 | Airs of Palestine, and other poems |  |
213
VI.
FUNEREAL PIECES.
215
I.
THE EXILE AT REST.
His falchion flashed along the Nile;—
His hosts he led through Alpine snows;—
O'er Moscow's towers, that shook the while,
His eagle flag unrolled,—and froze.
His hosts he led through Alpine snows;—
O'er Moscow's towers, that shook the while,
His eagle flag unrolled,—and froze.
Here sleeps he now, alone;—not one
Of all the kings whose crowns he gave,
Nor sire, nor brother, wife, nor son,
Hath ever seen or sought his grave.
Of all the kings whose crowns he gave,
Nor sire, nor brother, wife, nor son,
Hath ever seen or sought his grave.
Here sleeps he now alone;—the star,
That led him on from crown to crown,
Hath sunk;—the nations from afar
Gazed, as it faded and went down.
That led him on from crown to crown,
Hath sunk;—the nations from afar
Gazed, as it faded and went down.
He sleeps alone;—the mountain cloud
That night hangs round him, and the breath
Of morning scatters, is the shroud
That wraps his martial form in death.
That night hangs round him, and the breath
Of morning scatters, is the shroud
That wraps his martial form in death.
216
High is his couch;—the ocean flood
Far, far below by storms is curled,
As round him heaved, while high he stood,
A stormy and inconstant world.
Far, far below by storms is curled,
As round him heaved, while high he stood,
A stormy and inconstant world.
Hark! Comes there from the Pyramids,
And from Siberia's wastes of snow,
And Europe's fields, a voice that bids
The world he awed to mourn him?—No;—
And from Siberia's wastes of snow,
And Europe's fields, a voice that bids
The world he awed to mourn him?—No;—
The only, the perpetual dirge,
That's heard here, is the sea-bird's cry,
The mournful murmur of the surge,
The cloud's deep voice, the wind's low sigh.
That's heard here, is the sea-bird's cry,
The mournful murmur of the surge,
The cloud's deep voice, the wind's low sigh.
1828.
[II. Stranger, there is bending o'er thee]
[_]
Written for the Obsequies of Dr. Gaspard Spurzheim, which were celebrated in the Old South Church, Boston, November 17th, 1832.
Stranger, there is bending o'er thee
Many an eye with sorrow wet;
All our stricken hearts deplore thee;
Who, that knew thee, can forget?
Who forget what thou hast spoken?
Who, thine eye,—thy noble frame?
But that golden bowl is broken,
In the greatness of thy fame.
Many an eye with sorrow wet;
All our stricken hearts deplore thee;
Who, that knew thee, can forget?
Who forget what thou hast spoken?
Who, thine eye,—thy noble frame?
But that golden bowl is broken,
In the greatness of thy fame.
217
Autumn's leaves shall fall and wither
On the spot where thou shalt rest;
'T is in love we bear thee thither,
To thy mourning Mother's breast.
For the stores of science brought us,
For the charm thy goodness gave
To the lessons thou hast taught us,
Can we give thee but a grave?
On the spot where thou shalt rest;
'T is in love we bear thee thither,
To thy mourning Mother's breast.
For the stores of science brought us,
For the charm thy goodness gave
To the lessons thou hast taught us,
Can we give thee but a grave?
Nature's priest, how pure and fervent
Was thy worship at her shrine!
Friend of man, of God the servant,
Advocate of truths divine,—
Taught and charmed as by no other
We have been, and hoped to be;
But, while waiting round thee, brother,
For thy light,—'t is dark with thee.
Was thy worship at her shrine!
Friend of man, of God the servant,
Advocate of truths divine,—
Taught and charmed as by no other
We have been, and hoped to be;
But, while waiting round thee, brother,
For thy light,—'t is dark with thee.
Dark with thee?—No; thy Creator,
All whose creatures and whose laws
Thou didst love, shall give thee greater
Light than earth's, as earth withdraws.
To thy God thy godlike spirit
Back we give, in filial trust;
Thy cold clay,—we grieve to bear it
To its chamber,—but we must.
All whose creatures and whose laws
Thou didst love, shall give thee greater
Light than earth's, as earth withdraws.
To thy God thy godlike spirit
Back we give, in filial trust;
Thy cold clay,—we grieve to bear it
To its chamber,—but we must.
218
III.
LINES ON THE DEATH OF MRS. F--- II---.
Dear sister! we were little girls
When we were standing by,
With eyes brim full of melting pearls,
To see our father die.
When we were standing by,
With eyes brim full of melting pearls,
To see our father die.
Round our wet cheeks the ringlets curled,
When last he kissed both of us;
And then we had not in the world
A parent left to love us.
