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

That silent moon, that silent moon,
Carcering now through cloudless sky,
Oh! who shall tell what varied scenes
Have pass'd beneath her placid eye,
Since first, to light this wayward earth,
She walk'd in tranquil beauty forth.

How oft has guilt's unhallow'd hand,
And superstition's senseless rite,
And loud, licentious revelry,
Profaned her pure and holy light:
Small sympathy is hers, I ween,
With sights like these, that virgin queen.

But dear to her, in summer eve,
By rippling wave, or tufted grove,
When hand in hand is purely clasp'd,
And heart meets heart in holy love,
To smile, in quiet loneliness,
And hear each whisper'd vow and bless.

Dispersed along the world's wide way,
When friends are far, and fond ones rove,
How powerful she to wake the thought,
And start the tear for those we love!
Who watch, with us, at night's pale noon,
And gaze upon that silent moon.

How powerful, too, to hearts that mourn,
The magic of that moonlight sky,
To bring again the vanish'd scenes,
The happy eves of days gone by;
Again to bring, 'mid bursting tears,
The loved, the lost of other years.

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And oft she looks, that silent moon,
On lonely eyes that wake to weep,
In dungeon dark, or sacred cell,
Or couch, whence pain has banish'd sleep:
Oh! softly beams that gentle eye,
On those who mourn, and those who die.

But beam on whomsoe'er she will,
And fall where'er her splendor may,
There 's pureness in her chasten'd light,
There 's comfort in her tranquil ray:
What power is hers to soothe the heart—
What power, the trembling tear to start!

The dewy morn let others love,
Or bask them in the noontide ray;
There 's not an hour but has its charm,
From dawning light to dying day:—
But oh! be mine a fairer boon—
That silent moon, that silent moon!

OH! THAT I HAD WINGS LIKE A DOVE.

Who that has mingled in the fray,
Or borne the storms of life,
Has not desired to flee away
From all its sin and strife—
Has not desired, to flee away,
Like yonder startled dove,
And seek, in some far wilderness,
A nestling place of love—
Where the tumult, if heard, should excite no alarm,
And the storm and the tempest sweep by, and without harm.

Who that has felt the rankling wound
Of disappointment's sting,
Or proved the worse than vanity
Of every earthly thing,
Has not desired, like yon sweet dove,
To wander far away,
And find some desert lodging place,
And there for ever stray—
Where the vain show of earth should no longer delude.
Where the fiend disappointment should never intrude.

Who that has felt the crumbling touch
Of premature decay,
Or, sorer far, has mourn'd o'er friends,
Torn from his heart away,

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Has not desired, like yonder dove,
To seek some lonely nest,
And, far from earth's vain fellowship,
To dwell and be at rest—
Till the summons be heard, that shall bid him depart
And for ever rejoin the beloved of his heart.

And it shall be—that summons of joy shall be given,
To the converse of saints, to the mansions of heaven,
Where the cross of the sufferer shall no more be borne,
But the crown of the conqueror for ever be worn.

Thou, who seek'st this glorious prize,
Ask no more for wings of dove;
Angel-pinion'd, thou shalt rise,
To the realms of peace and love.

Realms, where Christ has gone before,
Blissful mansions to prepare;
Realms, where they who serve Him here,
Shall his power and glory share.

There, no battle-fray is heard;
There, no tempest need be fear'd;
Disappointment cannot sting,
Banish'd thence each hurtful thing,
Sickness comes not there, nor pain,
Death hath there no dark domain;
Gather'd there, no foot shall rove
Of the happy friends we love;
Gather'd there, no soul shall roam;
'T is our own—our Father's HOME.

LINES, SUGGESTED BY A VERY BRILLIANT SUN-SETTING.

Oh! see yon glowing occident,
With crimson, gold, and purple blent—
How high and wide the pageant's spread,
How far its gorgeous glories shed;
Not all that the earth has of brightest and best.
Can vie with the splendors of yonder west.
Oh! could we but mount to that golden clime,
And traverse those pathways of purple light,
To the perishing things of earth and time,
We 'd bid a long, and a glad “good night!”
There, 'mid the glow of parting day,
Through amaranthine fields we'd stray,

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Drinking in, with ravish'd ears,
The music of the circling spheres;
Gazing on glories of brighter shine,
Than the richest gems of Golconda's mine;
Resting in bowers of sweeter perfume,
Than the “gardens of Gul,” in their fairest bloom.
Fond enthusiast! see—it fades,
Even upon thy charmed sight;
Lost 'mid evening's gather'd shades,
Dying with the dying light;
Thus ever fades earth's loveliest,
Thus dies the brightest and the best.

I 've seen, in blooming loveliness,
The youthful maiden's angel form;
I 've seen, in towering stateliness,
The hero, breasting battle's storm;
The canker-worm of hopelessness
Has blighted all her bloom;
War's iron bolt, in ruthlessness,
Has sped him to the tomb:
Thus ever fades earth's loveliest,
Thus dies the brightest and the best.
Then count not maiden's loveliness,
Nor hero's towering stateliness,

Mortal, dare be wise:
Let not thy soul's aspiring rest
On gilded east, or glowing west—

Look beyond the skies!
There, far above that line of light,
Which bounds thy dim and shorten'd sight,
In never-dying glories, shine
The splendors of the world divine.
The new Jerusalem, the holy,
Whose foundations are of gold;
Garnish'd with the radiant glory,
Of thousand precious stones untold;
And the rainbow-circled throne,

On its fiery axles wheeling;
And Jehovah's own Zion, the holy mount;
And the water of life, in its crystal fount;

And the tree, with its leaves for the nation's healing:
Such as these, but numberless,
The glories of that heavenly place,
Where sorrow is never known, nor night,
For God and the Lamb are its joy and light.

