Three hours ; or, the vigil of love : and other poems

The world is full of glorious likenesses,
The poet's power is to sort these out,
And to make music from the common strings
With which the world is strung.
Festus.

IRON.

“Truth shall spring out of the earth.”
Psalms, lxxxv. 11.

As, in lonely thought, I pondered
On the marv'lous things of earth,
And, in fancy's dreaming, wondered
At their beauty, power, and worth,
Came, like words of prayer, the feeling—
Oh! that God would make me know,
Through the spirit's clear revealing—
What, of all his works below,
Is to man a boon the greatest,
Brightening on from age to age,
Serving truest, earliest, latest,
Through the world's long pilgrimage.

Soon vast mountains rose before me,
Shaggy, desolate and lone,
Their scarred heads were threat'ning o'er me,
Their dark shadows round me thrown;
Then a voice, from out the mountains,
As an earthquake shook the ground,
And like frightened fawns the fountains,
Leaping, fled before the sound;
And the Anak oaks bowed lowly,
Quivering, aspen-like, with fear—
While the deep response came slowly,
Or it must have crushed mine ear!

“Iron! Iron! Iron!”—crashing,
Like the battle-axe and shield;
Or the sword on helmet clashing,
Through a bloody battle-field:
“Iron! Iron! Iron!”—rolling,
Like the far-off cannon's boom;

Or the death-knell, slowly tolling,
Through a dungeon's charnel gloom!
“Iron! Iron! Iron!”—swinging,
Like the summer winds at play;
Or as bells of Time were ringing
In the blest Millennial Day!

Then the clouds of ancient fable
Cleared away before mine eyes;
Truth could tread a footing stable
O'er the gulf of mysteries!
Words, the prophet bards had uttered,
Signs, the oracle foretold,
Spells, the weird-like Sibyl muttered,
Through the twilight days of old,
Rightly read, beneath the splendor,
Shining now on history's page,
All their faithful witness render—
All portend a better age.

Sisyphus, for ever toiling,
Was the type of toiling men,
While the stone of power, recoiling,
Crushed them back to earth again!
Stern Prometheus, bound and bleeding,
Imaged man in mental chain,
While the vultures, on him feeding,
Were the passions' vengeful reign;
Still a ray of mercy tarried
On the cloud, a white-winged dove,
For this mystic faith had married
Vulcan to the Queen of Love!

Rugged strength and radiant beauty—
These were one in nature's plan;
Humble toil and heavenward duty—
These will form the perfect man!
Darkly was this doctrine taught us
By the gods of heathendom;

But the living light was brought us,
When the gospel morn had come!
How the glorious change, expected,
Could be wrought, was then made free;
Of the earthly, when perfected,
Rugged Iron forms the key!

“Truth from out the earth shall flourish,”
This the Word of God makes known,—
Thence are harvests men to nourish—
There let Iron's power be shown.
Of the swords, from slaughter gory,
Ploughshares forge to break the soil;—
Then will Mind attain its glory,
Then will Labor reap the spoil,—
Error cease the soul to wilder,
Crime be checked by simple good,
As the little coral builder
Forces back the furious flood.

While our faith in good grows stronger,
Means of greater good increase;
Iron, slave of war no longer,
Leads the onward march of peace;
Still new modes of service finding,
Ocean, earth, and air it moves,
And the distant nations binding,
Like the kindred tie it proves;
With its Atlas-shoulder sharing
Loads of human toil and care;
On its wing of lightning bearing
Thought's swift mission through the air!

As the rivers, farthest flowing,
In the highest hills have birth;
As the banyan, broadest growing,
Oftenest bows its head to earth,—
So the noblest minds press onward,
Channels far of good to trace;

So the largest hearts bend downward,
Circling all the human race;
Thus, by Iron's aid, pursuing
Through the earth their plans of love,
Men our Father's will are doing,
Here, as angels do above!

PRIZE POEM.

Spirit of Memory,
Thou that hast garnered up the joys and tears,
And all the human spoil of buried years,
We bow to thee!
O, lift thy veil, and bid the Past appear!
'T is gathering, slowly gathering on my sight:
Those dark old woods, where Death and Night
Held their companionship, were here;
Here, where the Muses' temple stands,
Rung the fierce yell of savage bands;
And, save that withering cry,
Or glimpse of savage warrior's flight,
Like the red meteor's flashing light,
That meets, yet mocks the eye—

Save these, the waters and the wood
Stretched in unbroken solitude;—
Lone, fearful, desolate and sad the scene,
For here the Dove of Peace had never been,
Brooding o'er human hearts, till hope was given,
And the rude child of earth became the glorious heir of heaven!

