Miami Woods : a golden wedding and other poems

God's holy angels, when the Earth was new,
Ere yet green plant or golden grain had birth,
O'er the warm slopes and sunny valleys threw
The germs of vegetation; and the earth,
As lapsed the seasons of the primal year,
Grew fair and fruitful—yielding, for all time,
The sustenance of Life—afar and near,
On every continent, in every clime.
No quick return was part of this great plan:
But thus the seed was sown for all the Years of Man.

And, by this high and bright example taught,
Would I thus labor in my lowly way—
Sowing the broad and shining fields of Thought
With seed that shall spring up through many a day:
Not seeking quick returns, in wealth or fame;
Not darkening counsel with unmeaning words,
Nor dazzling with a phosphorescent flame—
But with a voice as cheerful as a bird's,
And with a hand and heart unaw'd by strife,
Singing and sowing seed for all the Years of Life.

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The West.

I.

Land of the West—green Forest-Land!
Clime of the fair, and the immense!
Favorite of Nature's liberal hand,
And child of her munificence!
Fill'd with a rapture warm, intense,
High on a cloud-girt hill I stand,
And with clear vision gazing thence,
Thy glories round me far expand:
Rivers, whose likeness earth has not,
And lakes, that elsewhere seas would be,—
Whose shores the countless wild herds dot,
Fleet as the winds, and all as free;
Mountains that pierce the bending sky,
And with the storm-clouds warfare wage,—
Shooting their glittering peaks on high,
To mock the fierce red lightning's rage;
Arcadian vales with vine-hung bow'rs,
And grassy nooks, 'neath beechen shade,
Where dance the never resting Hours,
To music of the bright cascade;
Skies softly beautiful, and blue

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As Italy's, with stars as bright;
Flow'rs rich as morning's sun-rise hue,
And gorgeous as the gemm'd midnight.
Land of the West—green Forest-Land!
Thus hath Creation's bounteous hand,
Upon thine ample bosom flung
Charms such as were her gift when the gray world was young.

II.

Land of the West!—where nought is old,
Or fading, but tradition hoary,—
Thy long neglected annals hold
Of many a daring deed the story!
Man's might of arm hath here been tried,
And woman's glorious strength of soul—
When war's fierce shout rang far and wide,
When vengeful foes at midnight stole
On slumbering innocence, and gave
Nor onset-shout, nor warning word,
Nor nature's strong appealings heard
From woman's lips, to “spare and save
Her unsuspecting little one,
Her only child—her son! her son!”
Unheard the supplicating tone,
Which ends in now a shriek, and now a deep death-groan!

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III.

Land of the West!—green Forest-Land!
Thine early day for deeds is famed
Which in historic page shall stand
Till bravery is no longer named.
Thine early day!—it nursed a band
Of men who ne'er their lineage shamed;
The iron-nerved, the bravely good,
Who neither spared nor lavish'd blood—
Aye ready, morn, or night, or noon;
Fleet in the race, firm in the field,
Their sinewy arms their only shield—
Courage to Death alone to yield:
The men of Daniel Boone!
Their dwelling place—the “good green wood,”
Their favorite haunts—the lone arcade,
The murmuring and majestic flood,
The deep and solemn shade:
Where came to them the Word of God,
When Storm and Darkness were abroad,
Breath'd in the thunder's voice aloud,
And writ in lightning on the cloud.
And thus they lived: the dead leaves oft,
Heap'd by the playful winds, their bed;
Nor ask'd they couch more warm or soft,
Nor pillow for the head,
Other than fitting root or stone,

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With the scant wood-moss overgrown.
Heroic band!—But they have pass'd
As pass the stars at rise of sun,—
Melting into the ocean vast
Of Time, and sinking, one by one;
Yet lingering here and there a few,
As if to take a last, long view,
Of the domain they won in strife
With foes who battled to the knife.
Peace be to those who sleep beneath us!
All honor to the few that yet do linger with us!

IV.

Land of the West!—thine early prime
Fades in the flight of hurrying Time;
Thy noble forests fall, as sweep
Europa's myriads o'er the Deep;
And thy broad plains, with welcome warm,
Receive the onward-pressing swarm:
On mountain height, in lowly vale,
By quiet lake, or gliding river,—
Wherever sweeps the chainless gale,
Onward sweep they forever.
Oh, may they come with hearts that ne'er
Can bend a tyrant's chain to wear;
With souls that would indignant turn,
And proud oppression's minions spurn;

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With nerves of steel, and words of flame,
To strike and sear the wretch who'd bring our land to shame!

V.

Land of the West!—beneath the Heaven
There 's not a fairer, lovelier clime;
Nor one to which was ever given
A destiny more high, sublime.
From Alleghany's base to where
Our Western Andes prop the sky—
The home of Freedom's hearts is there,
And o'er it Freedom's eagles fly.
And here,—should e'er Columbia's land
Be rent with fierce intestine feud,—
Shall Freedom's latest cohorts stand,
Till Freedom's eagles sink in blood,
And quench'd are all the stars that now her banners stud.

178

A Hymn of the Day that is Dawning.

If the promise of the Present
Be not a hollow cheat,
If true-hearted men and women
Prove faithful and discreet,
If none falter who are hoping
And contending for the Right,
Then a time is surely coming,
As a day-beam from the night—

When the landless shall have foothold
In fee upon the soil,
And for his wife and little ones
Bend to his willing toil:
When the wanderer, no longer
In sorrow forced to roam,
Shall see around him spring and bloom
The blessèd things of Home:
When the poor and widowed mother
Shall fit recompense obtain,

179

For her days and nights of toiling,
From the sordid man of gain:
When the brawny limbs of labor,
And the hard and horny hand,
For their strivings, for their doings,
Meet honor shall command:
When suffering hearts that struggle
In silence, and endure,
Shall receive, unsought, the earnest
Ministrations of the pure:
When the master with his bondmen
For a price shall divide the soil,
And the slave, at last enfranchised,
Shall go singing to his toil:
When the bloody trade of the soldier
Shall lose its olden charm,
And the sickle hand be honored more
Than the sword and the red right-arm:
When tolerance and truthfulness
Shall not be under ban,
And the fiercest foe and deadliest
Man knows, shall not be man.

Be firm, and be united,
Ye who war against the wrong!
Though neglected, though deserted,
In your purpose still be strong!

180

To the faith and hope that move ye
In the things ye dare and do,
Though the world rise up against ye
Be resolute—be true!

181

Truth and Freedom.

On the page that is Immortal,
We the pregnant promise see:
“Ye shall know the Truth, my people,
And the Truth shall make you free.”

For the Truth, then, let us battle,
Whatsoever fate betide!
Long the boast that we are Freemen,
We have made, and published wide.

He who has the Truth, and keeps it,
Keeps what not to him belongs;
But performs a selfish action,
Which his fellow-mortal wrongs.

He who seeks the Truth, and trembles
At the dangers he must brave,
Is not fit to be a Freeman:—
He, at best, is but a slave.

He who hears the truth, and places
Its high promptings under ban,
Long may boast of all that 's manly,
But can never be a Man.

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Friend, this simple lay who readest,
Be not thou like either of them;
But to Truth give utmost freedom,
And the tide it raises, stem.

Bold in speech, and brave in action,
Be forever!—Time will test,
Of the free-soul'd and the slavish,
Which fulfills life's mission best.

Be thou like the noble Ancient—
Scorn the threat that bids thee fear;
Speak!—no matter what betide thee;
Let them strike, but make them hear!

Be thou like the first apostles—
Be thou like heroic Paul:
If a free thought seek expression,
Speak it boldly!—speak it all!

