 | The miscellaneous writings of Henry Ware |  |
345
MY DREAM OF LIFE.
346
HIS BIRTHPLACE.
There is the spot! My memory has a spell
Which clothes it with ten thousand charms, unseen
By other eyes, by other hearts unfelt.
The low, white house, whose far-retreating roof
Turned two front stories into one behind;
The green-capped picket-fence; the gay front yard,
Skirted with rose and lilach; here the plat
Of grass, divided by the gravelled walk,
And shaded by the spreading apple-tree;
There, the neat garden, more for use than show,
Bordered with box, with gaudy holly-hocks gay,
And crowded with th' unsightly forms of things
The palate loves, the tasteful eye disdains.
Beyond, the orchard flung its fruitful arms,
And stretched its thirsty roots along the bank
Of that fair pond, which lies 'mid gentle slopes
And fertile meadows, like a lovely babe
Upon its mother's bosom,—now at rest
In tranquil beauty; now all smiles and charms,
Now, in capricious passion, wild and fierce.
Lake of my youth! I love thy flowery shores—
Thy buoyant waters more—for they have tossed
My wayward skiff through many a playful hour,
When dancing ripples sparkled to the sun—
And murmured round my moonlight bark, that seemed
A floating paradise of youth and love—
And lent their marble surface to my flight,
When my steeled foot would emulate the winds,
Or when, descending from the headlong steep,
Breathless I dashed through drifting snow, that flew
Like dust about my path, and furious plunged
Across the solid flood. O, those were days
Whose memory warms the blood, and makes instinct
With life and soul the whole surrounding scene.
Nought meets the eye but wakens in my heart
Old thoughts that make it throb. The very earth
Possesses conscious life, and every tree
Tells its own tale, and asks a smile or tear.
There stands the ancient elm, whose giant growth
My boyish eyes admired, and on whose boughs,
Adventurous, I would rock myself, and swing
Above the carriage path, and shout to catch
Th' applauding eye of passengers below.
It shadows with its venerable arms
The simple dwelling where I had my birth.
How dear is every room beneath that roof!
There we assembled at the cheerful meal,
And asked Heaven's blessing on a band of love.
There the gay circle, on a winter's eve,
Gathered about the lavish blaze, and pressed
Within the chimney's ample range, to catch
The tales of wonder childhood loves to hear,
And age delights to tell. There stood my bed;
There I lay waiting for a mother's kiss,
And soft good night; then, breathless, sought to catch
Her last faint footstep as she slow retired;
Then drew the blanket o'er my face, and slept.
Time, in its lengthened flight, has wrought such change,
That hardly could I recognize those walls;
But that sweet evening kiss, I feel it now;
I hear that soft good-night, that parting step
Still faintly fall upon my waiting ear.
The past comes thick around me—faded shapes,
But beautiful, of all that once have been,
And are no more. I sit beside the hearth,
And weep at scenes that once were only joy.
Which clothes it with ten thousand charms, unseen
By other eyes, by other hearts unfelt.
The low, white house, whose far-retreating roof
Turned two front stories into one behind;
The green-capped picket-fence; the gay front yard,
Skirted with rose and lilach; here the plat
Of grass, divided by the gravelled walk,
And shaded by the spreading apple-tree;
There, the neat garden, more for use than show,
Bordered with box, with gaudy holly-hocks gay,
And crowded with th' unsightly forms of things
The palate loves, the tasteful eye disdains.
Beyond, the orchard flung its fruitful arms,
And stretched its thirsty roots along the bank
Of that fair pond, which lies 'mid gentle slopes
And fertile meadows, like a lovely babe
Upon its mother's bosom,—now at rest
In tranquil beauty; now all smiles and charms,
Now, in capricious passion, wild and fierce.
Lake of my youth! I love thy flowery shores—
Thy buoyant waters more—for they have tossed
My wayward skiff through many a playful hour,
When dancing ripples sparkled to the sun—
And murmured round my moonlight bark, that seemed
A floating paradise of youth and love—
And lent their marble surface to my flight,
When my steeled foot would emulate the winds,
Or when, descending from the headlong steep,
347
Like dust about my path, and furious plunged
Across the solid flood. O, those were days
Whose memory warms the blood, and makes instinct
With life and soul the whole surrounding scene.
Nought meets the eye but wakens in my heart
Old thoughts that make it throb. The very earth
Possesses conscious life, and every tree
Tells its own tale, and asks a smile or tear.
There stands the ancient elm, whose giant growth
My boyish eyes admired, and on whose boughs,
Adventurous, I would rock myself, and swing
Above the carriage path, and shout to catch
Th' applauding eye of passengers below.
It shadows with its venerable arms
The simple dwelling where I had my birth.
How dear is every room beneath that roof!
There we assembled at the cheerful meal,
And asked Heaven's blessing on a band of love.
There the gay circle, on a winter's eve,
Gathered about the lavish blaze, and pressed
Within the chimney's ample range, to catch
The tales of wonder childhood loves to hear,
And age delights to tell. There stood my bed;
There I lay waiting for a mother's kiss,
And soft good night; then, breathless, sought to catch
Her last faint footstep as she slow retired;
Then drew the blanket o'er my face, and slept.
Time, in its lengthened flight, has wrought such change,
That hardly could I recognize those walls;
But that sweet evening kiss, I feel it now;
I hear that soft good-night, that parting step
348
The past comes thick around me—faded shapes,
But beautiful, of all that once have been,
And are no more. I sit beside the hearth,
And weep at scenes that once were only joy.
O, what is tender like a mother's love?
And what can pay its loss? To her I looked
To cheer and guide me in the fearful way
That leads through toil and peril into life;
And trusted then, when strength and wealth were mine,
To rock the cradle of her fading age,
As she had soothed the infancy of mine.
But Heaven refused the boon. There is a grief
Severe with double anguish; when the heart
Sinks burdened with a present woe, and waits
For darker evils hastening in its train.
Such grief was ours. . . . . .
And what can pay its loss? To her I looked
To cheer and guide me in the fearful way
That leads through toil and peril into life;
And trusted then, when strength and wealth were mine,
To rock the cradle of her fading age,
As she had soothed the infancy of mine.
But Heaven refused the boon. There is a grief
Severe with double anguish; when the heart
Sinks burdened with a present woe, and waits
For darker evils hastening in its train.
Such grief was ours. . . . . .
What darkness followed then!
It settled down upon the present scene
In thick dismay, and on the future cast
An ominous shade, involving earth, and life,
And hope. The sacred light of home was dimmed.
The tender smile, the voice of patient love,
The anxious counsel, the directing eye,
Cheered the sad pathway of my youth no more.
The shadow settled on my heart. The world
Had other lights, but none to fill that void;
And friends, but none that wore a mother's heart.
It settled down upon the present scene
In thick dismay, and on the future cast
An ominous shade, involving earth, and life,
And hope. The sacred light of home was dimmed.
The tender smile, the voice of patient love,
The anxious counsel, the directing eye,
Cheered the sad pathway of my youth no more.
The shadow settled on my heart. The world
Had other lights, but none to fill that void;
And friends, but none that wore a mother's heart.
