Later Lays and Lyrics :: :: University of Virginia Library

There, like the singing Lark of Ayr,
The plow great master spirits held,
Drank rapture from the scenery fair,
And founts that at their feet outwelled.

XXI.

There Maro wooed, enwreathed with bays,
The Rural Muse with art divine,
And Flaccus warbled lyric lays
Rich as his own Falernian wine.

XXII.

There Cincinnatus threw aside
His rustic garb, and drew the blade
When rolled the Volscian battle tide,
And Conscript Fathers sat dismayed;

XXIII.

And then in his triumphal hour,
When the good fight was fought and won,
Resigned was dictatorial power
By Glory's memorable son.

XXIV.

The Guardian of a rescued land
Found quiet on Mount Vernon's farm
When sheathed his conquering battle-brand,
And hushed the drum-beat of alarm.

XXV.

Alas! that fratricidal blood
Pollutes the land that holds his bones,
While, sitting by Potomac's flood,
The Genius of Columbia moans!

XXVI.

With Labor's moisture on the brow
Kings turned the globe, once Israel's own,
And on Elijah, at the plow,
The mantle of the Seer was thrown.

XXVII.

What story of the Golden Age,
In tenderness, descriptive truth,
Compares with that inspired page
That tells us of the gleaner—Ruth?

XXVIII.

And imagery that most delights,
The Past unfolding to our view,
The Royal Bard from rural sights,
And pastoral scenes of beauty drew.

XXIX.

“The cattle on a thousand hills”
In Palestine we see again;
Chime with his verse the singing rills,
“The early, and the latter rain.”

XXX.

Theme for his minstrelsy divine
Were brooks through fertile field that ran
“The bread that strengthens, and the wine
That maketh glad the heart of man.”

XXXI.

In cities where the mildewed den
Of Want yawns near the halls of Pride
Are cradeled not illustrious men
To duty true, in danger tried.

XXXII.

In haunts remote from scenes like these
Are nobler spirits nursed, that tower
Like pines above the smaller trees,
Unwarped by creed, unspoiled by power.

XXXIII.

Far from the tumult of the town
Loved mighty Webster to retire,
And seek, forgetful of renown,
Fields where he labored with his sire:

XXXIV.

Or, freed from care, he loved to dwell
At Marshfield, by the sounding main,
Where low of kine and pastoral bell
Disposed to calm his troubled brain.

XXXV.

And Clay, in country costume drest,
Sick of Corruption's wild misrule,
On his plantation in the West,
Felt like an urchin loosed from school:

XXXVI.

And Wright, stern Cato of the State,
Whose honored grave is holy ground,
Towered in the Hall of high debate,
With face and hands by toil embrowned.

XXXVII.

Well were these famous men aware
That impulse Agriculture gave,
To human progress everywhere,
On solid land and rolling wave.

XXXVIII.

The bellows would no longer blow,
The hammer clash, the anvil ring,
If Culture should forget to sow,
And reap the promise of the spring.

XXXIX.

Invention baffled would despond,
Cease progress in Mechanic Art,
And Genius drop the wizard wand
That governs thought, controls the heart.

XL.

Ships would lie rotting in the bay,
In thoroughfares the grass upgrow,
And, lords of mansions in decay,
Reign Famine, Pestilence and Woe.

XLI.

What spectacle more dread is found
From Polar regions to the Line,
Than minds inactive and unsound,
In frames of premature decline.

XLII.

Mother of Learning—Labor Free!
If ripens into fruit the flower,
Such ruins here he will not see,
But grandest types of human power:—

XLIII.

And, here, proud nursery of men!
While rivers flow and mountains stand,
May issues of the tongue and pen
Keep pace with issues of the hand.

A DREAM OF THE SEA.

I.

Stella! while sleeping, I beheld the sea,
Raging and heaving with convulsive throes,
Unveil its depths and mysteries to me:—
The rock of coral like a peak arose,
Whose summit in the purple twilight glows:—
So startling were the echoes of the caves,
Within each vein the ruddy current froze—
The fearful conflict of the winds and waves
Methought awoke the dead in their forgotten graves.

II.

The firmament was darkened like a pall,
And wore a look of terrible despair;
The nymph of ocean left her sparry hall,
And wildly shook her green, unbraided hair.
Unearthly music floated on the air
In pauses of the storm, a dirge-like sound!
The blue shark glided from his watery lair,
Gorged with a meal upon the ghastly drowned,
And pathway by his side the fearful sword-fish found.

III.

Mine eye beheld forgotten works of Art,
And heaps of gleaming perils and yellow ore;
The costly exports of the busy mart,
And wealth untold bestrewed old Ocean's floor:
Where were the barks that all these treasures bore?
Around they lay bereft of mast and sail,
To ride the deep in majesty no more—
Defiance bidding to the angry gale,
While timid stand the brave, the manly cheeks grow pale.

IV.

The fierce and huge leviathan, methought,
Affrighted by the elemental war,
With flashing fin the upper waters sought;
To light the scene shot forth no twinkling star,
Nor did the bright sun in his flaming car
On the roused deep his burning glances throw:
Black thunder clouds growled loudly, and the glare
Of red winged lightning to the crumbling snow
That capt the surges gave intolerable glow.

V.

Beneath the tide were visible far down
The fallen thrones and palaces of old;
Symbol of buried power, and ancient crown
A skull encircled with its tarnished gold:
The wave-washed relics of the wise and bold
In many a hollow cavern lay unwept,
And darkly hid within the tarry fold
The hapless maid and youthful lover slept,
While over them the sea like some proud victor swept.

