Airs of Palestine, and other poems

This is a very pleasant sight,—
The Moslems thronging to the square
That lies before their house of prayer!
Through narrow streets, that lead away,
Some to the plain, some to the bay,
And others towards the castled height
Where frowning walls and portals rent,
Turret and towering battlement,
Tell of Venetian power,—the work
Is now neglected by the Turk,
And flocks of quiet sheep are fed
Within the walls where hosts have bled;
And fig-trees strike their roots between
The stones that arched the magazine.—
Through all these narrow streets, the throng,
Long-robed and turbaned, move along,
And, gathering round a marble fountain
Whose columns, slight and writhed, and old,
A Saracenic roof uphold,

Airy and decked with paint and gold,
They bathe, in water from the mountain,
That, on all sides, from many a spout
Upon the pavement gushes out,
Their feet and arms, their beards and brows;
Then, to the Mosque these men of prayer,—
There are no women with them there,—
Proceed, to offer up their vows.

Within the porch, without the door
That opens to the “Mercy-seat,”
As if the words were whispered round,
“Put off thy shoes from off thy feet,
Thou standest upon holy ground!”
They leave their slippers on the floor,
And enter.—There, beneath a dome
Less lofty than is that at Rome,
Which, o'er a host of saints in stone,
And virgins in mosaic, swells
To cover one who, on a throne,
Round which are clouds of incense curled,
And organs pealed, and trumpets blown,
And tides of vocal music poured,
Sits, to adore, or be adored
By more than half the Christian world,
—And “plenary indulgence” sells,—
Less lofty than is that, St. Peter,
Lifted, they say, above thy bones,
Certainly o'er thy form in bronze,
That near the Baldacchino stands,—

Where, having wiped and kissed its toes,
(Jove's, whilom, as the story goes, )
I've seen men kneel, and clasp their hands,
And lift their eyes, with all their air
Of men engaged in fervent prayer:—
I say not that, while kneeling thus,
Howe'er it may appear to us,
They 're worshipping,—that, till they get up,
That molten image they adore,

Which o'er St. Peter's bones of yore
The piety of popes hath set up:—
Deeming it on this subject meeter,
Since we're not under his dominion,
To let each form his own opinion.

There, as I said, beneath a dome
Less lofty than is that at Rome,
But fitter for a worship true,
Since underneath its ample swell
“No God but God” appears to dwell:—
No “graven image” of a saint,
No martyr in his grated cell,
Tortured by grinning imps of hell;
No demigod in stone or paint;
No virgin with her eyes of blue,
And circlet o'er her auburn hair,
Holding her baby in a chair;
No prophet in a lion's den;
No loose-haired, prostrate Magdalen,
With book and death's-head lying by her,
To tell how quenched is all the fire
That raged, like hell's own flames, within her,
While yet she walked the streets “a sinner”;—
No angels, soaring towards the dim
And distant heavens;—no cherubim
With chubby cheeks and little wings,
That smile as St. Cecilia sings;
No gilded pannel lifting high
This picture to Devotion's eye,—

Two young men, standing in a stream
(Doubtless the Jordan's sacred bed),
Of whom the junior seems to bow,
Towards the clear wave, his thoughtful brow,
From which a light appears to beam;
While, with a reverent air, the other,—
You'd take him for an elder brother,—
Clasped “with a leathern girdle” stoops,
And, with a shell, the water scoops,
And pours it on his kinsman's head;—
And, o'er them both, a downward dove,
Emblem of innocence and love,
On silver wings is seen to hover
In a strong gush of light, that breaks
Forth from the mouth of one above her,
Robed in a mantle of sky blue,
Whose hoary locks, and beard down flowing,
Look like a fall of feathery flakes,
When, for the last time, it is snowing,
As spring is coming on anew,
And scarce a breath of wind is blowing.

There worship they:—that total dearth
Of likenesses of things that breathe
In heaven above, or earth beneath,
Or waters underneath the earth,
Is witness for them, that they find
A Spirit in those walls enshrined.
As, underneath the dome of blue
That holds the stars, but drops the dew,

And as, within the horizon's rim,
We see God, and no God but him,
So is it in the temple, where
These Moslems bow themselves in prayer.

But, lo! by mounted horsemen led,
The soldiery comes! rank following rank,
Dressed in the fashion of the Frank,
Except that, on their shaven head,
With tassel blue, the cap of red
(Called, in these climes, the Grecian fez,)
Shows that, in this part of the globe,
Fashion, who has, for ages, kept her
Turban untouched, and fur-fringed robe,
Must vail hers to a stronger sceptre;
For that, howe'er she may protest,
The court and army shall be dressed
Exactly as the Sultan says.

But not to worship moves this band,
As in my own, a Christian land,
The current towards the temple sets:—
There, clattering scabbards charged with steel,
Helmets and plumes and spur-armed heel,
Muskets with bristling bayonets,
Gleam in the ranks of those who call
The Prince of life and peace their Lord,
Who taught that they who take the sword
For slaughter, by the sword shall fall.
Yes; they, whose only hope to inherit
A crown of glory lies in this,

That, having caught his peaceful spirit,
They're fitted to partake his bliss,
When to their “chief” a guard they prove,
And, marshalled, to the temple move,
To worship Him whose name is Love,
And to his praise to chant again
The hymn that, at their Saviour's birth,
Was sung by angels,—“Peace on earth!
Glory to God! Good will to men!”—
Move in the spirit of the camp,
To martial airs with martial tramp,
And even into the “PRESENCE” come
With bugle's blast and “tuck of drum.”

