Specimens of American poetry :: :: University of Virginia Library

Specimens of American poetry

with critical and biographical notices

VOL. I.

VOL. II.

VOL. III.

Collapse All | Expand All expand section

HENRY PICKERING

273

TO A BEAUTIFUL LAKE.

Rapt in a vision of the barbarous past,
I saw upon thy marge a wild-eyed race,
And, startled, heard the yell
That echoed round thy shores!

And now, enchanted with the picture fair,
Which Fancy holds to view, I fain would blend
The murmur of thy waves,
And warblings of my lute.

Translucent flood! within thy ever pure
And stainless breast, the heavens with wonder view
As beautiful a heaven,
As tranquil and serene:

274

The while, a new creation spreads around—
Hills piled on hills, seem laughing in thy wave,
And groves, inverted, nod
To like majestic groves.

And what if o'er thy brink no frowning cliffs
Impend—no cloud-tipt mountains, as with wall
Insuperable, fence
Thee from the northern blast,—

Yet dost thou scornful mock its utmost force,
And ruffian winter's rudest breath defy;
Fiercely he sweeps along,
But may not chain thy wave.

And still exulting with the dancing spring,
Thou seest new beauties deck thy soft domain;
And when from summer's gaze
The earth dejected shrinks,

Thou spread'st thy dazzling bosom to the sun:
While pleased, anon, with Autumn's rainbow hues
And mournful shell, thou bidd'st
Thy waves wild music make.

In that glad moment, when the star of morn
Leads up the effulgent day, and liquid pearls
Are on the flowers, and thou
In snowy mist art wrapp'd,—

How have I stood, delighted, to behold
The sun, like a young deity look forth,
And, with a glance, thy face
At once again unveil!

And when the golden curtains of the west
Are gathering round his couch, and his last ray
Descending, seems to melt
In thy unruffled flood,—

How have I rivetted my eye on thee,
And wish'd that on my breast a heavenly gleam

275

Might fall, and thus within
My soul as softly sink!

Yet if there be a more propitious hour,
'T is when the moon from out the silvery east
In chasten'd splendor beams,—
And sheds o'er thee, and o'er

The tranquil earth, her mild and holy light:
A shadowy grandeur then invests the scene,
While through the willing mind
A pleasing sadness steals.

O fond remembrance!—but what boots it now
To sing of absent charms? Thou calmly sleep'st
Beneath thy circling hills,
While I am tempest-tost!

Yet brighter eyes, and innocent as bright,
Shall long upon thy varied beauties gaze,
And young glad beings too
Delight in thee to lave:

And science, haply, on thy banks shall rear
Her proudest domes; and, emulous of fame,
Bards, yet unborn, shall chant
In lofty verse thy praise.

Seneca Lake is not known to freeze.

DAPHNE.

“Elle etoit de ce monde ou les plus belles choses
Ont le pire destin;
Et, rose, elle a vecu ce que vivent les roses,
L'espace d'un matin.”
Malherbe.

The winds are hush'd; but the chill air of night
Pervades my shivering frame. The crisped leaves
Which lately waved in undulations soft,
To every genial breeze, and look'd so green,—
But now were wasted from the neighboring wood,
And cumber all my solitary paths.
Softly I tread the mazy labyrinth, lest

