest gloom,
Like the old conqueror's cross of flame,
Their swords to victory and to Fame!

They raised him from among amongst the slain,
(Life had not yet given o'er her reign)
Dashed on his brow the streamlet's spray
And strove to bear his arms away.
But vainly tried they to unclasp
His cold hand's fixed and giant grasp,
Which held as firm the battle-blade
As when War's lightnings round him played!

Alfonso watched with anxious heart,
The magic of the leech's art,
Who sought by all his power and skill
To heal the brave one's grievous ill.

At last, with look of deep delight,
He said “God spares the noble knight!
His helm received the Emir's blade,
Which hath this death-like stupor made;
A few short hours of slumber o'er,
And he can lift the lance once more!

Another day! how glorious fell
The morning rays o'er stream and dell!
The red light on the hills of snow,
Shone like the festal torches' glow,
And with a brighter, deeper dye
Lit up the broad dome of the sky,
As if the slain had lent their hue
To crimson morning's heaven of blue!
The pure, fresh air brought healing power
Unto the warriors, at that hour,
As, rising heavily and slow,
They hied unto the streamlet's flow,
From battered arms, to wash away
The bloody stains of yesterday.

A trumpet note rang wild and shrill
And woke the echoes of the hill,
As King Alfonso rose again
Monarch of free, victorious Spain!
The peal broke Alvar's death-like rest,
Brought life and strength into his breast
And summoned back to heart and brain,
Their fiery vigor once again,

He seized in haste his trusty steel
And shouted loud “For old Castile!”
Leaped in the mailed warrior's ring
And stood before the astonished king.

The cool fresh air—the morning ray—
Chased from his mind the mist away,
Yet still bewildered and amazed,
Upon the knights around he gazed,
At last, a fond, familiar face—
“Father!”—then clasped in mute embrace
The sire and son: whose joyous tears
Repaid old Nunez' darkest fears.
How sad had seemed each pageant bright,
When Nunez' name would set in night;
When, placed no more 'mid Castile's brave,
His son should find a songless grave!

Around the startled warriors came
And echoed Alvar's well known name.
The king drew near:—“And is't thy brow
Young Nunez, wears the laurel now?
By Santiago! 'tis a crown
Not e'en a monarch might cast down!
And well its glory from thy name
Has reft its shadowing cloud of shame.
Yes, well thy hot youth's hasty sin
By yesterday atoned hath been;
No more may aught obscure thy name,
But Virtue proudly dwell with Fame!”

A thrill shot through his bounding breast—
At last he stood before them free!
He wore again his spotless crest,
That led, of old, to victory!
How changed seemed all since yestermorn!
A nameless shield he then had worn;
No herald then, with loud acclaim,
Could echo Nunez' once-proud name,
When dark eyes shine, and white hands wave
Beauty's loved plaudits to the brave!
All passed so sudden, it would seem
To be some strange, bewildering dream
That weighs upon the sleeper's breast,
Till, starting from his couch of rest,
His cry of fear its fetters breaks,
And with a thrill of joy he wakes.

“Thanks, thanks, my liege; I fain would ask,
(Since I must now my tale unmask)
If, in the thronged knights by your side,
Your trusted stay and Castile's pride,
Be one, who boasts a daughter fair,
Of stately step, yet winning air,
Who doth the name Ximena bear?”
Instant, stepped forth an aged knight
Who bore the bloody marks of fight—
“And what but Valdi's house of power
Its storied halls, its pomp and pride,
Can boast the loveliest, fairest flower
That decks the rude Sierra's side?”

“Then hear my tale: Three moons ago
I dwelt amid yon hills of snow.
I sought afar in hatred then,
A refuge from the gaze of men,
I could not calmly, tamely brook,
All eyes upon my shame should look;
So, from the heartless world removed,
My rugged cavern-home I loved.
One day, far down the craggy steep,
I saw a grim and gaunt wolf leap,
When from below there came a cry
Of wild despairing agony;
I hastened down the lonely glade
And saw a young and lovely maid,
While, full before, the crouched wolf lay;
My swift spear quivered through the air,
And joyous saw she, in the way,
The fearful monster bleeding there.

“I scarce need tell thee that my heart
Soon learned the mystic lore of love,
And that with life my breast would part
Ere aught its constancy could move.
From her I learned—what thou hast known;—
But yesterday I trust, hath shown
That aught which veiled my name before,
Shall ne'er its glory tarnish more!”

De Valdi mused a little space,
Then turning back to Alvar, said;

“I vowed revenge against thy race
But vengeance from my heart has fled,
Since in the field I saw thy form
Glance like the lightning through the storm,
And, with God's aid, redeem again
The glorious hills and streams of Spain!
Ill boots it now to cherish hate,
For vengeance cannot conquer fate;
And in the battle, well I see
The mighty hand of Destiny!
Take her thou lov'st! I know thy heart
From Glory's path will ne'er depart,
Nor foul Dishonour soil again
The sword so nobly drawn for Spain!”