See, now, in what a different manner
Come they before the King of kings,
Whom, as they mount their Arab steeds
For martial show, or martial deeds,
The Sultan's broad, bright scarlet banner
Waves over:—for, although the shade
Of that red banner,—like the sun
That burns above it,—falls upon
Faces that never blanched with fear,
And hands familiar with the spear
And scimetar's elastic blade,—
Warriors, like those,—(for in their sons
Máhomed's blood and Omar's runs,)—
Whose squadrons, by their Prophet led,
Looked at the Crescent o'er their head,
Gave and received the battle shock,
And onward, like a torrent, poured,

Carrying the Koran on the sword,
From Tigris's bank to Tarik's Rock,—
Yet, when these servants of a lord,
Whose faith was planted with the sword,
Move to the place where prayer is made,
They put their arms off, to a man,—
Pistols and sword and yataghan,—
And all the host, without parade,
Flows on, with movement calm and grave,
As does their own Caÿster's wave.
Move on, young men! 't is not in vain
That ye before Jehovah bow;
I never more shall see your train
As I, with reverence, see it now;
But there is One who e'er will see,
And to your prayer his ear will bend;—
The One who has been good to me
Ye worship, and he is your Friend.
I would, indeed, that ye could hear
The Word our Holy Book enshrines;
I would, indeed, that ye could rear
The Cross where now the Crescent shines!
But, till ye can, I will not close
My eyes against the proofs I see
That, in your hearts, the feeling glows
Of reverence for the Deity.
For, as I climb the hill that swells
From this, your Smyrna's, blooming plain,
And listen to the camels' bells,
And see their slowly winding train,

There seems a spirit in the air,
Inviting me to thought and prayer.

I look down on the cypress groves
That darken o'er the crowded dead,
And muse on all the hopes and loves
Of those who there have made their bed,
And ask myself if all that host,
Whose turbaned marbles o'er them nod,
Were doomed, when giving up the ghost,
To die as those who have no God!
No, no, my God! They worshipped Thee;
Then let not doubts my spirit darken,
That thou, who always hearest me,
To these, thy children too, didst hearken.

On Asia's ancient hills I tread;
There's something in the air that 's holy.
Here have my brethren made their bed,
And soon my sleep will be as lowly.

But hark! what is that mellow call,
That comes as from the bending sky,
And o'er the listening city swells
Sweeter than all our Christian bells,
And seems upon the ear to fall
Like angel voices from on high?
'T is the Muëzzin's monotone,
That, ere the stooping sun has set,
Is heard from yon tall minaret
Breaking out, solemn and alone,
And dying on the quiet air,—
“Lo, God is great! To prayer! To prayer!”
Is it thus holy, all around,
Because the hill I stand upon,
One of our earliest churches crowned,—
The church of the Apostle John?
O no! Where'er the people pray,
Bowing upon their hills around,
To Him who clothes those hills with day,
There, there, for me, is holy ground!
Let me recall,—it is the last,—
This grateful vision of the past.

The Euxine's breath was fresh and cool,
As down the Bosphorus it flowed;
I was returning to Stamboul,
From our Chargé's retired abode.—
The golden sun was not yet down,
But in the west was hanging low,
And gilding with a richer glow
The Crescents of the distant town.

Far, far without its triple wall,
O'er which the mantling ivies fall,
There stood forth a young Tactico
Before his hut; and to the sky
Now calmly raising his dark eye,
Now looking down, with both hands pressed
Across each other on his breast,
Now falling on his bended knees
Before Him who in secret sees,
Then bowing lowly towards the south,
With both hands covering his mouth
And resting on the fresh, green sod,
Was offering, all alone, to God
His sacrifice of evening prayer.—
He knew not that I saw him there;
And never, never, have I seen,
In Christian temple, high or low,
A worshipper that moved me so
As did that Turkish Tactico,
Bowing beneath the arch of blue,—
That, to refresh that sacred sod,
Was just then dropping down its dew,—
And offering on that altar green
His evening sacrifice to God!

O thus, ye Moslems, bow for ever,
And put the Christian world to shame!
But, brethren, brethren, will ye never
Your practice from your faith dissever,

And worship in another name?
Still let devotion's incense burn,
And mingle with your dying breath,
But from Arabia's Prophet turn,
And look to Him of Nazareth!
Whether within the gay kiosk
Ye offer up your daily prayer,
Or in the silence of the mosque,
When, voiceless, ye are bowing there,
Or in the hum of the bazaar,—
Think not of your Apostle's urn,
Nor yet to your Ca ba turn,
But turn, O turn, towards Bethlehem's Star!

Long has your Crescent's light been waning;
'T is waning, and yet more must wane;
While that bright Star new strength is gaining,
And must go on new strength to gain.
O turn, then, to its growing light!
The Moon nor rules nor leads the day;
Her power is only felt at night,
But fades before the morning's ray.
Your faith, beneath the eye of Truth
Must blench, and at her touch will fail;
While ours must e'er renew her youth,
As knowledge shall o'er earth prevail:—
For earth, with its all-clasping seas,
Is weighed by her anointed ones,
And Science hath revealed to these
The heavens with all their hosts of suns.

Then, from your Crescent's face so pale,
Whene'er ye worship, turn away;
And, as ye see our Day-Star burn
With broader splendor, to it turn;
And, kneeling in its radiance, say,
“Hail! rising Star of Bethlehem, hail!”

1837.

“Some christened Jove St. Peter's keys adorn.”
—Pope.

For myself, notwithstanding the authority of this line of Pope, himself a Catholic, and in opposition to the popular opinion in Protestant countries, I do not believe that the statue in question is the same that once stood, as Jove, under the dome of the Pantheon. The right hand which, as Jove's, must have grasped a thunderbolt, cannot be the same that is now raised, with its finger set in the attitude of episcopal, archiepiscopal, or papal benediction; (my readers will, I hope, excuse my lack of exact knowledge, whether it be episcopal, archiepiscopal, or papal;) and the left hand, as well as the keys that it holds, is equally out of the question:—for what had Jove to do with keys, for letting people into Heaven, or keeping them out?

But it is asked, Though the hands and arms are spurious, may not the rest of the statue be a genuine Jove? I answer, I examined as closely as I could, “with all my eyes,” and by the ring of the metal. I could detect no other junction of the parts than that which must have been made by the founder. I am, therefore, satisfied that this “molten image” never had any thing to do with Jove; except, as may have been the case, an old Jove was melted down and recast. But I do not see that this should operate to the prejudice of St. Peter. I think the whole a piece of Protestant scandal.

No one who has seen, and mused by the side of, a Turkish burying-ground, like those of Smyrna, Constantinople, and Scútari, will charge me with using this word merely for the sake of the rhyme. The slender marble shaft, surmounted with a head heavily turbaned, often inclining over the grave that it marks, particularly when seen by moonlight, needs but little aid from the imagination to become a white-robed friend “standing guard” over the dead, till, overcome by the drowsiness of the place, as well as by the length of his vigils, he seems about to fall, in a profound sleep, upon the bosom of the sleeper at his feet.