Face thine enemies—accusers;
Scorn the prison, rack, or rod!
And, if thou hast Truth to utter,
Speak! and leave the rest to God.

183

Conservatism.

The Owl, he fareth well
In the shadows of the night;
And it puzzleth him to tell
Why the Eagle loves the light.

Away he floats—away,
From the forest dim and old,
Where he pass'd the gairish day:—
The night doth make him bold!

The wave of his downy wing,
As he courses round about,
Disturbs no sleeping thing
That he findeth in his route.

The moon looks o'er the hill,
And the vale grows softly light;
And the cock, with greeting shrill,
Wakes the echoes of the night.

But the moon—he knoweth well
Its old familiar face;
And the cock—it doth but tell,
Poor fool! its resting place.

184

And as still as the spirit of Death
On the air his pinions play;—
There 's not the noise of a breath
As he grapples with his prey.

Oh, the shadowy Night for him!
It bringeth him fare and glee;
And what cares he how dim
For the Eagle it may be?

It clothes him from the cold,
It keeps his larders full;
And he loves the darkness old,
To the Eagle all so dull.

But the dawn is in the East—
And the shadows disappear;
And at once his timid breast
Feels the presence of a fear.

He resists;—but all in vain!
The clear Light is not for him;
So he hastens back again
To the forest old and dim.

Through his head strange fancies run;
For he can not comprehend
Why the moon, and then the sun,
Up the heavens should ascend,—

185

When the old and quiet Night,
With its shadows dark and deep,
And the half-revealing light
Of its stars, he 'd ever keep.

And he hooteth loud and long:—
But the Eagle greets the day,
And, on pinions bold and strong,
Like a roused Thought, sweeps away!

186

The Laborer.

Stand up—erect! Thou hast the form
And likeness of thy God!—who more?
A soul as dauntless 'mid the storm
Of daily life, a heart as warm
And pure as breast e'er bore.

What then?—Thou art as true a MAN
As moves the human mass among;
As much a part of the Great Plan
That with Creation's dawn began,
As any of the throng.

Who is thine enemy?—the high
In station, or in wealth the chief?
The great, who coldly pass thee by,
With proud step and averted eye?
Nay! nurse not such belief.

If true unto thyself thou wast,
What were the proud one's scorn to thee?
A feather, which thou mightest cast
Aside, as idly as the blast
The light leaf from the tree.

187

No:—uncurbed passions—low desires—
Absence of noble self-respect—
Death, in the breast's consuming fires,
To that high nature which aspires
Forever, till thus checked:

These are thine enemies—thy worst;
They chain thee to thy lowly lot—
Thy labor and thy life accurst.
Oh, stand erect! and from them burst,
And longer suffer not!

Thou art thyself thine enemy!
The great!—what better they than thou?
As theirs, is not thy will as free?
Has God with equal favors thee
Neglected to endow?

True, wealth thou hast not: 't is but dust!
Nor place, uncertain as the wind!
But that thou hast which, with thy crust
And water, may despise the lust
Of both—a noble mind.

With this, and passions under ban,
True faith, and holy trust in God,
Thou art the peer of any man.
Look up, then—that thy little span
Of life may be well trod!

188

Radicálos.

In the far and fading ages
Of the younger days of earth,
When man's aspirations quicken'd,
And his passions had their birth—
When first paled his glorious beauty,
And his heart first knew unrest,
As he yielded to the tempter
That inflamed and fill'd his breast—
When the Voice that was in Eden
Echoed through his startled soul,
And he heard rebuking anthems
Through the heavenly arches roll—
When he fell from the high promise
Of his being's blessèd morn,
To a night of doubt and struggle—
Radicálos then was born.

Through the ages long and dreary
That since then have dawn'd on earth,
Man has had but feeble glimpses
Of the glory of his birth:
Catching these, his soul, aspiring
To its morning light again,

189

Hard has upward toil'd, and often
Fill'd with hope, but still in vain.
Many a blessèd song comes stealing
Downward from the Eden aisles,
Whence the light of heavenliest beauty
Still upon the banish'd smiles;
But the harmonies are broken
Of each sounding choral hymn,
And the gloom that vails his spirit
Makes e'en heavenly splendor dim.

Faint revealings, thwarted hopings,
Wearying struggles, day by day:—
So the long and dreary ages
Of his life have worn away.
War, and rapine, and oppression,
Early in his course he found—
Brother against brother striving—
By the few the many bound.
And in patience,and in meekness,
To the galling chain resign'd,
Thus the fettered limbs have rested—
Thus hath slept the darkened mind.
But it wakens now!—it flashes
Like the lightning ere the rain;
And those limbs grow strong!—when ready,
They can rend the mightiest chain.

190

Through the slow and stately marches
Of the centuries sublime,
Radicálos hath been strengthening
For the noblest work of Time;
And he comes upon the Present
Like a god in look and mien,
With composure high surveying
All the tumult of the scene:
Where obey the fettered millions;
Where command the fettering few;
Where the chain of wrong is forging,
With its red links hid from view;
And he standeth by the peasant,
And he standeth by the lord,
And he shouts “Your rights are equal!”
Till earth startles at the word.

He hath seen the record written,
From the primal morn of man,
In the blood of battling nations
O'er ensanguined plains that ran;
In the tears of the deluded,
In the sweat of the oppress'd
From Ind's farthest peopled borders
To the new worlds of the West.

191

And he cometh with deliverance!
And his might shall soon be known,
Where the wrong'd rise up for justice,
And the wrongers lie o'erthrown.

Woe! the pride that then shall scorn him:
He will bring it fitly low!
Woe! the arm that shall oppose him:
He will cleave it at a blow!
Woe! the hosts that shall beset him:
He will scatter them abroad!
He will strike them down forever!
Radicálos is of God.

192

The Artisan.

The day is past;—the quiet night
Toward its midhour weareth on;
His workshop has been closed for hours—
A good day's labor done.
The toil is hard that brings him bread;
And sometimes he has scant supply:
When droops awhile his manly head,
And glistens his full eye.

Yet from the trial shrinks he not;
For he has youth, and strength, and will;
And though his toil is ill repaid,
Bends daily to it still.
He sometimes murmurs,—but his pride
Checks each expression at its birth,—
That blessings to his class denied
Surround the drones of earth.

He passes, morn and noon and night,
The homes of luxury and wealth;
And glances at their gilded ease,
His eye will take by stealth.

193

And shadows gather on his face,
At times—but instantly depart—
He feels such weakness a disgrace
Both to his head and heart.

His calling sometimes takes him where
Wealth, worth, grace, beauty, all unite;
And lovely tones arrest his ear,
And lovely looks his sight;
And much he thinks—and half he sighs—
Yet ere his welcome work is done,
He longs for home, and Mary's eyes,
And for his prattling son.

His labor hath been light to-day;
And wife and child before him sleep;
And he has pass'd the half-spent night
In study close and deep.
The lamp burns dim—the fire is low—
The book is closed wherein he read;
But wildly swell the streams of thought
Its fountain-pages fed.

With eyes fixed calmly on the floor,
But varying and expressive face,
He cons the lesson o'er and o'er—
The history of his race.

194

And much he finds of word and deed,
Whose virtue is example now;
But more that makes his bosom bleed,
And darkens o'er his brow.

The thirst for wealth,—the strife for power—
The ceaseless struggle for renown—
The daring that hath seized a realm,
Or caught a wavering crown—
The manhood that hath tamely bent
And fall'n beneath tyrannic sway—
The balk'd resistance, that hath lent
Its darkness to the day.