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SPIRIT OF SPRING.

Spirit, that from the breathing south,
Art wafted hither on dewy wing,
By the soften'd light of that sunny eye,
And that voice of wild-wood melody,
And those golden tresses wantoning,
And the perfumed breath of that balmy mouth.
We know thee, Spirit of Spring—
Spirit of beauty, these thy charms, Spirit of Spring!

Spirit of Spring! thou com'st to wake
The slumbering energies of earth;
The zephyr's breath, to thee we owe,
Thine is the streamlet's silver flow,
And thine, the gentle flowerets' birth,
And their silence, hark! the wild birds break,
For thy welcome, Spirit of Spring!—
Spirit of life, thy triumphs these, Spirit of Spring!

Spirit of Spring! when the cheek is pale,
There is health in thy balmy air,
And peace in that brow of beaming bright,
And joy in that eye of sunny light,
And golden hope in that flowing hair:
Oh! that such influence e'er should fail,
For a moment, Spirit of Spring—
Spirit of health, peace, joy and hope, Spirit of Spring!

Yet fail it must—for it comes of earth,
And it may not shame its place of birth,
Where the best can bloom but a single day,
And the fairest is first to fade away.

But oh! there's a changeless world above,
A world of peace, and joy, and love,
Where, gather'd from the tomb,
The holy hopes that earth has cross'd,
And the pious friends that we loved and lost
Immortally shall bloom.

Who will not watch, and strive, and pray,
That his longing soul may soar away,
On faith's untiring wing,
To join the throng of the saints in light,
In that world, for ever fair and bright,
Of endless, cloudless Spring!

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ON A VERY OLD WEDDING RING.

The device—two hearts united. The motto—“Dear love of mine, my heart is thine.”

I like that ring, that ancient ring
Of massive form, and virgin gold
As firm, as free from base alloy,
As were the sterling hearts of old.
I like it—for it wafts me back,
Far, far along the stream of time,
To other men, and other days,
The men and days of deeds sublime.
But most I like it as it tells
The tale of well-requited love;
How youthful fondness persevered
And youthful faith disdain'd to rove;—
How warmly he his suit preferr'd,
Though she, unpitying, long denied,
Till, softened and subdued, at last,
He won his fair and blooming bride;—
How, till the appointed day arrived,
They blamed the lazy-footed hours;—
How then the white-robed maiden train
Strew'd their glad way with freshest flowers;—
And how, before the holy man,
They stood in all their youthful pride,
And spoke those words, and vow'd those vows
Which bind the husband to his bride;
All this it tells;—the plighted troth,
The gift of every earthly thing,
The hand in hand, the heart in heart—
For this I like that ancient ring.
I like its old and quaint device;
Two blended hearts—though time may wear them,
No mortal change, no mortal chance,
“Till death,” shall e'er in sunder tear them.
Year after year, 'neath sun and storm,
Their hopes in heaven, their trust in God,
In changeless, heartfelt, holy love,
These two, the world's rough pathways trod.
Age might impair their youthful fires,
Their strength might fail, 'mid life's bleak weather,
Still, hand in hand, they travell'd on,—
Kind souls! they slumber now together.
I like its simple posy too;
“Mine own dear love, this heart is thine!”
Thine, when the dark storm howls along,
As when the cloudless sunbeams shine.
“This heart is thine, mine own dear love!”

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Thine, and thine only, and for ever;
Thine, till the springs of life shall fail—
Thine, till the chords of life shall sever
Remnant of days departed long,
Emblem of plighted troth unbroken,
Pledge of devoted faithfulness,
Of heartfelt, holy love, the token—
What varied feelings round it cling!
For these, I like that ancient ring.

THE CLOUD BRIDGE: A REMEMBERED VISION.

Saw ye that cloud, which arose in the west,
As the burning sun sank down to his rest,
How it spread so wide, and tower'd so high,
O'er the molten gold of that glowing sky,
That it seem'd—Oh! it seem'd like some arched way,
As it beam'd and gleam'd, in that glorious ray,
Where the spirit, freed
From its earthly weed,
And robed in the white
Of the saints in light,
Might pass from the waves of sin and wo,
To that world where ceaseless pleasures flow!

Ye saw that cloud, how it tower'd alone,
Like an arched path o'er the billows thrown,
How its pillars of azure and purple stood,
And mock'd at the dash of the angry flood,
While it beam'd—oh! it beam'd from its battlements high,
As it gleam'd, and stream'd, in that western sky,
Such a flood of mellow and golden light,
As chain'd and fix'd the ravish'd sight,
And pour'd, along our dark'ning way,
The peace and joy of celestial day.

Such, as we haste to our heavenly home,
Saviour! such be the sights that come—
Thus, while the visions of time flit by,
And the fashion of earth grows dim to our eye,
Thus, let the light—oh! the light of thy love,
Beam bright on our sight from the mansions above—
Rending the gloom
Which enwraps the tomb,
And guiding our eye
To that world on high,
Where the people who love thee, for ever shall share
The rest thou hast purchased, and gone to prepare.