University of Virginia Library

'Tis only when the heat and dust and toil
Of day have passed, my better heart can smile;
'Tis only when, in weariness and pain,
My task hath ceased to bind my dizzy brain,
That gentler thoughts and holier feelings come,
Like angel visitants, and guide me home—
Home to the hallowed temple of the mind,
Where Heaven's own music rolls upon the wind.
And, oh, while wandering mid the cold and low,
And mocking Mammon with a smile and bow,
While doomed to wear, o'er deep contempt, applause,
And crush my nature 'neath the world's vain laws,
How, like a lost child, seeking home once more,
My bosom brightens and my soul doth soar!
How, like the eagle of my native clime,
Genius aspires beyond the reach of Time!
Then, for a moment, glad oblivion throws
Its deep veil o'er my trials and my woes,
And trickling touches of a kindlier mood,
Like summer evening o'er the ancient wood,
Sooth evil passions, lull the heart to rest,
And blend the spirit with the pure and blest;
And I forget that Fortune is my foe,
And Man the fiend that reigns in human wo;
That lineal hatred o'er my childhood spread
The gloom, though not the slumber of the dead,
And yet prevails to sadden every scene
Where hope and love and loveliness have been.
All these pass from me, in the hour of pride,
Like smouldering wrecks down ocean's billowy tide.
With downcast eyes and tiar'd head declin'd,
His gold-wrought purple floating on the wind,
Gazing on valley, forest, stream and flood,
Against a rock the Persian monarch stood;
While, far below, his vassal millions lay
Like bristling tigers couchant for their prey,
Ardent as eagles, joyous as the lark
Whose music melts along the silvery dark,
Full of high hope of conquest, power and fame,—
That golden shroud for every mortal name!
And, as he gazed upon this pomp of power
One trump had summon'd to his palace bower,—
The haughty Despot wept that Time should cast
Their names, like ashes, on the fire-wing'd blast,
That, ere threescore of hurrying years went by,
His glorious millions,—each and all would die!
Each for himself, philosopher or bard,
Must toil uncheered and be his own reward
Through evils countless as the midnight dews—
The victim votary of the thriftless muse—
Till bursts the sun of Fame's rejoicing day,
And the hours blossom like the buds of May,
And Youth's dim hope outblazes like a star
High throned in heaven and gleaming from afar,
And flatterers crawl around the honoured one
Mocked when obscure and trampled when unknown!
What recks the world—stern, haughty, and austere—
From whose swoln eye slow drops the undried tear?
What recks the world if care and grief assail
The heart that suffers though it will not quail?
If doubt and darkness gather round his way,
Whose spirit revels in the light of day?
If, poor and friendless, Genius must submit
And pannier'd Dulness crush the choicest Wit?
If Earth becomes, by man's inhuman guile,
A hell, the deeper that the sunbeams smile?
And Mind, new lighted at the throne of God,
Darken and sink and mingle with the sod?
What recks the world, ere wakes the sun of Fame,
Who blights and execrates an unknown name?
Or who bands forth a menial miscreant host
And triumphs o'er archangel spirits lost?
—Dark are the shades that cloud thy mortal hours,
Poor lonely wanderer from elysian bowers,
And few the joys, earth's silken sons possess,
Light the wild horrors of thy wilderness!

As sable clouds along the evening sky
Glow with the glories of the sun's bright eye,
So the dull toils of daily life assume,
When Genius smiles, the beauty and the bloom
Of unseen realms, where holiest spirits sing
Mid the fair gardens of an endless spring.
Few and uncertain mid the cares of life,
The sin, the sorrow, and the hate and strife,
Are the brief hours devoted to the shrine
Of Love, whose purest worship is divine,
But these quick moments gladden and uplift,
And bear us through the subtlety and thrift,
The coldness, darkness, solitude and want,
The woes that wither though they cannot daunt,
Raise and refine the grovelling works of man,
And lead us back where Life in Love began.