A sail! a sail! o'er yonder wave
A freighted bark is sweeping on!
Land of the learned, the proud, the brave,
Mourn'st thou no treasure gone?
Thou Island-Empire—forth from thee,
Like Wisdom from the Thunderer's brow,
Sprung the bright form of Liberty;
And high-souled men have joined her train,
Nor fagot's blaze, nor dungeon's chain,
Can their firm purpose bow;—
They would have held the guarded pass,
Or shared thy doom, Leonidas,

Had faith and duty cheered them on:
They come! that Pilgrim Band—they come!
This lone land is their chosen home,
And this broad world is won!
These were our Fathers—men of souls sublime,
Whose deeds are graven on the scroll of Time,
And there, while mind shall struggle to be free,
Or truth teach wisdom, will the record be.

Slowly, as spreads the green of earth
O'er the receding ocean's bed—
Dim as the distant stars come forth—
Uncertain as a vision fled
Has been the Old World's toiling race,
Ere she could give a nation place.

Come hither ye who countless ages scan,
Searching the doubtful course of social man,
Come, learn that Freedom mocks Time's slow career,
Seizes his hoard and showers his treasures here;

But spurns his errors, hallowed e'er so long
By seer or sage, in sermon or in song:
And ye who would the deathless spirit bind,
Come hither, and its unshorn strength be taught;
Nor, till ye calm the wave and curb the wind,
Prescribe a limit to the realm of thought!

Written for the Second Centennial Anniversary of the Settlement of Boston. Spoken at the Tremont Theatre, Sept. 17, 1830.

THE CHASE OF PLEASURE.

We all are children in our strife to seize
Each petty pleasure, as it lures the sight:
And like the tall tree, swaying in the breeze,
Our lofty wishes stoop their towering flight,
Till, when the aim is won, it seems no more
Than gathered shell from ocean's countless store.

Or, like the boy, whose eager hand is raised
To seize the shining fly that folds its wings,
We grasp the pleasure, and then stand amazed
To find how small the real good it brings!
The joy is in the chase—so finds the boy—
When seized, then he must loose it, or destroy.

And yet the child will have enjoyment true,
The sweet and simple pleasure of success;

He reasons not, as older minds would do,
How he shall show the world his happiness:
And, wiser than the crowds who seek display,
His own glad earnest purpose makes him gay.

And ever those who would enjoyment gain
Must find it in the purpose they pursue;
The sting of falsehood loses half its pain
If our own soul bear witness—we are true!
What matter though the scorn of fools be given,
If the path followed lead us on to heaven!

STANZAS TO THE MEMORY OF L. E. L.

[_]

[Written immediately after reading the confirmation of the rumor that Miss Maclean, better known as Miss Landon, had died at Cape Town, Africa.]

And thou art gone! the Bridal Rose
Fresh on thy laurelled head;
A land of new, wild, wondrous scenes
Before thy fancy spread—
Song on thy lip.—It may not be;—
I scarce believe thee dead!

“Bring flowers, pale flowers!”—But who for thee
An offering meet can bring?
Who paint thy Muse, like Huma bright,
For ever on the wing?
Or catch the tones that thrilled the soul,
Poured from thy Lyre's sweet string?

They say thy heart's warm buds of hope
Had never felt a blight;
That 'mid gay throngs, in brilliant halls,
Thy step was ever light,
At gatherings round the social hearth
None wore a smile more bright.

And yet, upon thy world of song,
Dark shadows always sleep;
The beings by thy fancy formed,
Seem only born to weep,—
Why did thy Soul's sweet fountains pour
A tide of grief so deep?

Was the prophetic shadow cast
By Afric's land of gloom;
That thus thy fancy ever linked
The poison with the bloom?
And 'mid the fairest bowers of bliss
Still reared the lonely tomb?

In vain we search for Thought's deep source,
Its mysteries none can tell;
We only know thy dreams were sad,
And so it has befell
That Love's bright wreath crowned thee for Death!
—Dark fate—and yet 't is well:—

Ay, well for thee; thy strength had failed
To bear the Exile's chain,
The weary, pining, homesick lot,
That withers heart and brain,—
And He, who framed thy soul's fine pulse,
In mercy spared the pain.

And while we mourn a Pleiad lost
From out Mind's lofty sky,
A Lyre unstrung, whose “charméd chords”
Breathed strains that ne'er can die,
Give us, O God, the faith that sees
The Spirit's Home on high.

Sweet Minstrel of the heart, farewell;
How many grieve for thee!
What kings might ne'er command is thine,
Love's tribute from the Free:
The flowery earth, the starry sky,
The mourner's tear, the lover's sigh,
Enshrine thy memory.

