The poetical writings of Elizabeth Oakes Smith Second edition |
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MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. |
The poetical writings of Elizabeth Oakes Smith | ||
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
THE APRIL RAIN.
I hear the pleasant sound;
Now soft and still, like little dew,
Now drenching all the ground.
Pray tell me why an April shower
Is pleasanter to see
Than falling drops of other rain?
I'm sure it is to me.—
Or only hope the while,
That tells of swelling buds and flowers,
And summer's coming smile.
Whate'er it is, the April shower
Makes me a child again;
I feel a rush of youthful blood
Come with the April rain.
Within the darksome ground,
I should love to hear the April rain
So gently falling round;
Or any tiny flower were I,
By nature swaddled up,
How pleasantly the April shower
Would bathe my hidden cup.
On the cold autumnal earth,
Is bursting from its cerements forth,
Rejoicing in its birth.
The slender spears of pale green grass
Are smiling in the light,
The clover opes its folded leaves
As if it felt delight.
And upward turns his eye,
As loving much to see the drops
Come filtering from the sky—
No doubt he longs the bright green leaves
About his home to see,
And feel the swaying summer winds
Play in the full-robed tree.
And cheerful sounds are heard;
The young girl sings at the merry wheel
A song like the wilding bird;
Peers out with winking eye,
And his ringlets rubs with chubby hand,
As the drops come pattering by.
The truant boy is out,
And hoop and ball are darting by
With many a merry shout—
Ay, sport away, ye joyous throng,
For yours is the April day;
I love to see your spirits dance
In your pure and healthful play.
THE WATER.
Didst ever think of it,
When down it tumbles from the skies,
As in a merry fit?
It jostles, ringing as it falls,
On all that's in its way—
I hear it dancing on the roof,
Like some wild thing at play.
And gushing out below,
Half frantic in its joyousness,
And wild in eager flow.
The earth is dried and parched with heat,
And it hath longed to be
Released from out the selfish cloud,
To cool the thirsty tree.
The floweret's simple grace,
As if to chide the pretty thing
For dust upon its face.
Is free from dust or stain,
Then waits till leaf and branch are stilled,
And showers them o'er again.
To kiss the stirring brook,
The water dimples from beneath
With its own joyous look;
And then the kindred drops embrace,
And singing on they go,
To dance beneath the willow-tree,
And glad the vale below.
It loves to come at night,
To make us wonder in the morn
To find the earth so bright;
To see a youthful gloss is spread
On every shrub and tree,
And flowerets breathing on the air
Their odors pure and free.
It loves the blossom's cup,
To nestle 'mid the odors there,
And fill the petals up;
It hangs it gems on every leaf,
Like diamonds in the sun;
And then the water wins the smile
The floweret should have won.
To me 't is wondrous fair—
No spot can ever lonely be,
If water sparkle there—
It hath a thousand tongues of mirth,
Of grandeur, or delight;
And every heart is gladder made
When water greets the sight.
THE PARK FOUNTAIN.
Like a spirit birth of glee,
From thy cold, dark pathway rushing
Thus rejoicing to be free;
On my cheek thy spray is falling,
Rock, and dell, and songful bird,
Echoes on each other calling,
In thy melody are heard.
Far away by wood and dale,
Silver streamlets from the mountain
Steal to thee in lonely vale;
Still amid thy falling water,
Mirrored in thy crystal sheen,
Frolic wood-nymphs, wild with laughter,
Lured by thee from woodland green.
For a pathway dim and drear,
Struggling, hoping, inly grieving,
Thou rejoicest to be here;
Yet a sorrow mingleth ever
With the joy that set thee free;
Thou art falling, fountain, never
Shall thy hope be given thee!
Struggling in our pathway on,
Hoping brighter things to-morrow,
Sorrowing when the goal is won;
Thus like thee, do we, O fountain,
Half in memory of the past,
Look once more for bower and mountain,
Visions bright, too bright to last.
Hopes for earth too fair and bright;
Perished hopes the hours are counting
With a promise of delight;
Yet we give them kindly greeting,
Till the heart itself be riven—
Visions fond, and frail,and fleeting,
Bathed like thee in hues of heaven.
THE LAST SHOT.
“The Prince had never been known to fail of his aim; he raised his bow, and a beautiful bird fell bleeding to the earth, which uttered at the same time the mournful words, ‘Why did you aim at me sitting.’”—
Arabian Nights.Except at bird upon the wing.