[OMITTED]

Once more with song and trumpet's sound,
Along the mountain's side they wound;
Not with the anxious hearts they bore
Up the rude steep, three morns before,
But through each pass, and darkning dell,
Their joyous songs of triumph swell.
Yet louder strike the sounding strain,
Till the wild echoes reach yon plain,
Where far below 'neath sunnier skies
De Valdi's castle walls arise,
Strike, till the glad notes reach her ear,
Who waits with mingled hope and fear—
For he, her hero-love hath come
With sword unstained and lofty name;
Whose virtue, on the shrine of Home,
Shall feed the altar-fire of Fame!

Back rolled the ponderous gateway door—
Across the creaking bridge they pour,
With banners, steeds and war-drum's peal,
And rattling arms, and glittering steel.
Joy for De Valdi's halls to-night,
For Castile's monarch, from the light,
Hath come to view the beauteous bride,
Who soon shall stand by Alvar's side.
But where is she they thus would greet?
Why comes she not her sire to meet?
Why rings not, through the arching dome,
Her joyous cry of welcome home?
They seek in vain the hall and tower,
The olive grove—the orange bower—
The turret high—the shrine of prayer—
All her loved haunts—she is not there!
A sudden fear crossed Alvar's breast,
Vague, boding doubts his mind opprest.
Yet as they sought, and found her not,
Unconsciously, toward the spot,
Where, on the lonely mountain side,
With all a lover's joy and pride
He heard her vows, his footsteps strayed;
The clustering firs a deep gloom made,
And crags uppiled, on either side,
Aspired the glowing heaven to hide.
Even the old and sombre trees
Scarce whispered in the evening breeze,
As if they feared its breath would tall
Some secret of the lonely dell.

The shadows constant slept, unstirred
By springing wolf or flitting bird—
Where Silence at her altar knelt
And with her sister Sadness dwelt.

As through the gloomy grove he passed,
A sound came by upon the blast.
He heard a war-steed's heavy tread
Sounding amid the rocks o'erhead,
And saw, the mingled boughs among,
A showy courser, stout and strong,
Slow down the dark and winding way,
It came, amid the glimmering ray,
'Till as it nearer, nearer drew,
A silver cross gleamed on his view!
He knew that helm, whose plume of yore
Had waved above the Campeador,
And with a thrill of deep-felt awe,
That white and spectral war-steed saw,
Scarce had the vision met his gaze,
When “Alvar!” rung upon the air;
The spear is dropped—the helmet raised—
What phantom stood before him there!
O'er steel-clad breast dark ringlets flow,
'Neath crested helm the soft eyes glow,
And rosy lip and cheek takes place
Of manhood's bronzed and bearded face!

Dumb with amazement stood he now,
His clasped hands pressed upon his brow—

When, as she dropped the slackened rein
And feebly grasped the steed's loose mane,
He sprung, and caught her fainting form
That drooped, like flowers before the storm,
He bore her where the white cascade
Dashed down the dark and lonely glade
And shook the cool drops o'er her face,
Till life resumed its wonted place.
The light again beamed from her eye
Like the first star of evening's sky
And glowed o'er lip and cheek, the hue
Of spring's first rose, when gemm'd with dew.
Thank Heaven thou liv'st! Now gently rest
Thy weary head upon my breast
And tell me wherefore thou art here?
Why in this guise thou dost appear?
'Tis like a dream—it cannot be
I see the Campeador in thee!”

She feebly raised at length her head
And in a faint, low whisper said—
“My reeling sense and wilder'd brain
Scarce gives me power to think again.
The more than woman's strength I felt
Like winter's snowy wreaths doth melt—
The power that nerved my shrinking soul
No more may bear its wild control.
But wherefore here? I saw thee fall
Where death and darkness circled all!
How cam'st thou from the mingled slain
That strewed the gory battle-plain?”

“The Moslem's blow of force intense,
But stunned awhile my soul and sense;
The trumpet called, from sleep like death,
To life and love, my spirit's breath.
Haste! haste! thy tale!”

“When from my sight
Thou hadst departed, that blest night,
A something whispered to my brain,
Even I might save the hills of Spain!
So when my sire had left his halls
And took the banners from the walls—
When shouts along the far hill rose,
The gathering cry of Castile's foes—
I sought the chapel, where of old
Was placed, in massive urn of gold,
The armor of the Campeador,
Whose breast might never wear it more!
I took his lance and cross of pride,
And on this snowy war-steed hied
O'er crags where nought but deer had stood,
Toward the scene of strife and blood.

“I felt not fear—a mystic power
Gave more than earthly strength my soul;
I thought upon that parting hour,
And spurred my wild barb to the goal.
'Twas as if he whose arms I bore
Still blessed the hills he loved of yore,
And transfused through my woman frame
His proud soul's high, unconquered flame!

Down through the pass—I recked not how,
I hurried from the mountain's brow.
I saw the rush of the hosts below—
And heard the cry of the rushing foe;
And with vizor closed and lance in rest
And the Cid's white cross upon my breast,
Through the flying Christian band I passed
And saved the shrines of Spain at last!
But the lofty strength of my soul gave way
'Neath the bloody terrors of the fray;
The path of my steed was through streams of gore—
On the breasts of the ghastly dead he bore,
And the heavy sound of his iron hoof
Was like a voice of stern reproof.
Then I saw the fear of the coward foe
And turned from the fight—but none may know
That the phantom Cid and his spectral steed
Was a weak, yet loving woman's deed—
That the spirit which every fear could move,
Was strengthened and steeled by the might of Love!”