When last he kissed both of us;
And then we had not in the world
A parent left to love us.
But, from that memorable day,
Have we not loved each other?
And have we not loved thee?—O say,
Dear mother of our mother!
Have we not loved each other?
And have we not loved thee?—O say,
Dear mother of our mother!
For, then it was thine arms were flung
Around the orphan girls,
And to thy bosom have we clung,
And thou hast combed our curls,
Around the orphan girls,
And to thy bosom have we clung,
And thou hast combed our curls,
And thou hast laid us in our bed,
And knelt in prayer above us.—
Blessings be on thine aged head!
It showed how thou didst love us.
And knelt in prayer above us.—
Blessings be on thine aged head!
It showed how thou didst love us.
219
Sister, when thou wast made a wife
And I was left her only,
I thought I never, in my life,
Could feel again so lonely.
And I was left her only,
I thought I never, in my life,
Could feel again so lonely.
Yet soon I learned to look upon
Thy husband as my brother;
And, O how bright that morning shone,
When I saw thee a mother!
Thy husband as my brother;
And, O how bright that morning shone,
When I saw thee a mother!
That was the last of all the suns
That will look bright to me;
The loved,—the lost,—the buried ones
Must now make room for thee!
That will look bright to me;
The loved,—the lost,—the buried ones
Must now make room for thee!
One more look, ere thou goest to rest!
And let me see thee so,—
Thine infant lying on thy breast,—
A rose-bud on the snow.
And let me see thee so,—
Thine infant lying on thy breast,—
A rose-bud on the snow.
It weeps,—my dear dead sister, now
Thou canst not hear its moan,—
One kiss upon this marble brow!
O now I am alone!
Thou canst not hear its moan,—
One kiss upon this marble brow!
O now I am alone!
1837.
220
IV.
HER CHOSEN SPOT.
[_]
She selected the place for her grave, in the new Cemetery at Worcester, while she felt herself sinking under the power of consumption. She was the first whose remains were laid in that beautiful resting-place of the dead.
While yet she lived, she walked alone
Among these shades. A voice divine
Whispered,—“This spot shall be thine own;
Here shall thy wasting form recline,
Beneath the shadow of this pine.”
Among these shades. A voice divine
Whispered,—“This spot shall be thine own;
Here shall thy wasting form recline,
Beneath the shadow of this pine.”
“Thy will be done!” the sufferer said.—
This spot was hallowed from that hour;
And, in her eyes, the evening's shade
And morning's dew this green spot made
More lovely than her bridal bower.
This spot was hallowed from that hour;
And, in her eyes, the evening's shade
And morning's dew this green spot made
More lovely than her bridal bower.
By the pale moon,—herself more pale
And spirit-like,—these walks she trod;
And, while no voice, from swell or vale,
Was heard, she knelt upon this sod
And gave her spirit back to God.
And spirit-like,—these walks she trod;
And, while no voice, from swell or vale,
Was heard, she knelt upon this sod
And gave her spirit back to God.
That spirit, with an angel's wings,
Went up from the young mother's bed.
So, heavenward, soars the lark and sings;—
She's lost to earth and earthly things;—
But “weep not, for she is not dead,
Went up from the young mother's bed.
So, heavenward, soars the lark and sings;—
She's lost to earth and earthly things;—
But “weep not, for she is not dead,
221
She sleepeth!”—Yea, she sleepeth here,
The first that in these grounds hath slept.
This grave, first watered with the tear
That child or widowed man hath wept,
Shall be by heavenly watchmen kept.
The first that in these grounds hath slept.
This grave, first watered with the tear
That child or widowed man hath wept,
Shall be by heavenly watchmen kept.
The babe that lay on her cold breast,—
A rose-bud, dropped on drifted snow,—
Its young hand in its father's pressed,
Shall learn that she, who first caressed
Its infant cheek, now sleeps below.
A rose-bud, dropped on drifted snow,—
Its young hand in its father's pressed,
Shall learn that she, who first caressed
Its infant cheek, now sleeps below.
And often shall he come alone,
When not a sound but evening's sigh
Is heard, and, bowing by the stone
That bears his mother's name, with none
But God and guardian angels nigh,
When not a sound but evening's sigh
Is heard, and, bowing by the stone
That bears his mother's name, with none
But God and guardian angels nigh,
Shall say,—“This was my mother's choice
For her own grave,—O, be it mine!
Even now, methinks, I hear her voice
Calling me hence, in the divine
And mournful whisper of this pine.”
For her own grave,—O, be it mine!
Even now, methinks, I hear her voice
Calling me hence, in the divine
And mournful whisper of this pine.”