Once bent it at the dancing spray,
Where lurked a bird but born to sing!
The flutter 'mid the glancing boughs,
The herd of vagrant shooters near,
Misled the veteran of the field,
Who thought his wonted quarry here!
Wounded before his very eyes,
Still, still confused the archer gazed
In feeling half, and half surprise;
The stricken bird might beat its wing,
From pain that he of all would rue—
How could he trace its radiant plume,
Flitting amid that common crew?
“That wildwood music! God of grace!
'T is heaven's own warbler that I hear—
The spirit-song my soul would trace!”
Half-cursed, half-blessed he then the aim,
Which wounded, but still spared the bird;
Cursed, that he blindly thus should shoot,
But, weeping, blessed the song he heard.
Away from all that charmed before,
He knelt upon his shattered bow,
And vowed that he would shoot no more.
That bird, fresh plumed, with vigorous wing,
More rich in melody they say.
To him in greenwood bower will sing,
Who loves to list the live-long day.
“THOU HAST LOVED.”
Is a look to tears allied—
Sorrow struggling with delight,
Each the other seeks to hide;
Thou, the freighted ark of life
Lonely floating on the sea,
With thy being's treasure rife—
Thou hast wearied thus to be.
Forth hast launched thy dove of peace,
And the branch, though green it be,
Can it bid thy doubtings cease?
Though it speak of hope the while,
Verdant spots and sunny bowers,
Can it bring thee back the smile
That beguiled thy vacant hours?
Fold the ruffled wing to rest:
Deluge airs around it ring:
Let it nestle on thy breast.
Mark its trembling, weary wings;
But it comes to thee again,
And an olive branch it brings.
Though the leaves are dim with tears;
Such thy woman lot must be—
Love and sorrow, hopes and fears.
Bind the branch of promise ever
To thy heart, with fear oppressed,
Let the leaves of hope, oh! never,
Withered, leave their place of rest.
PRESAGES.
The impress of a grief—
Deep, mystic eyes, and forehead fair,
And looks that ask relief;
The shadows of a coming doom,
Of sorrow and of strife.
When Fates conflicting round the loom,
Wove the sad web of life.
All shadowless and gay,
Like sweet surprise of April suns,
Or music gone astray;
Arrested, half in doubt we turn
To catch another sight,
So strangely rare it is to learn
A presage of delight.
THE LOVE OF LADY ANN.
Wept her love apart,
“Why so much of pride, ladye,
With a loving heart!
Stately is thy hall,
But a faithful heart, ladye,
Far outweighs them all.
Nursing grief within,
And thy lover will forget
Love he failed to win.
I the free woods roam;
Never should a lingering bride
Share with me a home.
These I bring to thee;
But thy pride hath spurned the gift—
Fare-thee-well, ladye.”
Scarce he deigns a sigh;
But the maiden's gushing tears
Tremble in her eye.
Thus do lovers part—
He to bear his pride alone,
She a breaking heart.
Half in fear arose;
Then with beating heart she sped,
And her arms she throws,
Pride and home forgot,
She hath left her stately towers
For a lowly lot.
CHILDHOOD'S LAUGH.
And every ear on which it falls, a thrill of rapture feels—
Stern brows relax, and lips will curl, with something like a smile,
Although the cause of that wild mirth be all unknown the while.
That speaks to e'en the coldest heart, it rings so free and wild;
'T is like the music of a bird, that hath no tone of care,
But poureth its exceeding joy upon the summer air.
That telleth of a quiet bliss in every sunlight hour—
Where they are telling all day long their joy-abounding lot.
And welleth from a crystal heart, that hath no sorrow known—
And wheresoe'er that laugh shall fall, it will a dream restore
Of by-gone glee, and careless mirth, and childhood's days once more.
The kite soars high, the ball rebounds, and darts the merry hoop—
The woods re-echo once again, to boyhood's noisy glee,
And tiny mills beside the brook are turning rapidly.
To think how very smart he was, and witty when a child—
And retrospective sighs are heaved, so sadly boys have changed
Since they along the forest way, or by the seashore ranged.
If never on the weary ear came childhood's voice of mirth.
Oh! were that hushed, a murky gloom on everything would rest,
And heavy press the weight of care upon the human breast.
For 'mid the pleasant sounds of earth this works the holiest spell—
It tells of hours of innocence, when love and trust were given,
And it may whisper yet again the words of peace and heaven.