“Oh! worthy to be a warrior's bride!
Thou now art doubly dear to me,
And thy cheek shall glow with a brighter pride,
At the joyous tale I bear to thee!
But let us hence! thy sire doth miss
Thy sunny smile and welcome kiss;
The guests within the festive hall,
Wait till in dance thy footsteps fall,

And Castile's monarch, throned in pride,
Hath come to bless thy Alvar's bride!”

Amid De Valdi's glittering throng
The hours went by on wings of song;
Hands that had borne War's crimson stain,
Now pour the gleaming wine again,
And myrtles crown the brow, instead
Of the battered helm, with its blood-rust red.
The crested banners rose and fell
With the wild war-music's glorious swell,
And gems that flash on Beauty's brow
Are brighter far than the torches now!
Then the king called forth his minstrel boy—
“Come, sing me a song of love and joy!”
De Valdi stood by the monarch's side
And gazed with joy on the blushing bride,
While Alvar's bliss was raised yet higher
As the minstrel woke his sounding lyre:

“Joy for the fair young bride!
The battle's rage is o'er,
And the Hero of the rescued land
Shall leave her side no more!
He comes, with glory crowned,
From the red fight afar;
Like the conqueror of olden time
In his triumphal car.

“Heaven bless their bridal day!
The brightest stars shall shine;
Love, Valour, Beauty, deathless Fame,
A glorious wreath shall twine!
The eagle of the hills
And the gentle dove shall mate,
For the strong right arm and caring heart
Have conquered Pride and Fate!

“Yet louder swell the lay!
Join in the joyous peal,
Till the arching aisles give back the sound
Of the warrior's ringing steel.
Let every chord we strike
Give out a happy tone!
Grief should not mar the warrior's mirth—
Wail for the dead alone!

“Fill up the festal cup!
And drink to the dauntless knight
Whose bright sword gleamed, like a brand of fire,
Through the darkness of the fight!
Fill to the maiden fair,
By her hero-lover's side;
Beauty with Valour should e'er be wed—
Joy for the fair young bride!”

The lay is o'er. The spirit of the past
That bade me wake the strains of other days,
Has died upon the lyre—it is the last!
Its fitful breath bid for a moment raise
Long-buried forms—themes of romantic lays,
Whose Memory lingers still around that shore,
Like some dim light that on a ruin plays
And calls to mind the splendor that is o'er—
The only relic left of long-forgotten lore.

If from the wreck and ruin of that age
Some noble deed the bard may haply find,
To glow a moment on his humble page
And bid the world-benumbed and weary mind
Awhile forget the cares its path that bind,
Not vainly has he written. He doth dwell
'Mid scenes so long to silent gloom consigned,
To breathe a fleeting strain—to wake the knell
Of former fame. Lone, shattered, tuneless lyre, Farewell!

NATURE'S INSPIRATION.

Nature alone can fill the thirsting soul
With that pure depth of high and holy thought,
That bids it soar from earthly things; and he,
Who walks thro' life, unmoved by all the forms
Of radiant beauty o'er the fair earth spread;
Whose heart thrills not, like the Æolian lyre,
With every change the varying year assumes,
Or bounds not with the earliest breath of spring,
Which whispers softly to the slumbering flowers
Their genial wakening time,—who feels no awe
Steal o'er his spirit, when the gathering storm
Wheels in its cloudy car across the skies,
By lightning steeds far borne—knows not the joy,
The pure, unmingled bliss that Nature yields.

And he, who kneels at Poesy's shrine, and seeks
To win a poet's bays, will find the stream
That tells as it flows on, of forest wilds,
And dells, where, leaping from the green earth's breast,

Its joyous course began, a nobler fount
To wake high thoughts than even Castaly;
And every crag or thunder-riven peak
That lifts its hoary head above the storm,
Will be to him a Delphos. When he treads
Its rock-encumbered crest, and feels the strange
And wild tumultuous throbbings of his heart,
Its every chord vibrating with the touch
Of the high Power that reigns supreme o'er all,
He well may deem that lips of angel-forms
Have breathed to him the holy melody,
That fills his o'erfraught heart. And every breeze
That bears the wild flowers' rifled sweets—each tree
That waves upon the steep, and babbling rills,
Gushing unnoticed save by him alone,
Shall waken feelings in his heaven-lit mind,
That spring like Alpine flowers, to beautify
The waste of worldly thought.

Let him go forth,
Amid the stillness of the silent night,
Where fall the quivering moonbeams through the boughs
Of some dim, shadowy wood; and while the low
And sighing wind breathes through the whispering trees
Like sphery music from the far-off stars,
Commune alone with Nature's majesty,
And feel the presence of an unseen Power
That fills the soul with deep-hushed awe, yet leads.
It from terrestial cares, to soar on high,
And walk with God the starry halls of Heaven!