1838.
222
V.
LYDIA.
[_]
Miss Lydia B. Gates, only daughter of Colonel William Gates, of the United States Army, died at Fort Columbus, Governor's Island, New York, February 28th, 1839, aged 19.
I saw her mother's eye of love
As gently on her rest,
As falls the light of evening's sun
Upon a lily's breast.
And the daughter to the mother raised
Her calm and loving eye,
As a lake, among its sheltering hills,
Looks upward to the sky.
As gently on her rest,
As falls the light of evening's sun
Upon a lily's breast.
And the daughter to the mother raised
Her calm and loving eye,
As a lake, among its sheltering hills,
Looks upward to the sky.
I've seen a swelling rose-bud hang
Upon its parent stem,
Just opening to the light, and graced
With many a dewy gem,
And, ere that bud had spread its leaves
And thrown its fragrance round,
I've seen it perish on its stem,
And drop upon the ground.
Upon its parent stem,
Just opening to the light, and graced
With many a dewy gem,
And, ere that bud had spread its leaves
And thrown its fragrance round,
I've seen it perish on its stem,
And drop upon the ground.
So, in her yet unfolding bloom,
Hath Lydia felt the blast;
A worm unseen hath done its work;—
To earth the bud is cast,
And on her lowly resting-place,—
As on the rose-bud's bed
Drops from the parent tree are showered,—
Her parents' tears are shed.
Hath Lydia felt the blast;
A worm unseen hath done its work;—
To earth the bud is cast,
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As on the rose-bud's bed
Drops from the parent tree are showered,—
Her parents' tears are shed.
And other eyes there are that loved
Upon that bud to rest;
There's one who long had hoped to wear
The rose upon his breast;
Who'd watched and waited lovingly
Till it was fully blown,
And who had e'en put forth his hand,
To pluck it as his own.
Upon that bud to rest;
There's one who long had hoped to wear
The rose upon his breast;
Who'd watched and waited lovingly
Till it was fully blown,
And who had e'en put forth his hand,
To pluck it as his own.
A stronger hand than his that flower
Hath gathered from its tree!
And borne it hence, in Paradise
To bloom immortally;
And all that breathe the fragrance there
That its young leaves exhale,
It shall remind of Sharon's rose,—
The lily of the vale.
Hath gathered from its tree!
And borne it hence, in Paradise
To bloom immortally;
And all that breathe the fragrance there
That its young leaves exhale,
It shall remind of Sharon's rose,—
The lily of the vale.
The soldier father have I seen
Suppress a struggling sigh,
And a tear, whene'er he spoke of her,
Stood trembling in his eye;—
No other daughter, in his arms,
Had ever slept, a child,
No other daughter, on his knee,
Had ever sat and smiled.
Suppress a struggling sigh,
And a tear, whene'er he spoke of her,
Stood trembling in his eye;—
No other daughter, in his arms,
Had ever slept, a child,
No other daughter, on his knee,
Had ever sat and smiled.
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And he was far away from her,
But for her had his fears,
And anxious thoughts, upon his brow,
Had left the stamp of years;
And now the grave hath, from his hand,
Received its sacred trust,
And father's, mother's, lover's tears
Have mingled with her dust.
But for her had his fears,
And anxious thoughts, upon his brow,
Had left the stamp of years;
And now the grave hath, from his hand,
Received its sacred trust,
And father's, mother's, lover's tears
Have mingled with her dust.
Peace to her dust! for, surely, peace
Her gentle spirit knows;
Around her narrow house, on earth,
The night wind sadly blows,
But heavenly airs, that through the trees
Of life for ever play,
Are breathing on her spirit's brow,
To dry her tears away.
Her gentle spirit knows;
Around her narrow house, on earth,
The night wind sadly blows,
But heavenly airs, that through the trees
Of life for ever play,
Are breathing on her spirit's brow,
To dry her tears away.
1839.
[VI. O, not for thee we weep;—we weep]
[_]
Written for the Funeral Service in Commemoration of the Life and Character of Charles Follen, before the Massachussetts Anti-Slavery Society, April 17th, 1840.
O, not for thee we weep;—we weep
For her, whose lone and long caress,
And widow's tears, from fountains deep,
Fall on the early fatherless.
For her, whose lone and long caress,
And widow's tears, from fountains deep,
Fall on the early fatherless.
225
'T is for ourselves we mourn;—we mourn
Our blighted hopes, our wishes crossed,
Thy strength, that hath our burdens borne,
Thy love, thy smile, thy counsels lost.
Our blighted hopes, our wishes crossed,
Thy strength, that hath our burdens borne,
Thy love, thy smile, thy counsels lost.