349
IMPRESSIONS ON ENTERING COLLEGE. PORTRAIT OF HIS EARLY FRIEND, JOHN E. ABBOT.
Thus months rolled on, and academic halls
Received me to their venerable shade.
What awe befell me, when beneath my foot
Echoed those walks and chambers, consecrate
To mind, and hallowed by the memory
Of older times, and memorable men!
There roamed the bashful rustic, friendless, lone,
Unnoticed. Every form that crossed his path
Was new, and each to his enthusiast eye
His far superior. These were sons of light,
Favorites of Science, votaries of the Muse,
For whom the laurel puts its honors forth,
And Fame prepares her pedestal, and Earth
Waits with her myriads through all future years
To take instruction from their reverend lips.
He shrunk aside,—for what, alas! was he,
Amid the throng of Learning's hopeful sons?
His spirit sickened, and the thought of home,
Where he was cherished, and could feel himself
To that recluse and unambitious walk
Not all inadequate, weighed on his frame.
He panted to return—longed to resign
His hope of lettered honors—and repose,
Not all alone, upon the hearth he loved.
Received me to their venerable shade.
What awe befell me, when beneath my foot
Echoed those walks and chambers, consecrate
To mind, and hallowed by the memory
Of older times, and memorable men!
There roamed the bashful rustic, friendless, lone,
Unnoticed. Every form that crossed his path
Was new, and each to his enthusiast eye
His far superior. These were sons of light,
Favorites of Science, votaries of the Muse,
For whom the laurel puts its honors forth,
And Fame prepares her pedestal, and Earth
Waits with her myriads through all future years
To take instruction from their reverend lips.
He shrunk aside,—for what, alas! was he,
Amid the throng of Learning's hopeful sons?
His spirit sickened, and the thought of home,
Where he was cherished, and could feel himself
To that recluse and unambitious walk
Not all inadequate, weighed on his frame.
He panted to return—longed to resign
His hope of lettered honors—and repose,
Not all alone, upon the hearth he loved.
Then—like an angel who can read the soul,
Appointed to come down and cheer the weak—
The generous, the devoted Reginald,
My elder, my superior, but through love
And lowly self-abandonment my friend,
Beheld me droop, interpreted my thought,
Read the deep trouble of my wandering eye,
And knew the language of my hectic cheek.
He spoke to me—he drew my arm in his—
With cheerful tones encouraged me—revived
My palsied energy—breathed hope, life, strength,
And emulation; with a brother's arm,
And love like that a gentle sister feels,
He led me onward, now no more alone.
How blest the passage of those halcyon days,
When mind with mind communed, and heart with heart,
As, freed from care, in learning's shady walks,
We culled the idle fancies of the hour;
Or, in our higher moments, talked of truth,
Of science, virtue, and philosophy—
The powers of nature and the soul—the world's
Strange history—man's illustrious works
And wayward fate! Then all the ages past
Came in review to help us prophesy
Of those to come, and judge of that which is.
These were rich hours. We had them not alone.
The sages of all time were summoned up
To talk with us, and thoughts grew large,
And manhood swelled within us as we drank
Their glorious accents in. And thence we turned
To watch the dawn of an Augustan age
Opening around us, destined to outshine
The Roman glory. Quick our bosoms throbbed,
And with keen eyes we traced the rising light,
And ardently foretold the coming day.
Earth heaved with the commotion—nations groaned;
Mind sprang to life and exercise—the bounds
Of ancient knowledge every where gave way—
New truths, new lights, new wonders grew and spread;
And from the very horrors of the field,
Which teemed with blood and crime, leaped forth to life
The science that adorns, the arts that bless.
Genius awoke in every land; a voice,
Loud as the cry which from the cloisters rang,
And armed all Europe for the sacred war,
Spoke to the earnest heart of generous youth,
And bade them join this new crusade for man.
We heard the voice—our bosoms gave response.
We spoke strong words of gratulation deep,
That we were born to witness and partake
The high excitement of the teeming age.
We longed to know the issue of events,
And what this toiling energy of mind,
With Heaven co-working, should bring forth to bless
The waiting earth. How glowed our prophet words!
How eagerly we sketched our plans! How pure,
How large, benevolent, and resolute,
The track of useful glory he portrayed!
And with enthusiast eye, and thrilling voice,
That trembled with the emotion of the soul,
He breathed his hopes aloud, and none could doubt,
Who heard him pour his burning spirit forth,
That he had will to make his visions truth,
And only death could rob him of the power.
Appointed to come down and cheer the weak—
The generous, the devoted Reginald,
My elder, my superior, but through love
And lowly self-abandonment my friend,
350
Read the deep trouble of my wandering eye,
And knew the language of my hectic cheek.
He spoke to me—he drew my arm in his—
With cheerful tones encouraged me—revived
My palsied energy—breathed hope, life, strength,
And emulation; with a brother's arm,
And love like that a gentle sister feels,
He led me onward, now no more alone.
How blest the passage of those halcyon days,
When mind with mind communed, and heart with heart,
As, freed from care, in learning's shady walks,
We culled the idle fancies of the hour;
Or, in our higher moments, talked of truth,
Of science, virtue, and philosophy—
The powers of nature and the soul—the world's
Strange history—man's illustrious works
And wayward fate! Then all the ages past
Came in review to help us prophesy
Of those to come, and judge of that which is.
These were rich hours. We had them not alone.
The sages of all time were summoned up
To talk with us, and thoughts grew large,
And manhood swelled within us as we drank
Their glorious accents in. And thence we turned
To watch the dawn of an Augustan age
Opening around us, destined to outshine
The Roman glory. Quick our bosoms throbbed,
And with keen eyes we traced the rising light,
And ardently foretold the coming day.
Earth heaved with the commotion—nations groaned;
Mind sprang to life and exercise—the bounds
Of ancient knowledge every where gave way—
351
And from the very horrors of the field,
Which teemed with blood and crime, leaped forth to life
The science that adorns, the arts that bless.
Genius awoke in every land; a voice,
Loud as the cry which from the cloisters rang,
And armed all Europe for the sacred war,
Spoke to the earnest heart of generous youth,
And bade them join this new crusade for man.
We heard the voice—our bosoms gave response.
We spoke strong words of gratulation deep,
That we were born to witness and partake
The high excitement of the teeming age.
We longed to know the issue of events,
And what this toiling energy of mind,
With Heaven co-working, should bring forth to bless
The waiting earth. How glowed our prophet words!
How eagerly we sketched our plans! How pure,
How large, benevolent, and resolute,
The track of useful glory he portrayed!
And with enthusiast eye, and thrilling voice,
That trembled with the emotion of the soul,
He breathed his hopes aloud, and none could doubt,
Who heard him pour his burning spirit forth,
That he had will to make his visions truth,
And only death could rob him of the power.
I had not thought him mortal. For he seemed
So fitted for some chosen work on earth,
That, in my rash fatuity, I thought,
God cannot spare him from this suffering sphere;
Life shall be long to him, and crowned at length,
In the calm evening of a gray old age,
With heaven's bright chaplet of successful toil,
And earth's of reverend honor. So I dreamed;
And all my future projects, plans, and hopes
Twined with his presence. . . . . . .
