War-lyrics and other poems

'Tis said that seven short years can change,
Through nerve and bone, this knitted frame,—
Cellule by cellule waxing strange,
Till not an atom is the same.

By what more subtle, slow degrees,
Thus may the mind transmute its all,
That calmly it should dwell on these,
As on another's fate and fall!

So far remote from joy or bale,
Wherewith each dusky page is rife,
I seem to read some piteous tale
Of romance, true unto the life.

Too daring thoughts! too idle deeds!
A soul that questioned, loved, and sinned!
And hopes, that stand like last year's weeds
And shudder in the dead March wind!

Grave of gone dreams! could such convulse
Youth's fevered trance?—The plot grows thick;
Was it this cold and even pulse
That thrilled with life so fierce and quick?

Well, I can smile at all this now,—
But cannot smile when I recall
The heart of faith, the open brow,
The trust that once was all in all;—

144

Nor when—Ah, faded, spectral sheet!
Wraith of long-perished wrong and time—
Forbear! the spirit starts to meet
The resurrection of its crime!

Starts—from its human world shut out—
As some detected changeling elf,
Doomed, with strange agony and doubt,
To enter on his former self.

Ill-omened leaves, still rust apart!
No further!—'tis a page turned o'er,
And the long dead and coffined heart
Throbs into wretched life once more.

ALL TOGETHER.

Old friends and dear! it were ungentle rhyme,
If I should question of your true hearts, whether
Ye have forgotten that far, pleasant time,
The good old time when we were all together.

Our limbs were lusty and our souls sublime;
We never heeded cold and winter weather,
Nor sun nor travel, in that cheery time,
The brave old time when we were all together.

145

Pleasant it was to tread the mountain thyme,
Sweet was the pure and piny mountain ether,
And pleasant all; but this was in the time,
The good old time when we were all together.

Since then I've strayed through many a fitful clime,
(Tossed on the wind of fortune like a feather,)
And chanced with rare good fellows in my time—
But ne'er the time that we have known together:

But none like those brave hearts, (for now I climb
Gray hills alone, or thread the lonely heather,)
That walked-beside me in the ancient time,
The good old time when we were all together.

Long since, we parted in our careless prime,
Like summer birds no June shall hasten hither;
No more to meet as in that merry time,
The sweet spring-time that shone on all together.

Some, to the fevered city's toil and grime,
And some o'er distant seas, and some—ah! whither?
Nay, we shall never meet as in the time,
The dear old time when we were all together.

And some—above their heads, in wind and rime,
Year after year, the grasses wave and wither;
Aye, we shall meet!—'tis but a little time,
And all shall lie with folded hands together.

146

And if, beyond the sphere of doubt and crime,
Lie purer lands—ah! let our steps be thither;
That, done with earthly change and earthly time,
In God's good time we may be all together.

SUSPIRIA NOCTIS.

Reading, and reading—little is the gain
Long dwelling with the minds of dead men leaves.
List rather to the melancholy rain,
Drop—dropping from the eaves.

Still the old tale—how hardly worth the telling!
Hark to the wind!—again that mournful sound,
That, all night long, around this lonely dwelling,
Moans like a dying hound.

147

TO THE POET.

Aye, doubt, and hope, and dream!
(Thou canst not choose)—and question the Divine!
Thus—since of earth—did They, whose holier gleam
Was clouded erst, as thine.

Souls that, like Setting Suns,
Have left their radiance flung on sea and shore—
The Wise, the Pure, the Everlasting Ones,
They who have gone before.

But muse no more in rhyme!
Lest, haply, fond imaginings and hopes,
In their inception truthful or sublime,
Perish in wordy tropes.

In quiet mark them roll,
The grand, still shadows of eternity—
And mighty Thoughts, that move along the soul
Like clouds upon the sea.

148

GONE.

Gone—and forever! the grace and glory,
The passionate earth-life sweet and strong—
Good and glee are an old-time story,
Hope and loving have left for long.

How has it failed, the heart's free fountain!
Hand and foot?—alas, was't these
Leaped the chasm, and climbed the mountain,
And held the tiller through stormy seas?