But chiefly this it is that fills
The swelling volume of his mind:
The countless wrongs and cruelties
That have oppress'd his kind.
And viewing them, upon his brain
His own hard struggles darkly throng;
And as he feels their weight again,
It presses like a wrong:

Wrong to himself, and wrong to all
Who bear the burdens he hath borne:
“A yoke!” up starting he exclaims,
“And oh, how meekly worn!”

195

But as he reads Life's riddle still,
He feels, with sudden change of mood,
The stern, the indomitable will,
That never was subdued.

The will, not to destroy, but build!
Not the blind Might of old renown,
Which took the pillars in its grasp,
And shook the temple down—
But that whose patient energy
Works ever upward, without rest,
Until the pierced and parted sea
Rolls from its coral breast.

In the dim fire-light, for awhile,
His tall form moveth to and fro;
Then by the couch of those he loves
He stops, and bendeth low.
Oh, holy love! oh, blessèd kiss!
Ye ask not splendor—bide not pow'r—
But in a humble home like this,
Ye have your triumph hour!

He sleeps—but even on his dreams
Obtrudes the purpose of his soul;
He wanders where the living streams
Of knowledge brightly roll;

196

And where men win their own good ways,
Not yield to doubt or dark despair,
In dreams his bounding spirit strays—
In dreams he triumphs there.

With stronger arm, with mightier heart,
Than he hath felt or known before,
When comes the morrow's hour of toil,
He'll leave his humble door.
No wavering hence he'll know—no rest,
Until the new-seen goal be won;
But firm, and calm, and self-possess'd,
Bear resolutely on.

And this it is that, year by year,
Through which nor faith nor hope grows less,
Pursued, shall crown his high career
With honor and success.
This—this it is that marks the man!
Dare thou, then, 'neath whose studious eye
This lesson lies, rouse up at once,
And on thyself rely!

Give to thy free soul freest thought;
And whatsoe'er it prompts thee do,
That manfully, year in, year out,
With all thy might pursue.

197

What though thy name may not be heard
Afar, or shouted through the town,
Thou 'lt win a higher meed of praise,
A worthier renown.

Press on, then!—earth has need of thee!
The metal at the forge is red;
The ax is rusting by the tree;
The grain hangs heavy in the head.
Heed not who works not—labor thou!
Lay bravely hold, nor pause, nor shrink!
Life's Rubicon is here—and stand
Not dubious on the brink!

198

The New Age.

RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED TO THE REPRESENTATIVES OF THE INDUSTRIES OF THE UNITED STATES.

As, to one who stands a watcher by the solemn-sounding sea,
Rise from the elliptic waters mighty ships continually,
With the race whose type is constant, though its outer-seemings range,
As the civilizations widen, o'er the boundless fields of change:

So, to one who gazes thoughtful, from the lessening shores of time,
O'er Eternity's expanses, silent, limitless, sublime,
Rise the marvelous, mighty ages, rounding up the shadowy spheres,
With the eternal laws of order, and the changes of the years.

199

Standing where the graceful vessel cleaves the ocean and the sky,
Where the starr'd and mighty centuries sweep with matchless grandeur by,
Let me, while upon my vision coming changes brightly throng,
Sing the age's Jubilate—sing the Worker's Triumph Song.

JUBILATE.

I.

Hearken, human brother—ho!
Worker at the board or bench,
High aloft the window throw—
Let escape the stew and stench;
Air like that in these shut rooms,
Foul and damp with lingering glooms,
Do the best with it you can,
Is not fit for lungs of man.
Though the walls that rise about
Shut the blessèd sunlight out,
Yet the sweet and liberal air
Wanders freely everywhere.
'Mid the darkness, 'mid the din,
Lift the sash, and let it in!

200

Thick upon your pallid brow
Stand the reeking sweat-drops now:
Thicker still upon your face
Lines of anguish interlace.
Wipe away the honest sweat;
Proud of it you shall be yet!
Banish, too, the lines of pain—
Human toil is not in vain!
Work and wait—'t will yet be Day;
Long the task, but work away!

II.

Striker at the anvil, ho!
You are all begrimed and hot;
Still you strike a mighty blow;
Let your spirit falter not!
Brace your sinews—plant your foot—
White the skin beneath the soot:
Turn the iron—strike it well—
Every blow at last will tell.
Soon your clear or subtle thought
In the metal shall be wrought;
Soon the forge's glowing heat,
And the hammer's ringing beat,
So shall shape the iron rod
That 't will work for man and God;

201

So, too, shall your blow on blow
Bring the hour you long to know.
Clutch the iron—heat it hot—
Be of spirit—falter not.
Like its glow shall be your Day;
Work with will, and work away!

III.

Mighty molder, hist and ho!
Down there in your earthly halls,
Like the metal all aglow,
How the sweat from off you falls—
Dripping with each heave or stroke,
As the rain drips from the oak!
Still the mold you well prepare—
Still the molten metal bear—
Still the casting comes out true:
Mighty molder, it will do!
Only when the eve shall lay
Aside the labors of the day,
And unto your wife you've come,
Sit not with her gloomy—dumb:
Look not sadly on her boys:
Dash not thus her matron joys:
Give to each and all a hope:
Strength and will with fate can cope.

202

As you bring the mass aglow,
You can bring or weal or woe;
As you mold or shaft or wheel,
You can mold or woe or weal.
You have strength to make the Day—
Work with will, then: work away!

IV.

Worn and weary workers—ho!
Toil is pain, if so you say;
But to those who singing go
To their labors day by day,
Toil is duty, growth and gain—
Never wasted—never vain.
Worker by the hot highway,
In the blinding blaze of day—
Delver in the deep, dark mine,
Where no rays of sunlight shine—
Patient, pent-up man-machine,
At the loom and shuttle seen,
Weaving in with nicest art
Throbbings of your own poor heart,
Till the subtle textures seem
With your very life to gleam—
Stitcher by the cradle's side,
Where thy fondest hopes abide,

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Working with a heart of might
All the day, and half the night,
Sometimes till the east grows red
With the dawning, for thy bread,
Though thou art of feeble limb,
And thine eyes are pain'd and dim,
Sending off, with every piece
Which thy weary hands release,
Portions of thy life wrought in
With the garment white and thin—
Hard the task, but work away:
Yet shall dawn the Better Day.

V.

Faith is might, my brothers. Ho!
Weary workers everywhere,
For the New Age, rounding to
Like a planet, now prepare:
Not by revel—not by rust—
Not by scorning yet your crust—
Not by idle dreams of wealth
Won by luck, or got by stealth—
Not by flattering hopes of ease:
Better, braver things than these,
As its first beams on you fall,
Asks the New Age of you all.

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Workers! ye are brothers born—
Treat the title not with scorn.
Workers! born or where or when,
Better, ye are fellow-men:
Workers!—(so 'tis felt at length)—
Ye have got the gift of strength:
Yours the gift of numbers, too,
“Then what?” To yourselves be true!
Work with will, and work away,
Doubting not the Better Day!
Each to each a brother be—
Steadfast in your sympathy;
All to all be fellow-men;
Ye will lack but little then.
“We were made for Labor?” True,
So was labor made for you.
You are Labor's: Labor yours;
This your common weal secures.
Labor has been Money's long;
And in this has been the wrong.
Let it hence be yours, and you
Labor's. Then, with duty due,
And with muscles well combin'd
With your energies of mind,
Workers! ye shall masters be
In the halls of Industry.

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Heart and hope! The night withdrawn,
How the coming morn shall dawn!
Work, my brothers—work away,
Doubting not the Better Day!

VI.