So fitted for some chosen work on earth,
That, in my rash fatuity, I thought,
God cannot spare him from this suffering sphere;
Life shall be long to him, and crowned at length,
In the calm evening of a gray old age,
With heaven's bright chaplet of successful toil,
352
And all my future projects, plans, and hopes
Twined with his presence. . . . . . .
Tell me, you that can,
The colored language that shall paint his soul.
Give me the words, that I may draw him true,
And lovely as he was to those he loved.
Gentleness sat upon his even brow,
And from his eye beamed meek benignity;
While its peculiar, almost tearful gaze,
Went to the soul of all it fell upon.
If we might think some spirit, purified
From evil stains, robed once again in flesh,
And sent on messages of love to men,
Such we might deem my friend; so pure; so calm;
So unregardful of the petty cares
And small impertinences that annoy
All other men; so thoughtless of himself;
So bent on others' good; so seemingly
Unconscious of the tempting things of earth,
And musing ever on some purer scenes.
How quietly, yet forcibly, he stood!
Humble, yet bold; not eloquent, indeed,
But something better; winning, clear, and sweet;
Where his fond flock looked up to hear and learn.
No thunder from his voice, and from his eye
No lightning; but the gentle breath of spring
Recalling flowers to life,—the summer shower
Softly refreshing the luxuriant herb,—
The placid sun, whose penetrating beams,
Steadfast and gradual, lead the season on,—
The quiet dew, that nourishes unseen,—
These are the holy images that tell
The style and efficacy of his work;
While from the sacred rostrum he came down
To cheer the humble, and reclaim the bad,
And as a friend, from house to house to spread
Improvement, consolation, joy, reproof,
And turn his parish walks to walks of heaven.
The colored language that shall paint his soul.
Give me the words, that I may draw him true,
And lovely as he was to those he loved.
Gentleness sat upon his even brow,
And from his eye beamed meek benignity;
While its peculiar, almost tearful gaze,
Went to the soul of all it fell upon.
If we might think some spirit, purified
From evil stains, robed once again in flesh,
And sent on messages of love to men,
Such we might deem my friend; so pure; so calm;
So unregardful of the petty cares
And small impertinences that annoy
All other men; so thoughtless of himself;
So bent on others' good; so seemingly
Unconscious of the tempting things of earth,
And musing ever on some purer scenes.
How quietly, yet forcibly, he stood!
Humble, yet bold; not eloquent, indeed,
But something better; winning, clear, and sweet;
Where his fond flock looked up to hear and learn.
No thunder from his voice, and from his eye
No lightning; but the gentle breath of spring
Recalling flowers to life,—the summer shower
Softly refreshing the luxuriant herb,—
The placid sun, whose penetrating beams,
Steadfast and gradual, lead the season on,—
The quiet dew, that nourishes unseen,—
These are the holy images that tell
353
While from the sacred rostrum he came down
To cheer the humble, and reclaim the bad,
And as a friend, from house to house to spread
Improvement, consolation, joy, reproof,
And turn his parish walks to walks of heaven.
What was my joy to sit beneath his voice,
To witness the intense, devoted love
Which bound his people to him, hear their words,
And see their tears of gratitude and praise,
And watch the growth of goodness from his toil!
O Heaven! that I should see it all, and live
To see its end, its mournful end so soon!
A few short months in manhood's early prime,
He labored, faltered;—and my broken heart
Felt that yon grave had buried in its womb
The strongest tie that bound me to the world.
To witness the intense, devoted love
Which bound his people to him, hear their words,
And see their tears of gratitude and praise,
And watch the growth of goodness from his toil!
O Heaven! that I should see it all, and live
To see its end, its mournful end so soon!
A few short months in manhood's early prime,
He labored, faltered;—and my broken heart
Felt that yon grave had buried in its womb
The strongest tie that bound me to the world.
So pass the friendships of this earth away;
So shades and sorrows fall upon the path
That beamed the brightest. But the shades of grief
Rest not forever on the darkened soul;
Time gently scatters them; and deathless hope
Throws back the curtain of the fearful tomb,
And shows its tenants robed in radiant day.
The heart no more is troubled; anchored fast
On this strong hope, it sits in peace,
Serenely waiting—wisdom harshly learned,
Perchance, but needful, known in words to all,
But husbanded and real to the few,
Who, willingly submissive, at the feet
Of stern affliction sit. And blessed are they
Who bear that sweet serenity of mind
Taught by the consciousness that every good
Of earth is fleeting, save the one high worth,
Which, being kindred to the worth of heaven,
Partakes its immortality, and glows
Brighter and better when all else decays.
These ne'er shall know with hopeless pang to mourn
A true friend's loss. Hope triumphs; dust and death
Sever them not; for earth, to them, and heaven
Are one; and in communion of the soul,
In all that truly makes th' immortal mind,
In thoughts, affections, wishes, they are joined
Inseparably; till hoary Time, at length,
The great restorer, lifts his awful veil,
And ushers them to glory, face to face.
So shades and sorrows fall upon the path
That beamed the brightest. But the shades of grief
Rest not forever on the darkened soul;
Time gently scatters them; and deathless hope
Throws back the curtain of the fearful tomb,
And shows its tenants robed in radiant day.
The heart no more is troubled; anchored fast
On this strong hope, it sits in peace,
Serenely waiting—wisdom harshly learned,
Perchance, but needful, known in words to all,
But husbanded and real to the few,
Who, willingly submissive, at the feet
Of stern affliction sit. And blessed are they
Who bear that sweet serenity of mind
Taught by the consciousness that every good
354
Which, being kindred to the worth of heaven,
Partakes its immortality, and glows
Brighter and better when all else decays.
These ne'er shall know with hopeless pang to mourn
A true friend's loss. Hope triumphs; dust and death
Sever them not; for earth, to them, and heaven
Are one; and in communion of the soul,
In all that truly makes th' immortal mind,
In thoughts, affections, wishes, they are joined
Inseparably; till hoary Time, at length,
The great restorer, lifts his awful veil,
And ushers them to glory, face to face.
A SISTER'S LOVE.
A sister's love! I dwell upon the theme—
The only love on earth to which the earth
Has given no taint of self-regardful care.
In even the mother's breast, a selfish fear
Throbs with the pulse of pure maternal joy,
And her own image mingles with the scene
Which Hope makes radiant with her boy's renown.
But in a sister's breast affection lives,
All pure, unselfish, looking but to him.
The only love on earth to which the earth
Has given no taint of self-regardful care.
In even the mother's breast, a selfish fear
Throbs with the pulse of pure maternal joy,
And her own image mingles with the scene
Which Hope makes radiant with her boy's renown.
But in a sister's breast affection lives,
All pure, unselfish, looking but to him.
Angel for angel glows with such regard,
Thus whole, deep, self-forgetting. Bowers of heaven
Witness it in the cherubs' changeless loves;
Earth sees it in a sister's heart alone.
Devoted, passionless, unwearied—strong
To bear, exhaustless in its sympathy—
True in all change—unchilled by coldness. Scorn,
Neglect, and rudeness such as man's poor pride
Sometimes returns for all the gentle cares
And sacrifice of sisterly regard,—
These never move her. Patient to the last,
She watches through an unrewarded life,
And smooths the pillow of ungrateful death.