And this is fame! The glorious meed
Is thine beyond decay,
Landon will grace the Briton's lore
Till earth shall pass away;
What India's wealth were poor to buy
Won by a Woman's lay!

Huma—a bird of the East, which the natives say never rests, as it is only seen flying.

THE EMPIRE OF WOMAN.

1.
Woman's Empire defined.

The outward World, for rugged Toil designed,
Where Evil from true Good the crown hath riven,
Has been to Man's dominion ever given;
But Woman's empire, holier, more refined,
Moulds, moves and sways the fall'n but God-breathed mind,
Lifting the earth-crushed heart to hope and heaven:
As plants put forth to Summer's gentle wind,
And 'neath the sweet, soft light of starry even,
Those treasures which the tyrant Winter's sway
Could never wrest from Nature,—so the soul
Will Woman's sweet and gentle power obey—
Thus doth her summer smile its strength control;

Her love sow flowers along life's thorny way;
Her star-bright faith lead up toward heaven's goal.

2.
The Daughter.

The iron cares that load and press men down
A father can, like school-boy tasks, lay by,
When gazing in his Daughter's loving eye,
Her soft arm like a spell around him thrown:
The passions that, like Upas' leaves, have grown
Most deadly in dark places, which defy
Earth, heaven and human will, even these were shown
All powerless to resist the pleading cry
Which pierced a savage but a father's ear,
And shook a soul where pity's pulse seemed dead;
When Pocahontas, heeding not the fear
That daunted boldest warriors, laid her head
Beside the doomed! Now with our country's fame,
Sweet forest Daughter, we have blent thy name.

3.
The Sister.

Wild as a colt, o'er prairies bounding free,
The wakened spirit of the Boy doth spring,
Spurning the rein authority would fling,
And striving with his peers for mastery;
But in the household gathering let him see
His Sister's winning smile, and it will bring
A change o'er all his nature; patiently,
As cagéd bird, that never used its wing,
He turns him to the tasks that she doth share—
His better feelings kindle by her side—
Visions of angel beauty fill the air,—
And she may summon such to be his guide:—
Our Saviour listened to a Sister's prayer,
When, “Lazarus, from the tomb come forth!” he cried.

4.
The Wife.

The Daughter from her father's bosom goes—
The Sister drops her brother's clasping hand—

For God himself ordained a holier band
Than kindred blood on human minds bestows:
That stronger, deeper, dearer tie she knows,
The heart-wed Wife; as heaven by rainbow spanned,
Thus bright with hope life's path before her glows—
Proves it like mirage on the desert's sand?
Still in her soul the light divine remains—
And if her husband's strength be overborne
By sorrow, sickness, or the felon's chains,—
Such as by England's noblest son were worn,—
Unheeding how her own poor heart is torn,
She, angel-like, his sinking soul sustains.

5.
The Mother.

Earth held no symbol, had no living sign
To image forth the Mother's deathless love;

And so the tender care the righteous prove
Beneath the ever-watching eye divine,
Was given a type to show how pure a shrine,
The Mother's heart, was hallowed from above;
And how her mortal hopes must intertwine
With hopes immortal,—and she may not move
From this high station which her Saviour sealed,
When in maternal arms he lay revealed.
Oh! wondrous power, how little understood,
Entrusted to the Mother's mind alone,
To fashion genius, form the soul for good,
Inspire a West, or train a Washington!

See the splendid painting, “Baptism of Pocahontas,” at the Capitol.

Lord William Russell.

“My mother's kiss made me a painter,” was the testimony of this great artist.

THE ROSE

AT THE BIRTH-PLACE OF WASHINGTON.

Bright Rose! what dost thou here, amid
These sad mementoes of the past?
The crumbling stones thy roots have hid—
The bramble's shade is o'er thee cast;
Yet still thy glowing beauty seems
Fair as young childhood's happy dreams.

The sunbeam, on the heaving surf,
Proclaims the tempest's rage is o'er;
The violet, on the frozen turf,
Breathes of the smiling spring once more:—
But, Rose, thy mission to the heart
Has not in things that change a part.

The moss-grown ruins wide are spread,
Scarce rescued from the trodden mass;
The time-scathed trees, whose branches dead
Lie, cumbering o'er the matted grass,—
These tell the tale of Life's brief day,
Hope, toil, enjoyment, death—decay!

The common record this of man,
We read, regret, and pass it by;
And rear the towers, that deck our span,
Above the grave where Nations lie;
And heroes, who like meteors shone,
Are like the meteor's flashings gone.