VI.

Spars, riven timbers, and the broken mast
The tide retreating left upon the strand;
Then at my feet inrolling waters cast
My wife—the sea weed in her rigid hand:
Methought her grave I dug within the sand,
Shrouding the precious relics in my cloak,
But when to view were lost those features bland,
In mournful tone the passing spirit spoke—
“Farewell for evermore!”—I trembled and awoke.

New York, 1855.

THE TWO GATES.

Open in the this world of sin,
Are two gates to enter in;
Scenes unknown to mortal view,
Greet the pilgrim passing through.

One, the ivory gate of dreams,
Glows with rich, Elysian gleams;
But more lustrous to behold,
Is the other gate of gold.
When the honey-dew of rest,
Falls upon the troubled breast,
Through the former, open wide,
Oh! how sweet in soul to glide!
O'er its threshold, as we pass,
Seen, as in Agrippa's glass,
Are the dead of long-ago
Moving in procession slow.
Clearly are their forms defined
Round us are their arms entwined,
And the heart, long, sad rejoices,
Hearing old, familiar voices.
Wandering, there, the soul explores
Picturesque, enchanted shores;
Halls of fantasy where reign
Kings, discrowned on earth, again.
Dried would be a fount of bliss,
I'll be borne a world like this,
Should the pilgrim seek in vain
Entrance through that gate to gain,
Brighter than sun, moon or star,
Stands the golden gate ajar;
Through it, to the Angel-Land,
Love and faith walk hand in hand.
Fount of its effulgent blaze,
Is the “Ancient One of Days!”
And a host of minstrels crowned,
Flood celestial air with sound.

Those who enter in, no more
Sorrow on Time's crumbling shore—
Lost to us although we yearn,
Months and years, for their return.
Thither go, when done with life,
Mother fond, and faithful wife;
Children laid in earth with tears,
Martyred saints and holy seers.
War, in that unclouded realm,
Never dons his brazen helm;
Evil, there erects no throne—
Sorrow is a name unknown.
Would ye seek the blossoms lost,
In this land of killing frost,
For the pilgrimage prepare,
Morn and eve with contrite prayer.
To the clime of Endless Morn,
Hope not, man or woman born,
Passage, with corrupted mind,
Through the Golden Gate to find.

SPIRIT INTERVIEWS.

I.

Fair as a lunar bow that queenly night,
When loveliest around her starry brow
Twines, while the fairies dance in their delight,
Art thou, art thou.

II.

Remote a sweet, enchanted region lies
From this discordant world where mortals pine,
And my glad spirit thither nightly flies
To meet with thine.

III.

A magic stairway to a turret leads,
Where we look forth on Beauty's chosen home;
Green lawns and lakelets edged with golden reeds,
And amber foam.

IV.

From a rich oriel window we command
A view more fair than ever gladdened seer,
And brighter far than Beulah's lovely land
To Christian dear.

V.

Crowned with resplendent battlements and towers,
We see the hills of endless summer rise;
From base to summit carpeted with flowers
Of Iris dyes.

VI.

In pauses of our colloquy, unheard
By mortal ear, awake melodious bands,
As if the harps of Paradise were stirred
By countless hands.

VII.

In that weird realm two souls that throb as one
Need not bethrothal ring, nor nuptial rite,
Their bridal robes by airy beings spun
Of bloom and light.

VIII.

How dim the Greek's Elysium, with its bowers,
Contrasted with love's Eden where I stroll,
With Caledonian Mary gathering flowers
Soul knit to soul!

MARCH VIEW FROM HILLSIDE.

The air is chill—the lake lies spread
Paler than shroud that wraps the dead;
Save its mid-current, blue as steel,
While spray drops whiten, and congeal.
Oh! how unlike its summer dress,
A sheet of azure loveliness,
In which the swallow dips his wings,
And breaks its breast, in rippling rings,
When the scared water-fowl upsprings!
The trees along its frozen shore
Wear not the look in June they wore,
Flinging deep shade the greensward o'er,
With leaf harps trembling when the breeze
To music woke their emerald keys.

Conesus! in my younger days
I looked on gently sloping farms,
Rich frame-work for thy silvery charms,
With fixed, enamored gaze;

Sails gleaming on thy crystal sheet,
Glanced on the sight, and disappeared,
As if by airy phantoms steered,
And Nature woke no sound more sweet
Than the low, lulling measured beat
Of foam-flaked, undulating swells
On glittering sands inlaid with shells.

Old legends cling to lake and shore,
But they inspire my lay no more,
Though, in my younger, happier years,
While sighed the wind among the pines,
And old oaks with their clinging vines
I heard, methought, the talk of seers,
And sachems, near the “Haunted Spring,”
To listeners in the council ring;
Or when wan moonlight flecked the waters
Would spirit barks, to fancy's eye
Filled with the greenwood's dusky daughters,
Float without oar or paddle by.

How changed the scene! a clouded arch
Borrows no lustre from the morn,
While that wild trumpeter, young March
Is blowing on his battle-horn.
Less dread was Winter's iron reign,
And bleak and bare lie ridge and plain,
While Hillside Farm is sad to-day
Beneath a sky of leaden gray,
For nevermore will walk as lord,
My friend upon its meadow sward,
And look upon a landscape round

In mellow Autumn unexcelled,
And dreamy, like enchanted ground,
In Summer time beheld:
But mid these scenes, renowned in song,
His memory will be cherished long;
For here his rural home he made,
The landscape by his presence graced,
And leaves behind to view displayed,
In wintry gloom, or summer shade,
Marks of his elegance and taste.