Like summer showers, when wanes the burning day,
These hours of pride, athwart our weary way,
Gleam with a mellow gladness and repose,
That strengthen bleeding hearts to bear their woes,
And through all wrong and evil guide us on,
Though poor yet proud, though friendless not alone.
Then fruit and blossom mingle on each tree,
The soul soars gladly and the heart is free;
Soft airs float by with music on their wings,
And the lyre warbles from a thousand strings;
The heart's best feelings—all the joys of youth,
Dreams in the green-wood—hope and love and truth,
Thoughts by lone fountains, in their freshest bloom,
And chastened sorrow o'er affection's tomb—
All—all come back and win the soul afar
From earth's dark galley toil and rankling war,
Gild the dense gloom of error, fraud and sin,
And crown the altar of the heart within.

Yet, like wild lightning lifting, fold on fold,
Such awful gloom as wrapt the world of old,
To show how green and beautiful beneath
The earth lies, covered with the veil of death,
These high revealments mock the dazzled mind,
Leave, as they vanish, deeper gloom behind,
Melt the touch'd heart that should be proud and stern,
And, like frankincense gushing from an urn,
O'erpower the vision, that should settle on
The thin cold ashes of the dead alone.
With feelings purified and sense refined
And the veil'd glories of a mighty mind,
The Bard goes forth, from solitude sublime,
To meet and grapple with a world of crime,
Like a bright seraph in some distant star,
To feel his spirit with his fate at war,
To know his greatness and to bear the scorn
Of miscreant menials on the dunghill born,
To walk abroad, with radiant Genius crowned,
While crowded solitude hangs coldly round,
And seek, once more, the muse's lonely room,
And sigh to sink to slumber in the tomb!
Such is, hath been, will be the doom of minds
That cast their glories on the world's vain winds!

Stars of the heart! immortal lights, that glow
Along life's lone and weary way of wo,
That lengthens, lingers like a pilgrim vowed
To some far shrine he parts from in his shroud,
How soft and soothingly ye come, and spread
A blooming veil around the changed and dead,
Lift the faint mind, inspire each drooping thought,
And hymn the magic beauty ye have wrought!
There's not a desert on the Earth so drear,
But fountains sometimes gush and gurgle near;
There's not a wilderness so sad and lone
Without its dweller and a kindred one;
There's not an iceberg in the arctic sea,
But bears life, feeling, joy and liberty;
And every heart—however worn and lost
To all it loved and idolized the most,
However pierced and manacled, and cast
A wreck and ruin on life's dewless waste—
Against the storm of grief may still bear up,
Though it hath drained affliction's poison cup,
And smile oft-times and blend its wonted powers
With minds unknown in childhood's leafy bowers.
Such Nature's hest; while life prevails, there's hope,
And strength still given with despair to cope—
Despair! oft uttered in a reckless mood,
But by earth's victims never understood,
The grim, gaunt tyrant of the fiends who fell,
Born of Remorse—the quenchless fire of hell!
From bosoms dark and rugged gushes forth
Full many a stream to fertilize the Earth,
As from the black rock of the desert poured
The clear cold waters while the host adored;
And they, who walk in wisdom and in truth,
May oft, 'mid strangers, drink the joys of youth,
And find their sojourn gladdened by some voice,
That bids the fainting and sick heart rejoice.
Good, through victorious evil, oft appears,
Justice may mark the guiltless suppliant's tears,
Hope may rejoice in happier days to come,
And truth leave not the world in utter gloom.
Man clings to man through every wo and wrong,
And woman wins the daring and the strong.
To all, on whom the heartless world hath laid
Its ban—to all confiding and betrayed
By serpent lures—repulsed and cast aside
By the red Moloch hand of menial pride—
How bright, how cheeringly—the world forgot,
And all the evils of the poor man's lot—
Loved faces smile around their home of Love,
Loved voices breathe the gladness of the Dove,
And sooth the anguish of proud spirits stirred,
By the soft magic of a gentle word!
Passions as dire as winds in wildest wrath
And desolating as the lava's path,
Sink into slumber, broken and subdued
By the low voice of Love's sweet solitude.
Deep hate and wild revenge have oft foregone
Their fixed resolves while some beloved one,
With few kind words and one ambrosial kiss,
Filled a dark bosom with a seraph's bliss.