How has it dwarfed, the soul's high stature!
That clasped its darlings of earth and blue—
Knew the divine, or in art or nature,
Loved the lovely, and owned the true.

Spirit fordone! to thy darkening chamber
Turn, with the penanced eyes of eld,
Never again to behold the sunshine—
Never again till the pulse be quelled.

As when, forlornly, at saddest midnight,
The pale, wan lips we shall press no more,
Seen by the cold and colorless moonlight,
Tremble farewell—and the dream is o'er;

149

Thus, O Life that aspired and longed so!
All amort, thou hast kissed good-bye,
Good-bye to the Youth was loved and wronged so—
And a chill, drear morn comes up the sky.

PRESENTIMENT.

Strange heaviness—I know not why.
The old grief, methought, had grown more light—
And no new ill hath chanced—yet I
Am very sorrowful to-night.

It is not that I cannot bear
The burden countless hearts have borne—
It is not that I shrink to wear
The garment countless limbs have worn—

Nor that, through sordid care and strife,
The soul her comrade must sustain,
To draw with pain the breath of life,
And break their daily bread with pain—

(So fiercely hath it drunk of joy,
So deeply drained the dregs of woe,
That common grief may scarce annoy,
And common good were pale and low)—

150

But that, to-night, from out the throng
Some surlier shadow flickers still—
Some wraith of old ancestral wrong,
Or cold rapport of coming ill.

Haunt, an thou will, gray evil gone!
Thrill, an 'tis thou, dumb pang to be!
The heart can hold ye both at one,
That knows a sadder guest than ye.

MIDNIGHT—A LAMENT.

Do the dead carry their cares,
Like us, to the place of rest?
The long, long night—is it theirs,
Weary to brain and breast?
Ah, that I knew how it fares
With One that I loved the best!

I lie alone in the house.
How the wretched North-wind raves!
I listen, and think of those
O'er whose heads the wet grass waves—
Do they hear the wind that blows,
And the rain on their lonely graves?

151

Heads that I helped to lay
On the pillow that lasts for aye.
It is but a little way
To the dreary hill where they lie—
No bed but the cold, cold clay—
No roof but the stormy sky.

Cruel the thought and vain!
They've now nothing more to bear—
Done with sickness and pain,
Done with trouble and care—
But I hear the wind and the rain,
And still I think of them there.

Ah, couldst thou come to me,
Bird that I loved the best!
That I knew it was well with thee—
Wild and weary North-West!
Wail in chimney and tree—
Leave the dead to their rest.

152

OCCIDENTE.

How coldly sets this winter sun—
The bitter day is wellnigh done;
Forlorn December fares, with one
Sad smile of last regret.
Thus from thy brief and wintry day,
O Soul! the sunshine ebbs away:
Thus falls on thee the frozen ray,
That lingers wanly yet:
Thus dies—how fringed with icy gold,
The clouds above yon mountain rolled!
Behind whose summit, dark and cold,
This winter sun has set.

NOVEMBER. By L. E. B.

November daies are short and dour,
And mirk, mirk fa's the night;
Sad and alane, by the firelight dim,
Is a dame, in weedes bedight.

153

For her four sons are gane frae her—
They are gane for mony a day:
And as she listeth the wind monand,
She grieveth, as well she may.

Twa of them were clerkly taught,
'Mid the hills their weird they drie—
And ane is aff on the high, high land,
And ane is farre in the South Countrie.

“O, quan sall I get letters?” she said,
“And quatten the newes I sall heare?”
There came nae aunswer, nor ony sound
But the sough o' the wind thro' the lindens dreare.

“And O, if I were sair sick!” she said,
“And O, if I suld dee!
And my deare sons sae farre awa,
And nane to comfort me.

“The ugsome worme wolde gnawe at my cheeke—
Sae wolde he at my chinne:
Lang, lang or e'er my bonnie sons
To their mither's side colde winne.

“And sairly wolde they greet to find
Nae welcome at the hearthe—
Nae welcome but frae twa white stanes
And a knowe o' new-turn'd earthe.”

154

MARE NON CLAUSUM.