But, radiant Rose, thy beauty breaks
Like eve's first star upon the night,
A fairer hue the vision takes—
The ruins shine with heaven's clear light;
His name, who placed thy root in earth,
Has holy made thy place of birth.

Yet 't is not here his wreath we twine,
Not here that Freedom's Chief we praise;
The stars at rising softer shine,
Than when o'er night's dark vault they blaze;
Not here, with Washington's great name,
Blend his achievements or his fame.

But pure as star-light is the ray
Which rests on this deserted ground,
Here passed his childhood's happy day—
Here glory's bud meet culture found,—
Maternal smiles, and tears, and prayer,
These were its light, its dew, its air.

Bright Rose! for this thy flower has sprung,
The Mother's steadfast love to show;
Thy odor on the gale is flung,
As pours that love its lavish flow;
The Mother's lot with hope to cheer,
Type of her heart, thou bloomest here.

THE FOUR-LEAVED CLOVER.

“There 's wisdom in the grass, its teachings would we heed.”

There knelt beneath the tulip tree
A maiden fair and young;
The flowers o'erhead bloomed gorgeously,
As though by rainbows flung,
And all around were daisies bright,
And pansies with their eyes of light—
Like gold the sun-kissed crocus shone,
With beauty's smiles the earth seemed strown,
And Love's warm incense filled the air,
While the fair girl was kneeling there.

In vain the flowers may woo around,—
Their charms she does not see,
For she a dearer prize has found
Beneath the tulip tree—

A little four-leaved clover, green
As robes that grace the fairy queen,
And fresh as hopes of early youth,
When life is love, and love is truth;
—A talisman of constant love,
This humble clover sure will prove!

And on her heart, that gentle maid,
The severed leaves has pressed,
Which through the coming night's dark shade,
Beneath her cheek will rest;
Then precious dreams of one will rise,
Like Love's own star in morning skies,
So sweetly bright, we would the day
His glowing chariot might delay;—
What tomes of pure and tender thought
Those simple leaves to her have taught!

Of old, the sacred mistletoe
The Druid's altar bound;

The Roman hero's haughty brow
The fadeless laurel crowned.—
Dark superstition's sway is past,
And war's red star is waning fast,
Nor mistletoe, nor laurel hold
The mystic language breathed of old;
For nature's life no power can give,
To bid the false and selfish live.

But still the olive-leaf imparts,
As when, dove-borne, at first,
It taught heaven's lore to human hearts,
Its hope, and joy, and trust;
Nor deem the faith from folly springs,
Which innocent enjoyment brings—
Better from earth root every flower,
Than crush imagination's power,
In true and loving minds, to raise
An Eden for their coming days.

As on each rock, where plants can cling,
The sunshine will be shed;
As from the tiniest star-lit spring,
The ocean's depths are fed;
Thus hopes will rise, if love's clear ray
Keep warm and bright life's rock-strewn way;
And from small, daily joys, distilled,
The heart's deep fount of peace is filled—
O! blest when Fancy's ray is given,
Like the ethereal spark, from heaven!

A THOUGHT IN WINTER.

Look forth!—'t is Winter's sullen sky,
Dark, stormy clouds are sweeping by,
And through the leafless branches high
The tempest howls a dirge of death!
Why whispers Hope, amid the scene,
Of glowing suns, and skies serene,
And waters bright and woodlands green,
And gales as soft as music's breath?

Look forth!—the heaving hills of snow,
Rent by the winds, whirl to and fro,
And downward, like an ocean flow,
And bury garden, vale and grove!
Why dream that Spring, with bird-like song,
Will lead the flower-crowned Hours along,
And tread those frozen wastes among,
In beauty, melody, and love?

O! there 's a blesséd sign, a word,
A feeling in the soul's soul stirred,—
In the wild tempest's war 't is heard,—
It shines through midnight's starless gloom;
It tells us God is good—and we
Believe like children, trustingly,
And leaning on the promise, see
Through Winter's storm the radiant Summer bloom.

100

THE DEAD OAK.

Why should the forest monarch die?
In seeming strong and sound:—
Was there a blighting from the sky?
A worm beneath the ground?

The buds, those breathings of the Spring,
Like bubbles pass away;
And flowers, that Summer's smile can bring,
Must with her smile decay.

These yield their pleasures bright thought brief,
And bud and flower may fall,
Yet fragment cup and tinted leaf
Their memory will recall.

The healing herb, the verdant grass,
Like household joys they come,

101

And leave a blessing, as they pass,
To cheer our winter home.

Not transient thus the Oak's proud form,
It rears its head on high,
And battles with the raging storm,
And braves the blazing sky!