But when the brother knows and owns her worth,
Tell me, what fellowship on earth like theirs?
See what a radiance glows upon their path!
Such as thy hand has drawn, illustrious bard,
In Jane de Montfort—image unapproached
Of noble tenderness—or such as stood
In tears and woe at Korner's early tomb;
Or sat, through days of waywardness and love,
By Elia's side, to cheer a languid hope,
And soothe th' unequal pilgrimage of pain.
And always thus—beneath a thousand roofs,
It toils, waits, watches, and imparts a hue
Of holiest heaven to low humanity.
Thus whole, deep, self-forgetting. Bowers of heaven
Witness it in the cherubs' changeless loves;
Earth sees it in a sister's heart alone.
Devoted, passionless, unwearied—strong
To bear, exhaustless in its sympathy—
355
Neglect, and rudeness such as man's poor pride
Sometimes returns for all the gentle cares
And sacrifice of sisterly regard,—
These never move her. Patient to the last,
She watches through an unrewarded life,
And smooths the pillow of ungrateful death.
But when the brother knows and owns her worth,
Tell me, what fellowship on earth like theirs?
See what a radiance glows upon their path!
Such as thy hand has drawn, illustrious bard,
In Jane de Montfort—image unapproached
Of noble tenderness—or such as stood
In tears and woe at Korner's early tomb;
Or sat, through days of waywardness and love,
By Elia's side, to cheer a languid hope,
And soothe th' unequal pilgrimage of pain.
And always thus—beneath a thousand roofs,
It toils, waits, watches, and imparts a hue
Of holiest heaven to low humanity.
THE OLD ELM.
Graceful and vigorous to the last, thine armsStill stretching forth their broad, protecting shade,
With wooing invitation, and thy leaves
Smiling and whispering peace,—so dost thou wait
With patient gentleness the slow decay
That bears thee to the dust. I bless thee, friend,
Companion, teacher. Many are the joys
And much the wisdom I have drawn from thee
356
In childhood's sport and manhood's thoughtfulness;
And now, upon thy venerable form,
Which years have shattered, my enfeebled eyes,
Which years have dimmed, I rest,—and gather in
Lessons of strength and peace to cheer life's slow decline.
[OMITTED]
There the bright oriole built his airy home,
Pendent from slender bough, beyond the hope
Of truant boy. In safety there his brood,
Rocked by the varying winds, enjoyed repose.
Gay, brilliant creature; hidden 'mid the leaves,
Silent, or shouting forth his rich, free note;
And now from bough to bough flitting along,
Just seen by glimpses, like a bright-red flash
Stealthily gleaming from the ragged clouds:—
Or redbreast, at the twilight close of day,
Pouring out happiness in cheerful tones
Of clear, strong melody. [OMITTED]
Or watch the swallows—while on busy wing,
Now mounting high in frolic play, and now
Skimming with level sweep the grassy plain,
Or pool's smooth surface; chattering now
In congregated crowds upon the roof,
Or darting in and out the ancient barn,
With notes of glee and motions of delight,
That made me long to join their gladsome sport,
On buoyant wings like theirs;—and now retired
Apart from crowd and song, and gliding soft
On silent pinions poised, as if to muse
In meditative wisdom, and restore
The sober balance of a thoughtful mind.
357
AMBITION.
Like the fierce war-horse on the battle's verge,
That sees the tumult and the fire, and pants
To be a sharer in the crimson strife,—
Youth stands upon the threshold of the world:
It sees the stir and struggle; courts a share,
Impatient, in the manly enterprise,
And burns to wreck its buoyancy of mind
And body in some province of the field
Where action would be glory. Health and hope
Fill every vein with fire, and urge the charge.
It cannot bear to be the thing it is,
Nor suffer other men to be so—thinks
All might be better, and resolves they shall.
Then, in the deep recesses of its breast,
Muses, and plans, and builds its vast designs,
Like the prophetic architect, who sees
The purposed fabric ere its columns rise,
And feeds in prospect on its future fame.
Or moved, it may be, with less generous aim,
The young adventurer for greatness pants;
And, cheated by that most perverted word,
Plots mischief, rides on ruin's wing, extends
The empire of his name, and lives on blood,
The vampyre of his age.—'Tis from these dreams
Of passionate youth the germ has sprung to life
That ripened into Cæsars. Praise to God,
Who baffles human madness as he will,
That schemes of such ambitious wickedness
So often fall, like bad, untimely fruit,
Blasted in early budding! But, alas!
A countless progeny of good resolves
Dies also in the flower,—whose ripened fruit
Exulting earth would hail, and heaven reward.
That sees the tumult and the fire, and pants
To be a sharer in the crimson strife,—
Youth stands upon the threshold of the world:
It sees the stir and struggle; courts a share,
Impatient, in the manly enterprise,
And burns to wreck its buoyancy of mind
And body in some province of the field
Where action would be glory. Health and hope
Fill every vein with fire, and urge the charge.
It cannot bear to be the thing it is,
Nor suffer other men to be so—thinks
All might be better, and resolves they shall.
Then, in the deep recesses of its breast,
Muses, and plans, and builds its vast designs,
Like the prophetic architect, who sees
The purposed fabric ere its columns rise,
And feeds in prospect on its future fame.
Or moved, it may be, with less generous aim,
The young adventurer for greatness pants;
And, cheated by that most perverted word,
Plots mischief, rides on ruin's wing, extends
The empire of his name, and lives on blood,
The vampyre of his age.—'Tis from these dreams
Of passionate youth the germ has sprung to life
That ripened into Cæsars. Praise to God,
Who baffles human madness as he will,
That schemes of such ambitious wickedness
So often fall, like bad, untimely fruit,
Blasted in early budding! But, alas!
358
Dies also in the flower,—whose ripened fruit
Exulting earth would hail, and heaven reward.
The pathway of my youth is strewed with wrecks
Of noble plans o'erthrown; and as I stray
Among the ruins, melancholy fills
My sad, regretful spirit. Not in Rome,
Nor glorious Athens, nor the older world
Entombed beside the Nile, the wanderer finds
More fruitful themes for curious, pensive thought
And meditative wisdom, than are given
By the strewed remnants of those brilliant schemes,
Those wasted day-dreams of magnificence,
Which built their splendid structures in my brain,
And rose and fell like visions of the night;—
Some proud and selfish, like that prodigal
Extent of stone and gold which Rome's bad lord
Reared on the Palatine—the wonder, shame,
And folly of the age—the monument of lust
Which preyed on others, and of pride which scoffed
At man, and virtue, justice, truth, and Heaven;—
Some pure and generous, like those huge-arched piles
Which stretch their haggard lines across the bleak
Campagna, formed, in better days, to bear
Refreshing streams of purity and health
To Rome's hot crowd; some consecrate to Heaven,
Like that rich house, the wonder of the world,
Which on the sacred mount received the cloud
Of God's symbolic presence, and the steps
Of his benignant Son. But all alike—
Fane, palace, conduit, fabric of the brain—
Have perished,—perished never to revive,—
The good and ill together.