HOMER.

He stood within the temple's porch,
A beggar old and gray,
Where fell, upon his sightless orbs,
The cheering beam of day.
They passed him by,—in pomp and pride—
Proud warriors, nobly clad;
Yet spoke no word to the hoary bard,
His sorrowing heart to glad.

There Childhood's joyous laugh rang out;
There youth, with pleading tone,
Breathed soft in maiden's ear the vow
That her he loved alone;
Each heart rejoiced amid the throng
Some answering heart to find,
But all passed by, with cold disdain,
The beggar old and blind.

Was this the meed of the primal bard—
The monarch of the lyre,
Who wildly struck its trembling chords
With all a poet's fire?
Who woke the slumbering might of song,
And heard with spirit-ear,
The sounding chime of the starry hosts—
The music of each sphere?

What though he ne'er might see the morn,
Glow o'er th' Olympian steep,
Nor the purple car of the setting sun
Sink in the Ægean deep,
To him 'twas given, on daring wing,
'Mid Heaven's bright halls to roam,
And tread the pale realms of the dead,
In Pluto's sunless home!

And they who looked with cold disdain
Upon his humble guise—
Ask ye of Fame their names and deeds,—
No answering sound replies:
While he, through ages dark and lone,
Like some watch-light afar
To the pilgrim on his midnight way,
Has been a guiding star.

And never shall that lustre fade;
In strength, it still appears
Like some gray rock that lifts its head
Above the tide of years;
That braves, unmoved, the tempest's might—
Hurls back the sheeted foam,
And reared amid the storm-cloud, seems
To be the lightning's home!

From shores the boy of Macedon
Ne'er trod with his charging bands,
Where'er looks the sun in his morning march,
On earth's remotest lands;
They worship the power of his god-like mind,
They treasure his deathless lay—
For the lamp he kindled with Heaven's own flame
Shall burn, undimmed, for aye!

TO A FRIEND.

Through the young leaves the moon-rays softly glimmer,
And fall upon the dewy turf below,
Where mellow light, by twining boughs made dimmer,
Sleeps calmly in the streamlet's gentle flow;
And on the heaving breast of yon broad river,
The wave-crests in her silver radiance quiver.

I am alone—in dreamy silence musing,
And Thought to Poesy's realms doth soar in vain;
The classic haunts of loftier song refusing,
To thee it flies, nor wanders forth again—
Returns to thee, as to the ark the raven,
Seeking in vain, a surer, firmer haven.

Oh! dost thou ne'er, from this soft moonlight stealing
Thoughts higher, holier than the day has known,
Wake in thy breast a spring of tender feeling,
As if thou didst some mystic influence own?
As if thy soul some kindred soul was meeting,
And heart to heart a warm response was beating.

Does not the calm, the solemn hush around thee
Lift thy thralled spirit from its dust afar,
Break being's chain, in which the day has bound thee,
And wing its angel flight from star to star—
And may no soul like thine, far heavenward soaring,
With thee, unite in wondering and adoring?

May not the thoughts, our kindred bosoms swelling—
The lofty hopes that triumph over Time;
Be ours, within the spirit's starry dwelling—
Our earthly love be lasting and sublime?
Yes—ties like these no earthly power can sever;
Born with the soul, they bless the soul forever!

Oh! while a pulse of thy young heart doth tremble
With the pure feelings lent thee from on high,
While high aspirings 'round thy soul assemble,
Nor earth can chain thy vision from the sky—
My heart will know it is not all forsaken,
And like an echoed strain, its answering music waken!

MODERN GREECE.

Unmindful of her former fame,
That glorious land had slept,
And Freedom o'er her funeral urn
In silent darkness wept;
Upon the plains where heroes sought,
The haughty Moslem trod—
Her servile sons still cowered beneath
Their stern oppressor's rod.

A sound rolled like a thunder-peal
From Delphi's haunted cave,
Parnassus sent the echoes back
Above Lepanto's wave;
Amid Dodona's solemn fanes
Rose up that thrilling cry,
And through each dale, renowned in song,
Like a trumpet-blast went by.

It swelled up like a battle-hymn
From Thessaly's bright rills,
And the stirring echoes died along
The far Etolian hills;
In song, through Tempe's classic vale,
The Peneus bore it on—
Olympus, through his misty robe,
Spoke it in thunder-tone

It was the sentence of the dead—
The call of those who died
When Greece was in her palmy days,
Her glory and her pride;
Across the waves of Salamis
Was heard the gathered sound,
Which e'en Miltiades spoke forth
From Marathon's gray mound.

The brave who at Platea fell,
And old Thermopylæ,
Called to their low, degenerate sons,
To strike for Liberty;
Old Homer's spirit lingered still
Upon the Grecian lyre,
And nerved to deeds of high emprise
Each warrior's heart of fire.

They heard the call—that stirring sound
Awoke them from their shame,
They vowed to lift again the sword
For Freedom and for Fame;
They felt the spirit of their sires
Above whose graves they trod,
And the banner of the cross unfurled
Before the shrine of God!