Regular, i. e. one of the regular army. Gr. τακτικος.

“PASSING AWAY.”—A DREAM.

Was it the chime of a tiny bell,
That came so sweet to my dreaming ear,—
Like the silvery tones of a fairy's shell
That he winds on the beach, so mellow and clear,
When the winds and the waves lie together asleep,
And the Moon and the Fairy are watching the deep,
She dispensing her silvery light,
And he, his notes as silvery quite,
While the boatman listens and ships his oar,
To catch the music that comes from the shore?—
Hark! the notes, on my ear that play,
Are set to words:—as they float, they say,
“Passing away! passing away!”

But no; it was not a fairy's shell,
Blown on the beach, so mellow and clear;
Nor was it the tongue of a silver bell,
Striking the hour, that filled my ear,
As I lay in my dream; yet was it a chime
That told of the flow of the stream of time.

For a beautiful clock from the ceiling hung,
And a plump little girl, for a pendulum, swung;
(As you've sometimes seen, in a little ring
That hangs in his cage, a Canary bird swing;)
And she held to her bosom a budding bouquet,
And, as she enjoyed it, she seemed to say,
“Passing away! passing away!”

O how bright were the wheels, that told
Of the lapse of time, as they moved round slow!
And the hands, as they swept o'er the dial of gold,
Seemed to point to the girl below.
And lo! she had changed:—in a few short hours
Her bouquet had become a garland of flowers,
That she held in her outstretched hands, and flung
This way and that, as she, dancing, swung
In the fulness of grace and of womanly pride,
That told me she soon was to be a bride;—
Yet then, when expecting her happiest day,
In the same sweet voice I heard her say,
“Passing away! passing away!”

While I gazed at that fair one's cheek, a shade
Of thought, or care, stole softly over,
Like that by a cloud in a summer's day made,
Looking down on a field of blossoming clover.
The rose yet lay on her cheek, but its flush
Had something lost of its brilliant blush;
And the light in her eye, and the light on the wheels,
That marched so calmly round above her,

Was a little dimmed,—as when Evening steals
Upon Noon's hot face:—Yet one could n't but love her,
For she looked like a mother whose first babe lay
Rocked on her breast, as she swung all day;—
And she seemed, in the same silver tone, to say,
“Passing away! passing away!”

While yet I looked, what a change there came!
Her eye was quenched, and her cheek was wan:
Stooping and staffed was her withered frame,
Yet, just as busily, swung she on;
The garland beneath her had fallen to dust;
The wheels above her were eaten with rust;
The hands, that over the dial swept,
Grew crooked and tarnished, but on they kept,
And still there came that silver tone
From the shrivelled lips of the toothless crone,—
(Let me never forget till my dying day
The tone or the burden of her lay,)—
“Passing away! passing away!”

1837.

TO MY GRAVE.

I look upon thee as a place of rest—
To me, of welcome rest; for I am tired!
I do not mean that I am tired of life,—
Of seeing the good sun, and the green trees;
Of hearing the sad whisper of the pine
That shades thee, as the summer's sun goes down,
And shields thee, too, from winter's howling blasts.—
That whisper is too thoughtful and too sad
To tire my spirit, for it is of peace.
It is the very voice of the Lord God,
That Adam heard walking among the trees
Of his own garden, in the cool of day:
And, as I hear it, I would not retire,
Or hide myself from Him who soothes me thus.
I am not tired of the sweet light that falls,
My grave, upon thee in the smiling spring,
Or in those sober days when autumn strews
His rustling leaves so plentifully round;
Nor, of the light, still sweeter, that the moon
Sheds from the holy sky, while, through its vault

She walks in queenly beauty. But I'm tired
Of the false smile, that lightens up the face
Of hollow-hearted, cold, and selfish man;
As moonlight glances from the treacherous ice
That sheets yon river's bosom o'er, but breaks,
Whene'er you trust its strength, and lets you in.
I'm tired of all the heartless show of love
For whatsoever things are pure, or true,
Or just, or lovely, or of good report,
Whene'er these things are seen or thought to stand
In Fashion's, or in sordid Mammon's way.

No, I'm not tired of life;—nor am I tired
Of duty, toil, or trial. From the cup
My Father giveth, bitter though it be,
O, let me never turn my lips away,
Or, froward, lift my hand to push it from them.
But I am tired of sowing where the thorns,—
The cares and the deceitfulness of riches,—
Not only choke the word and make it fruitless,
But pierce my feet,—though I would humbly hope
They're with the Gospel's preparation shod,—
And where there are rough hands to cut those thorns
And twist them into withes around my temples,
Or, like the Roman lictor's gory rods,
Ply them to scourge me, bleeding, from the field,—
The field where I, so many years, have borne
The burden and the heat of my life's day;
And where it is “my heart's desire and prayer,”
That I may close my labors and my life.

My grave! I've marked thee on this sunny slope,
The warm, dry slope of Auburn's wood-crowned hill,
That overlooks the Charles, and Roxbury's fields,
That lie beyond it, as lay Canaan's green
And smiling landscape beyond Jordan's flood,
As seen by Moses. Standing by thy side,
I see the distant city's domes and spires.
There stands the church within whose lofty walls
My voice for truth, and righteousness, and God,—
But all too feebly,—has been lifted up
For more than twenty years, but now shall soon
Be lifted up no more. I chose this spot,
And marked it for my grave, that, when my dust
Shall be united to its kindred dust,
They who have loved me,—should there any such
E'er stand beside it and let fall a tear,—
May see the temple where I toiled so long,
And toiled, I fear, in vain. No, not in vain
For all who 've come to offer, in that house,
Their weekly sacrifice of praise and prayer!
For there are some, I humbly hope and trust,
To whom my voice, in harmony with truth,
Hath helped to make that house “the gate of heaven.”
May there be many such! But, O my grave,
When my cold dust is sleeping here, in thee,
The question that shall most concern the spirit
That shall have left that dust, and gone to give
Its dread account in, at the bar of God,
Will not be, “What success hath crowned thy labors?”
But, “With what faithfulness were they performed?”