Hillside, March 6, 1866.

HALLOWEEN.

I.

I had a vision:—in my dream
I looked on Doon's enchanted stream,
The moonlight glinted forth its beam
On hill, and cairn.
And one I saw who reigns supreme
Apollo's bairn.

II.

The bard, renowned in distant climes,
Sighed for the sports of other times
When bells rang out their merry chimes,
And lads were seen
With lassies singing quaint old rhymes
At Halloween.

III.

“These customs of an elder day,”
He said, “should never pass away,
Till flowers should wreath the pole in May,
And on the green
Nymphs from the Doon, and Ayr and Tay
Should choose their Queen.

IV.

“Hearts, leal and warm, old manners hail!
Braw lads in Caledon will fail
When, as the evening shades prevail,
No more are seen
Blythe lassie pulling plants of kail
At Halloween.

V.

“With them in soul, on sic a night,
Your minstrel, Burns, still takes delight,
And though unseen by mortal light,
His spirit glance
Sees on the lawn, with moonshine bright,
The fairies dance.

VI.

“At ingle-neuks on every farm
Let witch and warlock wake alarm,
The burning nuts still work a charm
At Halloween,
So loved when arm I locked in arm
With Bonny Jean.

VII.

“By, on the wind while spirits pass,
Rustling the leaves and withered grass,
Still let the pale and trembling lass
Her apple eat,
And in the haunted looking glass
A husband greet.

VIII.

“Indeed will Scottish hearts be cold,
Her glory like a tale that's told
When ancient rites and customs old
Are loved no more,
And only worshippers of gold
Crowd Albyn's shore.”

IX.

Deep silence fell upon the place,
The poet's noble form and face,
Fled in my dream and left no trace,
Like vanished smoke;
I heard Doon's waves each other chase,
And I awoke.

McPherson Lodge, Oct. 31, 1865.

THE MARKHAM ELM.

I.

Like an old warrior with his helm,
Decked grandly with a crest of green,
A thousand years has stood yon Elm,
Chief glory of the scene!

II.

What tales, if its old trunk could talk,
Would fall upon the listening ear,
Of the wild wolf upon his walk,
The red-man with his spear.

III.

It towered the giant of the wood,
In a rich robe of emerald drest,
When launched upon the ocean flood,
Columbus sought the west.

IV.

It braved old winter's rudest shock
When the storm-fiends their trumpets blew,
When on stern Plymouth's hallowed rock
Landed the May-Flower's crew.

V.

It was the forest's pride, when came
The Norsemen, borne grey ocean o'er,
And the Round Tower, long known to fame,
Built on New England's shore,

VI.

Behemoth, in its mighty shade,
Has grazed, perchance, and couched him down;
His nest, the forest Eagle made,
Within its royal crown.

VII.

Beneath its old protecting boughs,
Perchance have Indian lovers met
To hold sweet tryst, and pledge their vows
To maids with locks of jet.

VIII.

Its branches have the Panther screened,
Rough with the hues, and moss of age;
Chiefs round its Titan trunk convened,
Have met in council sage.

IX.

It stands alone;—the river near
Breaks, with sad whisper on the shore,
As if its waters longed to hear
The Indian's voice once more.

X.

Like an old tribeless sachem now,
It stands dejected and alone,
And the wind, lifting up its bough,
Gives out a mournful moan.

XI.

Within its hollow trunk are seen
The smoky, blackened marks of fire,
Though in its top of loving green
The wind still tunes its lyre.

XII.

And worse than Vandal, thou, who marred
Its bark with villainy malign;—
The Malediction of the Bard
Forevermore be thine!

This noble tree, stands on Markham Flats, near the dividing line between Avon and Rush. It is forty feet in circumference, and before it was shorn, by time, of its old protecting boughs, it shadowed an acre of ground. It was celebrated in Indian tradition, and under its capacious canopy Chief, Sage, and Warrior, met in the old time. Some wretch, who little regards what is venerable and historic, kindled a fire in its hollow boll. May the curse of the poet, and the malediction of God, rest on him forevermore!

NOOK OF BEAUTY.

Suggested by a New Hampshire view from the gifted pencil of W. H. Hilliard.

I.

Here is a lovely scene,
A nook of summer beauty 'mid the hills,
Tuneful with wind-swept pines, and silver rills,
While, clothed in living green,
Are pastures where the lowing cattle graze,
And distance mellowed to a purple haze.

II.

Kine quaffing from the stream
Stand with their shadows on the water flung;
A brighter summer dream
Was never sketched by Art, by poet sung;
One, who thus dips his brush in Nature's hues,
Commands the homage of the Poet's muse.

III.

Young Artist! study well
The matchless scenery of my native vale,
Its cataracts that thunder on the gale,
Lawn, breezy hill, and dell;
Go where the Genesee to run his course
Leaps pure, and mountain born, with youthful force.

Lines Suggested by a Tableau Vivant, representing NAPOLEON CROSSING MOUNT ST. BERNARD.