276

The rustling noise should interrupt the deep
And fearful stillness round. 'T is thus amid
The forest wilds, when Autumn crowns, as now,
The plenteous year, and the gay antler'd herds
Look sleek, the unwearied hunter threads his way,
And with a step, cautious as Guilt, pursues
The timid chase. But what shall I alarm
In these deserted haunts, where none of choice
Repair, save those whom wretchedness has taught,
After long toil, to seek for refuge here?
The mole has burrow'd deep, and heeds me not;
The bat has ta'en his headlong flight in search
Of gentler skies, or nestles in some lone
And cover'd nook; while at my feet sleep those,
Whom not the crash of worlds shall wake again!
Hah! is it so? and wilt not thou awake,
My dear, lamented Daphne? Shall that form,
That form so heavenly fair, ne'er bloom again?
Thy dust, alas! is not commingled here
With kindred dust; but doth it aught avail?
Lo! where repose the long forgotten race,
The lengthen'd line of thy progenitors:
Whilst thou, o'ercanopied by balmier heavens,
Beneath the tamarind and the orange tree
Fit resting place hast found! No winter there
Shivers the glories of the circling year,
Nor tarnishes the lustre of the groves:
Thy favorite myrtle there can never die—
There every gale wafts perfumes o'er thy grave!
Ah why, 'mid scenes thus fair, should man decay?
With lavish bounty nature there adorns
The wild, and bids the flowers perpetual bloom,
And yet to him a longer date denies,—
Nay, warns him thence before his custom'd time.
And such, my Daphne, was thy hapless lot!
And worse—for thou wast fated twice to die—
And twice in the full vernal bloom of youth—
The cup at parting bitterer than Death's!
How wast thou torn, all lovely as thou wast,
And beauteous too as Maia's self when flush'd
By genial beams of the young sun, from arms
Unwilling to be loosed from thine! How flow'd
Thy tears, when every tenderer tie which bound
Thee here, was sunder'd! And how throbb'd thy heart
When, in a last embrace, 'twas press'd to mine!

277

But years since that sad parting have gone by,
And years have flown since thou wast rapt to heaven!
Yet how can I forget or thou forgive?
True thou didst oft invite me to thy home,
Didst beckon me amid thy fragrant groves
To taste of golden fruits, and blissful breathe
Thy incensed air,—and, dearer far, enjoy
Thy converse sweet:—but, such my wayward mood,
I spurn'd the call (though softer not than thine
An angel's voice) or thought, as worldlings do,
At fitting hour to come. Thus wisdom's fool'd,
And thus was I infatuated too.
My Daphne! art thou then for ever fled?
O once again appear as thou wast wont!
Thou smilest in my dreams; and when I wake,
I pay thee with my late repentant tears:
Tears are thy due—ah, doubly due from one
On whom thy infant eyes beam'd only love—
Whom thou remember'dst to thy latest breath!

FLOWERS.

“La vue d'une fleur caresse mon imagination et flatte mes sens a un point inexprimable: elle reveille avec volupte le sentiment de mon existence.”

Mad. Roland.

The impatient morn,
With gladness on his wings, calls forth “Arise!
To trace the hills, the vales, where thousand dyes
The ground adorn,
While the dew sparkles yet within the violet's eyes:”

And when the day
In golden slumber sinks, with accent sweet
Mild evening comes to lure the willing feet
With her to stray,
Where'er the bashful flowers the observant eye may greet.

Near the moist brink
Of music-loving streams they ever keep,
And often in the lucid fountains peep;

278

Oft, laughing, drink
Of the mad torrent's spray, perch'd near the thundering steep:

And everywhere
Along the plashy marge, and shallow bed
Of the still waters, they innumerous spread;
Rock'd gently there
The beautiful Nymphæa pillows its bright head.

Within the dell,
Within the rocky clefts they love to hide;
And hang adventurous on the steep hill-side;
Or rugged fell,
Where the young eagle waves his wings in youthful pride.

In the green sea
Of forest leaves, where nature wanton plays,
They modest bloom; though through the verdant maze
The tulip-tree
Its golden chalice oft triumphantly displays:

And, of pure white,
Embedded 'mid its glossy leaves on high,
There the superb Magnolia lures the eye;
While, waving light,
The locust's myriad tassels scent the ambient sky.

But O, ye bowers,—
Ye valleys where the spring perpetual reigns,
And flowers unnumber'd o'er the purple plains
Exuberant showers,—
How fancy revels in your lovelier domains!

All love the light;
And yet what numbers spring within the shade,
And blossom where no foot may e'er invade;
Till comes a blight,—
Comes unaware,—and then incontinent they fade!

And thus they bloom,
And thus their lives ambrosial breathe away;
Thus flourish too the lovely and the gay:

279

And the same doom
Youth, beauty, flower, alike consigns to swift decay.

The white-pond lily.

I THOUGHT IT SLEPT.

[From Recollections of Childhood.]

