Chips, fragments and vestiges by Gail Hamilton :: :: University of Virginia Library

Allow me to tender my grateful acknowledgments for the gem of poetry which you have recently sent me. No words can describe the ecstasy with which I perused that wonderful production. Suffice it to say,

that it combined all the excellencies of Goethe and Longfellow, without the defects of either. There is throughout a tone of loyalty—a respect for monarchical institutions, together with a plot thoroughly republican —which cannot fail to please. Especially in these times which “try” kings' “souls,” when almost every throne in Europe is tottering, such a poem cannot fail to have a soothing effect upon the “powers that be.” At the earliest possible opportunity I shall lay it before Lord John Russell, who will communicate it to Her Majesty and Prince Albert, who will probably instruct their American ambassador, Sir Henry Lytton Bulwer, to present due acknowledgments to the gifted author.

If I should ever be poet laureate (“ut potius reor, et potius Di numine firment”) be assured I shall take early measures to present Nemo Nawahed to the public.

With respect, Alfred Tennyson.

To Arthur, youngest son of Her Britannic Majesty, Alexandrina Victoria and Prince Albert of Coburg, this work is respectfully inscribed.

Canto First.

Introductory Address to his Lordship.

Long is the time, my Prince, ah! long
Since last I sung my joyous song.
Long hath my harp, neglected, lain.
I thought to touch its strings again

No more, for Time's resistless hand
Hath thrust me far from “Fair Dream Land.”
The sunken cheek and silvered hair
And furrowed brow stern witness bear,
That Youth long since from me hath fled,
And left cold wrinkled Age instead.

Yet, Mighty Prince, when unto me
The breezes wafted o'er the Sea
The tidings, that thine azure eyes
Had gazed with infantine surprise
Upon this world, so strange and new
To thy bewildered, wondering view—
Then Youth's life-tide once more returned—
Then my seared heart with rapture burned.
The frozen streams of “feeling fine”
Dissolved by genial Love's sunshine.
I felt that I again was young—
That Childhood's scenes I stood among—
With Fervor, then I swept once more
My palsied hand the lute-strings o'er.

Thus, then, O Prince, I send to thee
A greeting o'er the rolling sea.
I sing not of proud Briton's fame,
Her bright though not unsullied name,
I give not, now, a passing glance
To Scotia's hills of wild Romance—

I sing not of the crested knight—
Of honor, won in deadly fight—
Where heroes fear—not Death but Shame—
Of periled life for haughty dame.
I sing not of the ancient lore
Of nations,—nations now no more,
Of ancient wood and mystic rite,
Shrouded in everlasting night,
Where man poured out his brother's blood,
A sacrifice, before his God.

Such scenes as these would scarce be meet
In song thy rising life to greet.
I may not chill thy infant soul
With tales of thrilling horror told,
Of superstition's bloody sway,
Of Battle's raging fierce affray;
Mine—mine shall be a gentler lay—
A lay of love—a lay of truth—
The fresh, young love of happy youth.
List to the tale, I pray thee, now,
Of Aaron Clark and Betty Dow.

Canto Second.

The Heroine.

Young Betty was a lassie fair,
With thin and slightly grayish hair.
Her eyes were neither gray nor green,
But just about half way between.

And so far back within her head
They looked like little balls of lead.
Her pretty mouth, though rather wide,
Touched not the ear on either side,
But seemed as if it fain would do it
Whene'er a laugh came ringing through it,
Which was not oft (to speak the truth—
Miss Betty was a sombre youth).
Her teeth were large, and square, and good,
To masticate the hardest food.

Her head was plump and round and small,
With no unseemly bumps at all.
Her character was perfect made,
So no protuberance displayed.
But all was fair, symmetric, neat,—
Once Nature left her work complete.
Her bust was faultless to be seen
As any Betty's bust, I ween.
Her height was neither less nor more
But just exactly three feet four.
Her gait was somewhat like the swan,
When solid land it walks upon.
What added to her pretty face,
And gave her graceful form more grace,
Were the accomplishments possessed,
Which served her more than all the rest;
For Betty made the best of bread,
And not a cook-book ever read.

Her butter was so fresh and sweet,
It seemed as if 'twas made to eat.
And Betty, too, could make a cheese
With all imaginable ease;
Could fry a most delicious fritter,
Whene'er her mistress chose to let her.
Indeed, she cooked a handsome dish
Of any kind, fowl, flesh, or fish.
Ah! Betty Dow was always sure
To suit the daintiest epicure.