'T is for the slave we sigh;—we sigh
To think thou sleepest on a shore
Where thy calm voice and beaming eye
Shall plead the bondman's cause no more.
To think thou sleepest on a shore
Where thy calm voice and beaming eye
Shall plead the bondman's cause no more.
'T is for our land we grieve;—we grieve
That Freedom's fane, Devotion's shrine,
And Faith's fresh altar, thou shouldst leave,
And they all lose a soul like thine.
That Freedom's fane, Devotion's shrine,
And Faith's fresh altar, thou shouldst leave,
And they all lose a soul like thine.
A soul like thine,—so true a soul,
Wife, friends, our land, the world, must miss;
The waters o'er thy corse may roll,—
But thy pure spirit is in bliss.
Wife, friends, our land, the world, must miss;
The waters o'er thy corse may roll,—
But thy pure spirit is in bliss.
VIII
A SISTER'S THOUGHTS OVER A BROTHER'S GRAVE.
He sleeps in peace! Death's cold eclipse
His radiant eyes hath shrouded o'er,
And slander's poison, from the lips
Of woman, on his heart no more
Distils, and burns it to its core.
His radiant eyes hath shrouded o'er,
And slander's poison, from the lips
Of woman, on his heart no more
Distils, and burns it to its core.
226
He sleeps in peace! The noble spirit
That beamed forth from his living brow,
Prompt, at the shrine of real merit,
With reverence and with truth to bow,
Is, by false tongues, not troubled now.
That beamed forth from his living brow,
Prompt, at the shrine of real merit,
With reverence and with truth to bow,
Is, by false tongues, not troubled now.
He sleeps in peace! And, while he sleeps,
He dreams not of earth's loves or strifes;
The tears a sister for him weeps,—
He knows not that they 're not his wife's!
His thoughts are all another life's.
He dreams not of earth's loves or strifes;
The tears a sister for him weeps,—
He knows not that they 're not his wife's!
His thoughts are all another life's.
I hope he knows not that the hand
Once given to him is now another's;
I know, the flame that once it fanned
Had all gone out. I know my brother's
Last thoughts were of my love and mother's.
Once given to him is now another's;
I know, the flame that once it fanned
Had all gone out. I know my brother's
Last thoughts were of my love and mother's.
I hope he knows not that his child
Hears not nor knows its father's name.
Keep its young spirit undefiled
And worthy of its father's fame,
O Thou, from whom its spirit came!
Hears not nor knows its father's name.
Keep its young spirit undefiled
And worthy of its father's fame,
O Thou, from whom its spirit came!
Thou Father of the fatherless,
The mantle that my brother wore,—
The robe of truth and faithfulness,—
Keep, for his infant, in thy store;
My brother hath left nothing more!
The mantle that my brother wore,—
The robe of truth and faithfulness,—
Keep, for his infant, in thy store;
My brother hath left nothing more!
227
That mantle!—men had seen him throw
It amply round him ere it fell!
Peace, brother, 't is as white as snow;
No one of all on earth that dwell
Can stain what once became thee well.
It amply round him ere it fell!
Peace, brother, 't is as white as snow;
No one of all on earth that dwell
Can stain what once became thee well.
In peace thou sleepest;—through the bars
Of its dim cell thy spirit fled;
And now thy sister and the stars
Their tears of dew and pity shed,
Heart-broken brother, on thy bed.
Of its dim cell thy spirit fled;
And now thy sister and the stars
Their tears of dew and pity shed,
Heart-broken brother, on thy bed.
1840.
VIII.
MY FATHER, MOTHER, BROTHERS, SISTERS.
They are all gone, but one.—
A daughter and a son
Were, from my parents, early taken away;
And my own childhood's joy
Was darkened when, a boy,
I saw them, in their coffins as they lay.
A daughter and a son
Were, from my parents, early taken away;
And my own childhood's joy
Was darkened when, a boy,
I saw them, in their coffins as they lay.
To manhood had I grown;
And children of my own
Were gathering round me, when my mother died.
I saw not her cold clay,
When it was borne away
And buried by her little children's side,
And children of my own
Were gathering round me, when my mother died.
I saw not her cold clay,
When it was borne away
And buried by her little children's side,
228
Beneath the now green sod.—
She led me first to God;
Her words and prayers were my young spirit's dew.
For, when she used to leave
The fireside, every eve,
I knew it was for prayer that she withdrew.
She led me first to God;
Her words and prayers were my young spirit's dew.
For, when she used to leave
The fireside, every eve,
I knew it was for prayer that she withdrew.