I saw the infant cherub—soft it lay,
As it was wont, within its cradle, now
Deck'd with sweet smelling flowers. A sight so strange
Fill'd my young breast with wonder, and I gazed
Upon the babe the more. I thought it slept—
And yet its little bosom did not move!
I bent me down to look into its eyes,
But they were closed: then, softly clasp'd its hand,
But mine it would not clasp. What should I do?
“Wake, brother, wake!” I then impatient cried,
“Open thine eyes, and look on me again!”
He would not hear my voice. All pale beside
My weeping mother sat, “and gazed and look'd
Unutterable things.” Will he not wake?
I eager ask'd: She answer'd but with tears.
Her eyes on me, at length, with piteous look
Were cast—now on the babe once more were fix'd—
And now on me: then with convulsive sigh
And throbbing heart, she clasp'd me in her arms,
And in a tone of anguish faintly said—
“My dearest boy! thy brother does not sleep;
Alas! he 's dead; he never will awake.”
He 's dead! I knew not what it meant, but more
To know I sought not. For the words so sad,
“He never will awake”—sunk in my soul:
I felt a pang unknown before, and tears
That angels might have shed, my heart dissolved.

From this little tale of unaffected childish sorrow, Mr Agate (an estimable young artist of New York) has produced a very touching picture. It was exhibited during the last season, at the National Academy in that city.

280

TO THE FRINGILLA MELODIA.

Joy fills the vale,
With joy ecstatic quivers every wing,
As floats thy note upon the genial gale,
Sweet bird of spring!

The violet
Awakens at thy song, and peers from out
Its fragrant nook, as if the season yet
Remain'd in doubt—

While from the rock
The columbine its crimson bell suspends,
That careless vibrates, as its slender stalk
The zephyr bends.

Say! when the blast
Of winter swept our whiten'd plains,—what clime,
What sunnier realm thou charm'dst,—and how was past
Thy joyous time?

Did the green isles
Detain thee long? or, 'mid the palmy groves
Of the bright south, where liberty now smiles,
Did'st sing thy loves?

O, well I know
Why thou art here thus soon, and why the bowers
So near the sun have lesser charms than now
Our land of flowers:

Thou art return'd
On a glad errand,—to rebuild thy nest,
And fan anew the gentle fire that burn'd
Within thy breast.

And thy wild strain,
Pour'd on the gale, is love's transporting voice—
That, calling on the plumy choir again,
Bids them rejoice:

281

Nor calls alone
T' enjoy, but bids improve the fleeting hour—
Bids all that ever heard love's witching tone,
Or felt his power.

The poet too
It soft invokes to touch the trembling wire;
Yet ah, how few its sounds shall list, how few
His song admire!

But thy sweet lay,
Thou darling of the spring! no ear disdains;
Thy sage instructress, nature, says “Be gay!”
And prompts thy strains.

O, if I knew
Like thee to sing, like thee the heart to fire,—
Youth should enchanted throng, and beauty sue
To hear my lyre.

Oft as the year
In gloom is wrapp'd, thy exile I shall mourn—
Oft as the spring returns, shall hail sincere
Thy glad return.

The song-sparrow.

THE WATERFALL.

Impetuous Torrent! Nature piled
Thy rocks amid the sylvan wild;
With flower and shrub their crags she graced,
And through them thy dark pathway traced;
Then bade thee with resistless force
Pursue thy mad, tumultuous course,
Plunging from slippery steep to steep
Till lost in the profounder deep,—
While 'mid the rush of waters round,
Eternal thunders shake the ground!

Impetuous Torrent! Time, perhaps,
For centuries hath mark'd thy lapse;

282

Yet has that ruthless spoiler fear'd
To mar the work which nature rear'd.
Still in rude grandeur tower thy rocks,
Still all restraint thy current mocks,
In verdant pride still wave thy trees,
Sway'd ever by the varying breeze;
And the dark cliffs, where wild flowers cling,
And where the bee flies murmuring,
In matchless beauty robed still,
Aye sets at nought the painter's skill.
And here upon thy margent green,
The Indian hunter once was seen,
Gazing on thee in thoughtful mood,
Or bounding swift, as he pursued
Panther or deer across the glade,
Nor reck'd the coil thy waters made.
Child of the Forest! thou art fled,
Thy joys, thy pastimes, all are sped;
The antler'd herd are far away,
The panther is no more thy prey,
Nor more the timorous Echo wakes,
Startled as when thy war-whoop breaks:
And yet in Fancy's view still near,
Thou brightly art depicted here.
The rock that spurns the rush of waves,
Is thy stern soul, that danger braves;
Amid the flood's incessant roar
Thy dreaded voice I hear once more;
And as I mark its maddening strife,
I think o'er all thy stormy life:
While through the spray that falls in showers
Upon the trees, the shrubs, the flowers,
That wild, bright heaven, so dear to thee,
In yon ethereal brede I see.