More glorious than Platea's day
When Persia's might was low,
Bozzaris, like a midnight storm,
Burst on the leaguered foe;
And Missolonghi's shattered wall,
Her heaps of ghastly dead,
Proved that the soul of Ancient Greece
Had not forever fled.

With hearts that never feared a foe,
And nerves to battle strung,
From vintage-hill and sunny vale
Her dauntless champions sprung,
Beat back the Moslem's charging hordes
With wild impetuous sweep,
And Freedom soared with eagle-wing
O'er Phyle's rocky steep.

And from her throne amid the clouds,
Upon the Olympian hill,
She watches o'er her chosen home
With brilliant lustre still—
And at her altars through that land
Is offered many a prayer,
And soft tones of the Dorian reed
Float on the free bright air.

The ancient spirit has not fled
But brighter still will burn,
Though long the world had mourned above
Her desolated urn;
New bards will rise to rival yet
The Theban song of fire,
And Homer's soul reanimate
The voiceless Grecian lyre.

And from her ruins, Phœnix-like,
Athena yet will rise,
And glory's beacon-fires again
Illume her darkened skies;
Till her free sons, redeemed at last
From slavery's hateful chain,
Will emulate their glorious sires,
And Greece be Greece again!

THE DREAM OF FAME.

Soft through the lattice looked the quiet moon,
As rising from his weary vigil, faint
With unremitted toil, the student threw
His ponderous tomes aside, and gazed awhile
Out on the radiant night, that star-crowned, cast
Her mantle o'er the Earth. The holy calm
Sooth'd not his spirit's restlessness, or still'd
The burning thoughts that rose upon his mind,
And stole away the guilelessness of heart,
That mark'd his earlier hours. He was one
Upon whose soul Ambition reigned supreme,
And pointed him to names that on the roll
Of Time's gray record, lived from age to age,
Like lonely columns that defy decay,
And proudly stand 'mid temples overthrown.
And all that poets of the misty past
Have sung—Alcides' fame, and he whose arm
Lies mouldering now, beside Scamander's stream;
The hero of that glorious day when Greece
Saw Freedom's light once more, and triumph sat
Upon the steep by “sea-born Salamis,”—

The Macedonian boy, whose realm was spread
From fair Ionia to the Indus' wave,—
All these but fed the quenchless fire that burned
Within his breast, and dried up every fount
Of purer feeling. And as the fadeless stars
Looked meekly down, he proudly vowed
To make his name like them endure.
Oh, vain and mad presumption! Do not all
The brightest names of earth, as years roll on,
Shine dimmer through the past, and one by one,
Go out forever?

Years had passed by.
'Twas midnight's lonely hour, when the proud youth
That full of life, had vow'd in years gone by
To win himself a name,—a pale, sad man,—
Came back to view once more his early home,
Care-worn and weary of the hollow world.
His high hopes crushed, and haughty spirit bowed,
He came to find the fame he fondly sought,
A wild and splendid dream, that in return
For years and manhood's vigor wasted, gave
But thorns instead of laurels. Then the fount
So long sealed up, burst forth, and purer thoughts
Come back like guardian spirits, and made glad
Their early home. He went into the world.
Not now for fame, but true and humble deeds;
And found the grateful blessings of the hearts
His charity relieved, more sweet than all
The empty praise that gilds a conqueror's name.

And though too late he cast aside the chain
That wild ambition forged, and though his life
In the long toil was wasted; yet his after deeds
Made sweet the bed of death, and by him stood
Like angels, waiting with spread wings, to bear
His spirit to a brighter realm than Fame's.

MANHOOD.

Flow back! flow back! why rush ye o'er my soul,
Dreams of the future—visions wild and vain?
Why thrall my spirit with your strange control,
And waken thoughts of mingled joy and pain?
Yet since with me ye ever must remain,
Oh! give me strength to bear the world's rude strife,—
Let me the soul's first purity retain,
Unstained by cares with which the world is rife,
And bear a hero's part, upon the field of Life!

Rudely across my spirit's quivering strings
Sweep the strong passions of a high, proud heart;
The pang that cold and heartless friendship brings,
Stills the sweet tones that Nature bids to start.
Oh! I have wandered from the throng apart,
E'en in my boyish hours, to muse alone;
To mourn, unseen, the cold, unfeeling art
That checked its gushing gladness. It is gone!
But still my spirit feels, with keenness all its own.

Yet stronger, higher impulse prompts me now;
No more the sorrows of Life's early day
May cast their shade on boyhood's eager brow;
The dewy morn has ever passed away
And sterner duties prompt my earnest lay.
And weary by the wayside though I fall,
While bravely struggling in the glorious fray,
May not my lyre breathe out one thrilling call
And will my name and memory be forgot by all?

Like one who stands within a shadowy grove,
I gaze, afar, on Manhood's dusty plain—
The streams whose prattling murmur young hearts love,
Sweep troubled, dark, to meet the distant main.
May my Life's wave some woodland flower-seeds gain,
Some seeds of Love, from flowers by angels sown,
To bloom transplanted 'mid the golden grain
And with their fragrance cheer the spirit lone,
For such God gives in youth, when souls are all his own!