“Heart and hope!” my brothers. Ho!
Sons of sorrow, sons of toil,
Ye shall not forever go
Yoked, as now—another's spoil.
See! the night is nearly pass'd,
And the morning dawns at last.
Far behind, the shadows lie
Dark against the troubled sky;
While, before, the arch is gray
Where the harbinger of day,
Rounding up the azure cope,
Flames the Morning Star of Hope.
—Be not hasty, be not rash,
Though its beams around you flash:
Time his offspring will mature—
Work and wait—the end is sure.
Falter not, but bide your time:
Calm endurance is sublime.
—Weary workers! work away:
God will lead the Better Day!

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All Things Free.

Free as the air, free as the sea,
Let all things come, let all things be:
The air, at every start and pause,
That still confesses natural laws—
The sea, that ever ebbs and flows,
And still the laws of nature knows.

Free as that air's sky-cleaving bird,
Whose songs at Heav'ns blue gates are heard
Ere sunbeams tip earth's loftiest peak,
Let all things move, let all things speak—
For laws divine or human reach,
Or may, and wisely govern each.

Free as the sea's careering ships,
Whose arrowy speed the wind outstrips,
As o'er the broad and boundless deep,
Unaw'd, unchain'd, but helm'd, they sweep,
Let all things be, as all things can—
And first, and chief of all things, MAN.

207

Be Firm!—Be True!

... “As the sun,
Ere it has risen, sometimes paints its image
In the atmosphere, so often do the spirits
Of great events stride on before the events—
And in to-day already walks to-morrow.”
Schiller—“Wallenstein.”

Statesman! on the giddy height
Whence, at will, thou swayest men,
Steals a darkness o'er thy sight?
Moves a cloud within thy ken?
Be firm!—Be true!
And though the hurtling heav'ns grow black,
Unfailing light shall gild thy track.

Orator! amid the crowd
Moved like waves at thy behest,
Hear'st thou that which, shouted loud,
Were a terror to thy breast?

208

Be firm!—Be true!
Then fall what may upon thine ear,
Thy heart shall feel no coward fear.

Christian! of the faith of Rome!
Do you hear a hissing scorn
Rising 'gainst you, in the home
Of your new-adoption born?
Be firm!—Be true!
If God is with you, what care ye
Though hate roar as a raging sea?

Christian! of the faith that laid
Rome's old bondage in the dust!
Fear'st thou that thou art betray'd?
Feel'st thou that this quarrel's just?
Be firm!—Be true!
Fall if it must be in the strife,
But yield not thou one inch for life!

Stranger! from a clime abroad,
From a land beyond the sea,
Deem'st thou in thy heart that God
Gives a home-right here to thee?
Be firm!—Be true!
And though it cost thee all thou hast,
Assert that right while life shall last.

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Freeman! born upon the soil!
Fully, fairly, deemest thou
Alien arts would make a spoil
Of this land of freedom now:
Be firm!—Be true!
Resolve on what will shield from harm,
And do it with no laggard arm!

Man! of every clime and creed!
With a high and holy trust,
Dost thou on thy mission speed,
Seeking but the Right, the Just?
Be firm!—Be true!
Though sorely tried in many a way,
Despair not!—God will bring thy Day.

Nativism: exclusion—Foreign influence: home Catholicism: anti-popery—Papal pretensions: protestant intolerance—Ultra democracy: aristocratic republicanism.

210

Spring Verses.

How with the song of every bird,
And with the scent of every flow'r,
Some recollection dear is stirr'd
Of many a long-departed hour,
Whose course, though shrouded now in night,
Was traced in lines of golden light!

I know not if, when years have cast
Their shadows on life's early dreams,
'T is wise to touch the Hope that's past,
And re-illume its fading beams:
But, though the future hath its star,
That olden Hope is dearer far.

Of all the present, much is bright;
And in the coming years, I see
A brilliant and a cheering light,
Which burns before me constantly,—
Guiding my steps, through haze and gloom,
To where Fame's turrets proudly loom.

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Yet coldly shines it on my brow;
And in my breast it wakes to life
None of the holy feelings now,
With which my boyhood's heart was rife:
It can not touch that secret spring
Which erst made life so bless'd a thing.

Give me—then give me birds and flow'rs,
Which are the voice and breath of Spring!
For those the songs of life's young hours
With thrilling touch recall and sing,—
And these, with their sweet breath, impart
Old tales, whose memory warms the heart.

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To an Early Spring Flower.

First of the fruitful Springtime! welcome thou,
Beautiful pioneer of the Floral World!
As the bright, high-soul'd ones of human kind,
Go forth into the boundless wilderness
Fearless and first; and on the trackless deep,
Adventurous, dare the surge which ne'er before
Has curl'd and crested to the streaming flag;
The while unmindful of their toils severe,
And perils that encompass them: So thou,
Herald of after-coming multitudes,
Darest the chill and blighting storms of March,
And spread'st thy cheerful petals to the eye,
Regardless of the cloud that, stooping low,
Frowns darkly on thee, and with muttered threat
Spreads its thick folds between thee and the sun.

To me, dear art thou, herald flower! No rich,
And gaudy coloring, hast thou: thy leaves
Have not the rainbow-brightness, nor the deep
And dazzling hue of those which throng the earth
In summer, to the hot and burning sun

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Opening their bosoms: But thou hast a tint
More delicate by far; and to the eye
Pleased with the simply beautiful, thou art
More grateful than the gaudily attired.
E'en as the beautiful of human-kind,
Who live not in the blaze of Fashion's sun,
Nor waste their early years at Folly's shrine,
—Where Nature's glorious handiwork is warp'd—
Are by the good of earth respected most,
And pleasantest to the All-seeing Eye.

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Dandelions.

My heart leaps like a child's, when first
I see them on their lowly stem,
As from still wint'ry fields they burst,
Bright as the blue skies over them,
Sprinkling with gold the meadowy green,
Where Spring's approach is earliest seen.

They come in changeful April days,
These children of the cloud and sun,
When light with shadow softly plays,
As both along the ridges run,
Wooing the bee from out his cell,
With tales of flowery slopes they tell.

Bright horologe of seasons—they
Proclaim the floral calends here,
Revealing when in woods away
Spring flowers and singing birds appear,
Through open aisle and mazy bout
To lure the feet of childhood out.

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I love them that so soon they spring
Where slopes the meadow to the brook;
I love them that to earth they bring
So cheerful and so warm a look;
And that again they give to me
The playmates of my infancy.

O! days of love, and trust, and truth;
(The morning sky is strangely bright!)
O! loved companions of my youth;
(How darkly closes in the night!)
Again the fields spread free and far;
Beyond them, still the woodlands are.

I'm with you now, glad-hearted ones!
Where'er beneath the April sky
The flashing rill in music runs,
Or flowery lawns in sunlight lie—
Where harvest apples ripe we see,
And where the summer berries be.

I'm with you where the cardinal bird
Pipes in the budding groves of spring,
And where the thrasher's song is heard
Till all the summer forests ring;
Where nuts in autumn fall, and where
The wild grape hangs, I'm with you there.

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O! days of love, and trust, and truth;
(The flowers were bright upon the lawn!)
O! loved companions of my youth;
(How many, like the flowers, are gone!)
Nor flower nor child goes down in vain:
Ye both shall rise and bloom again.

217

May.

Would that thou couldst last for aye,
Merry, ever-merry May!
Made of sun-gleams, shade and showers,
Bursting buds, and breathing flowers!
Dripping-lock'd, and rosy-vested,
Violet-slipper'd, rainbow-crested;
Girdled with the eglantine,
Festoon'd with the dewy vine:
Merry, ever-merry May,
Would that thou couldst last for aye!