Here, as I muse beside my last, low bed,
I think upon my answer.

“Lord, thou knowest!
Man never knew me as thou knowest me.
I never could reveal myself to man.
For neither had I, while I lived, the power,
To those who were the nearest to my heart
To lay that heart all open, as it was,
And as thou, Lord, hast seen it. Nor could they,
Had every inmost feeling of my soul
By seraphs' lips been uttered, e'er have had
The ear to hear it, or the soul to feel.
The world has seen the surface only of me:—
Not that I've striven to hide myself from men:—
No, I have rather labored to be known:—
But, when I would have spoken of my faith,
My cómmunings with thee, my heaven-ward hope,
My love for thee and all that thou hast made,
The perfect peace in which I looked on all
Thy works of glorious beauty,—then it seemed
That thou alone couldst understand me, Lord,
And so my lips were sealed;—or the world's phrase,
The courteous question or the frank reply,
Alone escaped them. I have ne'er been known,
My Father, but by thee: and I rejoice
That thou, who mad'st me, art to be my Judge;
For, in thy judgments, thou rememberest mercy.
I cast myself upon them. Like thy laws,
They are all true and right. The law, that keeps

This planet in her path around the sun,
Keeps all her sister planets, too, in theirs,
And all the other shining hosts of heaven.
All worlds, all times, are under that one law;
For what binds one, binds all. So all thy sons
And daughters, clothed in light,—hosts brighter far
Than suns and planets,—spiritual hosts,
Whose glory is their goodness,—have one law,
The perfect law of love, to guide them through
All worlds, all times. Thy Kingdom, Lord, is one.
Life, death, earth, heaven, eternity, and time
Lie all within it; and what blesses now
Must ever bless,—Love of things true and right.

“Father, thou knowest whether, when thou saidst
‘Go, feed my sheep,’ I fed them with things true,
And that, because I loved thy truth and them;
Or whether I kept back from them thy truth,
And doled out falsehood, spiced with flattery,
Because they loved and asked it; and because
Not for the flock I cared, but for the fleece.

“‘Lord, thou hast searched and known me,’ and to thee,
With humble but unfaltering confidence,
With faith that triumphed o'er the fear of death,
And o'er its pains,—at thy most welcome call
My spirit now hath come, with thine to dwell,
And be for ever, as it long hath been,
At one with thee. Father, I ask thee not

To make me ruler over many things,
If, in a few, thou mayst have seen me faithful.
To be at one with thee is all I ask;
'T is all the heaven my spirit can enjoy;
'T is all I've prayed for, or can ever pray;—
Let me, beneath the covert of thy wing,
Henceforth be shielded from the shafts, that pierced
My spirit while I served thee in the flesh,—
The arrows that were tipped with fire, and winged
By men who knew me not, and could not know.
‘Father, forgive them!’ for they thought the world
Was made for Mammon's throne; and that the man
Who, at their call, stood up within thy courts
To speak of things belonging to their peace,
Must make the Gospel pliant to the form
Of ‘the law merchant’;—that the Prophet's roll,
The Apostle's girdle, and the Saviour's vesture
Must all be shaped to fit their golden god,
Or else, as worthless shreds, be thrown aside.
Forgive them, Father, for they did not know
‘The glorious Gospel of the blessed God.’
Thou mad'st it mine to preach that Gospel to them.
Thou knowest whether faithfully I preached,
And whether faithfully they heard, or not.
Thou knowest all my weaknesses and theirs.
Judge thou between us; but, in judgment, Lord,
Remember mercy both to them and me!”

My grave, I'm ready for thee. I would fain,
Were it my Father's will, put by the cup,

The bitter cup, of sharp or chronic pain,
Or wasting sickness,—for that bitter cup
The hand of God's most holy providence
Hath oft commended to my feverish lips;
And deep, already, have I drunk of it.
Fain would I, if I might, be spared the scene
Of wife and children round my dying bed,
Kneeling in prayer, or to my last poor words
Bending with tearful eyes. And I would fain
Banish the thought of shroud, of coffin-lid,
Of cold hands folded on my breast, and of the chill
That will strike through the frame of all who touch
My marble forehead. I would banish, too,
The thought, that I shall hear the funeral prayer,
And see the funeral train when my remains
Are hither borne. And I would gladly drive,
Far and for ever from my heart, the thought,
That, when the widow and the fatherless
Return to their lone dwelling, they'll be left
To the world's charity, and all its trials,—
(Almighty God! they will be left to thee.)
But, when all this is over, and the dust
Hath with the dust commingled, as it was,
And when the spirit hath returned to Him
Who gave it, and who guarded it while here,
And entered there into its heavenly rest,
As it will enter;—and when on thy turf,
My grave, the sun shall pour his mellow light,
And the stars drop their dew, and the full moon
Look down serenely, and the summer birds

Shall sing among the branches that o'erhang
The stone that bears my name, to tell whose grave
Thou art;—O then I shall no longer feel,
As I now feel, tired, tired, and sick at heart,
And, by my very weariness, impelled
To look with longing toward thee, and to stand,
As now I do stand over thee, and say,
“I'm ready to lie down in thee, my grave!”

1840.

A SUNDAY NIGHT AT SEA.

How sadly hath this Sabbath day,
O God, been spent by me,
Cribbed close beneath a narrow deck,
Washed by the frequent sea,
An adverse wind careering o'er me
From those eastern clouds,
And complaining as its shivering wings
Sweep through my roaring shrouds!

This humble deck, so near to which
My rocking couch is spread,
That I strike it if incautiously
I lift my throbbing head,
Hath all day told, and tells me still,
Of falling sleet and rain,
While I have lain alone beneath,
In weariness and pain.

Nay, not “alone”; for, though no voice
Of wife or children dear,
Or friend, or fellow worshipper,
Hath fallen upon my ear,
Hast thou not, even here, O God,
Thy face and favor shown?
Then, how have I been desolate,
Or how am I alone?

And, while the wind hath roared above,
And tossed the raging sea,
Have not my silent orisons,
My God, gone up to thee?
To thee, who sittest on the flood,
And ridest on the storm,
And biddest every wind that blows
Some work of love perform.