A thousand years may o'er it roll—
States rise and cease to be;
Yet there 's no record on Man's soul
To mark its history.

It stands alone, like despot's power,
And when its doom is wrought,
It leaves no bond, like bud or flower,
To link with tender thought.

And therefore does it mouldering lie,
Nor hope nor joy recall;
Bearing this lesson—pride must die,
And none will mourn its fall.

102

THE WATCHER.

1.

The night was dark and fearful,
The blast swept wailing by;—
A Watcher, pale and tearful,
Looked forth with anxious eye;
How wistfully she gazes—
No gleam of morn is there!
And then her heart upraises
Its agony of prayer!

2.

Within that dwelling lonely,
Where want and darkness reign,
Her precious child, her only,
Lay moaning in his pain;
And death alone can free him—
She feels that this must be:

103

“But oh! for morn to see him
Smile once again on me!”

3.

A hundred lights are glancing
In yonder mansion fair,
And merry feet are dancing—
They heed not morning there:
Oh! young and lovely creatures,
One lamp, from out your store,
Would give that poor boy's features
To her fond gaze once more.

4.

The morning sun is shining—
She heedeth not its ray;
Beside her dead, reclining,
That pale, dead mother lay!
A smile her lip was wreathing,
A smile of hope and love,
As though she still were breathing—
“There 's light for us above!”

104

THE LIGHT OF HOME.

My son, thou wilt dream the world is fair,
And thy spirit will sigh to roam,
And thou must go;—but never, when there,
Forget the light of Home!

Though pleasure may smile with a ray more bright,
It dazzles to lead astray;
Like the meteor's flash, 't will deepen the night
When treading thy lonely way:—

But the hearth of home has a constant flame,
And pure as vestal fire,—
'T will burn, 't will burn for ever the same,
For nature feeds the pyre.

The sea of ambition is tempest-tossed,
And thy hopes may vanish like foam,—

105

When sails are shivered and compass lost,
Then look to the light of Home!

And there, like a star through the midnight cloud,
Thou shalt see the beacon bright;
For never, till shining on thy shroud,
Can be quenched its holy light.

The sun of fame may gild the name,
But the heart ne'er felt its ray;
And fashion's smiles that rich ones claim,
Are beams of a wintry day:

How cold and dim those beams would be,
Should Life's poor wanderer come!—
My son, when the world is dark to thee,
Then turn to the light of Home.

106

NOTHING NEW.

“There is nothing new under the sun.”—
Solomon.

God! thou hast fixed the date of man,
And who would lengthen out the span?
Enough of pain, of toils and tears
Meet in the round of seventy years;
And earth must like a desert spread,
When all life's flowers are plucked and dead

One year—the seasons' changes o'er—
What would a thousand teach us more?
Each hath its garland and its gloom,
Its joyous festival and doom,—
And ancient lyre and modern lay
Chant the same strain to welcome May.

107

The dawn has kissed yon eastern hills,
But eve's dark shade the valley fills;—
And thus, let centuries pass, arrayed
In robe of mist, half light, half shade,
Will Morning come, and wake the throng
That plod life's beaten path along.

And see, old Night her crown puts on,
Undimmed as when o'er Babylon
She wooed the Magi's thoughtful eye
To trace her starry page on high,—
And so the sky has ever shone,
Blue, bright, and boundless—and unknown!

And Man is weak and wayward still,
As proud to plan, as prone to ill,—
The boasted knowledge he acquires
Is but the wisdom of his sires;
And still, from age to age, the same
The chase of pleasure, wealth and fame.

108

Then who would be a slave, and dwell
For ever in a dungeon cell,
Counting the links that form his chain?
—Such is the Soul that would retain
The fetters forged by Time, to bind
To this poor world th' immortal Mind!

109

STANZAS.

The bird, that soars on joyous wing,
Must stoop to earth when darkness reigns;
The flowers, that gem the breast of spring,
Fade when the frost comes o'er the plains;
And thus gay Fancy droops her flight,
Beneath affliction's starless night,—
And thus sweet Feeling's hopes are lost,
Chilled by Neglect's unkindly frost.

Morn smiles the gloomy night away,—
The bird again may seek the skies;
And in the life-imparting ray
The sad and shrinking flowrets rise;
But often, Genius, thou must pine,
On thee no fostering sun will shine;
And pride, with cold, averted eye,
Beholds thy sweetest blossoms die.

110

I SING TO HIM.

I sing to him! I dream he hears
The song he used to love,
And oft that blesséd fancy cheers
And bears my thoughts above.
Ye say 't is idle thus to dream—
But why believe it so?
It is the spirit's meteor gleam
To soothe the pang of wo.