As one who, for a bark that nevermore
Shall meet her gaze, still looking wearily,
Wanders, in wistful longing, on the shore
Of the vast, desolate sea—

Thus, in vague quest of that she gathers not,
The Soul along Life's margin lingereth—
And, musing on the inevitable lot,
Walks by the waves of Death—

Of that drear flood, whose ne'er-surveyed extent
This our existence ever darkens round—
Amid whose barren waste nor continent
Nor island hath been found!

Yet Hope, Columbus-like, would fondly deem
Far in those gloomy depths a Land may lie,
Of beauty never dreamed in human dream,
Ne'er seen with human eye!

And when her timid feet the chill tide laves,
Voices, nigh lost, come from that far-off Land—
Lost, in the wearying of a thousand waves
Tumultuous on Life's strand.

155

How fare they—parting souls—that, ferried o'er,
See all the known receding far behind—
And catch, as yet, no glimpse of that dim shore
That waits the eternal Mind?

THE BURIAL OF THE DANE.

Blue gulf all around us,
Blue sky overhead—
Muster all on the quarter,
We must bury the dead!

It is but a Danish sailor,
Rugged of front and form;
A common son of the forecastle,
Grizzled with sun and storm.

His name, and the strand he hailed from
We know—and there's nothing more!
But perhaps his mother is waiting
In the lonely Island of Fohr.

Still, as he lay there dying,
Reason drifting awreck,
“'Tis my watch,” he would mutter,
“I must go upon deck!”

156

Aye, on deck—by the foremast!—
But watch and look-out are done;
The Union-Jack laid o'er him,
How quiet he lies in the sun!

Slow the ponderous engine,
Stay the hurrying shaft!
Let the roll of the ocean
Cradle our giant craft—
Gather around the grating,
Carry your messmate aft!

Stand in order, and listen
To the holiest page of prayer!
Let every foot be quiet,
Every head be bare—
The soft trade-wind is lifting
A hundred locks of hair.

Our captain reads the service,
(A little spray on his cheeks,)
The grand old words of burial,
And the trust a true heart seeks—
“We therefore commit his body
To the deep”—and, as he speaks,

Launched from the weather railing,
Swift as the eye can mark,
The ghastly, shotted hammock
Plunges, away from the shark,

157

Down, a thousand fathoms,
Down into the dark!

A thousand summers and winters
The stormy Gulf shall roll
High o'er his canvas coffin,—
But, silence to doubt and dole!
There's a quiet harbor somewhere
For the poor a-weary soul.

Free the fettered engine,
Speed the tireless shaft!
Loose to'gallant and topsail,
The breeze is fair abaft!

Blue sea all around us,
Blue sky bright o'erhead—
Every man to his duty!
We have buried our dead.

Steamship Cahawba, at Sea, Jan. 20th, 1858.

158

AD NAVEM.

How shall we think of thee to-day—
(For still our thoughts to thee must roam)—
Oh, ship! that on the distant sea,
Somewhere, art bringing Charley home?

In airs of balm, 'mid tropic isles,
Borne slowly on, with sleepy sail—
Or madly plunging, double-reefed,
Against this wild northwestern gale?

This blast that, hurrying o'er the flood,
In turbid waves the causey whelms—
Flings white-caps o'er the shattered pier—
And howls amid these wintry elms.

While he, this very hour perchance,
Slow rocking in his eyrie high,
Reclined, surveys with loving glance
The calm expanse of sea and sky.

Blow fair and strong, thou southern gale,
The flying Gulf before thee foam!
Fill blithely every stitch of sail
That bears the wanderer to his home.

159

And speed the good ship on her way—
Ship! that a freight dost hither bring
More welcome than the flowers of May,
That crown this late and lingering spring.

THE RETURN OF KANE.

Toll, tower and minster, toll
O'er the city's ebb and flow!
Roll, muffled drum, still roll
With solemn beat and slow!—
A brave and a splendid soul
Hath gone—where all shall go.

Dimmer, in gloom and dark,
Waned the taper, day by day,
And a nation watched the spark,
Till its fluttering died away.

Was its flame so strong and calm
Through the dismal years of ice,
To die 'mid the orange and the palm
And the airs of Paradise?

Over that simple bier
While the haughty Spaniard bows,

160

Grief may join in the generous tear,
And Vengeance forget her vows.