THE CHILD AND THE ROSE.
Brought gladness to the earth,
And spring-time voices first were heard
In low, sweet sounds of mirth;
Reclined in tranquil thought,
And, half-communing with the skies,
His pretty fancies wrought.
A rosebud met his eye—
And one faint streak the leaves between,
Rich in its crimson dye.
The bland air stirreth round—
And yet the child is lingering by,
Half-kneeling on the ground:
Back folds the leaf of green—
And he in wonder still and meek
Watched all its opening sheen.
With glad amazement wild—
The rose, in new-created pride,
Had opened for the child.
To watch creative power,
We too should thrill with kindred joy
At every opening flower.
TO A BABE.
Nestle thus about my heart:
Child, devoid of guilt and fear,
What a mystery thou art!
'Tis a pleasure, little one,
On thy sinless brow to look;
Life to do, and nothing done—
Nothing written in thy book!
Blessed ministry is thine;
Unto thee a power is given
To renew this heart of mine—
Childhood's fearless love renew—
Childhood's truth and holy trust;
And of youth bring back the dew,
Lift the spirit from the dust.
Half the deep and holy spell
Wrought by infant tears and mirth,
Meanings strange that few may tell.
With its look of love and prayer—
Holiest duty, promptings high
Mingle with maternal care.
Growing in the light of heaven;
Thou, a meek and trusting child,
Faith like theirs to thee is given:
And for thee I will not fear
In the perils that await—
Thought and will, the prayer, the tear,
Arm thee strong for any fate.
THE CHILD'S BENEDICTION.
Had smothered that desponding sigh,
For it hath checked thy joyous song;
Thine eye with tears it filleth now,
A shadow resteth on thy brow—
My child, my child, I did thee wrong!
Sweet words “God bless thee, mother dear!”
My own fond one, thou art to me
A hope, a blessing, and a guide—
No more shall doubt and fear abide;
I'll meekly learn my faith of thee.
The offspring of a trusting mind—
They bear a pledge, when lips like thine,
Forgetting childhood's random speech,
Do thus a higher lesson teach,
And mystic words like these combine.
Where truth and tenderness combine,
Alas! is doomed too much to know
Of sympathies all vainly spent—
Of love to blinding worship lent—
And all life's strange and hidden wo.
Would that the cup of life and joy,
Dashed from thy mother's lips away,
Might with thine own of fate be blended,
And all the ill for thee intended,
Upon her bosom only prey.
LOVE SHELTERED.
Sought refuge in my breast—
Alas! too fondly cherished there,
It robbed me of my rest.
Content it seemed awhile—
Close to my throbbing bosom prest,
I never dreamed of guile.
Would weary of its home,
That it would seek another love,
And from my bosom roam.
It struggled to be free;
I tighter drew the silken band
That bound it unto me.
Its sorrow touched my heart—
I loosed the bond—it poised its wing;
How could my dove depart?
In solitude and pain!
Oh bird, new perils will be thine;
Come to my breast again.
THE GUARDIAN ANGEL.
ILLUSTRATION OF BRACKETT'S ANGEL WATCHING THE SLEEPING CHILD.
Each alike in form and face,
Save that wings to one is given—
Something too of loftier grace.
Dwell in meekness with the other—
These alone it was that drew
From the skies its angel brother.
Guardian arms around him prest,
Sleeps the child of time and dust,
Shielded by his cherub guest.
Semblance ye of hidden things;
One hath reached its spirit-birth—
One but waiteth for its wings.
THE FIRST LEAF OF AUTUMN.
The first to feel the autumn winds, that, blighting, o'er thee blew—
Slow-parted from the rocking branch, I see thee floating by,
To brave, all desolate and lone, the bleak autumnal sky.
To rustle on the crispéd grass, with every chilly air!
It tells of those that soon must drop all withered from the tree,
And it hath waked a sadder chord in deathless memory.
Thou soundst the knell of sunny hours, of buds, and liquid dew—
How each one lingers, loath to part, till all are swept away.
MINISTERING SPIRITS.
On the vestibule of life,
And they offer to his lips
All that cup of mingled strife;
Mingled drops of smiles and tears,
Human hopes, and human fears,
Joy and sorrow, love and wo,
Which the future heart must know.
Sad the fanning of their wings,
As in their exceeding love
Each a cup of promise brings;
In the coming strife and care,
They have promised to be there;
Bowed by weariness or grief,
They will minister relief.