Of noble plans o'erthrown; and as I stray
Among the ruins, melancholy fills
My sad, regretful spirit. Not in Rome,
Nor glorious Athens, nor the older world
Entombed beside the Nile, the wanderer finds
More fruitful themes for curious, pensive thought
And meditative wisdom, than are given
By the strewed remnants of those brilliant schemes,
Those wasted day-dreams of magnificence,
Which built their splendid structures in my brain,
And rose and fell like visions of the night;—
Some proud and selfish, like that prodigal
Extent of stone and gold which Rome's bad lord
Reared on the Palatine—the wonder, shame,
And folly of the age—the monument of lust
Which preyed on others, and of pride which scoffed
At man, and virtue, justice, truth, and Heaven;—
Some pure and generous, like those huge-arched piles
Which stretch their haggard lines across the bleak
Campagna, formed, in better days, to bear
Refreshing streams of purity and health
To Rome's hot crowd; some consecrate to Heaven,
Like that rich house, the wonder of the world,
Which on the sacred mount received the cloud
Of God's symbolic presence, and the steps
Of his benignant Son. But all alike—
Fane, palace, conduit, fabric of the brain—
Have perished,—perished never to revive,—
The good and ill together.
359
LOVE.
Then came the June-like season, when fond youth,
Like solitary man in Paradise,
Finds there is yet a good he has not gained.—
Maternal Nature whispers in his heart
That there is somewhere one to make him blest,
And guides him, by her mystic sympathy,
To find the stranger out. The new pursuit
How full of wild delight! Through what strange walks
Of timorous eagerness, doubt, fear, and hope,
He shuns, approaches, trembles, joys, despairs!
In twilight walks, in moonlight reveries,
In midnight watchings, she is with him still.
The wave reflects her form; the balmy air
Breathes on him with her breath; the rustling bough
Repeats the name that murmurs at his heart.
One object fills and satisfies his soul.
Others are there by sufferance—joys and tasks
Alike are hurried through with absent thought,
And nought finds welcome but the one, one loved
And ever-present image. This, enshrined,
Like some select divinity, within,
Fills with its conscious presence all the place;
Sheds its own hue and character around;
And lulls the spirit in delicious trance,
Like the half-waking sleeper of the morn,
Who knows he dreams, yet loves his dream the more.
Like solitary man in Paradise,
Finds there is yet a good he has not gained.—
Maternal Nature whispers in his heart
That there is somewhere one to make him blest,
And guides him, by her mystic sympathy,
To find the stranger out. The new pursuit
How full of wild delight! Through what strange walks
Of timorous eagerness, doubt, fear, and hope,
He shuns, approaches, trembles, joys, despairs!
In twilight walks, in moonlight reveries,
In midnight watchings, she is with him still.
The wave reflects her form; the balmy air
Breathes on him with her breath; the rustling bough
Repeats the name that murmurs at his heart.
One object fills and satisfies his soul.
Others are there by sufferance—joys and tasks
Alike are hurried through with absent thought,
And nought finds welcome but the one, one loved
And ever-present image. This, enshrined,
Like some select divinity, within,
Fills with its conscious presence all the place;
Sheds its own hue and character around;
And lulls the spirit in delicious trance,
Like the half-waking sleeper of the morn,
Who knows he dreams, yet loves his dream the more.
O, days to be remembered! days of balm!
Spring-tide of life! when flowers strew all the path,
And odorous blossoms burden every bough!
Is there a path about my native home,
Is there a hidden beauty of the fields,
A more obscure retirement in the woods,
A fairer bank upon the rippling lake,
Or lovelier arbor in her grottoed isle,
That was not witness, is not monument,
Of those delicious days? The earth still speaks,
The groves and waters, of the musing mood
In which I roamed, and thought of her I loved.
[OMITTED] Lately I returned,
Threaded the woods again, and climbed the stile,
And launched upon the pond,—and spite the change
Which time had made, a voice rose up from all,
The voice of early hope, and told again,
In the same tones, the tales it told of yore.
But other voices mingled in the breeze,
And sung, methought, a requiem for the dead—
So wild, so soothing, that my fancy deemed
The sainted spirit, once the life and breath
Of all these scenes, was present yet again,
Hovering on wings celestial and unseen,
And pouring blessings on the heart she loved.
Why should we deem it fable that the good
Lean, sometimes, from their paradise on high,
To soothe and pity those they loved below?
Spring-tide of life! when flowers strew all the path,
And odorous blossoms burden every bough!
Is there a path about my native home,
360
A more obscure retirement in the woods,
A fairer bank upon the rippling lake,
Or lovelier arbor in her grottoed isle,
That was not witness, is not monument,
Of those delicious days? The earth still speaks,
The groves and waters, of the musing mood
In which I roamed, and thought of her I loved.
[OMITTED] Lately I returned,
Threaded the woods again, and climbed the stile,
And launched upon the pond,—and spite the change
Which time had made, a voice rose up from all,
The voice of early hope, and told again,
In the same tones, the tales it told of yore.
But other voices mingled in the breeze,
And sung, methought, a requiem for the dead—
So wild, so soothing, that my fancy deemed
The sainted spirit, once the life and breath
Of all these scenes, was present yet again,
Hovering on wings celestial and unseen,
And pouring blessings on the heart she loved.
Why should we deem it fable that the good
Lean, sometimes, from their paradise on high,
To soothe and pity those they loved below?
It was not beauty which had won my heart,
But something more enchanting. Beauty lies
Ofttimes in forms, in features, hue, or grace,
To which the soul has lent no eloquence.
[OMITTED]
But angels called her good, and smiled, well pleased,
When she was numbered of their happy choir.
If purity of heart, serene and clear
As the bright depths of liquid Horicon,—
If energy and strength of resolute will,
To do and suffer, though all earth oppose,—
Like faithful Abdiel,—kindness never tired
In toil for others, quiet self-respect
Which awes th' unworthy from too near approach,
With unassuming diffidence of self,
Which scarce dares hear, and never asks for praise,
And deep, confiding trust in Him whose work
And minister it was her joy to be,—
If these be traits that mark th' angelic host,
Then was she one of that illustrious choir.
[OMITTED]
But something more enchanting. Beauty lies
Ofttimes in forms, in features, hue, or grace,
To which the soul has lent no eloquence.
[OMITTED]
But angels called her good, and smiled, well pleased,
When she was numbered of their happy choir.
If purity of heart, serene and clear
As the bright depths of liquid Horicon,—
361
To do and suffer, though all earth oppose,—
Like faithful Abdiel,—kindness never tired
In toil for others, quiet self-respect
Which awes th' unworthy from too near approach,
With unassuming diffidence of self,
Which scarce dares hear, and never asks for praise,
And deep, confiding trust in Him whose work
And minister it was her joy to be,—
If these be traits that mark th' angelic host,
Then was she one of that illustrious choir.
[OMITTED]
To one upon the threshold of the world,
Whose opening way to life is thronged with forms
That lie in wait to threaten and seduce,
There is a worth untold in virtuous love.