I thought that Death had swallowed in his gulf
“The mightest genius of five thousand years;”
But there he sits upon his rearing steed,
Tall Alpine peaks before him, and behind,
His weary cohorts struggling through the snow,
And dragging up the steep dismounted guns,
Lashed firmly in rude troughs of hollowed pine.
They falter in their task-work, but the drums
Beat hurriedly the charge, and fainting forms
Change into figures of resistless power,
And fierce eyes flash, as if the foe were near.
It cannot be illusion, or the work
Of wondrous sorcery; for, lo! the flag
The tri-color that flapped its glorious folds
In conquered capitals—is streaming forth
Its gorgeous splendor to the freezing blast.

Power to conceive, and will to execute,
On the great captain's face, are deeply stamped;
And in his glance there is a gleam of joy,
As if he scorned the vale, the level plain,
And loved the home of eagles and of storms.

Henceforth I will believe the legends strange
Of wizard Merlin and Agrippa told;
For Art a triumph has achieved to-night,
That throws in shade their most potential charms—
Snatched from the gloomy Past his iron keys,
And wove a spell that back to mortal gaze,
Summons the man of destiny once more;
Regardless of the threatening avalanche,
By thundering torrent and the mountain gorge,
Forcing a passage to Marengo's field.

BATTLE OF TEMPERANCE.

I.

There's a mustering of forces
From the mountain and the glen—
Men are arming for the struggle,
Not apologies for men.
Dry bones are to life awaking,
And prophetic eyes behold
Wonders to the “Vale of Vision,”
Like those grandly seen of old.

II.

Long the tribes of men have languished
Under a destroying curse;
Sore were plagues that fell on Egypt,
But Intemperance is worse.
In its gallery of portraits,
Lighted by the fires of Hell,
Flame out faces of the fallen,
Painted fearfully and well.

III.

Lo! the heads of mighty genius
In dark frames arrest the gaze!
Round each broad, Byronic forehead
Serpents intertwined with bays.
Features of one, greatly gifted,
There the startled eye discerns;
Scotland's own immortal singer,
Early marked for ruin—Burns!

IV.

Artists of divine conception
That the pencil dropped at noon—
Poets, in their wild delirium,
Waking harp-strings out of tune;
And a face of kingly splendor,
With unutterable woe
Stamped on all its lines of beauty,
Whispers to the gazer—Poe!

V.

Sovereigns robed in royal purple
In that gallery are seen—

Loathsome marks of dissipation
Blotting out majestic mien.
Alexander, crushing nations
Underneath his iron heel,
Outlined with the blood of Clytus
Clinging to his ruthless steel:

VI.

And the mighty king, Belshazzar!
Drunken in his festal hall,
While a pencil, tipped with lightning,
Writes his doom upon the wall:
And the “scourge of God” who perished
When a thousand fields were won,
Overthrown by wine, the mocker,
Attila, the royal Hun.

VII.

In that gallery of horror
Darker sights the vision pain,
Truth's apostles by the Demon
Of destroying habit slain:
Priests, ordained of God, that yielded
When “the still small voice” was dumb,
An inheritance in heaven
Madly bartering for rum.

VIII.

Count the raindrops that are swallowed
By the vast, engulphing main,
Not the victims by this agent
Of the Powers of Darkness slain.

Pestilence that walks at midnight,
War that reddens land and sea,
Monster! born of distillation,
Are but dwarfs compared to thee.

IX.

By no lines the realm is bounded
O'er which Alcohol, the king,
Holds his reign of death and terror
While the birds of hope take wing.
Based on God-like mind in ruin,
On Love's bleeding, broken heart,
Is his throne, from which the Furies
On their fearful mission start.

X.

Who asks where his court is holden?
With his satraps, Death, Despair,
In the churchyard and the dungeon,
On the scaffold—find it there!
Find it where poor widowed mourners
For their starving orphans wail,
And a host of homeless vagrants
Crowd the poor-house and the jail.

XI.

Where the druggist sells his bitters,
Though it works the people ill,
And beneath a lying label
Hides the serpent of the still:
Where ten thousand homes, once happy,
By the sheriff have been sold,
Bought by venders of the poison,
Blood on their ill-gotten gold.

XII.

Live we in a land of Freedom,
While a countless host of slaves,
Bone and sinew of the country,
Stagger to dishonored graves?
While the Senate is polluted
By inebriates void of shame,
Faithless to high trusts confided,
Blots upon the Nation's fame?

XIII.

Band, my brothers! for the conflict,
Though it prove a weary strife,
And, beneath our Temple's banner,
In God's name enlist for life.
Let the torrent of Destruction
Be arrested in its flow,
Bearing to a gulf of darkness
Rich and poor, the high and low.

WINTEMOYEH.

I.

Wintemoyeh! Wintemoyeh!
Fairest of the forest daughters!
Still thy voice of lamentation
Rises from the silver waters.
Well I love yon lake of beauty
Cradled amid mountains green,
For a sad, and olden legend,
Links thy memory to the scene.

II.

Wintemoyeh! Wintemoyeh!
Dark and dreary was the day
When the bravest of my tribesmen
Fell in battle far away.
By the crafty Sioux surrounded
On the prairies of the West,
Long they waged unequal conflict,
Foot to foot, and breast to breast.

III.

Washed away are stains of battle
By the rains of long ago,
And tall grasses, rankly growing,
Hide old bones that bleach below.
There unburied lies thy lover,
In his strength and pride cut down—
Vain his love for Wintemoyeh,
Vain his longings for renown.

IV.