Aye, honor the wasted form
That a noble spirit wore—
Lightly it presses on the warm
Spring sod of its parent shore;
Hunger and darkness, cold and storm
Never shall harm it more.

No more of travel and toil,
Of Tropic or Arctic wild:
Gently, O Mother Soil,
Take thy worn and wearied child.

Lay him—the tender and true—
To rest with such who are gone,
Each chief of the valiant crew
That died as our own hath done—
Let him rest with stout Sir Hugh,
Sir Humphrey, and good Sir John.

And let grief be far remote,
As we march from the place of death,
To the blithest note of the fife's clear throat,
And the bugle's cheeriest breath.

Roll, stirring drum, still roll!
Not a sign—not a sound of woe,
That a grand and a glorious soul
Hath gone where the brave must go.

New Orleans, Feb. 24th, 1857.

161

AT SEA.

Midnight in drear New England,
'Tis a driving storm of snow—
How the casement clicks and rattles,
And the wind keeps on to blow!

For a thousand leagues of coast-line,
In fitful flurries and starts;
The wild North-Easter is knocking
At lonely windows and hearts.

Of a night like this, how many
Must sit by the hearth, like me,
Hearing the stormy weather,
And thinking of those at sea!

Of the hearts chilled through with watching,
The eyes that wearily blink,
Through the blinding gale and snow-drift,
For the Lights of Navesink!

How fares it, my friend, with you?—
If I've kept your reckoning aright,
The brave old ship must be due
On our dreary coast, to-night.

162

The fireside fades before me,
The chamber quiet and warm—
And I see the gleam of her lanterns
In the wild Atlantic storm.

Like a dream, 'tis all around me—
The gale, with its steady boom,
And the crest of every roller
Torn into mist and spume—
The sights and the sounds of Ocean
On a night of peril and gloom.

The shroud of snow and of spoon-drift
Driving like mad a-lee—
And the huge black hulk that wallows
Deep in the trough of the sea.

The creak of cabin and bulkhead,
The wail of rigging and mast—
The roar of the shrouds, as she rises
From a deep lee-roll to the blast.

The sullen throb of the engine,
Whose iron heart never tires—
The swarthy faces that redden
By the glare of his caverned fires.

The binnacle slowly swaying,
And nursing the faithful steel—
And the grizzled old quarter-master,
His horny hands on the wheel.

163

I can see it—the little cabin—
Plainly as if I were there—
The chart on the old green table,
The book, and the empty chair.

On the deck we have trod together,
A patient and manly form,
To and fro, by the foremast,
Is pacing in sleet and storm.

Since her keel first struck cold water,
By the Stormy Cape's clear Light,
'Tis little of sleep or slumber,
Hath closed o'er that watchful sight—
And a hundred lives are hanging
On eye and on heart to-night.

Would that to-night, beside him,
I walked the watch on her deck,
Recalling the Legends of Ocean,
Of ancient battle and wreck.

But the stout old craft is rolling
A hundred leagues a-lee—
Fifty of snow-wreathed hill-side,
And fifty of foaming sea.

I cannot hail him, nor press him
By the hearty and true right hand—
I can but murmur,—God bless him!
And bring him safe to the land.

164

And send him the best of weather,
That, ere many suns shall shine,
We may sit by the hearth together,
And talk about Auld Lang Syne.

February 3d, 1859.

ALONE.

A sad old house by the sea.
Were we happy, I and thou,
In the days that used to be?
There is nothing left me now

But to lie, and think of thee,
With folded hands on my breast,
And list to the weary sea
Sobbing itself to rest.

165

WAITING FOR THE SHIP.

BY C. D'W. B.

We are ever waiting, waiting,
Waiting for the tide to turn—
“For the train at Coventry”—
For the sluggish fire to burn—
For a far-off friend's return.

We are ever hoping, hoping,
Hoping that the wind will shift—
That success may crown our venture—
That the morning fog may lift—
That the dying may have shrift.

We are ever fearing, fearing,
Fearing lest the ship have sailed—
That the sick may ne'er recover—
That the letter was not mailed—
That the trusted firm has failed.