'Tis as a talisman of power: unhurt
It bears him on, through snares of crafty vice,
And long array of pleasure's subtle host,
Baffling with potent charm their wily arts,
That lose their power to touch him. Thoughts impure,
Low aims, and selfish passions, shrink away.
It keeps him chaste—makes all his purposes
Companions of a virtuous hope—beats down
The harmful empire of the present hour,
Pointing his thought to some sweet future home,
Henceforth his central purpose, which imparts
Fresh vigor to his enterprise—to hand
And mind gives nerve, to pleasure turns all toil,
Makes honor doubly dear—all that is bad
In young ambition purifies, and lifts
High above selfishness the darling plan
Which forms his ruling passion. For he toils
No more alone, nor only for himself.
The honor, peace, yea, life—and, more than all,
The good opinion of a purer mind—
A second, better conscience,—whose reproof
Stings deeper, whose approval gives more joy
Than his own breast—are all at stake in him;
And for her sake, in whom are hoarded up
The dearest treasures of his life on earth,
He keeps an uncontaminated heart,
And scorns the base seductiveness of sin.
Whose opening way to life is thronged with forms
That lie in wait to threaten and seduce,
There is a worth untold in virtuous love.
'Tis as a talisman of power: unhurt
It bears him on, through snares of crafty vice,
And long array of pleasure's subtle host,
Baffling with potent charm their wily arts,
That lose their power to touch him. Thoughts impure,
Low aims, and selfish passions, shrink away.
It keeps him chaste—makes all his purposes
Companions of a virtuous hope—beats down
The harmful empire of the present hour,
Pointing his thought to some sweet future home,
Henceforth his central purpose, which imparts
Fresh vigor to his enterprise—to hand
And mind gives nerve, to pleasure turns all toil,
Makes honor doubly dear—all that is bad
In young ambition purifies, and lifts
High above selfishness the darling plan
Which forms his ruling passion. For he toils
362
The honor, peace, yea, life—and, more than all,
The good opinion of a purer mind—
A second, better conscience,—whose reproof
Stings deeper, whose approval gives more joy
Than his own breast—are all at stake in him;
And for her sake, in whom are hoarded up
The dearest treasures of his life on earth,
He keeps an uncontaminated heart,
And scorns the base seductiveness of sin.
O holy power of pure, devoted love!
And O, thou holy, sacred name of home!
Prime bliss of earth! Behind us and before
Our guiding star, our refuge! When we plunge,
Loose from the safeguard of a father's roof,
On life's uncertain flood, exposed and driven,
'Tis the mild memory of thy sacred days
That keeps the young man pure. A father's eye,
A mother's smile, a sister's gentle love,
The table, and the altar, and the hearth,
In reverend image, keep their early hold
Upon his heart, and crowd out guilt and shame.
Then, too, the hope, that in some after day
These consecrated ties shall be renewed
In him, the founder of another house;
And wife and children—earth's so precious names—
Be gathered round the hearth, where he himself
Shall be the father—O, this glowing hope,
With memory co-working, lightens toil,
And renders impotent the plots of earth
To warp him from his innocence and faith.
And O, thou holy, sacred name of home!
Prime bliss of earth! Behind us and before
Our guiding star, our refuge! When we plunge,
Loose from the safeguard of a father's roof,
On life's uncertain flood, exposed and driven,
'Tis the mild memory of thy sacred days
That keeps the young man pure. A father's eye,
A mother's smile, a sister's gentle love,
The table, and the altar, and the hearth,
In reverend image, keep their early hold
Upon his heart, and crowd out guilt and shame.
Then, too, the hope, that in some after day
These consecrated ties shall be renewed
In him, the founder of another house;
And wife and children—earth's so precious names—
Be gathered round the hearth, where he himself
Shall be the father—O, this glowing hope,
With memory co-working, lightens toil,
And renders impotent the plots of earth
To warp him from his innocence and faith.
363
MANHOOD.
Wild solitude of precipice and flood,
Romantic Trenton! let me sing thy praise.
The hills were cleft to give thy waters way;
The rocks were riven to form their chasmed bed.
On either hand the steep, dark walls ascend,
Like ruined towers o'erhung with tangled vines,
And plants that love the rock, and tall, thick trees
That twine their boughs above, and fling a hue
Of solemn darkness on the flood below.
Rushing impetuous through this charmed ravine,
Thy roaring torrent pours—now swift and smooth;
Now shattered by intruding crags; now hurled
Headlong down sudden gulfs, where dizzying whirls
Point to the fearful depth that yawns below;
Now crowding fiercely through the straitened pass;
Now in th' outspreading basin finding rest
In cool and sombrous shades—a lucid lake
Of clear, black waters, motionless as glass—
Thence, issuing swift, they leap the precipice,
And, foaming down from ledge to ledge, keep on
Their reckless way; till, from the hills set free,
Through level plains they calmly glide along,
Refresh the quiet meadows as they pass,
And seek their mother sea. Upon thy bank,
Fair creek of Canada, the wanderer's foot
Ne'er wearies. Kindled by the varying scene,
From crag he springs to crag, from pass to pass—
Now, treading on the low, broad marge, his foot
Touches the wave; now, clambering the ascent,
He creeps with cautious step along the shelf
Hewn midway in the dizzy precipice—
Nor stays his course, till in the open heaven,
Freed from its troubled channel, he beholds
The wearied flood roll languid o'er the plain.
Romantic Trenton! let me sing thy praise.
The hills were cleft to give thy waters way;
The rocks were riven to form their chasmed bed.
On either hand the steep, dark walls ascend,
Like ruined towers o'erhung with tangled vines,
And plants that love the rock, and tall, thick trees
That twine their boughs above, and fling a hue
Of solemn darkness on the flood below.
Rushing impetuous through this charmed ravine,
Thy roaring torrent pours—now swift and smooth;
Now shattered by intruding crags; now hurled
Headlong down sudden gulfs, where dizzying whirls
Point to the fearful depth that yawns below;
Now crowding fiercely through the straitened pass;
Now in th' outspreading basin finding rest
In cool and sombrous shades—a lucid lake
Of clear, black waters, motionless as glass—
Thence, issuing swift, they leap the precipice,
And, foaming down from ledge to ledge, keep on
Their reckless way; till, from the hills set free,
Through level plains they calmly glide along,
Refresh the quiet meadows as they pass,
And seek their mother sea. Upon thy bank,
Fair creek of Canada, the wanderer's foot
Ne'er wearies. Kindled by the varying scene,
From crag he springs to crag, from pass to pass—
Now, treading on the low, broad marge, his foot
Touches the wave; now, clambering the ascent,
He creeps with cautious step along the shelf
364
Nor stays his course, till in the open heaven,
Freed from its troubled channel, he beholds
The wearied flood roll languid o'er the plain.
O Life! so often likened to a stream,—
Thus by thy youth's wild banks and rushing tide
My memory fondly lingers—thus I trace
Its bright, impetuous, fickle, playful course,
Wild, changeful, beautiful. But now the flood
Emerges into manhood's sober day:
With useful wave it irrigates the mead,
And crowds and duties press its fruitful shores.
But “the Nine” haunt it not. Romance forsakes
Its tamer borders. Vulgar toil, with plough
And wagon, treads its busy banks,
And soulless drudges scornfully survey
The beauties of the stream that yields them gain.