When a runner of her people
Brought the fearful tidings back
To her wild, distempered vision,
As the midnight morn grew black.
To a rocky platform jutting
From the wooded mountain side,
When the summer day was dying
Crazed, young Wintemoyeh hied.

V.

Far below, with softened murmur,
Curled the billows up the beach,

And the silence oft was broken
By the lone owl's boding screech;
But she cared not for the hooting
Of dull night's ill-omened bird,
While her black, dishevelled tresses
By the evening wind was stirred.

VI.

From her breast the silver broaches
Rudely with her hand she tore—
From her soft arms pulled the bracelets,
For their brightness charmed no more,
Then with wailing cadence floated
Her sad death-song on the air,
And the music was in keeping
With her look of wild despair.

VII.

Followed fast her friends to save her,
But she heeded not their cries;
Looked her last upon the mountains,
And the purple sunset skies;
Madly calling on her lover,
Then she took the desperate leap,
And the Swan Lake gave her burial
In its hollows dark and deep.

VIII.

Wintemoyeh! Wintemoyeh!
Fairest of the forest daughters!
Still thy voice of lamentation
Rises from the silver waters;

And the hunter, home-returning
At the hush of twilight gray,
Sees a phantom, in the distance,
On the billows melt away.

JUNE DYING.

I.

In crimson flakes on the garden mould,
Are the fallen rose-leaves lying,
And the mystic wind, that harper old,
Through my ravaged bower is sighing
A low, sad tune,
For beautiful June
Is dying.

II.

The whistle clear of the mother quail
To the mead lark is replying,
And airy tongues in wood and dale,
Sweet, many-voiced are crying
“Too soon, too soon
Our beautiful June
Is dying.”

III.

With saddened note o'er the faded lawn
The barn-swallow low is flying;
A youthful bloom from the land is gone,
For the “Strawberry Moon” is dying,
And the crickets croon
That beautiful June
Is dying.

IV.

Dry summer dust that veils its green,
Through the village park is flying,
And cloudy forms on the wing are seen
To Beauty's death-bed hieing,
For that peerless boon
Of our Maker, June,
Is dying.

FLORAL GIFTS.

I.

Thanks, lady! for these beauteous flowers
Bright with the diamonds of the showers:
The deep, clear blue of summer skies
Mingles its tints with other dyes:
The first, faint blush of waking day
Gives to the pink its rich array,
And honey-suckle cups unfold
Inlaid with sunset's richest gold.

II.

But why the storied poppy bring
To crown this floral offering?
Old poets in the lap of Dis
Have flung a strange weird flower like this;
Called it the Rose of Proserpine
Filled with a dread, Plutonian wine:
Its scent disposes one to rest
On the green turf, our mother's breast.

III.

Of all that grace the bright bouquet
The poppy I will choose to-day;
No flower, that memory wakes, for me!
While my heart pulses like a sea
On which lorn wrecks are drifting past,
No ground for Hope to anchor fast:
The wondrous plant from which distils
Forgetfulness can cure all ills.

IV.

I would forget that friends grow cold,
That Beauty groweth dim and old;
I would forget that woman's faith
Is frail, and never kept till death;
That one long loved hath proven false,
A butterfly to flirt and waltz;
Inconstant as the treacherous sand
When wooing billows kiss the strand.

V.

Then, lady! thanks in this dark hour,
For hushed oblivion's chosen flower;

It drowsy influence will cure
Sharp agonies I ill endure;
Better than joy's blue myrtle crown,
Better than laurel of renown
When one is tired of life and light
Is the dark poppy, born of night;
God's words are on each leaf imprest
“He giveth his beloved rest.”

SUMMER RAIN.

I.

What sound so sweet,
After a day of fiery heat,
And sunstrokes in the dusty street,
As the pleasant voice of the singing rain
Dashing against the window pane.

II.

The queenly rose,
And vassal flowers their eyes unclose,
While God his benison bestows;
And the sick man dreams of health again
Cheered by the dance of the dropping rain.

III.

The bubbles break,
While showers descend on the breezy lake,
And the water nymphs from slumber wake.
Homeward driving his harvest wain
The farmer curses the cooling rain!

IV.

The plague fiend stops
In his dread career to hear the drops;
Then, farmer! why mourn o'er your crops?
True faith sublime ne'er leaned in vain
On the Power that sends us the healing rain.

V.

It bringeth cure
To the blistered feet of the starving poor,
And their hearts are strengthened to endure;
While wo, in love with life again,
His hot brow bares to the welcome rain.

VI.

Of murmuring shells,
And the silvery chime of fairy bells,
Were never born such music spells,
To cheer the visionary brain
Of listening bard as the summer rain.

VII.

Earth looks more fair
When drops that banish the sun's hot glare
Fall from the cisterns of upper air;
And her breast is cleansed of many a stain
By the gentle bath of the summer rain.

VIII.

It caught its chime,
Not in this fading realm of time,
But above, above in a holier clime;
And I ever hear an angel's strain
Blend with the dash of the summer rain.

SEPTEMBER IDYL.

“The sultry summer past, September comes—
Soft twilight of the slow declining year.”—
[Carlos Wilcox.]

I.

Light gossamer by fairies spun,
And thistle stars are changed to gold,
Where rich autumnal bursts of sun
Light up the forests old:
In my lost youth these ancient oaks
Gave shelter with their emerald cloaks,
And friends they seem, by years unchanged,
Though others have been long estranged.

II.