Her master liked her for her skill,
Her mistress, for her lack of will.
Whene'er she heard the children mutter,
She gave them sugared bread and butter.
So this Miss Dow was loved by all
Within the house both great and small.
Although I query if she knew
Whether the sea were red or blue;
And thought the sun, whate'er they said,
Was not much larger than her head;
And that the stars were bits of light,
Hung up to glisten in the night;
And knew, let men think what they please,
The moon was made of fresh, green cheese.

Canto Third.

The Hero.

Long, raven hair, complexion dark,
And coal-black eyes had Aaron Clark.
But, ah! in vain I court the Muses—
My stubborn pen the task refuses
Of giving thus the inventory
Of minor parts of manly glory.
When one describes the female fair
One can extol the wavy hair,
The cherry lip, the rosy cheek,
The mild blue eye, and spirit meek—
But of Creation's Lord, absurd
Are such accounts whenever heard.
We speak of moral worth, the soul,
The mind, the intellectual whole.
Therefore, of Aaron Clark I'll scan
The inner, not the outer man.
In this dull world you seldom find
A counterpart of his great mind.
His soul soared far beyond the skies;
He scorned the learning of Earth's wise;
But to himself he kept as fast
His knowledge as did Hudibras
His wit. He craved no useless store
Of scientific learned lore,
That might his genius freedom cramp.
He wasted not the “midnight lamp”

In poring over musty scrolls
And hieroglyphic parchment rolls.
He joined not his unsullied name
With those of candidates for fame.
On Earth's poor praise, he aye looked down,
And laughed to scorn her weak renown.
He squandered not his precious time
With Irving's prose or Byron's rhyme;
Nor studied all the days of youth,
To bring to light some abstract truth.
He'd sit a year, beneath a tree,
And, every hour, an apple see
Fall to the ground without cessation,
And never think of gravitation.
In mathematics, well he knew
That one and one sometimes make two.
Moreover, he could read, and had
Once gone to school, when quite a lad.
He there began, with bashful fear,
His geographical career.
He stayed from nine o'clock till noon,
And learned a page of “Malte Brun,”
Besides these verses, which, I trow,
He well remembers, even now.
“The world is round, and, like a ball,
Seems swinging in the air.
The sky extends around it all,
And stars are shining there.

Water and land upon the face
Of this round globe we see.
The land is man's safe dwelling place,
But ships sail on the sea.”
At noon he closed the hated book,
And gave the “last, long, lingering look”
At pupil, ferrule, desk, and master,
And than he came he went much faster;
Leaped gladly through the open door,
And never crossed its threshold more.

Canto Fourth

The Courtship.

Descend, O Muse! I humbly pray,
And guide me through an unknown way.
Thy aid I crave, inspire my song,
In soft accords, the notes prolong.

'Twas Sabbath morn. Young Betty rose,
Put on her go-to-meeting clothes,
Brushed carefully her silvered hair,
And on her neck, so white and fair,
She clasped a brilliant yellow string
Of golden beads, a silver ring,
A green, square breast-pin, made of glass
And purest kind of shining brass;
And pink chintz dress, with plaits and bows,
She wore, and well-matched pink silk hose.
Spotless and bright, her pink lawn bonnet,

'Twould blind your eyes to look upon it.
With tasteful hand, she spread o'er all,
A white lace veil, and pink crepe shawl.
Then, thus arrayed, with glowing face,
And swelling heart, and stately pace,
She walked to church. She reached the door,
A quarter of an hour or more
Before the deep-toned village bell
Its solemn notes began to swell.
She entered in. No one was there.
Silent and still that house of prayer.
Pausing, she stood and mused awhile,
And then proceeded up the aisle.
She scarce was seated, when there came
Another, early as the dame.
She turned her head in pleasant mood,
Young Aaron Clark before her stood.
She blushed and smiled her sweetest smile,
Poor Aaron stood entranced the while.
Thrice he, in vain, essayed to speak,
Quick, burning blood flushed brow and cheek.
Reluctantly he turned away—
In sorrow spent the livelong day.
Cupid had pierced his ill-clad heart;
He writhed beneath the clinging dart.