In that deep and bitter cup,
All its hidden perils know,
Would it quaff life's waters up?
Upward beams an angel-face;
Deep and anguished though the sigh,
There is comfort lurking nigh—
Times of joy, and times of wo,
Each an angel-presence know.
FAREWELL TO FANCY.
My dreamy eye through thee all things beholding,
No more with loitering feet, and hands enfolding,
I seek the bower where flickering sun-beams play.
Farewell, oh changeful spirit, we must part,
Thou hast no portion in a weary heart.
An angel's face no more to me revealing—
Glad voices now no more around me stealing,
Fanned by thy wing may lift my spirits up;
My world is all too drear for thee, sweet sprite,
And I will bid thee, one long, last good night.
Let thoughts of thee, the weak, lone heart beguiling,
Steal gently in, and lure the lip to smiling;
The waving of thy robe I fain would see,
Though thou art lost, for ever lost to me.
Thy rainbow wing unfit for lofty soaring;
Yet not the less for thee was my adoring,
I, who have shrank in terror from a flight
That leaving lowlier things, too oft hath left
The aching heart of all its love bereft.
More faint and faintly on my vision gleaming,
May not the real screen, with thy sweet seeming;
And yet thou canst not turn thy face away—
Though form be lost, thy saddened eyes remain,
Fond, gentle eyes, that lure me from my pain.
Though visions fade, and such as once were keeping
Bright vigils round, vigils that knew no sleeping,
May leave their place for others armed for strife,
Yet blessed ones, 'tis sweet to think that ye,
And such as ye, have watched our destiny.
THE ELEVENTH HOUR.
Who fashioned forth this universal frame,
The stars revolving weary grow and dim,
The Pleiad leaves on high no lingering flame,
Creations spring to birth, in age decay,
And as a scroll the heavens shall pass away:
Not by revolving sun nor changeful moon—
Mark not by these his agony and strife;
Oh! not by these his youth, his fervid noon,
Thronged by emotions crowded to a span,
Ages concentred in the life of man:
Though blindly erring, devious in our way,
Remember thou the weakness of our frame,
Forgive, though late we bow to thee and pray;
Though at the eleventh hour the offering be,
Spurn not the spirit seeking thus to thee;
For unto thee, oh God! a thousand years
Is as man's yesterday of smiles and tears.
THE APPEAL.
Childe waters of thy mouth;
Than I woulde have Cheshire and Lancashire bothe
That lye by north and south.
Old Ballad.
And hair but plainly kempt,
For life is not all holyday,
From toil and care exempt;
Thus love its tale will tell;
Though oft its after paleness told
Of hidden grief as well.
To hide their sense of bliss,
Let fall too oft the tears that tell
Of secret tenderness.
Thy senses to beguile,
But checked the woman playfulness,
The witching tone and smile.
And frank as maidens meet;
I dared with earnest homely truth,
Thy manliness to greet.
So much of love beside,
I wished in simple maidenhood
To be thy chosen bride.
Of humble life may tell,
And thou dost say the velvet gear
Becomes my beauty well.
That bound each sparkling gem,
But dearer far its slightest touch,
Than all the wealth of them.
Nor bind the jewel there;
And tell me not with those cold eyes,
That I am wondrous fair.
And yet the thought is here,
The thought so fraught with bitterness,
It yieldeth me no tear.
Too deep for aught but tears,
And thou wouldst teach the world's cold rule
Which learned, the heart but scars.
Its truth by sorrow tried;
Nay start not thou, what hast thou given?
Alas! 'tis but thy pride.
That blest my simple love,
And call me as in those dear days,
Thine own, thy gentle dove.
THE JEWISH CAPTIVE.
Scarce swells his heaving bosom to the light,
While from the west a thousand hues are shed,
To deck his waters, ere the sombre night
Shall on his gorgeous palaces come down,
And shroud each glory in his darkened frown.
The sunset trembling on its graceful head,
And the light winds come stealing on their way,
To kiss the lily in its liquid bed;
The flexile willow bends unto the stream,
And seems more lovely in the twilight gleam.
Their sweetness from the sense had treasured up,
Lavish their wealth upon the dying day
And make an offering pure of every cup,
As if they bowed in worship to the sun,
And offered incense when the day was done.
