Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

I stand upon the verge of middle age,—
My five-and-thirtieth year well nigh complete;
Half way already on Life's pilgrimage—
Here let me rest awhile my way-worn feet,
And cherish recollections, sad yet sweet,
Of the long distance I have travell'd o'er.—
The present and the past together meet
In my mind's eye;—the future lies before—
Vast, void, oh how unlike the dream-throng'd days of yore!

2

Vast, void, and dim and dark;—and yet therein
Confused and shadowy phantoms I descry
Of joy and grief, each struggling hard to win
Over the other final victory;
My future life the prize for which they vie
So keenly each with each; but to the past
When I revert my unforgetful eye,
Ah me! how that is throng'd from first to last,
With bright and beauteous shapes, though fading now full fast.

3

Childhood with all its joys—how long departed!
Boyhood and youth fantastically bright,

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When, led by love and hope, I roam'd light-hearted
Through an ideal world of wild delight—
All these have fled, like visions of the night;
And lo! young wedlock's bright and cloudless morn,
Majestically rising, puts to flight
The last dim shades of lingering twilight born:—
Wedlock—whose sober bliss laughs Fancy's joys to scorn.

4

A few years pass, and lo! the scene is changed;
Life's shifting pageant hath grown graver still;
The thoughts are dead which once so wildly ranged,
I climb no longer the fair Muse's hill,
Of fancies quaint no longer take my fill;
But graver duties all my care demand,
Whereto I strive to bend my wayward will,
And raise my pastoral voice and guiding hand
To urge Christ's fainting flock on to their native land.

5

And bright-eyed children gambol round my knees,
And many a household care and joy is mine;
And in my path throng life's realities,
Which yet so brightly, to my thinking, shine,
That 'twere in me most idle to repine
For young imagination's baubles lost:
Safely at last, in peace and love divine,
My “crescent boat” is moor'd, no longer toss'd
By jarring winds, no more by adverse currents cross'd.

6

What more remains to rouse the power of song,
And wake tired fancy from that charmed sleep
In which her eyelids have been closed so long?
What stronger magic o'er my chords shall sweep,
And once more bid them into music leap?
For the old spells have lost their power of moving;
My blood's young flow hath settled into deep

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And waveless peace;—still'd is my brain's wild roving;
My heart hath grown too calm for aught but sober loving.

7

What more remains?—Yes! one thing more, at least,
Claims a last effort;—by yon friendly hearth
Young Love prepares to-day his bridal feast—
A feast where sadness doth contend with mirth;
So must it ever be with joys of earth:
But mirth and sadness both are lovely there;
For never in that house is there a dearth
Of Christian love,—love which 'tis mine to share,
Love rich in purer bliss than I have found elsewhere.

8

And therefore, though perchance my faded strains
Shall more dishonour than adorn the theme,
Let me essay to break my spirit's chains,
And launch, once more, my bark upon the stream
Of pleasant vision and poetic dream;
Pourtraying, gentle friend, thy future life,
Tranquil and bright as I would have it seem
With household joys and happy feelings rife,
And thee, so dear a friend, the matron and the wife.

ODE.

I

The moon hath scarce gone down,
And o'er our quiet town
The morning star is still his vigil keeping;
Night's silent reign hath ceased,
And slowly from the east
Day's wintry beams are o'er the twilight creeping;
Once more is life in house and field astir—
Sleeps yet our beauteous bride?—tread softly—wake not her.

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II

Awhile let her forget
(Since love allows it yet)
The agitations of the coming hour;
The deep and solemn vows,
Which she, a virgin spouse,
Must speak, or ere in Hymen's chosen bower,
To his soft yoke resigning her wild will,
Of sweet connubial bliss she yet may take her fill.

III

Transition passing strange!
A swift yet solemn change,
From maidenhood, serene and fancy-free,
To all the unquiet cares
Which envious Fate prepares
Even for those matrons who the happiest be.
Thy dream of virgin peace is well nigh gone;
Sleep while thou may'st, young bride, still sleep securely on.

IV

Sleep on; for thou to-day
Must take thy leave for aye
Of pleasures loved and hoarded since thy birth;
To thine own mother's door
Thou shalt return no more
In thine own right—a dweller by her hearth;
Of all its joys the undisputed Queen;
For these no more to thee can be what they have been.

V

The sympathies intense
Of childhood's innocence,
Thy maidenly affections, sweet and dear—
The love so deeply felt
For all who with thee dwelt
Beneath one roof, for many a pleasant year,—

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These thou can'st never lose; and yet must they,
Merged in a deeper stream, half disappear to-day.

VI

Thy heart must now become
The calm and quiet home
Of stronger sympathies, and cares more high;
Nor ever must thou look,
Henceforth, on this world's book
With young imagination's glistening eye.
The page of vision must be closed for thee,
And all thy joys be those of dull reality.

VII

Where art thou in thy dreams?—
Haply beside the streams,
Or wandering in the woods thy childhood loved;
In sunshine bright and clear
Most glorious doth appear
Each well-known haunt in which thy steps have roved;
And old familiar faces on thee smile,
And voices, loved long since, sound pleasantly the while.

VIII

E'en the beloved Dead
Have left their earth-strewn bed,
To commune with thee in thy dreams to-night;
And each resplendent brow
Looks fondlier on thee now
Than ever in those days of past delight,
To which thy slumbering heart now wanders back,
A wild and wondrous way in memory's moon-lit track.