And though the winds have tossed, and though
The waves have washed, my deck,
It hath not by their weight been sunk,
Or driven ashore a wreck;
For, though thou hast not hushed the blast,
Nor bid its fury cease,
Thou 'st brought me up and sheltered me
Behind the hills of Greece.

It was not, my Preserver, thus
The lines were made to fall,

In this same season, these same seas,
Unto thy servant Paul,
Who, by this same Euroclydon,
Was driven till he, at last,
On Malta's rock, from which I've come,
A shivering wreck, was cast.

Then let me murmur not, that I
This livelong day have lain
In weakness and in weariness,
In loneliness and pain;
But rather, when I think of Paul,
Thy mercy let me bless,
That, though I've served thee less than he,
I've also suffered less.

Yet wilt thou not forgive me, Lord,
If, on this holy day,
I think of those I love, and think
How far they are away;
And if that house of thine, where I
Have served thee many a year,
That pleasant house, should claim from me
The tribute of a tear?

Within its walls, even now, though Night
O'er me hath spread her wing,

I see my friends, my family,
My flock, all worshipping;
For, between the pastor and his flock,
The foamy crests are curled,
That whiten o'er the waters of
A quarter of the world.

And if he lifts to thee his eyes,
With tears and darkness dim,
And asks if, in their prayers, his friends,
His flock remember him,
Let not the thought of self, that thus
Intrudes upon their prayers,
Be set down as a sin, O God,
In thy sight or in theirs!

That holy house, where I have stood,
And where these hands of mine,
So many years, have ministered
The monthly bread and wine,
That “do show forth” the Saviour's love
And bring to mind the debt
Of those he hath redeemed from sin,
—Can I that house forget?

Forget those little children, too,
“Whose angels do behold
Their Father's face,” whose names, on earth,
Are with thy church enrolled,
And on whose brows, unfurrowed yet
By time, or care, or sin,
The water I have thrown, that speaks
Of purity within?

Forget the dead!—forget the dead!
What witness do they bear
Of my influence on their spirits, that
Are now beyond my care?
That I have spoken faithfully?
Or that I, through fear, was dumb
“Of righteousness, and temperance,
And of the world to come”?

The dead! What witness, O my soul,
In their abodes of bliss,
Or from their seats of woe, must they
Have borne of me, in this?
And they who 're yet alive, what will,
What ought to be, the amount
Of their report, when, in their turn,
They go to give account?

Can I forget the mourning ones,
Who 've brought their load of grief,
And, at thine altar laid it down,
And found in prayer relief?

Forget the needy, who their wants
Have there before thee spread?
Or the liberal hand that there hath given
The poor their daily bread?

Forget the young, who, having laid
Their parents in the dust,
Came up, in One who cannot die,
To learn to place their trust?
Forget the hoary-headed ones,
Who 've bent their feeble knees,
With me so long in prayer?—O God,
Can I forget all these?

And, when I do remember all
Whose worship I have led,
How can I but indulge the hope,
When taken from their head,
That they whose kindness in my heart
Will ever be enshrined,
When they have bowed before the Lord,
Have borne me in their mind?

And how am I remembered, then?—
As a watchman, loving sleep?
As a shepherd, who hath sought his ease,
And cared not for the sheep?
Or as one who, aware that his time was short,
That his day would soon be o'er,

With more of zeal than of wisdom wrought,
Till he could work no more?

Shall I, then, “work no more”?—or wilt
Thou bring me back at length,
To serve thee in thy courts again,
With renovated strength?
And, when the people of my care
Within those courts I meet,
Will the same faces welcome me,
The same kind voices greet?

No: there are eyes that rolled in light,
When I launched upon the wave,
And that, before I can return,
Will have closed in the sleep of the grave:
And are there not those which fell on me then,
With a warm and a friendly ray,
And which, when they see me again, will turn
With an icy glare away?

O Father, by thy chastening hand,
That now is laid on me,
In weakness and in wandering
Upon this wintry sea;
In absence from thy holy house,
To which I loved to go,
And from my home, my happy home,
And them who make it so,—

By all this discipline of thine,—
All which, I know, is just,—
Shall I be made a wiser man,
And worthier of my trust?
An answer, O my guardian God,
Thy wisdom will prepare;
And what thy wisdom shall appoint,
It will be mine to bear.

At sea, “lying to,” behind Cape Matapan, 14 February, 1836.

St. Paul's day, that is, the day of his shipwreck, is fixed; and I witnessed the celebration of it in Malta, on the 10th inst.

The 93 degrees of longitude, that lie between Cape Matapan and Boston, make a difference, in time, of about 6 ¼ hours; so that, while these thoughts are passing through my mind, “in my meditations upon my bed,” between 9 and 10 o'clock at night, my people are in the midst of their afternoon service.

RUINS AT PÆSTUM.

Call ye these “ruins”? What is ruined here?
What fallen shaft,—what broken capital,—
What architraves or friezes, scattered round,—
What leaning walls, with ivy overrun,
Or forced asunder by the roots of trees,
That have struck through them, tell you here was once
A finished temple,—now o'erthrown by time?

Seems it not, rather, a majestic fane,
Now going up, in honor of some god,
Whose greatness or whose beauty had impressed
The builder's soul with reverence profound
And an entire devotion? It is true,
No tools of architects are seen around,
Compass, or square, or plummet with its line;
Else, one might argue that the artisans
Had gone to dinner, and would soon return,
To carry on the work they had begun,
And, thus far, done so well. Yet, long ago,
The laborers who hewed these massy blocks,

And laid them where they lie; who grooved these shafts
To such a depth, and with such perfect truth,
Were called off from their work; not called, indeed,
With sweating brow, to eat their daily bread;
But to lie down in the long sleep of death,
To rest from all their labors, and to mix
Their own dust with the dust that autumn's blasts
Or summer's whirlwind drives across this plain,
And through these voiceless temples, that now stand,
Their only, their mysterious monument.