And twinkle down in many a mimic fall—
That ever in the light like diamonds flash;
And in their melody they seem to call
To old Euphrates, as he wanders by,
And spreads his waters to the golden sky.
And weave their tresses by the twilight sky,
While ever on the air glad voices blend,
And many a song and laugh are floating by
To mingle with the sound of chiming waters,
That lave the feet of dark-eyed Syrian daughters.
Mara, the Jewess, queen-like in her wo;
Though many a victor to her beauty bends,
The smile no more her gentle lips may know.
Not for her own she weeps, but Judah's wrongs,
And pours her sorrows in their mystic songs.
The Jewish captives from their harp-strings bring,
While Zion-ward they turn the kindling eye?
Mara, approach; we fain would hear thee sing
A song of Zion—such as once ye sang
When Jordan's waters to the music rang.”
And upward raised her dark and tearless eye,
Clasped her pale hands in agony of wo,
And heaved her breast with many a smothered sigh;
Quick thronging visions o'er her spirit passed—
She lived again where childhood's lot was cast.
And fruitful Jordan, with its many streams,
Proud Lebanon, with cedars tall and fair,
And, midst her desolation, sadly gleams
Lone Zion, widowed, childless, and oppressed,
A Rachel, for her first-born son distressed.
In many a festoon o'er the lattice clings,
An ancient matron seems alone to pine,
And calls her children, while her arm she flings,
To clasp the shadows that her fancies raise,
The cherished offspring of her happier days.
Who spreads her white locks to the evening sky,
When Zion stands bereft—her altars cold!
And all her exiled children turn their eye
To where the happier swallow builds her nest,
And in the courts of God has found her rest.
Her harp the maidens from the willows bring:
Forth from her lips high thoughts and feelings gushed,
“How can I Zion's songs, a captive, sing?
How sing of Jordan, here by Babel's strand?
How sing of Judah, in this dark, strange land?
My earliest vows to pay—
If for thy sad and ruined walls
I ever cease to pray—
If I no more thy sacred courts
With holy reverence prize,
Or Zion-ward shall cease to turn
My ever-longing eyes—
Or if the splendor round me thrown
Shall move this Jewish heart,
And make me cease to prize thy joy
Above all other art—
Or should I cease for Zion's courts
To pray on bended knee,
Or dare to bow to these blind gods,
Forgetful, Lord, of thee,
Oh may this hand no more with skill
This sacred harp-string sweep,
And may this tongue cleave to my mouth
In death's cold, silent sleep.”
SONG. I.
A pathway leaves in space,
Though it were vain the path it leaves,
With human eye to trace;
The blossom that awhile looks up
In gladness to the eye,
Makes for its own bright, fragrant cup,
A home within the sky.
Its pathway all forgot,
The flower yields up its many dies,
The place as it were not;
And thus, 'tis thus will love depart,
Nor leave behind a trace,
Save urn-like from the broken heart,
An incense marks the place.
SONG. II.
Like a bee overburdened with sweets,
Who roving mid blossoms, a moment will stay,
To sip of each one that it meets.
Thou cravest a love light and free,
The rapture, the thrill, the doubt of the heart,
Then why tarry longer with me?
The smile that is lavished on all—
This proud heart may battle with death or despair,
It will not be longer thy thrall.
Win hearts that are fickle as thine,
And forget, oh forget, both now and for ever,
The truth and the fervor of mine.
SONG. III.
When the hush is deep around,
And the dew upon the flower,
Calleth incense from the ground.
Whisper love when recent tears
Dim the lustre of the eye,
When the smile delaying fears,
Sorrow may be lurking nigh.
When the lips are fresh from prayer,
Never woman may deceive
Him who kneels beside her there.
Truth is hid in every star,
Grief hath no deluding tone,
And the holiness of prayer
Blends two spirits into one.
THE BROOK.
Whither away so fast!
With dainty feet through the meadow green,
And a smile as you hurry past.”
The brook leaped on in idle mirth,
And dimpled with saucy glee;
The daisy kissed in lovingness,
And made with the willow free.
And over the rocky steep,
Away where the old tree's roots were bare
In the waters dark and deep;
The sunshine flashed upon its face,
And played with flickering leaf.
Well pleased to dally in its path,
Though the tarrying were brief.
Where droops the spreading tree,
And let thy liquid voice reveal
Thy story unto me.”
As the gushing music fell,
The chiming music of the brook,
From out the woody dell.