Here watch in boyhood's day I kept,
My game-bag filled with feathered spoil,
And phantoms rise, that long have slept,
From legendary soil.

Lo! tameless hunters of the deer,
Bearing their antlered prey, draw near—
Tall shapes of Apollonian grace,
With Freedom written on each face.

III.

By Uhland seen were spirits twain,
That with him crossed the haunted waves,
And back the long deplored again
Come from forgotten graves.
Disturbing not the slumbering ferns,
My first love, and my last, returns,
Her dark eye flashing with the light
Of day-break through its depths of night.

IV.

Gay butterflies, in saffron clad,
On places moist with rain alight,
Though carpeted with vesture sad
Are glades with bloom once bright.
White frost that made the herbage sere
Has purified our atmosphere,
And o'er the breezy world is thrown
A charm to summer-time unknown.

V.

While other birds, too sad for song,
In longer flight their pinions try,
The migratory black-birds throng
And pipe a blithe good-bye!
Wild fife-notes, tremulous and shrill,
Prove that the mead-lark lingers still,
And guardian of her brood from foes,
The quail a signal-whistle blows.

VI.

Some prowling fox must be astir,
For flushed in hazel coppice near
The ruffed-grouse, with tumultuous whirr,
Speeds by on wing of fear.
Sure of a flying mark no more,
Though deadly was mine aim of yore,
The creature now is far away,
And cover close will keep to-day.

VII.

The hen-hawk with a hungry scream
Mounts up in widening rings of flight,
Edged its broad pinions with a gleam
Of mellowed amber light.
From floral cups and bells the bee
Bears nectar to the hollow tree,
While the shrill locust wakes a lay
That tells of summer passed away.

VIII.

This nook of loveliness I sought
In many sylvan tramp of yore—
The happy heart that then I brought
Beats in this breast no more.
While ambushed, where the woods set bounds
To yellow, grainy stubble-grounds,
I listen to the pigeon's coo,
And rush of plumage darkly blue.

IX.

Although in reach of leaden showers
The hungry flock are settling down

Thought wanders back to other hours,
And visions of renown:
Well may the Manton by my side
Be hushed, its deadly force untried,
For quaffs my soul celestial wine,
And golden reveries are mine.

NOVEMBER.

I.

I hear the wail of the pitiless gale
Round the couch of Beauty dying,
And deep in tone as the hoarse trombone
Are the calls of the wild geese flying:
While wanes the year how lone and and drear
Is the heart of the minstrel feeling,
For the voiceful blast that is hurrying past
Is the dirge of autumn pealing.

II.

Where field flowers sprang and bird-notes rang
The rude gale pipes a warning;
By vapors dun that hide the sun,
Festooned are the halls of morning.
Hail, rain and storm of colors warm
Have robbed the woodlands faded
That wore of late, in royal state,
Tints born of the rainbow braided.

III.

When day is o'er clouds deck no more
The west with their golden fleeces,
And purple cloaks on the kingly oaks
Are torn by the gust in pieces.
A crimson glow on the sward below
Of late were the maples flinging,
But boughs are bare in the freezing air
On which the crows are swinging.

IV.

In what fair isle of tropical smile
Is the bright Indian summer staying?
Will the nymph no more to this northern shore
Come soft with the south wind playing?
In vain we yearn for her dear return,
She visits the land no longer;
With the tribes of old from a clime so cold
She fled when the whites grew stronger.

A FALL LYRIC.

I.

Heir of Summer's crown, September!
Soon will fade thy last red ember:
Seasons come and go like waves
Subsiding into ocean caves—

Naught is enduring here:
The cup of bliss conceals alloy,
And faces, wreathed with smiles of joy,
Mask shuddering fear,
Passing away! passing away!
Is writ on the hillside and the vale;
Flowers that blushed at the break of day,
Ere twilight-time turn pale.
What is the burthen of the song
That floats on the midnight blast along:
The words of fearful warning heard
In the voice of the rill, and the warble of bird?
The wild refrain of the stormy lay
Roared by the cataract, night and day?
Passing away! passing away!

II.

Nought endures that finite man
In his arrogance uprears;
Tower and temple he may plan,
Sons complete what sires began,
But revolving years
Arch and column undermine
Draped with the dark green ivy-twine,
And the bat and the owl flap their dismal wings,
In the desolate courts of departed kings,
And silence holds sway in baronial halls
Where the grim face of Ruin the gazer appalls.
Passing away! passing away!
When were words uttered so full of dismay?
How on my heart, like a knell, they are falling,
While through the darkness sad voices are calling

“Sorrow is ever the neighbor of mirth,
Nothing is stable and constant on earth:
Oh! how brief!
Winter's dazzling flake of snow,
Vernal flowers the first to blow,
Summer's rose, autumnal leaf.”

III.

Of little profit is wealth that we hoard,
Place and position are worse than vain;
Honors achieved by pen, tongue and the sword,
Ere the goal of our hopes we gain,
Break like frail bubbles awoke by the rain—
Chase of renown is rewarded with pain,
A heart-ache, a hungering void in the soul
That longs for escape from its mortal control,
Passing away! passing away!
Words only uttered by creatures of clay,
Are not inscribed on the portal of day,
Guarding approach to the beautiful shore
Washed by the stream we are ferrying o'er.
Forms on the dazzling, auriferous sands
Gather, and wave their pale, beckoning hands:
Woven of starlight are robes that they wear,
Each stately head ringed with a circlet of gold;
One I know well by her dark, glossy hair,
A beautiful being of Phidian mould.
Oh! I am under her wondrous control,
Melt her soft tones in the ear of my soul;
Sprinkled with heart-drops are words of her lay
“Hither, come hither! where wreaths never wither,
And idols are turned into mouldering clay,
While Love warbles mournfully passing away?