Love gives to nature's voice a tone
That true hearts understand,—
The sky, the earth, the forest lone
Are peopled by his wand;
Sweet fancies all our pulses thrill
While gazing on a flower,
And from the gently whisp'ring rill
Is heard the words of power.

111

I breathe the dear and cherished name,
And long-lost scenes arise;
Life's glowing landscape spreads the same;
The same Hope's kindling skies;—
The violet bank, the moss-fringed seat
Beneath the drooping tree,
The clock that chimed the hour to meet,
My buried love, with thee—

O, these are all before me, when
In fancy's realms I rove;
Why urge me to the world again?
Why say the ties of love,
That death's cold, cruel grasp has riven,
Unite no more below?
I'll sing to him,—for though in heaven,
He surely heeds my wo!

112

AN EVENING REVERIE.

I wonder if the rich man prays?—
And how his morning prayer is said?
He'll ask for health, and length of days—
But does he pray for daily bread?

When by his door, in posture meek,
He sees the poor man waiting stand,
With sunken eye, and care-worn cheek,
To beg employment from his hand:

And when he tells his piteous tale,
Of sickly wife, and children small,
Of rents that rise, and crops that fail,
And troubles that the poor befall:

I wonder if the rich man's thought
Mounts free, as nature's hymn, to heaven,

113

In gratitude that happier lot,
By providence, to him is given!

And does his heart exult to know,
He too, like heaven, has power to give?
To strengthen weakness, soften wo,
And bid Hope's dying lamp revive?

And when, around his gladsome hearth,
A troop of friends the rich man greet,
And songs of joy and smiles of mirth
Add grace to flattery's homage sweet;

I wonder if his fancy sees
A vision of those wretched homes,
Where want is wrestling with disease,
And scarce a ray of comfort comes!

And when the wintry tempest beats,
And wakes him from his soft repose,

114

While every gust a dirge repeats
For those who die 'mid want and woes;

—I wonder if he listening lies,
And wishes for the morning light,
That he may dry the weeping eyes,
And comfort those whose life is night!

Oh, World! how strange thy lots are given!—
Life's aim—how rarely understood!
And men—how far estranged from heaven,
If heaven require a brotherhood!

115

THE HISTORY OF THE PLANETS.

Jehovah spoke through the inbreathing fire,
Nature's vast realms for ever to inspire
With the deep worship of a living soul.
Hemans.

“Creation is finished!”—In worship profound,
The Angels bowed down at the word;
Then on the bright Planets their eyes wandered round,
But rested with joy on the third;
They knew that the Earth held the Paradised pair,
Jehovah's own breath had endued,
The crowning perfection of all that was fair,
Where all had been hallowed as “good!”
They knew from this Fountain of Being would rise,
Like dews from the ocean, Life's Hosts for the skies.

Each Planet was fair—but their Queen, as they rolled,
Was Earth with its Eden of bliss;

116

God's children were here—and the angels behold
All Planets do homage to this;—
Swift Mercury shed from its sun-hidden way,
On the mind of the Woman its light,—
And Venus was blushing with love's purple ray,
It sent to her heart warm and bright,—
Thus the tribute of matter to life was begun
By the Planets that move 'twixt the Earth and the Sun.

Beyond rolled red Mars, like the tocsin of war,
To action man's spirit it cheered;—
Then followed the largest and loveliest Star,
Pure diamond its lustre appeared;
Its beautiful ray was the mirror of Truth,—
Sweet Innocence played in the light;
Wherever it shone bloomed the freshness of youth,
Unshadowed by sorrow or blight,—
Its beams o'er the soul of the Woman were thrown,—
On Earth as her Guardian Planet 'twas known.

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Next Jupiter, regal in splendour, swept by,
Man's reason to raise and refine,
While lifting, untroubled, his gaze to the sky,
He welcomed the Presence Divine;—
Then, coursing an orbit that circled the whole,
Came Saturn, like Patience, untired,
And through its broad range giving light to the soul
Of Man, a calm wisdom inspired;—
And all these fair Planets in harmony move
Round the Sun, as their centre of light, life and love.

In wonder the angels bent over the Earth,
And sought for the human abode,
When the Stars of the morning together sang forth
Their anthem of “Glory to God!”
And a shout of rejoicing was heard to arise,
It burst like a torrent of sound,
As the harps of the Seraphim poured from the skies
The music of Heaven around;—
The melody through the Empyrean flowed,
“Creation is finished!—all glory to God!”