A rugged spot and drear;
With searching wind and raging storm,
And moonlight, cold and clear.
I longed for a greeting cheery as mine,
For a fond and answering look;
But none were in that solitude
To bless the little brook.
Came up from the vale below,
And I wished that mine were a lowly lot,
To lapse, and sing as I go;
That gentle things, with loving eyes,
Along my path should glide,
And blossoms, in their loveliness,
Come nestling to my side.
Hung shivering to the sight,
And the thrill of freedom gave to me
New impulse of delight.
A joyous welcome the sunshine gave,
The bird and the swaying tree;
The spear-like grass and blossom start
With joy at sight of me.
When the busy spring is here,
And twittering bears the moistened gift,
A nest on the eaves to rear.
The twinkling feet of flock and herd
Have trodden a path to me,
And the fox and the squirrel come to drink
In the shade of the alder tree.
Comes hither with me to play,
And I feel the thrill of his lightsome heart,
As he dashes the merry spray.
I turn the mill with answering glee,
As the merry spokes go round,
And the gray rock takes the echo up,
Rejoicing in the sound.
And drops me a silent tear;
For he sees a wrinkled, care-worn face
Look up from the waters clear.
Then I sing in his car the very song
He heard in years gone by,
The old man's heart is glad again,
And a joy lights up his eye.”
I'll treasure thy teachings well,
And I will yield a heartfelt tear
Thy crystal drops to swell;
For the lowly things of earth,
Remembering still that high and pure
Is the home of the spirit's birth.
THE SLEEP OF PLANTS.
The leaves of plants are observed to take a different position in the night season, being folded over the germ, and the whole presenting the appearance of rest. A species of the acacia, the common locust, is a beautiful example of this; whence a child once prettily said, “It is n't time to go to bed, till the acacia goes to sleep!” Linnæus elegantly terms this property, “The sleep of plants.”
The flowerets all are sleeping,
The moon is out with her silver ray,
The stars, too, watch are keeping;
It is all in vain, thou silly thing,
To lavish the incense from thy wing;
Gay idler from sunny skies,
Who dippest thy wing in the glassy sea,
Stealing along with quick surprise,
Bending the grass, and bowing the grain,
A moment here, and away again.
For closed is each dewy eye,
The insect-hum, and the water-fall,
And each in folding its mantle up,
An incense pressed from its perfumed cup.
The pendent leaf is at rest,
And all will sleep, till the little bird
Springs up from its dewy nest;
And then the blossom its head will raise,
To greet the morn with a look of praise.
THE FLOWER OF INNOCENCE,
HOUSTONIA CÆRULEA.
When first the earth is green,
Four white or pale blue leaves it hath,
With yellow heart between.
For there the dew will stay,
It springs beside the dusty road,
Where children are at play.
That slopes adown the brook,
And there it takes a deeper blue,
And there a gayer look.
Its leaves are small and white,
As if it shrank within itself,
And paled amid the light.
With myriads of its kind,
Yet doth its unpretending grace
A oneness bring to mind:
So native to the heart,
That we forget, in seeing all,
That each is fair apart.
And well it thee beseems,
For thou art cherished in the heart,
With childhood's sinless dreams.
THE OLD MAN.
In the shadow of the tree,
The winds at play in thy scattered hair,
What may thy visions be?
Vacant, and lone, and aimless, thou,
God pity thee, thou old man, now.
To thrill thy heart again,
Thy dull ear greeteth no voice of mirth,
Thine eye may seek in vain
The kindly look of the loving heart;
Too soon do such from the earth depart.
The flitting past to recall;
Let it fade, let it fade, thy heart is dead,
Why shouldst thou lift the pall?
What is now to thee the bustle and strife,
That lured thee on in thy early life?
Its mission hath long been o'er,
'T would puzzle thy brain, could these strange things be
Revealed to thy sight once more,
Thou wouldst wonder and ask if this were all,
That kept thy spirit so long in thrall.
Are the pangs that pierced thee through,
The griefs that have blanched thy sunken brow,
Vain hopes thy young heart knew;
'T is a blessed thing, old man, for thee,
That lost is the page of memory.
THE DROWNED MARINER.
The wind was piping free,
Now bright, now dimmed was the moonlight pale,
And the phosphor gleamed in the wake of the whale,
As he floundered in the sea;
The scud was flying athwart the sky,
The gathering winds went whistling by,
And the wave as it towered, then fell in spray,
Looked an emerald wall in the moonlight ray.