Emotions vague, that filled my childhood's heart,—
Wild wishes for a crown of earthly fame—
Forgotten dreams, that into life would start
From their cold ashes, like a quivering flame,
Lure me no more with Glory's empty name!
Oh! what avails to me her meteor-glare,
The poet's wreath—the hollow world's acclaim—
If not for me ascends the grateful prayer
From hearts I bless, to Heaven, and sues for mercy there!

Boyhood has nearly passed, I know my soul
Has trials waiting in the future's land;
I know that wild and dark the waves will roll
And foaming breakers thunder on the strand,
Yet I repine not—strengthened by His hand
Who placed me here, I'll raise my voice on high
To join the charging shout of that brave band
Who battle for the Right—nor coward fly,
But in the combat fall. 'Tis noble thus to die!

THE DUTY OF MAN.

INSCRIBED TO JOHN G. WHITTIER.

Why do we live?

'Tis not alone for toil—
For weary plodding in the dusty world,
Or dreamy ease in pleasure's tempting bowers.
Has life no aim? and must we idly breathe
Our days appointed, and then glide away,
Without a record in the hearts of men,
To tell that we have been? Speaks there no voice
Within the spirit's inmost halls, to bid
Our slumbering energies awake?—to call
Strong hopes and high resolves to quickened life?
Has truth no claim upon our silent tongues?
Mercy no work for our inactive hands?
Holds wrong no sway?

Awake, then, slumbering soul!
Too long the leaden sleep of apathy
Has locked thy kindlier feelings up, and made
Thy life a dull and aimless being, void

Of living, breathing beauty! Dream no more
Within the drowsy by-ways of the world,
But join the scanty band on its broad field,
Who sow in tears the germs of noble deeds,
Which future generations reap in joy.
Pluck not alone the pleasant flowers that bloom
Within its quiet walks, but garner up
The fruit that may sustain thee, when the vain
And hollow mockery of worldly wealth
Can buy not life, nor bar the angel out,
That gives the soul the freedom of the skies!

Oh! what a life his is, whose selfish heart,
Deaf to the pleading voice of human wo,
Seeks but its own enjoyment all unshared!
The nobler passions of the mind, in him,
Debased from their high mission, but increase
His sum of future ill. Ambition, eagle-winged,
That, mounting, sought the sun, in mid-career,
Pierced by his own swift barb, shall seek the dust;
Even Hope shall lose her song and sunny smile,
And twine a nightshade wreath around his brow.
No grateful voice shall haunt his musing hours,
Telling of hearts his active love made glad;
No joyous face shall mingle with his dreams,
And smile on him a blessing!

Joy! faithful ones,
Who, heedless of the rude world's scorn, have done
Your duty unto God and man! Though now

Reviled and shunned, the men of future years
Shall build your fame, where all the floods of Time,
That wash out Glory's footprints from the shore,
May never reach; the Statesman's crown shall be
The gratitude of man; the Poet's wreath,
The love and homage of the hearts his song
Has taught to catch, beyond this mortal veil,
Bright glimpses of a higher, loftier sphere!

PENNSYLVANIA.

A fair and lovely State is ours, with valleys broad and green,
Where, smiling in the summer ray, the cultured fields are seen,
Cities with spires and turrets proud, and rivers winding by—
Mountains whose stormy summits rise to meet the arching sky.

When harvest suns are fierce and high, upon a thousand fields
The billowy swell of golden grain, its bounteous tribute yields;
Upon a thousand hill-sides fair, the herds in quiet graze,
And all the land rejoices 'neath Plenty's smiling rays.

Amid the damp coal-caverns, is heard the miner's din,
Where faint and far the light of day comes sadly streaming in:
Along the lonely mountain-side, and through the valleys gay,
The “iron steed” with tireless speed, goes thund'ring on his way.

Alas for Pennsylvania! a curse is on her now:
Gone are her boasted honors—in dust her lofty brow;
Obscuring all her former pride, a cloud is on her fame,—
A heavy burden doth she bear, a weary load of shame.

What though the summer's genial warmth shall bless the ripening grain,
And bounteous harvest-fields repay the labors of the swain,
Still must her proud, free farmers think upon the debt they bear,
And wheresoe'er their duties call, must see its traces there!

Oh! rouse ye in your strength and pride, the freemen of our land—
No longer turn despairing back, or still inactive stand;
Show that the spirit yet is yours, that made your fathers free,
For though your fortunes may be crushed, your honor must not be!

Then up and act! from Chester's plains to Erie's sea-like tide,
Where Beaver meets Ohio's waves, or Delaware rolls in pride—
'Mid Clinton's dark and pine-clad hills, where howls the autumn gale—
Where Susquehanna lingers slow, by Wyoming's fair vale!

The boasts of former, prouder days, but ill become us now;
We may not point to Penn's pure mind, or Franklin's laurelled brow,
No more the Keystone of the Arch may Pennsylvania be,
Till we have reft her of her shame, and she again is free!