Mysterious? Ay; for, if ye ask what age
Beheld these temples rise, or in what tongue
The service was performed, or to what god
This fane or that was dedicate, no name,
Inscribed along the architrave, records
By whom, or to whom, wherefore built, or when.
And, if ye ask the Muse of History,
“Non mi ricordo,” is her sole reply.
Tradition, too, that prates of all things else,
Is silent as to this. One only ray
Shoots through the darkness that broods o'er these fanes;
But that is not more worthy of our trust,
Than is the ignis fatuus that, at times,
Swims doubtfully by night across this plain,
Seeking, not finding rest. It is the ray
Thrown from the lamp of Logic, reasoning thus:
She has been told that Pæstum's ancient name
Was Posidonia. She has also learned
That, by the Greeks, old Neptune, ocean's god,

Was called Poseidon. “Ergo,” says the dame,
Who, from slight data, draws conclusions grave,
“Pæstum was Neptune's city; and the fane
That, in its grandeur and magnificence,
Excels the rest, must have been Neptune's temple.”
But wherefore Neptune's? Standing on this plain,
That stretches seaward for a league or more,
These massy columns never could have seen
Themselves reflected from the glassy wave,
When it lay sleeping on the nearest shore;
Nor could the surge, when lifted by the storm,
Have ever fallen, and bathed their feet in foam.
Nor could old ocean's monarch, while he dwelt
Within his own domains, have e'er beheld
The votive gifts suspended on these walls,
Or heard the prayers or praises offered here;
Unless, indeed, the zealous worshipper
Had, with a trumpet, called upon his god,
And spoken in thunders louder than his own;
Or,—which is far from probable,—unless
The god had taken a carriage at the beach,
And been set down here at his own expense,
Whene'er he wished to show his peaceful head
To those who bowed in worship at his shrine.

I 've seen seven columns, standing now at Corinth,
On five of which,—for two bear nothing up,—
Some portion of the entablature remains;
And that old ruin the same style displays

Of severe Doric beauty, that prevails
In these grave works of hoar antiquity.
But to what god rose the Corinthian fane,
Or when, or by what architect, 't was reared,
How much below the time of Sisyphus,
Who laid the corner-stone of Corinth's state,
How much above the era of Timoleon,
Whom that proud state commissioned to dethrone
The tyrant Dionysius, and convey
A Grecian colony to Syracuse,—
'T is all unknown. The ruins there, and here,
Of the same genius speak, and the same age;
And in the same oblivion both have slept
For more than two millenniums. Roman bards
Have of the rosaries of Pæstum sung,
Twice blooming in a year. And he who first
Held in his hands the empire of the world,—
Augustus Cæsar,—visited this spot,
As I do now, to muse among these columns,
Of times whose works remain, whose history 's lost.

And yet the palace of that same Augustus,
Built, as you know, upon the Palatine,
With all that Rome could do to hold it up
Beneath the pressure of the hand of Time,
Is now all swept away, even to the floor.
This little piece of marble, jaune antique,—
Which now I use, to keep these Sibyl leaves

(As she of Cumæ cared not to keep hers)
From floating off, on every wind that blows,
Before the printer gives them leave to fly,—
Once formed a part of that same palace floor.
Among the weeds and bushes that o'erhang
The giant arches that the floor sustained,
I picked it up. Those arches, and the mass
Of bricks beneath them, and the floor above,
And bushes as aforesaid hanging o'er,
And, with their roots, helping the elements
To pry apart what Roman masons joined,
And fit the lower creature for the use
Of the superior,—converting thus
Things inorganic, mortar, bricks, and stones,
To soil, that it may feed organic life,
Grass, flowers, and trees, that they, in turn, may serve
As food for animals, and they for man,
According to the eternal laws of God,—
Are all, of Cæsar's palace, that remains.

But of this solemn temple, not a shaft
Hath fallen, nor yet an architrave or frieze,
Triglyph or metope. Dissolution's work,
The work of frost and moisture, cold and heat,
Has not, on this old sanctuary, begun.
The suns and rains of ages seem not yet,
On any one of all these ponderous stones,
To have given root to the minutest plant.

Not even a lichen or a moss has dared
To fix itself and flourish on these dry
And everlasting blocks of travertine.
The sun has only touched them with a tinge
Of his own gold. And, as I sit between
These columns, and observe how gently fall
His beams upon them, and how soft and calm
The air is, as it sleeps upon their sides,
(Even now, though 't is a January day,)
How gingerly that quick-eyed lizard runs,
In the warm sunshine, up and down their grooves,
It seems as if the very heavens and earth,
With all the elements and creeping things,
Had formed a league to keep eternal silence
Within, above, and all around this pile,
To see how many ages more 't would stand.

Methinks, even now, as the soft wind slows through
These noble colonnades, as through the strings
Of an Æolian harp, I hear a low
And solemn voice,—it is the temple's voice,—
Though in what language it addresses me,
Greek, Latin, or Italian, it were hard
For Mezzofanti or the Polyglot,
Without a close attention, to decide;
For, since this temple pycnostyle hath stood,
It hath been exercised in many a tongue;
And to my ear it says, or seems to say:

“Stranger, I know as little of the world
From which thou com'st, as thou dost of the time

From which I came; 't is only yesterday
To me, that it was known there was a world
West of the promontories thou 'st heard called
The ‘Pillars’ of my old friend Hercules.
I was so young, when I was first set up,
That I've forgotten who my builders were,
Or to what god my altars were devoted;
Else would I tell thee; for, I know the Muse
Would, through the lines which thou wilt write of me,
Preserve the knowledge to all future time!
But Hercules,—the friend of whom I've spoken,—
I well remember, and for ever shall:
For, once he sat where thou art sitting now.
It was, I think, when he was on his way
From Thebes far westward, when he went to help
Atlas, his father-in-law, hold up the heavens.
I told him, then, that if he'd bring them here,
And lay them on my shoulders, I'd uphold
The whole of them to all eternity.