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'T was glorious all—the beauty of peace
Smiled over the Earth and the skies;—
But the harps of the Seraphim suddenly cease,
And wailings of terror arise!
The Shadow of Death over Eden comes down,—
The Earth from its centre is whirled,—
Creation is darkened and shook by the frown
Jehovah has thrown on the world!
It passed!—but the Guardian Planet was gone,
While, dim in the distance, cold Herschel crept on!

Awe-stricken, the Angels recoiled at the sight,—
A sigh through the Universe ran,—
The Stars of the morning were shrouded in night,—
As mourning the ruin of Man!

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But out of the darkness there issued a Dove,
Like Hope from the breast of Despair;
Its white wings beat time to its breathings of love,
While a voice thrilled the listening air—
“Though Sin has the prime of Creation destroyed,
And the Guardian Planet is gone,
Yet the Star of Redemption shall rise through the void,
And the Heavens new glory put on—
A glory to banish Man's sorrows and fears,
When the Saviour, the Seed of the Woman, appears!”

Between Mars and Jupiter move four planets, viz., Ceres, Pallas, Juno, and Vesta. It has been conjectured, by learned astronomers, that these small planets were formed by the disruption of a large planet, once revolving in that region of space. This planet we have assumed to be “the Guardian,” and that the catastrophe of its disruption was coincident with—“Man's first disobedience.”

120

THE HEART'S FOUNT OF STRENGTH.

Oh! 't is the heart that magnifies this life
Making a truth and beauty of its own.
Wordsworth.

“Another year! and what to me unsealing?
Another page in Sorrow's book of life,
With the dark stamp of Fate impressed, revealing
Another struggle in the world's stern strife?
While the bright hopes that charmed my youthful vision,
Frown like a winter forest, dead and sere,
And fancies, mirage-like, that seemed Elysian,
Fade, and earth's desert sands alone appear.

“Even had I gained, as once I strove to merit,
Some high estate in honour's gilded show,

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What, with my failing strength and fainting spirit,
Could fame, or power, or wealth avail me now?
The feeble reed, storm-broken, may recover,
But the firm oak, uprooted, must decay;
I'll strive no more—hopes, plans, and dreams are over,
Welcome, despair! ay, night that has no day!”

“Father!” in love's sweet tone, like doves caressing,
Is heard—a white arm round his neck is twining,
A soft, warm cheek to his is fondly pressing,
A fairy form upon his breast reclining;
His daughter, image of her angel mother—
Her smile how happy as she meets his gaze!
He is her guide, guard, all—she asks no other;
As the bud brightens in the sun's mild rays,

So has his tender care her being cherished,
So has her deep'ning love his care repaid—

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And now, when every earth-reared plant has perished,
This blessed human blossom does not fade!
And from the father's eyes, like warm rains rushing,
That melt the ice even on the glacier's breast,
The tears of thankful gratitude are gushing,
That he can bless her and by her be blest.

And now the cloud, from o'er life's path receding,
Reveals a lovely vale of calm existence,
Bright with those low, sweet flowers we crush unheeding,
When struggling toward the laurel in the distance;
He sees, in such retreat, how man may measure
Pride's high aspirings with that wisdom lowly,
Which finds in wayside springs rich draughts of pleasure,
In daily deeds of kindness beauty holy.

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He feels the God-breathed soul should never falter,
When pressing onward duties to fulfil;
And that when truth and virtue rear the altar,
How the high purpose can sustain the will;
That to this sacrifice of self is given
An energy all human ills above,
Thus witnessing, as by a voice from Heaven,
The heart's pure fount of strength is generous love.

124

THE STORM.

The storm was wild as wrath,—
And like giant on his path
Swept the wind!
There 's a sound, like sorrow's moan,
When its last, fond hope has flown,
And the mind,
That to strive with Fate is fain,
Feels its efforts are in vain.

The Storm is on the sea,
And, rising fearfully
O'er the blast,
Comes the wildly piercing shriek!
Its wail no words can speak—
'T is the last!—

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And ocean's pall is spread,
And the deep receives the dead!

Oh! thousands thus have died,
In their beauty and their pride,
Like the flowers
By the whirlwind's might uptorn;—
How many hearts, forlorn,
Count the hours
Till the missing shall return,
Or hope's star shall cease to burn!

Such hearts the history hear,—
Though no language meet the ear—
Of the lost,—
A picture of the sea,
Or a tone of minstrelsy,
Like a frost
O'er their spring-sown fancies steals,
And Death's upas vale reveals.

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'T is the pledge of sorrow's dower,
That it gives the spirit power
To discern,
Like the angel in the sun,
When the ruin has begun—
But to learn
That the poison-drop is sure
Will ne'er teach us to endure.