THE LAND OF DREAMS.

Oh, Land! with flowers of fadeless beauty beaming,
I seek thy blissful shore;
How the glad rays, from out thy portals streaming,
Welcome my steps once more!

Aerial shapes and forms of fancy's painting
Float through the misty air;
Pilgrim, upon Life's rugged pathway fainting,
Enter and slumber there!

Enter—the rest that toil and wo denied thee
Dwells in that pleasant land;
There friends of other days will sit beside thee
And clasp, in love, thy hand.

Those, who to thee were kind and gentle-hearted,
Meet thee with wild delight,
And cluster 'round, the lost ones, the departed—
With brows of angel-light.

Strains soft and low, will soothe thee like the flowing
Of Childhood's loved streams—
All things with mild and gentle light are glowing
Within the Land of Dreams.

Sorrow with gloomy brow ne'er enters thither,
Hushed is the sound of strife;
But Hope's fair blossoms in their springtime wither,
In the dull road of Life.

Friends, doomed by Fate's decrees to part forever,
Meet as in times of old;
There nought their tried and trusting faith can sever,
Nor Love's pure flame grow cold.

The free, glad hearts of childhood's cloudless morning
Beat in our breasts again;
The thoughts come back, that lit our spirit's dawning,
Like some remembered strain.

How through its valleys swells the glorious sounding
Of some young Poet's lyre!
How the glad strains, within its domes resounding,
Kindle the spirit's fire.

Oh would, when sorrow palls my weary vision—
When Life delights no more,
I might, within its groves and bowers Elysian,
Dream on, and wake no more!

Yet there's a land, where ne'er the spirit slumbers,
But lives in waking bliss;
Where Life's dull bond no more its flight encumbers—
A brighter land than this;

More lasting love than gladdens our ideal
With fair, yet fleeting beams—
A purer bliss, a higher and more real
Than e'en we feel in dreams.

TO THE BRANDYWINE.

Again upon my view,
Thou com'st in quiet beauty, gentle stream!
Upon thy waves, the clust'ring foliage through,
Floats the soft summer beam.

Tall trees above thee bend,
That cast dark shadows on thy swelling breast;
And falls the mellow light in hues that blend,
Soft as the sunset west.

And massy rocks arise,
To whose gray sides the glossy smilax cleaves,
While in the clefts the fox's timorous eyes
Peep from the clust'ring leaves.

The pendent willows dip
Their long boughs o'er, and in the waters lave;
And stoops the modest golden cup, to sip
The brightly flowing wave.

Thou wind'st thro' meadows green,
Fring'd with tall grass and graceful bending fern;
And down thro' glades to join thee, many a stream
Leaps from its mountain urn.

Thou fill'st the silent dell
With tuneful murmurings like a half breathed prayer;
Lifting thy chant, to join the hymns that swell
From temples everywhere.

When evening draws her veil
Across the sunset clouds, the moon above
Looks softly down, and stars are mirror'd pale,—
Pure as a dream of love.

In sunnier climes than ours,
Glide brighter streams, o'er sands of golden hue,
And course their way beneath o'ershadowing flowers
And skies of fadeless blue.

Yet still around thy name,
A halo lingers, never to decay,
For thou hast seen of old young freedom's flame,
Beaming with glorious ray.

And once thy peaceful tide
Was fill'd with life-blood from bold hearts and brave;
And heroes on thy verdant margin died,
The land they loved, to save.

These vales so calm and still,
Once saw the foeman's charge—the bayonet's gleam;
And heard the thunders roll from hill to hill,
From morn till sunset's beam.

Yet in thy beauty, now,
Unchanged thou art as when War's clarion peal,
Rang o'er thy waves, and on yon green hill's brow,
Glittered the serried steel.

And still thy name shall be
A watchword for the brave of Freedom's clime,
And every patriot's heart will turn to thee,
As in the olden time.

CATSKILL.

May 30, 1843.

How reel the wildered senses at the sight!
How vast the boundless vision breaks in view!
Nor thought, nor word, can well depict the scene;
The din of toil comes faintly swelling up
From green fields far below; and all around
The forest sea sends up its ceaseless roar
Like to the ocean's everlasting chime.
Mountains on mountains in the distance rise,
Like clouds along the far horizon's verge;
Their misty summits mingling with the sky,
Till earth and heaven seem blended into one.
So far removed from toil and bustling care—
So far from Earth, if Heaven no nearer be,
And gazing, as a spirit, from mid-air
Upon the strife and tumult of the world,
Let me forget the cares I leave behind,
And with an humble spirit, bow before
The Maker of these everlasting hills.

These lines were lost on the summit of Catskill, but were found some time after by a lady; who restored them to the author through the columns of the New York Tribune.

THE POET'S GRAVE.

'Twas in a sunny forest-nook,
With flowers and moss o'ergrown;
Where nought was heard save the bee's low hum
Or wild wind's liquid tone—
They laid the gentle bard to rest
When life's wild dream was o'er,
When the lyre he woke with magic power
Gave forth its notes no more.