Out beneath thy morning sky!
Dian's bow still hangs on high!
And in the blue depths afar,
Glimmers, here and there, a solitary star.
Diamonds robe the bending grass,
Glist'ning early flowers among—
Monad's world, and fairy's glass,
Bathing fount for wandering sprite—
By mysterious fingers hung
In the lone and quiet night.
Now the freshening breezes pass—

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Gathering, as they steal along,
Rich perfume, and matin song—
And quickly to destruction hurl'd
Is fairy's diamond glass, and monad's dewdrop world.
Lo! yon cloud, which hung but now
Black upon the mountain's brow,
Threatening the green earth with storm—
See! it heaves its giant form,
And, ever changing shape and hue,
But still presenting something new,
Moves slowly up, and spreading rolls away
Toward the rich purple streaks that usher in the day;
Bright'ning, as it onward goes,
Until its very center glows
With the warm, cheering light, the coming sun bestows:
As the passing Christian's soul,
Nearing the celestial goal,
Bright and brighter grows, till God illumes the whole.

Out beneath thy noontide sky!
On a shady slope I lie,
Giving fancy ample play;

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And there 's not more blest than I,
One of Adam's race to-day.
Out beneath thy noontide sky!
Earth, how beautiful!—how clear
Of cloud or mist the atmosphere!
What a glory greets the eye!
What a calm, or quiet stir,
Steals o'er Nature's worshiper—
Silent, yet so eloquent,
That we feel 't is heaven-sent—
Waking thoughts that long have slumber'd
Passion-dimm'd and earth-encumber'd—
Bearing soul and sense away,
To revel in the Perfect Day
That 'waits us, when we shall for aye
Discard this darksome dust—this prison-house of clay!

Out beneath thy evening sky!
Not a breeze that wanders by
But hath swept the green earth's bosom—
Rifling the rich grape-vine blossom,
Dallying with the simplest flower
In mossy nook and rosy bower—
To the perfum'd green-house straying,
And with rich exotics playing—

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Then, unsated, sweeping over
Banks of thyme, and fields of clover!
Out beneath thy evening sky!
Groups of children caper by,
Crown'd with flowers, and rush along
With joyous laugh, and shout, and song.
Flashing eye, and radiant cheek,
Spirits all unsunn'd bespeak.
They are in Life's May-month hours—
And those wild bursts of joy, what are they but
Life's flowers?

Would that thou could'st last for aye,
Merry, ever-merry May!
Made of sun-gleams, shade and showers,
Bursting buds, and breathing flowers;
Dripping-lock'd, and rosy-vested,
Violet-slipper'd, rainbow-crested;
Girdled with the eglantine,
Festoon'd with the dewy vine:
Merry, ever-merry May,
Would that thou couldst last for aye!

221

The Cardinal Bird.

She brought a redbird in a cage
And hung it from my window-sill:—
The redbird then was all the rage,
And may be still.
I know not—I so long have been
Amid the city's dust and din.
But when I was a little child
I greatly loved its wood-notes wild,
Which lured me many a sunny day
Through maple-forests far away.
For years though I had seldom heard
The cardinal bird.

A day and then a week pass'd by:—
The redbird hanging from the sill
Sang not; and all were wondering why
It was so still—
When one bright morning, loud and clear,
Its whistle smote my drowsy ear,
Ten times repeated, till the sound
Fill'd every echoing niche around;

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And all things earliest loved by me,
—The bird, the brook, the flower, the tree,—
Came back again, as thus I heard
The cardinal bird.

Where maple orchards towered aloft,
And spicewood bushes spread below,
Where skies were blue, and winds were soft,
I could but go—
For, opening through a wildering haze,
Appeared my restless childhood's days;
And truant feet and loitering mood
Soon found me in the same old wood,
—(Illusion's hour but seldom brings
So much the very form of things)—
Where first I sought, and saw, and heard
The cardinal bird.

Then came green meadows, broad and bright,
Where dandelions, with wealth untold,
Gleam'd on the young and eager sight
Like stars of gold—
And on the very meadow's edge,
Beneath the ragged blackberry hedge,
'Mid mosses golden, gray and green,
The fresh young butter-cups were seen,

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And small spring-beauties, sent to be
The heralds of Anemone:
All just as when I earliest heard
The cardinal bird.

Upon the gray old forest's rim
I snuff'd the crab-tree's sweet perfume;
And farther, where the light was dim,
I saw the bloom
Of May-apples, beneath the tent
Of umbrel leaves above them bent:
Where oft was shifting light and shade
The blue-eyed ivy wildly stray'd;
And Solomon's-seal, in graceful play,
Swung where the straggling sunlight lay:—
The same as when I earliest heard
The cardinal bird.

And on the slope, above the rill
That wound among the sugar-trees,
I heard them at their labors still,
The murmuring bees:
Bold foragers! that come and go
Without permit from friend or foe:
In the tall tulip-trees o'er head
On pollen greedily they fed;

224

And from low purple phlox, that grew
About my feet, sipp'd honey-dew.
How like the scenes when first I heard
The cardinal bird!

How like!—and yet ... The spell grows weak:—
Ah, but I miss the sunny brow—
The sparkling eye—the ruddy cheek!
Where, where are now
The three who then beside me stood
Like sunbeams in the dusky wood?
Alas! I am alone. Since then,
They 've trod the weary ways of men:—
One on the eve of manhood died;
Two in its flush of pow'r and pride.
Their graves are green, where first we heard
The cardinal bird.

The redbird from the window hung,
Not long my fancies thus beguiled:
Again in maple-groves it sung
Its wood-notes wild;
For, rousing with a tearful eye,
I gave it to the trees and sky.—

225

I miss'd so much those brothers three,
Who walk'd youth's flowery ways with me,
I could not, dared not, but believe
It too had brothers, that would grieve
Till in old haunts again 't was heard,
The cardinal bird.

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A Summer Scene.

The day was well nigh o'er;
The sun, near the horizon, dimly shone;
And the long shadows of the door-yard trees,
Athwart the yard were thrown.
Before our humble door,
Upon the soft, cool grass,
With bosom open to the evening breeze
Which now and then did pass,
Musing, and dreaming of the spirit's birth,
And its relations to this beautiful earth,
I lay alone—
Borne on Imagination's airy pinions,
Far from the world's turmoil, and sordid man's dominions.

Eve came on gently: and her step was seen
Stirring the blossoms on the velvet green,
And warning home the laden bee,
Yet laboring busily.
The while, her soft
And delicate fingers pluck'd the leaves aloft,

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And whirl'd them round and round
In eddies to the ground,
Where I, an humble Pan, with many a wreath was crown'd!

Presently on my ear,
Rang full and deep,
Joyous, and musical, and clear,
A sound, which made my father-heart to leap,
And sent the quick blood to my cheek and brow,
Which with the recollection warm e'en now.
It ceased, that thrilling tone:
And with it passed my bright but dreamy train
Of thought—and I was but a man again,
Earthly, and weak, and lone.
So slight a touch can jar the spirit's springs—
And e'en a word, or tone, or look, clip Fancy's wings.

Once more—Once more, it rang upon my ear—
But blent with other sounds, as clear
And musical as it:
A childish jest—and then a shout,
From one, or two, or three, rang out,
Full, free, and wild—
And then a fit
Of childish laughter rent the dewy air!
And now my eye a glimpse caught of the fair

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And lovely ONE: It was my own dear child!
She and her little friends, hard at their play,
Upon the grassy slope, that softly stretch'd away.

Again—again—
From the descending plain,
Up rise those gleeful notes: but chief that voice
Which first broke on my ear,
And made my heart rejoice,
Ascends, full, strong, and clear—
Approaching nigh and nigher,
As the strain grows high and higher;
Then, like a water-circle, flowing
Away to every point, and growing
Fainter, and fainter, till the last tones die,
Lost, as far-journeying birds fade in the purple sky.