But the tumult pleased him well,
Down the yawning wave his eye he cast,
And the monsters watched as they hurried past,
Or lightly rose and fell;
For their broad, damp fins were under the tide,
And they lashed as they passed the vessel's side,
And their filmy eyes, all huge and grim,
Glared fiercely up, and they glared at him.
Like an uncurbed steed along,
A sheet of flame is the spray she throws,
As her gallant prow the water plows—
But the ship is fleet and strong:
The topsails are reefed and the sails are furled,
And onward she sweeps o'er the watery world,
And dippeth her spars in the surging flood;
But there came no chill to the mariner's blood.
And holds him by the shroud;
And as she careens to the crowding breeze,
The gaping deep the mariner sees,
And the surging heareth loud.
Was that a face, looking up at him,
With its pallid cheek and its cold eyes dim?
Did it beckon him down? did it call his name?
Now rolleth the ship the way whence it came.
A face he knew too well;
And the cold eyes glared, the eyes of the dead,
And its long hair out on the wave was spread.
Was there a tale to tell?
The stout ship rocked with a reeling speed,
And the mariner groaned, as well he need,
For ever down, as she plunged on her side,
The dead face gleamed from the briny tide.
A voice calls loud for thee—
There's a stifled prayer, the first, the last,
The plunging ship on her beam is cast,
Oh, where shall thy burial be?
Bethink thee of oaths that were lightly spoken,
Bethink thee of vows that were lightly broken,
Bethink thee of all that is dear to thee—
For thou art alone on the raging sea:
To buffet the storm alone—
To struggle aghast at thy watery grave,
To struggle, and feel there is none to save—
God shield thee, helpless one!
The stout limbs yield, for their strength is past,
The trembling hands on the deep are cast,
The white brow gleams a moment more,
Then slowly sinks—the struggle is o'er.
Where the sea its dirge shall swell,
Where the amber drops for thee shall weep,
And the rose-lipped shell her music keep,
There thou shalt slumber well.
The gem and the pearl lie heaped at thy side,
They fell from the neck of the beautiful bride,
From the strong man's hand, from the maiden's brow,
As they slowly sunk to the wave below.
The mother and child are there—
The fervent youth and the hoary head,
The maid, with her floating locks outspread,
The babe with its silken hair,
As the water moveth they lightly sway,
And the tranquil lights on their features play;
And there is each cherished and beautiful form,
Away from decay, and away from the storm.
THE SUMMONS ANSWERED.
Shakspere.
Who left the inn that night—
And they were trolling a merry glee
Out under the clear starlight.
To steady themselves their home to reach,
They placed a hand on the shoulder of each—
In friendly mood were they;
The white owl starts with a quivering screech
At the midnight roundelay.
The solemn trees move not;
Yet the dry leaf stirs, where it hangs alone,
On the autumn branch to shiver and moan,
A thing wellnigh forgot.
The slippery leaves are damp to the tread,
Yet they crush beneath the foot,
With a sound that now is a sound of dread,
That blends with the white owl's hoot.
And they have ceased the song—
For the still night stilleth their hearts also,
And whispereth of wrong;
The thin moon shineth dim below
On a moss-green oaken door—
Above is the shivering, withered grass,
Beneath is a mouldy floor;
But the dead are hushed by prayer and mass,
And they will stir no more.
'T were strange to tell the why—
The shadows crept in the wan moonlight,
Yet they lingered there, and felt no fright,
Till one more bold drew nigh,
And loud he knocked, and an oath he swore;
Aghast then fled the two—
For slowly opened the moss-green door,
And within a hand him drew.
The reeking vault revealing,
Shows where the dead in their old shrouds lay,
Solemn and hushed in their slow decay,
The worm around them stealing,
With a stillness, stillness pulseless there—
A stillness deep and cold:
How still and lone is the heavy air,
Where the dead their slumber hold!
No strength had he to flee;
And the white worm crawled to Richard's feet,
He felt its touch on his fingers meet,
Small heart had he for glee;
And the stillness, stillness deeper crept;
It seemed on his heart to lie.
All night with the dead young Richard slept,
Yet awake was the inner eye.
With their faces upward turned;
They who had wearisome vigils kept,
Hoping and loving, though all was wrecked,
No more with tenderness yearned.