Thus by thy youth's wild banks and rushing tide
My memory fondly lingers—thus I trace
Its bright, impetuous, fickle, playful course,
Wild, changeful, beautiful. But now the flood
Emerges into manhood's sober day:
With useful wave it irrigates the mead,
And crowds and duties press its fruitful shores.
But “the Nine” haunt it not. Romance forsakes
Its tamer borders. Vulgar toil, with plough
And wagon, treads its busy banks,
And soulless drudges scornfully survey
The beauties of the stream that yields them gain.
AGE.
Youth's fires are quenched, and manhood's toils are o'er;
The days of early hope, the older years
Of disappointment, all have run their course,
And hope and disappointment here below
Are mine no more. From morn to noon, my life
Has rolled its brightening and its cloudy way,
And noon begins to wane. The Spring has seen
Her garlands blush and wither on my brow;—
The Summer wheeled her burning suns abroad,
And I have toiled beneath their ripening blaze.
Now, welcome to my faint and weary limbs
Autumn's cool breath, and sober bowers of rest.
I long to sit in their refreshing shade,
And bare my whitening tresses to the wind,
And pluck th' o'erhanging fruit, and yield my mind
To pensive musing. Come, advancing age—
I bid thee welcome with thy reverend brow,
And mien of bland composure. Come, and lay
Thy hand benignant on my aching head;
Pour thy tranquillity upon my heart;
And let thy soothing calm, thy thoughtful peace,
Thy wise and venerable cheerfulness,
Hush down the stormy elements of strife,
And rock my harassed being to repose.
The days of early hope, the older years
Of disappointment, all have run their course,
And hope and disappointment here below
Are mine no more. From morn to noon, my life
Has rolled its brightening and its cloudy way,
And noon begins to wane. The Spring has seen
Her garlands blush and wither on my brow;—
The Summer wheeled her burning suns abroad,
And I have toiled beneath their ripening blaze.
Now, welcome to my faint and weary limbs
365
I long to sit in their refreshing shade,
And bare my whitening tresses to the wind,
And pluck th' o'erhanging fruit, and yield my mind
To pensive musing. Come, advancing age—
I bid thee welcome with thy reverend brow,
And mien of bland composure. Come, and lay
Thy hand benignant on my aching head;
Pour thy tranquillity upon my heart;
And let thy soothing calm, thy thoughtful peace,
Thy wise and venerable cheerfulness,
Hush down the stormy elements of strife,
And rock my harassed being to repose.
There are who paint thee hideous—eyes of rheum,
And ears that catch no sound—bones full of pain—
The day a burden—night one weary watch—
The temper soured—the heart's sweet fountains dried—
Mind dull and prejudiced—this curious frame,
This matchless instrument of sense and soul,
Turned to a rack of torture—and this life,
Once of itself enjoyment, made a curse.
And ears that catch no sound—bones full of pain—
The day a burden—night one weary watch—
The temper soured—the heart's sweet fountains dried—
Mind dull and prejudiced—this curious frame,
This matchless instrument of sense and soul,
Turned to a rack of torture—and this life,
Once of itself enjoyment, made a curse.
O, come not in this fearful guise to me!
This garb of living death—nor lengthen out
The useless hours of this poor tortured clay
To pine in stupid dotage—to annoy,
With its encumbering helplessness, the path
Of those who love me, and to be a mark
For gaze and insult to th' unfeeling crowd,
That mock at human weakness. More than all,
Spare, spare the mind! from touch of fell decay
O keep the spirit free! nor let a frost
Fall on the heart's affections, to congeal
Its generous blood. 'Tis sad, 'tis horrible,
When the frail, tottering, shrivelled form of age
Shakes with its petty passions, and degrades
Its sacred hairs,
And dull fatuity, with garrulous tongue,
Prates from the lips which should be wisdom's throne.
'Tis horrible to see the great mind bowed,
The spark ethereal quenched, thought, feeling, heart,
And all that makes man honored, loved, revered,
Sunk in the baby idiocy of years
Without revival. Then, if length of days
Must bring such degradation, be their flight
In mercy stayed, is still my earnest prayer.
I would not see the day when I might wish
My friend or father dead—when friend or child
Might wish me so. O, when in good ripe age
A sharp disease would summon us away,
Let not too fond affection interpose,
Compelling us to stay. Better depart
While we can go lamented, ere the hands
Of those that love are weary of their charge,
And o'er our tomb no voice exclaims, “O, friend
Too early lost!” I saw an old man once
Laid on a couch from which there seemed no hope
That he should rise. He had been one of those
Whom all men honor, and whom friends revere.
Years had not dimmed his mind, and his warm heart
Glowed with youth's generous fires and faithful loves.
Disease had changed him not. The placid brow,
Furrowed by time, yet speaking cheerful things,
The mild, sweet smile, the serious, playful eye,
Adorned his bed, as they had decked his health;
While quiet words of love to friends below,
And trust in Him above, flowed forth from lips
Accustomed to their utterance. Ripe he seemed
For Heaven's immortal garner; and if then
He had been gathered by God's reaper in,
Admiring, weeping crowds had led him home,
And made his tomb a shrine of pilgrimage.
But wife, friends, children, day and night, with tears
And cries that would not be refused, desired
That he might live. They knew not what they asked,
Blind through excess of love. The answer came,
Fraught with rebuke and wisdom. He was spared.
His flesh came to him like a child's; his frame
Once more grew strong; but back to infancy
His doting mind returned—he lived a babe—
Sense, memory, knowledge, all deserted him,
And left him but a blank, an idiot blank,
To be watched, tended, chidden, like a child;
Till those who had refused to set him free,
Because they loved him fondly, lived to mourn
His wearily-protracted days, and wish
That Death would strike and rid them of their charge.
[OMITTED]
This garb of living death—nor lengthen out
The useless hours of this poor tortured clay
To pine in stupid dotage—to annoy,
With its encumbering helplessness, the path
Of those who love me, and to be a mark
For gaze and insult to th' unfeeling crowd,
That mock at human weakness. More than all,
Spare, spare the mind! from touch of fell decay
O keep the spirit free! nor let a frost
Fall on the heart's affections, to congeal
Its generous blood. 'Tis sad, 'tis horrible,
366
Shakes with its petty passions, and degrades
Its sacred hairs,
And dull fatuity, with garrulous tongue,
Prates from the lips which should be wisdom's throne.
'Tis horrible to see the great mind bowed,
The spark ethereal quenched, thought, feeling, heart,
And all that makes man honored, loved, revered,
Sunk in the baby idiocy of years
Without revival. Then, if length of days
Must bring such degradation, be their flight
In mercy stayed, is still my earnest prayer.
I would not see the day when I might wish
My friend or father dead—when friend or child
Might wish me so. O, when in good ripe age
A sharp disease would summon us away,
Let not too fond affection interpose,
Compelling us to stay. Better depart
While we can go lamented, ere the hands
Of those that love are weary of their charge,
And o'er our tomb no voice exclaims, “O, friend
Too early lost!” I saw an old man once
Laid on a couch from which there seemed no hope
That he should rise. He had been one of those
Whom all men honor, and whom friends revere.