Bonnets were in the air,
And bonnet-ribbands scattered on the ground;
Small shoes and pantalettes lay thick around,
And tiny feet were bare:
And frocks were soil'd, and aprons rent;
But still they kept their frolic-mood,
And laugh'd and romp'd; and when I went
And closer by them stood,

229

How hard each little elf did try
To win the most of my regard;
Now gazing anxious in my eye,
And striving still more hard:
The spirit, so it seem'd to me,
The same in the great world we see,
Spurring the warrior on to victory,
And urging on the bard:
Each had success as much at heart,
As he who plays in war or politics his part.

“My child!—my child!”
She comes to me:
Her cheeks are flush'd, her hair is wild,
Her pulse is bounding free:
With laugh and shout she comes—but see!
Half way she stops, as still as death;
Her look is sad—she hardly draws a breath.
“My child! my own dear child!
Tell me, what aileth thee?”
“Father!”—she pointed to the moon,
On the horizon's shatter'd bound—
'T was rising, full and round.
“Father! I'm coming soon.”
Her other hand now pointed to the West,
Where the dim sun was sinking to his rest.

230

“Father! are those the eyes of God
Looking upon us here?”
Her knee bent slowly to the dewy sod—
And then came tear on tear:
A gush of mingled feeling—wonder, and joy, and fear.

231

The Mountain Paths.

Come to the hills with me!
Come tread the cool and flow'r-gem'd paths, that wind
'Neath many a stately tree—
Trees that for aye have lined
The airy summits of our Western Land:
The stars are fading, and the air is bland.

Come to the hills with me!
The fresh-lipp'd Morn is breathing glorious life:
Don thy calash, and flee
The city's dust and strife;
Leave thy prunelle, and silken hose,—and take
Cotton and calf-skin!—quick, thy toilet make!

Here—take the garden's pride!
Thy cheek, like it, will soon be rosy-fair.
Now for the green hill side,
And the pure upland air!
Death floats in every breeze that fans us here—
Oh, for the cottage of the mountaineer!

232

So—we are winding up;
The fair stars have not all yet left the sky:
There—pluck that honey-cup!
Thy slender hand will vie
With it in whiteness; and—but I forget—
Dark eyes compare not with the violet:

Still, pluck it too; I'll call
Thine bright as any star, in any place.
Nay—let thy bonnet fall
Back from thy radiant face!
Heart's-ease, anemone, shrub, rose-of-May;
—Whither thine eyes now? Ah! the King of Day!

Gloriously comes he there!
Morn on the hills! One hour of life like this,
Pays for whole weeks of care;
Earth scarce hath greater bliss:
Yet “angel visits” are almost as many
As visits to the hills—They turn no penny!

What life is this I feel?
A new sensation thrills through every vein:
And glowing fancies steal
Athwart my wondering brain:
Visions of Eld—hopes—aspirations—fears
That vanish soon—bright dreams of coming years!

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'Neath these old oaks and elms,
The spirit hath a fullness of delight—
A depth of joy, that whelms,
Like the lone, starry night,
Our intellectual being, in a maze,
Where fancy, pleas'd, bewilder'd, startled, plays—

Now floundering in gloom,
Now reveling in glory, as a ray
The darkness doth illume:
Then bursts the perfect day,
And the clear'd vision wanders wide and free
Through the starr'd realms of vast Infinity.

Morn on the hill-tops! Hark!
The low of kine swells up from yon green vale,
With song of meadow-lark,
And merry note of quail;
And the “hip-halloo!” of the wild cow-boy,
Comes, soft and musical, and full of joy.

The breeze is rising now:
The purple clouds sail gracefully along;
The spiral saplings bow,
And swell the choral song;
And from each tree-top, by the free wind stirr'd,
Floats the rich matin of some grateful bird.

234

Man—man alone! of all
To whom this visible glory hath been given,
Deemeth the privilege small
Thus to commune with Heaven:
There is no bank or railroad stock on high—
Stars are not gold—pence rain not from the sky!

235

A Harvest Hymn.

Great God!—our heart-felt thanks to Thee!
We feel thy presence everywhere;
And pray, that we may ever be
Thus objects of thy guardian care.

We sow'd!—by Thee our work was seen,
And bless'd; and instantly went forth
Thy mandate; and in living green
Soon smiled the fair and fruitful earth.

We toil'd!—and Thou didst note our toil;
And gav'st the sunshine and the rain,
Till ripen'd on the teeming soil
The fragrant grass, and golden grain.

And now, we reap!—and oh, our God!
From this, the earth's unbounded floor,
We send our Song of Thanks abroad,
And pray Thee, bless our hoarded store!

236

August.

Dust on thy mantle! dust,
Bright summer, on thy livery of green!
A tarnish, as of rust,
Dims thy late-brilliant sheen:
And thy young glories—leaf, and bud, and flower—
Change cometh over them with every hour.

Thee hath the August sun
Look'd on with hot, and fierce, and brassy face;
And still and lazily run,
Scarce whispering in their pace,
The half-dried rivulets, that lately sent
A shout of gladness up, as on they went.

Flame-like, the long mid-day,
With not so much of sweet air as hath stirr'd
The down upon the spray,
Where rests the panting bird,
Dozing away the hot and tedious noon,
With fitful twitter, sadly out of tune.

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Seeds in the sultry air,
And gossamer web-work on the sleeping trees;
E'en the tall pines, that rear
Their plumes to catch the breeze,
The slightest breeze from the unfreshening west,
Partake the general languor and deep rest.

Happy as man may be,
Stretch'd on his back, in homely bean-vine bower,
While the voluptuous bee
Robs each surrounding flower,
And prattling childhood clambers o'er his breast,
The husbandman enjoys his noonday rest.

Against the hazy sky,
The thin and fleecy clouds unmoving rest:
Beneath them far, yet high
In the dim, distant west,
The vulture, scenting thence its carrion-fare,
Sails, slowly circling in the sunny air.

Soberly, in the shade,
Repose the patient cow, and toil-worn ox;
Or in the shoal stream wade,
Shelter'd by jutting rocks;
The fleecy flock, fly-scourged and restless, rush
Madly from fence to fence, from bush to bush.

238

Tediously pass the hours,
And vegetation wilts, with blister'd root—
And droop the thirsting flowers,
Where the slant sun-beams shoot;
But of each tall old tree, the lengthening line,
Slow-creeping eastward, marks the day's decline.

Faster, along the plain,
Moves now the shade, and on the meadow's edge:
The kine are forth again,
Birds flitter in the hedge.
Now in the molten west sinks the hot sun:
Welcome, mild eve!—the sultry day is done.

Pleasantly comest thou,
Dew of the evening, to the crisp'd-up grass;
And the curl'd corn-blades bow,
As the light breezes pass,
That their parch'd lips may feel thee, and expand,
Thou sweet reviver of the fevered land.

So, to the thirsting soul,
Cometh the dew of the Almighty's love;
And the scathed heart, made whole,
Turneth in joy above,
To where the spirit freely made expand,
And rove, untrammel'd, in that “better land.”

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Happiness—A Picture.

A green vale, and an humble cot
Embowered in vines and spreading trees;
Before the door a verdant plot,
And flowers whose perfume loads the breeze:
Upon the grass, those flowers among,
Glad as the winds that thither stray,
A group of children, fair and young,—
Their cheeks are flush'd with play!

Midway the two small rooms between,
(For only two hath cot like this,)
Spectator of the joyous scene,
And sharer of the heart-felt bliss,
A white-haired grandam;—on her knee
Her knitting lies neglected now;
She fairly strains her eyes to see,—
Her specs pushed to her brow!