“Excuse what, to thy cold and western ear,
May savour, somewhat, of hyperbole!
But, friend, it is the privilege of age
To be laudator acti temporis.
And, long since then, I've heard events, unmoved,
Which shook all Italy with their report,
And, ever since, have echoed round the globe.
For, I was quite in years, when Hannibal
Came down the Alps, and at the river Ticin,
Which, on thy journey homeward, thou shalt cross,
O'erthrew the Romans under Scipio:

When, after that, by Thrasymenè's lake,—
(Thou canst not have forgotten the nice fish
Thou at'st, one night, upon the same lake's shore,
Or how, like the good wife of Abraham,
Thy pretty hostess laughed, in unbelief,
When, in the papers of the Pope's police,
Thou didst report thyself ‘a clerkly man,’
Because thou worest not a monkish garb!)—
The Roman legions, that Flaminius led,
Were, by the Carthaginian, overthrown,
In such a desperate, all-engrossing shock,
That even an earthquake walked unnoticed by!
And when, still later, the same African
Sent forty thousand Romans to the shades,
And their gold rings, by bushels, o'er to Carthage,
From yonder field of Cannæ; the small stream,
Bridged by the bodies of the Roman dead,
Is still called ‘Sanguinetto,’—Bloody Brook;
(Thou hast one, I've been told, in thine own land.)
When all these empire-shaking shocks were felt,
I heard them all, and heard them all unmoved.

“But later still, when, had the conqueror gone
With nothing but the panic of his name,
And said, in thunder, to the gates of Rome,
‘Lift up your heads, Eternal City's gates,
And let the Conqueror of Rome come in!’
Those gates would have swung open,—O, when I
Then saw those Africans sink down and doze
On the soft bosom of Parthenopè;
When they who scaled the Alps, and stemmed the Po,

(A very muddy river that, you'll find,)
And stood against the arms of Rome's best men,
Within the arms of Capua's worst women
Fell, as fell Samson in Delilah's lap;
Then was I moved, indeed; yea, deeply moved,
At the same time with gladness and with grief,
For though for Rome I smiled, I wept for man!

“Stranger, beware! for still Parthenopè,
From whose bewitching smile thou hast withdrawn,
To visit these drear solitudes, and muse
For a few hours among my colonnades,
Spreads all the snares that were by Capua spread,
The indolent and thoughtless to destroy.
But ‘sapienti verbum sat!’ Thou goest,
And I no more shall see thee; but I pray,
(I see thou takest pleasure in my stones!)
Spare me, as Time hath spared; though I am sure
I owe him little thanks; for I have felt
The hackings of his scythe, (now somewhat dulled,
Thou'lt guess,—thou sayest thou art from Yankee land,)
For some few thousand years; and I leave thee
To judge which hath the better of the game:
So, lift nor hand, nor hammer, I entreat,
To break a fragment, as ‘a specimen’
Of the strange, hard, but spongy-looking stone
That the Silaro, (which from yonder hills
Thou seëst flowing to Salerno's gulf,)
Turns all things into, that it falls upon:
I've heard the same thing of Medusa's eyes!
O, treat me not as did the plundering Pict

My fair young sister, hight ‘the Parthenon,’
Whom thou shalt see, and seeing shalt deplore,
When thou shalt visit the Acropolis.
Yea, spare me, friend, and spare me, all ye gods,
From virtuosi, earthquakes, Elgins spare,
And let me have my tussle out with Time!”

“Placidum caput.” —Virg. Æn. I. 127.

“Biferique rosaria Pæsti.”

—Virg. Georg. IV. 119.

“Tepidique rosaria Pæsti.”

—Ovid. Met. XV. 708.

“Nec revocare situs, aut jungere carmina curat.” —Virg. Æn. III. 451.

A BIRTHDAY IN SCIO.

I landed there on the day of my birth,—
The day that the city was swept from the earth;
Though thirteen years had floated away
On the stream of time since that bloody day.

There had been a strong southeaster blowing,
The night before and afternoon;
And the clouds, as night came on, were throwing
So much of mystery round the moon,
That,—what above, and what below,—
Things looked so squally, all on board
Concurred in thinking Captain Ford
Spoke wisely; when he said, “No, no;
I shall put in, and try to keep
Where the ladies, who 're aboard, may sleep.”

So I 'd slept on board, the night before,
In the snug little port; while, round the isle,
The breakers thundered on the shore,
Like a line of sea-dogs, chafed and hoar,
Bounding and barking for many a mile.

Yet, though, “outside,” those dogs might prowl,
We lay where the wave was “calm as a clock”;
And, though afar off we could hear the dogs howl,
And sometimes their nearer and hoarser growl,
I could sleep, and I did sleep, “like a rock.”

But morning came!—an April morn;
And, though the winds were felt no more,
The waters still were landward borne,
And still the waves came combing o'er,
And fringed with foam the eastern shore;
And there rolled along so heavy a swell,
Between the Island and Tshesmé,
That the captain thought he might as well
Not venture round Phanæ Point, that day.

O, how I blessed the restless deep,
That it sunk not with the winds to sleep!
For it gave me a day on Scio's isle,—
A day that I shall not soon forget;
For the earth's sweet face, and the blue heaven's smile,
And the sea that glittered all round, the while,
As I then beheld them, haunt me yet.

Well, we 're ashore! Here hath Oppression's rod
Wrought its worst work, where the good hand of God
Seems to have wrought its fairest and its best.
That guardian mountain, towering in the west,—

His fertile flanks,—the plains that stretch away,
East and southeast,—all basking in the ray
Of such a sun! How could there ever be
A lovelier island lifted from the sea!
Yet here hath Ruin driven her ploughshare deep!
Few here survive, the many slain to weep,
And few now wander, lonely, on this shore,
Their captive sons and daughters to deplore.

These magazines,—once glutted with the stores
Of what the Euxine down the Bosphorus pours,—
Of Brusa's silks,—of stuffs from Angora's looms,
Of all the colors of the peacock's plumes,—
Of cotton goods from Europe's Island Queen,—
Of Samian wine,—of oil from Mitylene,—
Of corn, that from the coast of Barbary comes,—
Of dates from Egypt, and Arabian gums,—
All empty now, lie open to the sky:
Nothing to sell here, and no one to buy!

“Paithiske, (damsel,) canst thou tell me where
The College stood?” She answers, with the air

Of one who feels unequal to the task,
“Ohe,” (I cannot,) “but I 'll run and ask.”
And back she comes with knowledge in her eye,
And leads me round, through places wet and dry,—
O'er heaps of brick, one clambers up with pain,
Round open cellars partly filled with rain,—
Until, at last, “Ethó!” ('T was here!) she cries;
And joy and wonder sparkle in her eyes,
As, with the true Greek appetite for gains,
She pockets a piastre for her pains.