We are ever wishing, wishing,
Wishing we were far at sea—
That the winter were but over—
That we could but find the key—
That the prisoner were free.

166

Wishing, fearing, hoping, waiting,
Through life's voyage—moored at last,
Tedious doubts shall merge forever,
(Be their sources strait or vast,)
In the inevitable Past.

IN ARTICULO MORTIS.

“The monarchy is very old,” he said,
“But it will last my time—then, after us,
The Deluge!” and meanwhile, (his thought ran thus,)
Our Parc au Cerfs—and Damiens to his bed
Of fire and steel. A little, and men see
That plague-scored lump, gasping, “Je sens la Mort.”
(Had that brief word been thine, ah, long before!
France had been happier—and 'twere well with thee.)
One cries, “The King is dead—long live the King!”
What loyal haste in every heart prevails!
In yon deserted room a hideous thing
Through open windows taints the soft spring gales.
Hear the Stampede of Courtiers, echoing
Like thunder through the galleries of Versailles.

167

SONG OF THE ARCHANGELS.

PROLOGUE IN FAUST.

RAPHAEL.
The sun yet sounds his ancient song,
Exultant, 'mid the choral spheres;
In thunder-swiftness rolled along,
He journeys through the allotted years.
The angels strengthen in his light,
Though none may read his mystic gaze;
Thy works, unutterably bright,
Are fair as on the First of Days.

GABRIEL.
And swift, unutterably swift,
Revolves the splendor of the world;
The gleams of Aidenn glow and shift,
The shroud of night is spread and furled.
The sea in foamy waves is hurled
Against the rooted rocks profound;
And rocks and seas, together whirled,
Sweep on in their eternal round.

MICHAEL.
And storms are shouting, as in strife,
From sea to land, from land to sea,

168

And weave a chain of wildest life
Round all, in rude tempestuous glee.
There desolation flies abroad
Before the thunder's dreaded way:
And here Thy messengers, O Lord!
Watch the sweet parting of Thy day.

THE THREE.
The angels strengthen in Thy sight,
Though none may know Thy wondrous ways;
Yea, all Thy works sublimely bright
Are fair as on the First of Days.

APRÈS LA SOMMEIL.

Ah, the anguish and the shame,
And the bitter throbs of blame,
And the grief that could but weep,
All are lulled by loving sleep.
Like a summer storm it passed,
Dew and starlight followed fast—
And she lifts her lids at last,
With a tender growing gaze,
Half of softness, half amaze—
With a rapture, low and faint,
Like some long-tormented saint
Opening recovered eyes
On a Morn of Paradise.

169

THE CHANGELING.

Oh, mother watched my weary head,
And father held my hand,
So I went to sleep in my little bed—
But I woke in the Elfin-land.

How am I ever to find myself?
When the old room shall I see?
In my cradle lieth an ugsome elf—
And they weep, and think 'tis me.

TWILIGHT.

The mountain wears an ominous frown,
In the face of the troubled sky—
The woods on his crown gloom darkly down
From their rooted hold on high—
Like the hair of a giant close shorn, I trow,
They bristle up from his shaggy brow.

170

RAPPORT.

Strange recognition, or of friend or foe,
Methinks, dumb Nature hath.
This morn, as on an errand I did go,
Pregnant of wrong and wrath—
Sliding askant, their venomous lids arow,
Three serpents crossed my path.

May lower Malice scent out, in the vast,
Some Sin, her foster-child?
(How the bead-eyes leered on me as they passed!)
A shudder—then I smiled;
Ha, dost thou wink me? Sathanas, avast!
I will be strong, but mild.

QU'IL MOURUT.

Not a sob, not a tear be spent
For those who fell at his side—
But a moan and a long lament
For him—who might have died!

171

Who might have lain, as Harold lay,
A King, and in state enow—
Or slept with his peers, like Roland
In the Straits of Roncesvaux.

THE STEAM-SPIRIT.

ON SEEING A STEAM-ENGINE OF COLORED GLASSES.

We have read, with delight and wonder,
In the old Arabian tale,
How the Genie of smoke and vapor,
When freed from his copper jail,

To show his cunning and mettle,
Crept into the pot again;
But they clapped the lid on his kettle,
And made him a slave to men.