Bulbs that we bury shoot forth into flowers
When resurrection accompanies spring
Giving dark green to the skeleton bowers,
Painting the newly-born butterfly's wing,
Spirits released from their chrysalis state,
Flitting through Summerland's golden-arched gate,
Care not where lies the poor, perishing shell,
Loathsome, and dread with mortality's smell—
Enough that the bondage of earth-life is o'er,
And grief can encumber, guilt darken no more.”

TO INDIAN RIVER.

I.

Brunette among the streams!
The rose of sunset gleams
Like color in an Indian maiden's cheek
Upon thy shadowed breast,
Where wild fowl love to rest
From flight awhile when breeding haunts they seek.

II.

When comes sweet Summer-time,
To cheer our Northern clime,
How pleasant is a voyage along thy shore;
Still dark with forests shades,
While frowning palisades
Rise in rude grandeur from a rocky floor.

III.

The fisherman delights
On calm, mid-summer nights
His skiff by torchlight quietly to steer—
A flash—a sullen plunge—
And the strong muscallonge
Receives his death-stroke from the deadly spear.

IV

The red man's ancient trail
Is blotted from the vale,
Through which the troubled waters foam and flow,
But still his camp-fires blaze,
As in departed days,
Where Rocky Point looks down upon the waves below.

V.

At twilight hour afloat
Sped on our bonny boat,
While foam-bells sparkled, bursting in her wake,
Until she ploughed her way,
By mimic cape and bay,
To the charmed portals of a lovely lake.

VI.

Waves by no inlet fed
In their romantic bed
Were furrowed lightly by our gliding prow;
Trees on the rocky banks,
Arrayed in scattered ranks,
To groves, the surface under seemed to bow.

VII.

High up, in caverned stone,
Their eyrie, dark and lone,
Fierce forest eagles made in other years;
Still proof against the storm,
Huge nests of basket-form
The vision of the passing boatman cheers.

VIII.

Wild dear no more to drink
From runways to the brink
Follow the stately leader of the herd,
But trapped with cunning skill
Are mink and muskrat still
Where flag and reed are by the south wind stirred.

IX

Would I could trace thy course
To its primeval source,
In wilds alone by wandering hunter sought;
There the huge moose abides,
The savage panther hides,
And beaver-dams are marvellously wrought.

X.

Through grander rivers flow,
With Summer's kiss aglow,
While pleasure-barges on their bosom ride,
Brunette among the streams!
The poet in his dreams
Will often float upon thy dusky tide.

THE THOUSAND ISLES.

Air—“Beautiful Isle of the Sea.”

I.

Isles of enchantment divine!
Glory ye give to a river
Broader than Danube or Rhine,
Brighter than swift Gauldalquiver.
Midsummer hangs round your shores
Mists that are purple and golden;
Song times the dipping of oars,
Now, as in the days that are olden.

Chorus.

Haunts of the tameless and wild!
Homes of the fearless and free!
Lovelier isles never smiled,
Belted by blue of the sea.

II.

Isles that laugh first when the spring
Frees from ice-bondage the torrents,
Jewels are ye in the ring
Worn by the mighty St. Lawrence.
Indian encampments of yore
Charms to the scenery were lending;
O'er yon dark cedars no more
Smoke from old hearths is ascending.
Haunts of the tameless, &c.

III.

Isles where the morning first beams,
More than a thousand in number,

Oft still I see ye in dreams,
Woke by the wild winds from slumber.
Channels of silvery flow
Gems of the sisterhood sever;
Evergreen mantles bestow
Beauty that drapes them forever.
Haunts of the tameless, &c.

IV.

Oberon, king of the elves!
Court in yon arbor seems holding;
Blossoms on gray, rocky shelves,
Wet by the spray, are unfolding.
Undine to Echo might list,
Sands grained with gold for a pillow,
Where water-lillies are kissed
By the blue lips of the billow.
Haunts of the tameless, &c.

V.

Edens, bewitchingly fair!
Soft, crimson haze o'er ye hovers;
Bowers giving fragrance to air,
Wove by the wood-nymphs for lovers.
Scarred in the battle of life,
Folly and falsehood forsaking,
Who would not rest from the strife,
Home midst these green islands making?
Haunts of the tameless, &c.

VERSES FOR EASTER.

“The ostrich leaveth her eggs in the earth, and warmeth them in the dust.”

Job—xxix: 14

I.

Unstudied verses let me weave,
While ring the bells of Easter Eve,
And eggs of many hues that gleam,
Gifts to the children, be my theme!

II.

By Job, that holy man of old,
Of the wild ostrich we are told,
Who hides beneath the covering sand,
Her bright eggs in a weary land,

III.

In grave unmarked by mortal eye,
In the mute dust, her treasures lie,
Until the desert sun imparts
A vital heat to embryo hearts.

IV.

Globed are the coffins that confine
Th' unsheltered brood by law divine,
And after burial, all unheard
Is mourning by the mother-bird.

V.

When her maternal task is wrought
She speeds away by instinct taught
That One who marks the sparrow's fall
Sepulchral seeds to life will call.

VI.