A smile upon her withered cheeks,—
On each a glistening tear-drop lies;
Her lips apart—she thoughtless speaks,
And harder strains her filmy eyes.

240

An anguish'd cry!—she quickly sprung,—
The sufferer's head was on her breast;
A bee its tiny foot had stung,
On clover-blossom prest.

241

Autumn Afternoon.

In the clouds my eye makes pictures,
And paints them on the sky,
And I photograph them on my mind
As they go drifting by.

In the air my ear finds music,
And tracks it to the trees,
And I score it on my heart before
It leaves me with the breeze.

On the earth my heart hears voices
From the buried whom I love,
And I lean to listen, but I find
Them echoes from Above.

On the seas my spirit trembles
At the wierd, wild tones it hears,
But it's only waves, I know, that sing
The Anthem of the Years.

From deep valleys, looking upward,
All is calm that I descry,

242

But I know the earth is fill'd with strife
Beneath that quiet sky.

On the mountains, gazing downward,
Of my heav'nward height I'm vain,
Yet I know the earth, seen from above,
Is all one level plain.

And it's always thus:—wherever
I go, whatever do,
Still the False is sure to come with strength,
But stronger comes the True.

And the False comes first in order,
Its face all wreath'd with smiles,
And thus tempts me with its hollowness,
And woos me with its wiles.

But I think me of the temple,
And the pinnacle of old—
Of the False that shrank with terror there,
And the True that there were bold.

And I think of the high mountain,
And the wealth that lay in view—
And the Devil there that still was false,
And the Christ that still was True.

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And I think me of the Angels
In the paths of Space that trod,
And there minister'd, in light and love,
To Him, the Son of God.

And I think of all the Shadows
That, like night, make dim my way,
But pass off, or soon or late, and leave
The certain light of day;

And of all the blessèd angels
That these shades have broken through,
With their constant warnings of the False,
And their whispers of the True.

Then I send a voice to Heaven,
With my thanks for every boon;
And I worry not—but still enjoy
My Autumn Afternoon.

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To a Late Fall Flower.

Rich, golden-hued, and fair!
Beautiful gem 'mid the surrounding blight!
Cheerfully wav'st thou there,
A blessing to the sight:
And lavishly dost thou thy sweets dispense—
A balmy pleasure to the longing sense.

When the fair buds of spring
Have burst, and bloom'd, and faded from the eye,
And the rich blossoming
Of summer hath pass'd by,
Thou com'st, 'mid chilling sleet, and winds that blight,
Gladdening the gloom—a star in Sorrow's night.

Thus, when youth's smooth, and fair,
And rose-leaf tinted cheek hath pass'd away;
And the rich, glossy hair,
Is dim, and thin, and grey;
And Time's fierce storms, and Age's wintry wind,
Have scathed the body, and just spared the mind;

245

Then, 'mid the general gloom,
Bursts forth a light to guide the weary on,
Joyfully, to the tomb,
Where life's long march is done:
Light of the soul! that from its heavenly height
Dispels the darkness of the gathering night.

246

The Wreck at Sea.

The sun was low—a flood of light
Slept on the glittering ocean—
And Night's dark robes were journeying up,
With slow and solemn motion:
And ever-and-anon was heard
The sea-mew's shriek—ill-omened bird!

Down sunk the sun—the gathering mist
Rose proudly up before it,
And streamed upon the lurid air,
A blood-red banner o'er it:
Frowning, and piled up heap on heap,
Dense clouds o'erspread the mighty Deep;
Darker, and pitchy black they grew—
And rolled, and wheeled, and onward flew,
Like marshaling of men.
Then trembled timid souls with fear—
Glistened in beauty's eye the tear—
And “fatherland” was doubly dear—
But brave hearts quailed not then.

247

Soon the rough tar's prophetic eye
Saw many a floating shroud on high,
And many a coffin drifting by—
And on the driving gale
Beheld the spirits of the Deep,
Above—around—in fury sweep—
Then he heard a low, sad wail,
And at times a muttered curse,
As on the fierce and troubled wind,
Rode Death—and, following close behind,
A dark and sombre hearse.
And soon the barque a wreck was driven,
Before the free, wild winds of heaven!
Now shrank with fear each gallant heart—
Bended was many a knee—
And the last prayer was offered up
God of the Deep, to Thee!
Muttered the angry heavens still,
And murmured still the sea—
And old and sterner hearts bowed down,
God of the Deep, to Thee!
And still the wreck was onward driven,
Upon the wide, wild sea—
And Man's proud soul to Fate was given,
Woman's, oh God, to Thee!

248

Gaped wide the Deep—down plunged the wreck—
Up rose a fearful yell—
Death's wings flapped o'er that sinking deck—
A shudder!—all was still.

249

To My Mother.

Thy cheek—it is pale my mother,
And the light of thine eye is dim—
And the gushings of gladness, that used to fill
Thy cup of joy to its brim,
Come like the visits of angels,
So “few and far between,”
That I feel the reed is a feeble one
On which thou hence must lean.

'Tis a bitter thing, my mother,
To look on a parent's decay—
To behold the Spoiler's ravages,
As he tears life's bloom away:
'Tis bitter to look on the furrows
He ploughs in the thoughtful brow—
To weep o'er the gems of intellect
That are rayless, and sheenless now.

But there is a thought, my mother,
That is balm to the stricken heart:

250

—Though the gift of life is a frail one,
And from it we soon must part,
There is a haven of gladness,
For the weary heart a home,
Where the light of joy is never dim,
And sorrows never come.

On that blissful home, my mother,
Thine eye is often bent,
Like a tiny child's on a wished-for-thing—
So longing—so intent.
Oh, how pure in the eye of Heaven
Must the heart of the Christian be—
So entirely fixed on that home above,
From earthliness so free!

251

The Bridal.

He stood before the altar; and a shade
Of darkness for a moment crossed his brow.
And melted into beauty on his lip;
And a slight tremor thrilled him, as the blood
Came boiling to his forehead—and sunk back,
And rushed tumultuous to his burning cheek.
But this was over—and the confidence
Of manhood was upon him; and he stood
Erect, in pride and nobleness, before
The minister of the High God—a man
Hoary and tremulous, and bowed with years.
And she, the loved, the beautiful, stood up
Beside the chosen one; and meekly bent
Her half-closed eyes upon her swelling breast:
And on her temples slept a raven tress,
Shading her beautiful veins, that melted through,
Like amethyst half-hidden in the snow.
And loveliness hung round her, like a soft
And silvery drapery. And pain, and sin,
And sorrow's discipline, on her fair brow
Had no abiding place. The various shades

252

Of sorrow and of gladness, came and went
With almost every pulse, like the uncertain
And silent memory of forgotten dreams.
They stood together—and their hearts were proud,
His of its nobleness, and hers of him!
The holy father offered up a prayer,
That happiness in after time might be
The guerdon of their love—and that the star
Which rose so beautiful and cloudless now,
Might light their years of trial, and go down
Calmly, as it arose—and they were ONE.

Here endeth this fair picture. Time wore on,
And they commingled with the callous world,
And had their day of glory and of gloom,
And slept and were forgotten. Others came,
And filled their places at the social hearth:
They too have passed away. And ever thus
Time silently goes on his ceaseless round,
Unnoticed and unknown; and human kind
Are but the puppets, moved about at will,
And lain within the dreamless sepulcher,
To wait the coming of that far-off day,
When the enfranchised spirit shall awake,
And burst the cerements of the humid grave,
And live, and be immortal!

253

Barley Bree.

In Auld Scotia was thy home,
Barley Bree! Barley Bree!
But thou sawest fit to roam
O'er the sea:—
And thy roving feet have trod
Wheresoe'er the smile of God
Hath lent greenness to the sod
Barley Bree.