A week that day, they met again,
But she with gladness, he with pain.
At afternoon, when church was over,

The sad, unhappy, mournful lover,
In gloomy mood, walked silent on,
While his dark fate he mused upon,
When, suddenly, he saw before him
A sight that sent a quick thrill o'er him,
His Betty—blithesome, “sonsie,” gay,
In all her jewelled pink array.
“Now is the time,” thought he, “now I
Will speak to her, I can but try.”
He hastened on with rapid stride,
And soon was walking by her side.
But ah! to speak he vainly tried.
On—on—they walked, no word was spoken,
The solemn stillness all unbroken.
His mouth was dry and parched and now
Stood drops of anguish on his brow.
His trembling limbs began to fail—
He gasped for breath—'twas no avail.
“There's no alternative,” thought he,
“One of two things must surely be.
Only two paths before me lie,
For I must either speak, or—die!”
Just as he closed this rev'rie brief,
Fair Betty came to his relief.
With woman's tact she had divined
The thoughts then passing through his mind.
No foolish pride she weakly heeded,
Directly to the case proceeded,
In dulcet tones to him more sweet

Than cooling showers 'mid summer's heat,
Bliss,—rapture to his heart they carried.
“Pray, Mr. Clark, why ar'n't you married?”
He gasped out, though he scarce knew how,
“Why, none will take me, dear Miss Dow.”
Again that voice, “so softly clear,
Fell gently on his ravished ear,”
“There's never a Jack without a Gill,
If one won't, another will.”
His heart now felt a glimmering ray
Of hope; he knew not what to say.
A pause ensued,—an awkward pause,—
She added then another clause:
“Did'st ever try it, Aaron dear?”
“Alas, sweet Betty, for the fear
Of not succeeding,—no, ah! no.”
Again he heard those accents low:
“There's no denial,
Without a trial.”
Ah! Aaron's heart now leaped for joy,
Homefelt and deep, without alloy.
He grasped her hand, the die was cast,
The Rubicon was over-past.
He saw those deep-set, green-gray eyes
Upturned to his in sweet surprise
No more. Should I expose to sight
Young hearts, that hail Love's dawning light?
Should I intrude my stranger ear,
Love's mystic cadences to hear?

Canto Fifth.

The Wedding.

The happy day came on apace.
Young Betty stood, with smiling face,
Before the glass, arranged her tresses,
Put on the whitest of white dresses,
Becoming to her fair complexion,
And fitting with complete perfection.
And, to be dressed in full, she needs
Must don the silver ring and beads.
The breast-pin, too, one there might see,
In all its brazen brilliancy.
She deemed it then her bounden duty
To veil with lace her blushing beauty.
Thus in her bridal finery decked,
She stood before her lord elect.
He gazed at her and she at him,
For Aaron looked so nice and trim
She scarce believed it was himself,
But some mischievous goblin elf.
His broadcloth coat was black as jet;
His beaver hat was blacker yet;
Beneath its rim his eyes peeped out,
And half bewildered gazed about.
A collar with no mean pretensions,
Of most magnificent dimensions,
Screened by its snowy mammoth size
His modest head from peering eyes.

He cased his hands, brown, strong, and great,
In kids, the most immaculate;
And then with gentlemanly ease,
Did Betty's hand with fervor seize.
Soon to the clergyman's they hied,
To have the hard knot duly tied.
Within the house they took their station,
With mingled joy and trepidation.
The parson then commenced the banns;
He bade the party join right hands.
On Aaron's right Miss Betty stood,
“Ah! this is wrong,” thought she, “I should
Have been where Aaron is, and he
Have had this place instead of me.”
Then in a trice the gentle bride
Stepped over on the other side.
But ah! the matter was not mended,
The puzzle was by no means ended.
His hand was wrong, now hers was right,
So back again she took her flight.
Still on her brain no friendly gleam
Of Ingenuity's sun-beam
Suggested, just her hand to cross,
And so the trouble would be lost.
The bridegroom gazed, with wondering face,
But could not the dark labyrinth trace.
Ah! yes, he could! a ray of light
Shot suddenly across the night!

The right thought struck his precious head.
“Here! Betty, here!” he quickly said,
Forgetting in his joyful haste
The circumstance of time and place.
The difficulty now was o'er,
And Betty breathed again once more.
The ceremony then went on,
The happy twain were soon made one.
Their griefs no more, their troubles past,
For Hymen's cord now bound them fast.
Will not all give congratulation,
For this so blissful consummation?

Farewell, farewell! O happy pair!
Long may the Fates in mercy spare
Your happiness; and may your name
Descend in laurel wreaths of fame,
The glory of your world-praised nation,
Throughout the lapse of Time's duration!
Blessed, thrice blessed, be the life
Of Aaron Clark, Esquire, and Wife.

June, 1850.