Impetuous Torrent! other times
And other men from distant climes,
Have now arrived; and thou despoil'd
Of all thy charms, thy proud waves soil'd
By busy art, shalt be a theme
Fit only for a poet's dream.
Yet should the forest shade no more
The banks o'er which it waved before,
And all thy lovelier features too
Vanish for ages from the view,—

283

Still through the mournful waste shalt thou
Pursue thy rapturous course as now:
And when the race that here bear sway
Are in oblivion swept away,
Thou shalt resume thy pristine reign—
And, deck'd in beauty, once again,
Shalt the brown hunter's heart rejoice,
And wake the forest with thy voice.

DESCRIPTIVE SONNETS.

SUNLIGHT ON THE WATER.

“There is nothing more beautiful than water. It has always the same pure flow, and the same low music, and is always ready to bear away your thoughts upon its bosom, like the Hindoo's barque of flowers, to an imaginative heaven.”

Unwritten Poetry.

There is a balmy freshness in the air;
And as the sunbeams on its surface gleam
It seems as if upon the rippled stream
A shower of diamonds fell: or as if there,
Fantastic knit in frolic mood, some fair
Invisible Spirits in the instant wound
On airy tiptoe through the measured round,
And left their dazzling foot-prints everywhere.
'T is a glad sight! and many a time I 've stood
Upon the fringed banks the streamlets lave,
Or perch'd me where some rock o'erhangs the flood,
To see the light thus kiss each little wave:
Ay! gaze even yet almost with the same joy
As when I was a young gay-hearted boy.

AUTUMNAL PICTURE: A SKETCH.

See how the forest waves! The gnarled oak
Even bends—and as the unruly wind sweeps through
Its sturdy branches, showers of leaves bestrew
The ground, or diverse fly; the crow, just broke
From out the warring wood, with ominous croak

284

Wheels heavily through air; the glorious hue
Of the bright mantle summer lately threw
O'er earth, is gone; and the sere leaves now choke
The turbid fountains and complaining brooks;
The o'ershadowing pines, alone, through which I rove,
Their verdure keep, although it darker looks:
And hark! as it comes sighing through the grove,
The exhausted gale a Spirit there awakes,
That wild and melancholy music wakes.

THE RAINBOW AFTER A SUMMER TEMPEST.

Symbol of peace! lo, there the ethereal bow!
And see, on flagging wing, the storm retreats
Far 'mid the depths of space; and with him fleets
His lurid train—the while in beauty glow
Vale, hill and sky once more. How lustrous now
Earth's verdant mantle! and the woods how bright!
Where grass, leaf, flower, are sparkling in the light—
Prompt ever with the slightest breeze to throw
The rain drops to the ground. Within the grove
Music awakes; and from each little throat,
Silent so long, bursts the wild note of love;
The hurried babblings of the rill denote
Its infant joy; and rushing swift along,
The torrent gives to air, its hoarse and louder song.

EVENING SUNLIGHT.

How beautifully soft it seems to sleep
Upon the lap of the unbreathing vale,
And where, unruffled by the gentlest gale,
The lake its bosom spreads, and in its deep
Clear wave, another world appears to keep,
To steal the heart from this! for through the veil
Transparent we may see, tree, rock, hill, dale,
And sapphire sky, and golden mountain steep,
That real seem, though fairer than our own:—
Still, picture faint of that pure region drawn

285

By prophet's pen, but not to mortal shown,
Where flow rivers of bliss—and vale, and lawn
Are strewn with flowers immortal—where, alone,
Night never comes, and day is without dawn.