Laws, manners, morals and traditions old,
And customs antique as the banner's fold,
Fortune and faith—dominion, pride, and power,
And all that magnifies man's scepter'd hour,
Rose up, like spectres, when in secret spoke
Woman—and forth the Persian edict broke!
When War's deep trump awakes the world to arms,
Search out the cause in woman's fatal charms!
When peace flies smiling o'er the bloomy realm,
Lo! angel love directs the monarch's helm!
When the fierce Bandit leaves the work of death,
His wrong'd heart melts beneath affection's breath;
When the blest Sabbath o'er the city throws
A cheerful sanctity and hushed repose,
Gaze on the mother as her children kneel—
Few worship God—but every heart can feel!
When drops the dagger from the madman's grasp,
Who folds his writhing form in love's own clasp,
And with prophetic vows and burning tears,
Leads mind to triumph in the coming years?
Who on the Statesman, in his household bowers,
Bestows the tenderness of youthful hours,
And pillows on her breast the mighty mind
Revered, admired, and dreaded by mankind?
Who shield the weakness, guides the scornful pride,
And sooths—deserted by the world beside—
The bitter sorrows of ambition thrown
On the dark desert of despair alone?
Who casts o'er ruined hope and glory passed
Verdure that breathes and blossoms o'er the waste?
Who, like the sunset of an autumn even,
Gives unto Earth the glorious light of heaven?
Woman, devoted, cheerful and serene,
Lives in all laws and blends with every scene;
Pours proud ambition through each burning vein,
And tends the soldier on the battle-plain;
Gives to the poet all his might of mind,
And gilds the desert Fancy leaves behind;
Uplifts the feeble, quells the daring, throws
The hues of heaven o'er all desponding woes,
Moves upon earth the pilgrim bound to love,
And mounts, a seraph, to her God above!

Oft, when forsaken, trampled and reviled
While on my solitude no eye hath smiled,
When left to breast and buffet, as I might,
The faithless billows of a stormy night,—
Oft have I found in one beside me now,
(Her of the starry eye and sunny brow)
A tender solace and a mild content
Earth could not give with all her blandishment.
And she hath cheered me with a spirit free
To range the realms of high philosophy,
A heart imbued with such ethereal power
As wraps the saint in his sublimest hour,
While her fair features, soft as twilight's gush,
Lightened and flashed, and, with a solemn rush,
Her words of truth and hope and love came o'er
My heart, like moonlight on a rock-barr'd shore.
And I have borne the coward's dark attack,
Hate's dungeon ordeal, envy's midnight rack,
The scorn of fools, the sayings of the vile,
The branded felon's hypocritic smile,
The altered eye of friends, the sapient saws
Of dotard pedants, and the moral laws
Of convicts guiltier than the dungeon cell
E'er held in chains, or deepest vault in hell—
With a calm eye, a conscious brow that threw
The reptile back to feed on demon dew.
For still the angel of my pathway said
‘'Twere just—but oh, strike not the serpent dead!
‘He bears a death—a living, scorpion death
‘In every pulse and vein and thought and breath,
‘Leave him the doom thy righteous hand would end—
‘Leave him on earth without a single friend!’
Shall I not praise the wise and winning art
That drew the lightning from my burning heart?
Shall I not feel as time leaves all my foes
In the oblivion of unblest repose,
And on our mingled tides of being run
In little channels glancing to the sun,
That wisdom dwells with loveliness and gives
A hallowed pleasure to our troubled lives,
A conscious trust of happier days in store,
For hearts undoubting, that in grief adore?
Without a fear that Truth will not prevail,
Without a glance at slander's thrice-forged tale,
Prizing heaven's gifts too high to boast or vaunt,
Feeling a heart which danger cannot daunt,
And, with contempt ineffable and strong,
Beholding rioters in human wrong,
With thee, my bride!—and thee, my bright-eyed boy!
I share my sorrow—ye partake my joy.
Earth holds a home and coming time a name,
That may not vanish from the roll of Fame!