Like a mountain robed in clouds
Is the heart that fear enshrouds,
While hope clings
As the verdure to the rocks,
As the rainbow tint that mocks
While it flings
Its soft and cheering beams,
That must pass away like dreams.

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As a mountain lone and bleak,
With its sky-encompassed peak
Thunder riven,
Still lifts its forehead bare,
Through the cold and blighting air,
Up to heaven,
Is the soul that knows its wo,
And is nerved to bear the blow.

And if sad forebodings press,
And earth's star of happiness
Has withdrawn,
Never sink in hopeless gloom—
Through the clouds, beyond the tomb,
See the dawn;
And all storms will pass away,
In that world of perfect day!

Uriel. See Paradise Lost, Book IV.

128

THE RECORD TREE.

Yes, I am changed—but still the tree remains
As green and beautiful as when its shade,
Screening from arid heats the fresh, soft grass,
With tufts of moss and the wood-violet mixed,
I deemed the sweetest spot the earth contained.
'T was here my childhood's gambols oft were played;
'T was here my youthful visions brightest came;
'T was here my spirit felt devotion's power,
And framed its first spontaneous prayer to heaven:—
Till then the orisons my mother taught,
When o'er my pillow bowed she kissed my cheek,
And bade me sleep, for God would watch the rest
Of all who called him “Father” in their hearts,
Was all the adoration I had given.

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Oh! why do heavenly visions from the mind
Pass, like the rainbow mists that wreathe around
And tinge with beauty the unsightly rock?—
While like that rock, when shivered by the storm,
The fragments of our worldly schemes must lie
Athwart our path, and every step be pained
With fears or dread, with sorrow or remorse.

Miranda! can thine image sorrow wake?
As strives the anchorite to purchase heaven,
I strove her smile of tenderness to win:
And I did win it, and beneath this Tree
We pledged our mutual faith!—I see her now,
The smile and tear on her soft, blushing cheek,
Like light and dew on the sweet morning rose,
When here this Record of our names I showed,
Deep carved upon the Tree.—And then she said,
In those dear dove-like tones, which naught but love
Can teach the human voice—“The heart alone
Keeps records undefaced.”—And then she paused,

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And raised her dewy eyes and met my gaze.
—I vowed fidelity, and she believed!

'T was then, as now, the season of bright flowers,
And thus the sun's last beams their radiance flung,
Gilding the brow of yonder Alpine hill;
And, mellowed by the distance and the glow,
The rugged peak looked beautiful—as fair
As did the world before me. Love was mine,
And Hope's bright beams Ambition's summit crowned,—
I gained it—there was nought save barrenness!

And then, Miranda, I remembered thee:—
Remembered, did I say?—I ne'er forgot;—
But man, amid the bustling world, casts off
The chords of tenderness that tune his soul
While dwelling in the calm, domestic scene.
Home is the sphere of harmony and peace,

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The spot where angels find a resting-place,
When, bearing blessings, they to earth descend.

But perfect peace makes not her gods of clay;
And home, the blesséd Eden of our earth,
May feel a blight come o'er its fairest flowers—
The wasting blight of unrequited love.
And thus, my gentle one, thy heart was broke.
They tell me thou didst part in peacefulness;—
Thy Saviour's arm beneath thee, and his smile
So lighting the dark passage to the grave,
That thou, who didst not dare to tread alone,
When night was o'er the world, a well-known path,
Entered the vale of Death with songs of joy.

Religion triumphs when her followers die.
Death holds the mighty talisman that shows
The human heart, and seals the character.
And thou, Miranda, wert a child of heaven,
And with the signet of the Saviour sealed,

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And angels welcomed thee, and thou hast seen
The glory of His light who made the sun!—
While I, poor earth-bound pilgrim, wander here,
And still life's darkened desert round me spreads.

But while this Record, weeping, I peruse,
Where thy dear name is still with mine conjoined,
One hope, with seraph lustre, beams afar—
The hope that we may meet.
My soul's first prayer,
The morning incense of my life, arose
When here I bowed the knee. Give to the world
The heart, and soul, and strength—there's no reward,
Save barren promises, or bitter bread;—
But all the hours we dedicate to God
Bear golden fruit. The multitude have bowed,
And watched my smile, and listening senates hung
On my poor eloquence, and thundered praise.
—'T was grand!—'T is nothing!

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But that humble prayer
Comes o'er my spirit like a heavenly balm
My bleeding heart to heal. A still, small voice
Seems whispering—“Faith and prayer can bear thee up,
And many mansions are prepared above,
And harps of angels hail the Penitent.”

University of Virginia Library

2. PART II. POEMS.