They laid him there when sunset's beam
Yet lingered on the hill,
But the heart that leaped at that bright hour
In death's long sleep was still;
Sadly they heaped the mossy mould
Above his fair young form,
And wept that soon the grave should hide
The heart so free and warm.

The elm's long boughs droop o'er the turf
Like mourners weeping by,
And there, in spring, the violet first
Looks up with mild blue eye;
And when the forests in the garb
Of Summer, proudly wave,
A thousand low, sweet melodies
Float mournful round his grave.

A holy calm breathes o'er the spot,
The trees dark shadows fling,
Save when through twining boughs, quick gleams
The wild bird's flashing wing.
There, when the sunset's glow decays,
Bright forms with sunny hair
Glide slowly through the forest aisles,
Then fade in twilight air.

A LAY OF AUTUMN.

The sylph of the rainbow wing has come!
In the forest-bowers she has made her home,
Where the bending Beach, in his vest of gold,
Is a warder true to her castle-hold,
And the maples stand in their robes of pride
Where the aster leans o'er the streamlets tide
Tall, kingly heralds, that lead her train,
Ere summer's glories have left the plain.

You may trace her steps on the mountain's brow,
Ere the frost-king stoops to the vales below;
And the fall of the leaves when the wind is high,
Seems a host to the conflict marching by,
With the clarion's peal and the bugle's blast,
And their blood-red flags to the free air cast,
While the earth and sky, at the day's decline,
Seem to blend in beauty their hues divine!

Though sere the grass on the hills is seen,
You can trace the rill by its marge of green,
And choked with leaves in its rippling flow,
Where the coral heads of the spice-bush glow.
But oh! what glory pervades the earth
At evening's close and at morning's birth,
When the calm sun looks through the hazy sky
And a dreamy quiet on all doth lie.

I mourn not because the summer flowers
Have long since died in their rifled bowers—
That the verdant wealth of the summer trees
Is now the sport of the autumn breeze;
For the gay, green woods and the sky's blue dome
But linked the heart to its earthly home,
Bid earthly thoughts in the soul arise
And chained it back from its native skies!

Oh! the solemn calm of the autumn time
Wakes feelings high of a faith sublime!
The mild, soft light to the broad earth given,
Brings back to the soul its dreams of heaven;
In the purple woods, the west wind's breath
In sighings low, tells of change and death—
The strains of mirth it awakes no more,
But teaches the spirit a sadder lore.

In the glowing forest, from men afar,
I sit and muse, 'neath the twilight star;
Earth's fettering bonds no more control
But an angel speaks to my eager soul,
Who tells of Hope and of Love and Truth,
And breathes their flame in the heart of youth:
Oh! I love and cherish the autumn time,
For its teachings high and its lore sublime!

HYMN OF THE WESTERN HUNTER.

Father and God! at twilight hour,
When soft the dews of evening fall,
When gently closes every flower
And fades the glow in sunset's hall—
We offer up our grateful lay,
Though harsh and rude the humble strain;
For, guided safely through the day,
We bend before thy throne again.

No longer falls the woodman's stroke
Deep in the ancient forest's heart,
There, from his lair by mossy oak,
The covert fawn would wildly start;
No longer, at our rifle's sound,
The wild swan leaves the lonely shore;
Day's toil is past, and kneeling round,
We hymn our praise for perils o'er.

And led by Thee, we boldly dare
The dangers of the trackless wild;
Thou speakest in the mountain air,
Thy hand on high the rude crag piled;
We kneel where man ne'er knelt before
And meekly at thine altar bow,
Still hear thy voice, as heard of yore
The seer, on Sinai's hoary brow.

Thy chosen ones, by Galilee,
Beheld thee calm the stormy wave;
Our trust, as theirs, is placed on thee,
When o'er the plain the tempests rave,
And when, on hill and prairie far,
The deep snow hides the hunter's track
And storm-clouds veil the polar star,
Thou Father, guid'st us safely, back.

In the thronged city's busy mart
Man ever kneels at Mammon's shrine,
But here, within the wildwood's heart,
We feel our souls are wholly thine.
Care cannot shade our spirit's light,
Though rude and wild our path may be;
At eventide, in morning's light,
Our ceaseless praise we pour to thee.

Through pillared aisle, through echoing hall,
The organ's thunder-voice may peal,
And thrilling anthems rise and fall,
The raptured soul from Earth to steal—
Yet nobler fanes, built by Thy hand,
In lofty pride, are rear'd around;
Through whose long aisles and arches grand,
Like organ-peals our hymns resound.

The hoarse notes of the stormy skies,
The brooklet's chime, the wave's sad moan,
Together with our prayers arise
Like incense sweet, before Thy throne;
Afar, upon the calm lake's tide,
In wilds before by man untrod,
On prairie lone and mountain side
Our souls commune with thee, our God.

And Thou, whose mercy all things share,
Amid these awful solitudes,
Teach us to see thee everywhere,
To feel thy spirit o'er us broods;
And though from man's thronged haunts afar,
Though from the world's vain pleasures gone,
The groves and plains our temples are
And Thine the hand that guides us on!

University of Virginia Library