Types of the resurrection morn
Rise the young birdlings, desert-born,
And, though a mother's care denied,
Eternal love will food provide.

VII.

Thus faith consigns, in holy trust,
Her loved and lost to burial dust,
Assured, though gone the quick'ning breath,
That endless life is born of death.

HYMN TO THE VIRGIN.

(Inscribed to Rev. Father O' Keefe.)

BY W. H. C. HOSMER.

I.

“Salve Regina!” immaculate Virgin!
Here me implore, and thy pity bestow;
Wild waves of trouble around me are surging,
Light with thy smile the deep night of my woe.
Queen of the Saints! hear my earnest petition,
Mother of Jesus, conceived without sin,
Turn me aside from the road to perdition,
Let me the fold of thy love enter in.
“Ave, Sanctissima”!

II.

Angel of Mercy! for grevious transgression.
Thorn-planted paths I am treading alone;
One hope remains—that thy blest intercession
Pardon may win at the foot of the throne.
Warring with fiends, oh! compassionate Mother!
When will the sweat of my agony cease,
Groans of my wounded heart how can I smother,
If I hear not thy low whisper of peace?
“Ave, Sanctissima”!

III.

Mary! thy name when bright angels are talking
Ever with holiest rapture is heard;
Air, though in darkness is Pestilence walking,
Purer becomes by the spell of that word.
Song, through the Halls of the Blest ever flowing,
Wafts thy sweet name on its billowy tide;
Faith, while a martyrdom dread undergoing,
Calling on thee has triumphantly died.
“Ave, Sanctissima”!

IV.

Wander in soul through Art's galleries olden—
How the great masters delight to portray
Mother and child crowned with radiance golden
Shaming the tamer effulgence of day.
Theme of high bard are the Loves and the Graces
Flocking, like birds, round their Paphian Queen
Mary and babe, with far lovelier faces,
Eyes of my spirit in visions have seen
“Ave, Sanctissima”!

V.

Bearing my cross the dread burden grows lighter
“Ave, Maria”! peals out on the air;
Darkness is fleeing, the prospect grows brighter,
While hope bridges over the gulf of despair.
Mother of God! guard Earth's motherless daughters,
Teach them to bend willing knee at thy shrine;
Pilot them over the perilous waters,
Guide them, at last, to a haven divine.
“Ave, Sanctissima”!

VI.

All through Eve lost was be Mary recovered,
Pearl of the Sisterhood! free from all guilt;
Bloom follows blight where her spirit hath hovered,
Wonders are wrought where her alters are built.
Fair is the lily, but Mary is fairer,
O'er my heart's realm may she reign without end;
Tender and true is the love that I bear her,
Knightly my zeal her pure sway to extend.
“Ave, Sanctissima”!

GOD'S TENT.

I.

Let every knee be bent,
Let every head be bowed,
For in this holy tent
Speaks Deity aloud.

The islands and the lands
In loved embrace it holds,
Not made with human hands
Are its blue curtain folds.

II

A countless host encamps
Within, watched o'er by Love;
Sun, moon and stars are lamps
That light it from above.
These things endowed with breath,
Pour out perpetual praise,
And Life's pale sister, Death,
Clasped hands at times will raise.

III.

What stirs devotion deep
Like voices that arise
When Nature wakes from sleep,
And darkness drapes the skies—
When tribes of earth are dumb,
And storm unfurls its wings,
While thunder beats his drum,
And bass roused Ocean sings?

IV.

By billow, breeze and bird
A ritual is read
Sweeter than written word
By priest or abbot said.
Hymns sung by falling showers
Beyond the reach of art,
Those smiles of God, the flowers,
Rebuke a thankless heart.

V.

Shall man no praise bestow,
A prayerless mute be seen
While thanks the cattle low
To God for pastures green—
While mountains that aspire
His majesty proclaim,
And clouds have tongues of fire
That thunder out his name?

VI.

Grand are the waves of sound
That through old minsters roll,
Stirring the heart's profound,
Lifting on high the soul;
But in God's holy tent
Is grander music far,
Its dome, the firmanent,
Its lamps, sun, moon and star.

MOUNT OF VISION.

I.

Stand on the charmed Mount of Vision with me
Washed by a river that glimmers below;
Crowning its headlands a city I see,
Turret and tower with the morning aglow.

Palm groves give shade to suburban retreats,
Ruby and sapphire flash out from the walls,
Lovely are shapes in the pearl-paven streets,
Saintly are heads that look forth from its halls.

II.

Music I hear that sad hearts have desired
Sending electrical life through the veins;
Mighty, old masters, when rapt and inspired,
Never could waken such exquisite strains.
How limn with pencil a picture so fair,
Paint in weak colors the Land of the Blest;
Hill-slopes that purple of royalty wear,
Vales in rich glow of the emerald drest!

III.

Forms of the loved and lost gladden the sight,
Beings of beauty deplored by me long
Wave their white hands, and I catch with delight
Wandering notes of ecstatical song.
Come to my arms, let me clasp thee again
Innocent child, wearing ringlets of gold!
Bride of my youth! that I mourn for in vain,
Come with the passionate greeting of old!

IV.

Would I had wings to flee swiftly away
Thither where grief never uttered a moan—
Spirits relieved from the bondage of clay
Over yon River find passage alone.
Fade into shadow those fields ever green,
Towers, by no mortal hand built disappear;
Roseate mists drop a curtain between
Sand-wastes of Time, and Love's holier sphere.