That dew, that blessed my youth,—
Her holy love, her truth,
Her spirit of devotion, and the tears
That she could not suppress,—
Hath never ceased to bless
My soul, nor will it, through eternal years.
Her holy love, her truth,
Her spirit of devotion, and the tears
That she could not suppress,—
Hath never ceased to bless
My soul, nor will it, through eternal years.
How often has the thought
Of my mourned mother brought
Peace to my troubled spirit, and new power
The tempter to repel!
Mother, thou knowest well
That thou hast blessed me since thy mortal hour!
Of my mourned mother brought
Peace to my troubled spirit, and new power
The tempter to repel!
Mother, thou knowest well
That thou hast blessed me since thy mortal hour!
Two younger sisters then,
Both wives of worthy men,
After each one of them had been a mother,
Were touched by the cold hand,
And to the spirit-land,
In quick succession, followed one the other.
Both wives of worthy men,
After each one of them had been a mother,
Were touched by the cold hand,
And to the spirit-land,
In quick succession, followed one the other.
229
To neither could I speak;
Nor, on the marble cheek
Of either, drop a mourning brother's tear.—
The husband of the one,
The other's only son,
Have since been borne away upon the bier.
Nor, on the marble cheek
Of either, drop a mourning brother's tear.—
The husband of the one,
The other's only son,
Have since been borne away upon the bier.
Lake Erie's waters cold
Over a brother rolled:
The day was bright; the lake scarce felt a breeze;
While I have yet been spared,
Though dangers I have dared,
Storms, rocks, and pirates in the Grecian seas.
Over a brother rolled:
The day was bright; the lake scarce felt a breeze;
While I have yet been spared,
Though dangers I have dared,
Storms, rocks, and pirates in the Grecian seas.
Dear brother! in my dreams
Thy floating body seems
To lift its hand, and my poor aid implore!
I'm wakened by my weeping,
And know that thou art sleeping
In thy lone grave, on low Sandusky's shore.
Thy floating body seems
To lift its hand, and my poor aid implore!
I'm wakened by my weeping,
And know that thou art sleeping
In thy lone grave, on low Sandusky's shore.
I had one brother more,
The last my mother bore;
He was a boy when forth I went to roam.
He delved upon the farm;
Our father's aged arm
Leaned upon him,—his hope, his prop,—at home.
The last my mother bore;
He was a boy when forth I went to roam.
He delved upon the farm;
Our father's aged arm
Leaned upon him,—his hope, his prop,—at home.
230
He sunk beneath the weight
Of manly cares. A great
And growing name he left for strength and worth.
'T was but five months ago!
My father felt the blow,
And now he, too, has passed away from earth.
Of manly cares. A great
And growing name he left for strength and worth.
'T was but five months ago!
My father felt the blow,
And now he, too, has passed away from earth.
O, could I but have heard
One parting, blessing word
From all these dying loved ones! But the pall,
Unseen by me, was thrown,
And the green turf hath grown,
Wet by no tear of mine, over them all;—
One parting, blessing word
From all these dying loved ones! But the pall,
Unseen by me, was thrown,
And the green turf hath grown,
Wet by no tear of mine, over them all;—
All, but the last:—thank God!
Before the heavy clod
Fell on his coffin, to its side I drew;
And, though the thin, white hair
Lay, like the hoar frost, there,
My hand his forehead pressed, that felt like freezing dew.
Before the heavy clod
Fell on his coffin, to its side I drew;
And, though the thin, white hair
Lay, like the hoar frost, there,
My hand his forehead pressed, that felt like freezing dew.
It had been marked with care,
It had been bowed in prayer,
For many a year ere death upon it stole.
O'er it I bent alone.
'T was love's forsaken throne,
And its death chill went to my very soul!
It had been bowed in prayer,
For many a year ere death upon it stole.
O'er it I bent alone.
'T was love's forsaken throne,
And its death chill went to my very soul!
231
Of all am I bereft!
Only one sister left,—
A weeping willow, that to many a blast
Hath bowed her slender form.—
O God, hold back the storm
That thou shalt send to break her down, at last!
Only one sister left,—
A weeping willow, that to many a blast
Hath bowed her slender form.—
O God, hold back the storm
That thou shalt send to break her down, at last!
Father, to thee I bow!
In very love hast thou
Thy children summoned from earth's toils and tears.
Uphold me by thy strength,
Until I join, at length,
The friends thou gavest to my earliest years.
In very love hast thou
Thy children summoned from earth's toils and tears.
Uphold me by thy strength,
Until I join, at length,
The friends thou gavest to my earliest years.
1840.
| Airs of Palestine, and other poems | |