Still, in flue and in boiler,
The Sprite is condemned to lurk—
To swelter, puffing and blowing—
For still we keep him at work;

'Mid the Armory's angry clamors,
Forging sabre and gun—

172

Lifting his huge tilt-hammers
Steadily, one by one;

Where the mountain of cotton dwindles,
Playing his endless parts,
'Mid the roar of reels and windles,
And shuttles flying like darts—
Whirling a thousand spindles,
Wasting a thousand hearts;

Where winds and waves run frantic,
Toiling with tireless clank,
Afar, on the wild Atlantic—
One arm, bony and lank,
Pumping calm and pedantic—
T'other turning his crank.

But he is not to weld the anchor,
Nor grind in the mill to-day—
The fettered and blinded giant
Is shown for our sport and play.

The Steam-King's prison?—between us,
'Tis rather some wondrous toy,
Tinkered by Vulcan for Venus,
When they were girl and boy;

Or an engine built by the fairies
For good little folks' delight—
Of amber, ruby, and crystal,
To run of a Christmas night.

173

Pearl, and candy, and coral,
Like a Baby-Inventor's dream—
Oberon trying the whistle,
(Saucy, elfin-like scream!)
Puck, with down of the thistle,
Busy, getting up steam.

Elves, by the dozen, clinging
On piston and beam, pell-mell—
Tiny Titania ringing
Hard at the ruby bell.

Some at guage and eccentric—
Others, all in a string,
Perched upon shaft and fly-wheel,
Whirl in a rainbow ring.

Prettiest plaything of Science!
Fitter, methinks, to stand
(Safe from rude, mortal fingers,)
Spinning in Fairy-Land;

'Mid the fruits of beryl and topaz,
With emerald leaves enrolled,
That grew in Aladdin's garden,
In the wonderful days of old—
The grapes of opal and amber,
And the apples of garnet and gold.

174

LINES, KIMPOSED A BORED OF A CALIFORNY MALE-STEEMER.

BY A PARSINGER.

Wal! of all the cusséd kinveyances,
Ef this isn't about the wust!
Nothin but rockin an rollin
An pitchin, from the verry fust—
The ingine a groanin, and the biler
Lyable enny minnit to bust.

Fust wun side, dum it, and then tuther!
Till Ime dogged ef I no wot to du—
Rock away, yu darnd old kradle!
I wos a baby wen I got inter you.

None on em seems to keer 6¼ cents
How bad a feller may feel,
Nur to talk to him—not even the saler
Foolin away his time on a wheel.

Thar's the capting! aint it provokin
To see that critter, all threw the trip,
Continooally drinkin and smokin,
Wen he orter be a mindin on his ship.

175

It's enuf to aggeravait a body,
And it aint manners, I think,
To set thar takin down his toddy,
And never askin nary parsinger to drink.

And the pusser, all he keers fur,
Is fur to hev a time with his pals.
I say, darn sech a pusser! jest heer him
Flurtin and carrin on among the gals!

And wen he's tired o' that, wot follers?
In his little cabbing thar he sets
Like a spyder, among berrils o' dollers—
Enuf to pay a feller's dets.

That's all they keers for parsingers,
Is, to git the two-hunder-
'N-fifty-dolers out of his pockit inter theirn,
And then he may go to thunder.

Ef a feller's driv to distraxion
In a blo, and axes wot to du,
He cant git no sort o' sattisfaxion
Out o' none on em—capting, mait, nur crew.

Wun day I clim inter their blamed riggin,
Jest to see wot thar wos, and in hopes
To kepe shet of em wun spell—but dog it!
I see 2 on em comin up the ropes.

176

Wun on em ketcht me and hilt hold on me,
While tother misrable cuss
Tide me up with a nasty, sticky cloze-line,
Smellin o' tar or sumthin wuss.

Thar they kep me—darn their picturs!
And nobody done nothin but larf,
Till I'd forkt out fur a bottle o' brandy—
It come to $2½.

That's the last $2½
They'll ever git out o' me,
Fur Ile travvil in a durned top-waggin,
Afore Ile be ketc ht agin to see.

University of Virginia Library

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

PSYCHAURA.

OLD PAPERS.