And is this formless mass of prostrate walls
All that remains of Scio's college halls?
Those halls to which the children of the isles,
For Panayéa's and Minerva's smiles,
Thronged, till their spreading light, like kindling morn,
Flashed on the waters of the Golden Horn,
And broke the slumbers of Mahmoud's Divan?
Yes, this is all! and the wayfaring man
Who, after thirteen years, would see the spot,
Finds, it was never known, or is forgot;

While every peasant, who is not a fool.
Will lead me, if I wish, to Homer's school.

I mount a mule, and to the country ride.
High walls confine the road on either side;
Mile after mile presents the same sad scene,
Of princely seats, with orange groves between;
Mansions of merchant princes, that once vied
With those of Venice, both in grace and pride;
But now those mansions speak of Moslem ire.
Roofless and windowless, they show that fire
Here had its perfect work. The walls yet stand,
And seem to whisper, “Lend us, friend, a hand!”
Ay, had a Yankee,—had even I,—this “place,”
How soon I 'd make it wear another face!
New floored, new roofed, and thoroughly new glazed,
The battered court-yard gate and fences raised,
The garden dressed, all trimmed the mastic trees,
I, in my palace hall, might sit at ease,
And see a paradise around me bloom;
And, as the fragrant night-breeze filled my room,
Flowing through open casements; and the moon
Silvered the scene around me; or, at noon,
As in an hour like this, in blooming spring,
I heard my marble fountain murmuring,
And saw my noble orange groves unfold
Their snowy blossoms and their fruit of gold,—
Say, “For this palace must I thank thee, War!”
Well,—I may have it for the asking for!

But, would I take it? When I turn my eye
Where yon Mount Opus swells into the sky,
Those cliffs that look down on the plains below,
Ring with the answer,—“Wouldst thou take it?—No!
For ‘come up hither!’—we can tell
A tale to freeze a Western freeman's blood;—
When, from our height, we saw the swell,
And heard the rush, of war's infernal flood
Through all that city's bleeding lanes,
O'er all the villas of those blooming plains;
We opened, then, our dens and caves
To the poor peasants. Behold, here, their graves!
The fleet of foot to these, our caverns, sped;
To these our heights and cavern-depths, alike,
The hell-hounds followed where the blood-hounds led,—
The brutes to mangle, and the fiends to strike!
We trembled then, at the deep death-note
Pealed from the panting bull-dog's throat,—
The flash,—the echo and the smoke,—
The yell,—the stab,—the sabre stroke,—
The musket shot,—the frenzied shriek,—
The death-groan of the hunted Greek,—
Till our white feet with streams of gore were dyed,
And mangled limbs were strown on every side,—
With many a skull by Turkish sabre cleft;
Our vultures finished what their blood-hounds left!
The arm that, thirteen years ago,
Bathed, elbow-deep, in Sciote blood,
Still sways, o'er us and all below,
The iron sceptre of Mahmoud!

And would'st thou, stranger,—were all free,—
Take any villa thou canst see,
To dwell therein? Beware! Beware!
The sword hangs o'er thee by a hair!”

Fair Scio! as I pass along thy shore,
Through waters that the brave Kanaris bore,
Where, at one blow, thou wast avenged so well,
And where the Butcher of thy children fell;
Ere yet I lose thee in the deepening blue,
So lone, so lovely, art thou to my view,—
(For nothing lonelier lies beneath the sun,
And nothing lovelier doth he look upon!)
I pray thee, listen to a parting strain,
From one who ne'er shall look on thee again:

Farewell to thee, Scio! it is but a day
That I've seen thee, and yet I shall love thee for ever.
Thy children are slain, and thy crown torn away,
And thy jewels and gold shall return to thee never.

Thou sittest, no longer, a queen in thy bower,
But a widow,—of sons and of daughters bereft;
Yet despair not, thou desolate one! for thy dower,
Lovely Scio,—thy lands and thy beauty,—is left.

And though Syra, thy proud “little sister,” awhile
Thy pearls round her bold little forehead may twine,
Yet, envy her not, for she hath not a smile,
Nor hath she a face, or a bosom, like thine.

And, as soon as the sceptre of Islam is broken,
Or Mahmoud, the red-handed Padischa, dead,
The word shalt thou hear, that thy Maker hath spoken;
“Thou shalt put on thy garments, and lift up thy head.”

And vine-leaves and roses thy temples shall deck,
And some of thy children shall cling to thy breast,
While some pluck the clusters that hang round thy neck,
And—thy lap-full of oranges feed all the rest!

Mount Opus, a little to the northwest of the city;—I should guess about 4000 feet high.

It is estimated, that, of the 80,000 inhabitants of Scio, 20,000 were butchered on the spot, or hung up on the yard-arms of the Turkish fleet, either lying off the island, or when the fleet, on its return, came in sight of Constantinople; that 20,000 were carried into captivity,—chiefly the handsomest women and boys; that 15,000 escaped to some of the neighbouring islands. The rest sought shelter in the mountain fastnesses.

Παιδιοκη μας! “My little girl!”—Modern Greek. For the benefit of learners, both inside and outside of the college walls, I would remark, that, wherever the Greek is a spoken language, the δ is sounded precisely like th in this. As for teachers, tutors, professors, &c., they will go on giving this letter the force of the English d. The case with them, I fear, is hopeless; for how much better is the old way than the right way!

Οχι, No; χ like h in house.

Εδω, Here.

Παναγια, All Holy; pronounced Panayéa. The modern Greek appellation of the Virgin Mary.

The locality of this is pointed out with great confidence by the Sciotes.

Since the destruction of Scio, its commerce, which was the chief source of its wealth, has been almost entirely transferred to the small Greek island, Syra.

The port, that is, the commercial city, of Syra, is built upon a hill, that swells up boldly from the water; and many of the houses, as they rise ampitheatrically, make quite an imposing appearance.

“Padischa,” Angelicè “Man-killer,” one of the titles of the present Soultán, and the one by which, it is said, he is particularly pleased to be addressed.

University of Virginia Library

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

MOSLEM WORSHIP.

“PASSING AWAY.”—A DREAM.

TO MY GRAVE.

A SUNDAY NIGHT AT SEA.

RUINS AT PÆSTUM.

A BIRTHDAY IN SCIO.