IX

Were it not well to be
In such sweet phantasy

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Held by the fetters of eternal sleep?—
But soft!—what dreamy change,
Dim, and perplext, and strange,
Doth o'er the spirit of thy vision creep?
A sense obscure of transformation wrought
E'en in the deepest springs of feeling and of thought?

X

No more within thee plays
The life of early days,
With which, but now, thy vision was so bright;
O'er childhood's mental world
A curtain dark unfurl'd
Veils its departing glories from thy sight;
And thou art conscious of a woman's heart,
Within thy bosom form'd, complete in every part.

XI

And straight, throughout thy dream,
New forms and faces gleam,
And other voices intermixt are heard;
At whose approaching sound
At once the depths profound
Of thought and will, of soul and sense are stirr'd:
And hopes and fears, and feelings vague and dim,
Through thy bewilder'd brain, in swift succession, swim.

XII

And other sounds draw near,
And other shapes appear,
Commingled and confused:—arise, away,
'Tis time thou shouldst be gone;
Some power impels thee on
Whither thou know'st not—a mysterious way;
And lo! thou stand'st on consecrated ground,
Within a holy fane, with faces throng'd around.

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XIII

What voice salutes thine ear?
Look up—thy parent dear
With wistful eye is o'er thy slumber bending;
The dreaded morn is come,
Which from the long loved home
Summons her child: already tears are blending
With smiles on either anxious sister's cheek;
Thy gentle brother droops with heart too full-to speak.

XIV

An hour, and all is o'er;
Those cheeks are pale no more,
Those tears have ceased to flow: the word is spoken,
The holy rite complete,
And smiling faces greet
The husband and the wife with many a token
Of glad congratulation;—grief hath flown
For some few moments' space, which mirth asserts her own.

XV

Some moments—a brief hour,
Ere for your nuptial bower
Ye two depart;—'tis gone, and we remain,
(I, and my tearful spouse)
In our deserted house,
Alone and pensive, between joy and pain,
Hope and dull fear, for what may us betide
From this day's deed, which yet Time's pregnant womb doth hide.

XVI

But thou—speed on thy way,
And let thy heart be gay,
While hope and expectation yet are young;
By thy blest husband's side,
A bright and blooming bride,
Drink each fond word that trembles on his tongue;

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Pay with thy looks each look of his fond eyes,
And learn—if still thou need'st—to love and yet be wise.

XVII

In sooth, it suits not thee,
Love's sweet absurdity,—
Thou know'st not how to play the woman's part;
Too bright a creature thou,
With that thought-breathing brow,
That intellect intense and burning heart,
To play with Cupid as weak women play;—
Therefore I deem it well thy wooing ends to-day.

XVIII

For never didst thou wear
A less majestic air,
Than when, descending from thy loftier mood,
Thou didst consent awhile
Love's fervour to beguile
As more beseem'd less stately womanhood.
Nor couldst to cheat those lingering hours refuse
In such fond, foolish sort as lovesick maidens use.

XIX

O grief! if love like thine,
Which should be so divine,
So heavenly pure a feeling, so profound,
Had been profaned by aught
Of less exalted thought
Than may in woman's noblest heart be found.
The blind, the vulgar love be far from thee!
The love of impulse wild and feverish phantasy.

XX

Affection deep, but still,
Calm forethought, temperate will,

224

Approving judgment, and deliberate choice;—
And dignity austere,
And self-respect severe—
In mates like these must love like thine rejoice,
From its pure presence putting far away
Whate'er our human heart's fond weakness doth betray.

XXI

Now, all such peril o'er—
On Hymen's tranquil shore
Securely landed—with a frown dismiss
Cupid's fantastic train,—
Be all thyself again;
Yea, far more lovely, from the quiet bliss
Of satisfied affection newly born,
To tame thy virgin pride, and soften thy wild scorn.

XXII

Keep well thy wedded state,
While in thy presence wait
All noble graces and all virtues high;
Calm prudence, wifely pride,
Love grave, and dignified
By mien sedate, and converse matronly.
Young bride, our neighbourhood demands of thee
Example bright of what a Christian wife should be.

XXIII

For thou wast nurtured well,
Where pious hearts did dwell
In principle severe and faith sublime;
Love, purer than of earth,
Watch'd o'er thee from thy birth,
And taught and train'd thee e'en to maiden prime.
A high and saintly walk must needs be thine,
To realize the hopes which fondly round thee twine.

225

XXIV

Thou wilt not put to shame,
Nor let dull scoffers blame
Thy Christian nurture;—in the face of Heaven
Take freely on thee now
A Christian matron's vow;
Let thy pure heart, while yet 'tis young, be given
To the high task which straight before thee lies,
And from thy bridal bower look upward to the skies.

XXV

Forget not that in thee
Redemption's mystery
Is dimly shadow'd forth and imaged now;
Type of that heavenly Bride
Who, at the Saviour's side,
Betroth'd to Him with many a solemn vow,
At the last day shall come in glory down,
To share his throne of love and amaranthine crown.

XXVI

But hush!—for all too long
My weak and tedious song
Hath been discoursed to thy unlistening ear:
Long since, perchance, 'twas time
To check this wayward rhyme,
And leave thee free to other cares more dear.
In sooth, it is not well to waste to-day,
The gravest of thy life, in rhyme and roundelay.

XXVII

The day is gone at last;—
Darkness is gathering fast
O'er the tired earth; all human hearts repose;
Even Love on Beauty's breast
Hath sigh'd himself to rest;
Here fitly may my song's last cadence close;
A feeble song, yet faithful and sincere,
Nor all unmeet, I trust, for hearts like thine to hear.