Thou hast been a jovial wight,
Barley Bree! Barley Bree!
Ever ready, day or night,
With thy glee;
And as time has sped along,
'Midst thy laugh, and joke, and song,
Thou hast never dream'd of wrong,
Barley Bree.

Thy heart was ever warm,
Barley Bree! Barley Bree!
If sunshine or if storm
Came to thee,

254

And the poor who sought thy door,
Though oft helped by thee before,
Ever freely shared thy store,
Barley Bree!

Thou didst alway love thy drop,
Barley Bree! Barley Bree!
But the pint at which to stop,
Thou did'st see.
Yet the habit grew too strong,
And thou lingeredst too long
O'er the draught and o'er the song,
Barley Bree!

And as time flew round about,
Barley Bree! Barley Bree!
Thine own elbow soon peeped out,
And thy knee;
And thy face grew round and red,
And thy jollity all fled,
And the street was oft thy bed,
Barley Bree!

But an angel help'd thee up,
Barley Bree! Barley Bree!
And for aye the poison-cup
Thou did'st flee;

255

And again thou art erect,
And with mirth thy brow is deck'd,
And thou hast the world's respect,
Barley Bree.

256

The Revelers.

There were sounds of mirth and revelry,
In an old ancestral hall,
And many a merry laugh rang out,
And many a merry call;
And the glass was freely pass'd around,
And the red wine freely quaff'd;
And many a heart beat high with glee,
And the joy of the thrilling draught—
In that broad and huge ancestral hall,
Of the times that were, of old.

A voice arose, as the lights grew dim,
And a glass was flourished high:
“I drink to Life!” said a Reveler bold,
“And I do not fear to die.
I have no fear—I have no fear—
Talk not of the vagrant, Death;
For he's but a grim old gentleman,
And wars but with his breath.”
A boast well worthy a revel-rout
Of the times that were, of old.

257

“We drink,” said all, “We drink to Life
And we do not fear to die!”
Just then a rushing sound was heard,
As of quick wings sweeping by;
And soon the old latch was lifted up,
And the door flew open wide,
And a stranger strode within the hall,
With an air of martial pride:
In visor and cloak, like a secret knight
Of the times that were, of old.

He spoke: “I join in your revelry,
Bold sons of the Bacchan rite,
And I drink the toast ye have filled to drink,
The pledge of yon dauntless knight:
Fill high—fill higher—we drink to Life,
And we scorn the vagrant, Death,
For he's but a grim old gentleman,
And wars but with his breath.”
A pledge well worthy a revel-rout
Of the times that were, of old.

“He's a noble soul, that champion knight,
And he wears a martial brow:
Oh, he'll pass the gates of Paradise,
To the regions of bliss below!”

258

The Reveler stood in deep amaze—
Now flashed his fiery eye;
He muttered a curse—then shouted loud,
“Intruder, thou shalt die!”
And his sword leap'd out, like a baron's brave,
Of the times that were, of old.

He struck—and the stranger's guise fell off,
When a phantom before him stood,
A grinning, and ghastly, and horrible thing,
That curdled his boiling blood.
He stirred not again, till the stranger blew
A blast of his withering breath;
Then the Reveler fell at the Phantom's feet,
And his conqueror was—Death!
In that broad and high ancestral hall,
Of the times that were, of old.

259

The Invalid.

She came in Spring, when leaves were green,
And birds sang blithe in bower and tree,
A stranger, but her gentle mien
It was a calm delight to see.
In every motion, grace was hers;
On every feature, sweetness dwelt;
Thoughts soon became her worshipers—
Affections soon before her knelt.

She bloom'd through all the summer days
As sweetly as the fairest flowers,
And till October's softening haze
Came with its still and dreamy hours.
So calm the current of her life,
So lovely and serene its flow,
We hardly mark'd the deadly strife
Disease forever kept below.

But Autumn winds grew wild and chill,
And pierced her with their icy breath;
And when the snow on plain and hill
Lay white, she passed, and slept in death.

260

Tones only of immortal birth
Our memory of her voice can stir;
With things too beautiful for earth
Alone do we remember her.

She came in Spring, when leaves were green,
And birds sang blithe in bower and tree,
And flowers sprang up and bloomed between
Low branches and the quickening lea.
The greenness of the leaf is gone,
The beauty of the flower is riven,
The birds to other climes have flown,
And there's an angel more in Heaven.

261

A Wonderful Story.

I.

Last night, in the deep mid watches,
As I sat alone in my room,
A Form stood suddenly by me,
That at first seem'd part of the gloom,—
But anon, by the few, faint embers,
Distinct all its outlines grew,
And I saw that the gloom of my chamber,
And the gloom of the Form, were two.

II.

Ere long the defined proportions
Of a gray old man stood there,
Looking out from his beard of silver,
And his thin, white, flowing hair.
His face, in its whole expression,
Was beautiful and benign,
As he leant his staff in the corner,
And took a seat by mine.

III.

Then the gloom in my chamber vanish'd;
And the light,—it so did seem,—

262

Came out from his shadowy vestments,
In many a flash and stream.
And soon, through the thin, pale ashes,
Appear'd a tortuous flame;
And the characters which it pictured,
Were the letters of a name.

IV.

And that name was simply—Wisdom:
But why or whence it came,
I learnt not from the ashes—
I learnt not from the flame.
But the old man entertain'd me
With a story that was new;
And in its clear unwindings
Perhaps may lie the clew:—

263

VI.

I know no more about it,
Than what I hear unfold:
Thus the Greybeard sought my chamber—
This the story that he told;
But I've often thought, Isola,
If the tales told you and me
Were more of them like this one,
How much better it would be.

264

Thirty-Five.

The keystone of the arch of Life, is now
Beneath me. Thoughtfully I hence survey
What is to be, and what has been, and bow
My head in deep humility, and lay
My pride in dust, that with my willing mind,
And with my vigorous arm, and with my heart
As strong, I've done so little for my kind,
And less for God ... Here Life's two eras part:
The past, MY past, I count but little worth:
I've fell'd the forest, broken up the earth,
And gathered here a seed, and there a root,
Of flower, and grain, and berry-bearing shoot;
But all was purpose—preparation—plan—
The small beginnings of Life's little span.
The FUTURE of my being is for toil:—
To plant the gathered germs, and till the soil,
And, without indolence or weak surcease,
Watch the quick growth, and help the large increase;
Then, as Life's circling seasons onward move,
To heap the bounteous summer's golden grain,
And autumn's fruitage, on the lumbering wain.
Grant me, Thou Mighty One who sitt'st above,
To sow the seeds of Truth, and reap the fruits of Love.

University of Virginia Library

V. Miscellaneous Poems.

Proem.

The West.

I.

II.

III.

IV.

V.

A Hymn of the Day that is Dawning.

Truth and Freedom.

Conservatism.

The Laborer.

Radicálos.

The Artisan.

The New Age.

RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED TO THE REPRESENTATIVES OF THE INDUSTRIES OF THE UNITED STATES.

JUBILATE.

I.

II.

III.

IV.

V.

VI.

All Things Free.

Be Firm!—Be True!

Spring Verses.

To an Early Spring Flower.

Dandelions.

May.

The Cardinal Bird.

A Summer Scene.

The Mountain Paths.

A Harvest Hymn.

August.

Happiness—A Picture.

Autumn Afternoon.

To a Late Fall Flower.

The Wreck at Sea.

To My Mother.

The Bridal.

Barley Bree.

The Revelers.

The Invalid.

A Wonderful Story.

I.

II.

III.

IV.

VI.

Thirty-Five.

V.
Miscellaneous Poems.