Pleasant they slept, from their sorrow at rest,
And Richard feared them not;
For the anguish borne in his own dark breast,
Seemed a far more dreary lot.
Its hopes, that fade so soon,
With its yearning tenderness and tears—
And the burning agony, that sears—
The sun gone down at noon;
The spirit crushed to its prison wall,
Mindless of all beside;
This young Richard saw, and felt it all—
Well might the dead abide!
The hoar-frost coldly gleams,
And Richard, chilled to the heart wellnigh,
Hath raised his wildered and bloodshot eye,
From that long night of dreams;
He shudders to think of the reckless band,
And the fearful oath he swore;
But most, when he thinks of the clay-cold hand
That opened the old tomb door.
THE TWICE-TOLD SEAL.
THE MOTTO BEING “GOD BLESS YOU.”
A business letter too,
Announcing some commission done,
And thence its words were few.
I read it idly, tossed it by,
And then a pretty seal
And kindly motto met my eye,
That gave my heart to feel
As if for gentle dame
A dash of chivalry were there,
Half blended with her name,
And made the slightest office seem
A genial one to do—
It might have been a woman's dream,
Which she from knighthood drew;
Was carelessly applied—
“God bless you,” has a look of zeal,
Of earnest truth beside—
They alway touch the heart,
And oft, too oft, a tear beguile,
When the beloved depart.
I read with sweet surprise—
Not careless now, if so before,
“God bless you” meets mine eyes;
Some gentle hand the words again
Beneath the seal repeats,
And my heart feels nor idle, vain,
The blessing that it meets.
If ever pressed in mine,
If often met in social band
Where honor, truth combine;
I only feel, howe'er unknown,
Though drear life's path may be,
A quiet joy that there is one
Who thus remembers me.
THE VOICE OF THE AGE.
THE SIGNERS OF THE DECLARATION OF INDEPENDENCE.
Thou mighty ocean! meetly art thou made,A type of human ages—thy great voice
The tumult of a people roused to act—
Thy waves incessant beating to the shore,
Weak in their first assay, yet gathering strength
And volume as they rise, till one vast wave
Surging with mountain-height o'er-leaps the strand,
A semblance fitting man's progressive thought.
Ages on ages doth he onward toil,
The dim lights shielding that his pathway cheer—
Crushing with his gyved hands the clanking chain
That might reveal the progress of his feet,
Until his hour is come, and then like thee
He leapeth to the rock, amid the roar
Of breakers, on the vantage ground he stands
With planted foot, assured of his own strength.
God-like although ye were, Freedom's last hope,
Her “forlorn-hope,” prayer-armed, and marshalled forth
Her banner to uphold, and firmly plant
Upon the citadel of human rights,
I honor ye far less than man's great thought.
Ye did become his utterance—ye his voice.
Emerging from his gloom, with giant force;
He spurned the barriers in his pathway hid,
And tore the shackle from the free-born limb—
His proud brow bearing free to the free heaven,
And as he moved a sound tumultuous rose—
For his great spirit cried, yet words had not—
It shouted to the mountain and the wave—
That fetterless were left—the wild old woods,
And the free dweller there—to winds that go
And wait no bidding. 'Twas the uncurbed voice
Of nature calling fiercely for her own,
It was the beating of the human mind,
Against the battlements of power.
Then were ye marshalled forth, and man's great cry
A language found. Ye stood upon the vantage field,
His arm had won, and like a trumpet tone
Your voice became the utterance of his thought.
Man fixed his footing there, and he grew calm
In his own might—the strong limb stronger grew—
A calm and measured flow, that told of health.
And thus upon the citadel of thought
Ye proudly stood the voice of human-kind,
And ye are made immortal—thus should be—
Ye have become the watch-word of the free—
And long, O! long, shall man's great soul move on,
Concentring thought, like wave succeeding wave,
To seize on higher truths and holier rights
Ere such as ye shall speak—and then afar
In the long lapse of ages shall arise,
From some high battlement which he hath won,
A trumpet cry, which ye shall answer back
With hearty cheers, that stronger heights are gained.
The above poem is one of those things, which a writer at all capable of separating the conceptions of his own mind from the suggestiveness of another, is puzzled to know how to dispose of. It was written immediately after an animated discussion with a nobly-endowed friend, to whom the writer is willing to acknowledge many a mental obligation, and the thought therein contained belongs less to herself, than to her companion.
The poetical writings of Elizabeth Oakes Smith | ||