Years had not dimmed his mind, and his warm heart
Glowed with youth's generous fires and faithful loves.
Disease had changed him not. The placid brow,
Furrowed by time, yet speaking cheerful things,
The mild, sweet smile, the serious, playful eye,
Adorned his bed, as they had decked his health;
While quiet words of love to friends below,
And trust in Him above, flowed forth from lips
367
For Heaven's immortal garner; and if then
He had been gathered by God's reaper in,
Admiring, weeping crowds had led him home,
And made his tomb a shrine of pilgrimage.
But wife, friends, children, day and night, with tears
And cries that would not be refused, desired
That he might live. They knew not what they asked,
Blind through excess of love. The answer came,
Fraught with rebuke and wisdom. He was spared.
His flesh came to him like a child's; his frame
Once more grew strong; but back to infancy
His doting mind returned—he lived a babe—
Sense, memory, knowledge, all deserted him,
And left him but a blank, an idiot blank,
To be watched, tended, chidden, like a child;
Till those who had refused to set him free,
Because they loved him fondly, lived to mourn
His wearily-protracted days, and wish
That Death would strike and rid them of their charge.
[OMITTED]
But thou, most ancient and majestic elm,
Whose ample arms my childish sports o'erspread,
Whose long familiar shades, with grateful gloom,
Are still so welcome to my fevered brow,
Thou—in thy vigorous and brawny form—
Hoary, yet cheerful—gently touched by time,
Not broken—tellest of a kindlier age—
With what a stately grace thy massive trunk
Bears up its burden of a hundred years!
With just enough decay upon its boughs
To lend a graceful sadness to its strength.
In form like this, I woo the slow advance
Of long-protracted life—protracted not
Too long.—Such be its deep tranquillity,
Its cheerful vigor, dignity, and grace,
And calm, religious peace, as Bryant sketched,—
Whose tints are beauty, and whose pencil truth,—
Or like the reverend portrait Tully drew.
[OMITTED]
Whose ample arms my childish sports o'erspread,
Whose long familiar shades, with grateful gloom,
Are still so welcome to my fevered brow,
Thou—in thy vigorous and brawny form—
Hoary, yet cheerful—gently touched by time,
Not broken—tellest of a kindlier age—
With what a stately grace thy massive trunk
Bears up its burden of a hundred years!
With just enough decay upon its boughs
To lend a graceful sadness to its strength.
In form like this, I woo the slow advance
368
Too long.—Such be its deep tranquillity,
Its cheerful vigor, dignity, and grace,
And calm, religious peace, as Bryant sketched,—
Whose tints are beauty, and whose pencil truth,—
Or like the reverend portrait Tully drew.
[OMITTED]
For I have faith that in that distant day—
That bright, enduring day, for which man's soul
Is destined—I shall roam, from light to light,
Through all your orbs, and tread your spotless courts,
Read the long records of your ancient day,
And share your toils and pleasures. Glorious hope!
To spring from this dim planet, wafted on
To brightness after brightness—visitant
And witness of the infinite abodes
Of perfect truth and love—to trace with joy
In all the One Almighty, and to join
The harmonious choirs of heaven, whose glorious song
Rings through the eternal arches evermore—
To sit in converse blessed, not with the saints
Alone on earth illustrious, but with those
The sage and holy of remoter spheres—
The ransomed from all planets—sons of grace
And purity from all the stars—whose eyes
Have never looked, perchance, on sin; whose ears
Have heard, whose hearts conceived no crime;
Whose stainless hands have wrought no task but love's;
Whose voice has uttered only wisdom;—bards
Inspired from founts of highest heaven;
Philosophers, to whom earth's science lies,
When loftiest, infinitely low; whose mind,
Not creeping step by step, like man's, but quick
And piercing, like the light, flashes on truth
And knowledge; and whose love of excellence,
Unsullied by the low desires and tastes
Of earth, is ever active, vigilant, and free.
[OMITTED]
That bright, enduring day, for which man's soul
Is destined—I shall roam, from light to light,
Through all your orbs, and tread your spotless courts,
Read the long records of your ancient day,
And share your toils and pleasures. Glorious hope!
To spring from this dim planet, wafted on
To brightness after brightness—visitant
And witness of the infinite abodes
Of perfect truth and love—to trace with joy
In all the One Almighty, and to join
The harmonious choirs of heaven, whose glorious song
Rings through the eternal arches evermore—
To sit in converse blessed, not with the saints
Alone on earth illustrious, but with those
The sage and holy of remoter spheres—
The ransomed from all planets—sons of grace
And purity from all the stars—whose eyes
Have never looked, perchance, on sin; whose ears
Have heard, whose hearts conceived no crime;
Whose stainless hands have wrought no task but love's;
Whose voice has uttered only wisdom;—bards
Inspired from founts of highest heaven;
Philosophers, to whom earth's science lies,
When loftiest, infinitely low; whose mind,
Not creeping step by step, like man's, but quick
369
And knowledge; and whose love of excellence,
Unsullied by the low desires and tastes
Of earth, is ever active, vigilant, and free.
[OMITTED]
This is my present dream—my last, best dream.
A dream? No—not of that false progeny,
Engendered when the mind has shut its eye
To all things real, and in darkness dwells
With unsubstantial phantoms—not a dream—
A faithful vision, based on promises
Which reason knows substantial, wrought in light
On nature's broadest page, and spoke in words
By the strong utterance of a prophet's voice,
From the tomb ringing. It is Faith that pours
Its radiant flood of glory on my soul,
And lights the future with a steadfast ray
That cannot lead aside. Have I not seen
The very flowers beneath my foot decay
And live? the worm upon the summer bough
Entombed and raised? the forest fade? the field
Lie dead, and Nature in her cold, white shroud—
Yet summoned back to life? and tell me why,
Except as teachers to immortal man.
Have I not heard the marvels of thy name,
Great Prince of Judah? seen the powers of Heaven
Poured lavish on thy head? and by the word
Felt the creation of another life
Burst in upon my mind? and from the cave
Hast thou not risen victorious over death,
To tell misdoubting man that he shall live?
I slept,—but now I wake; my opened eyes
Have dropped their earthly scales, and see how all
This sublunary scene is but a dream.
The sun of Faith reveals realities—
Truth sheds her light—Delusion reigns no more.
[OMITTED]
A dream? No—not of that false progeny,
Engendered when the mind has shut its eye
To all things real, and in darkness dwells
With unsubstantial phantoms—not a dream—
A faithful vision, based on promises
Which reason knows substantial, wrought in light
On nature's broadest page, and spoke in words
By the strong utterance of a prophet's voice,
From the tomb ringing. It is Faith that pours
Its radiant flood of glory on my soul,
And lights the future with a steadfast ray
That cannot lead aside. Have I not seen
The very flowers beneath my foot decay
And live? the worm upon the summer bough
Entombed and raised? the forest fade? the field
Lie dead, and Nature in her cold, white shroud—
Yet summoned back to life? and tell me why,
Except as teachers to immortal man.
Have I not heard the marvels of thy name,
Great Prince of Judah? seen the powers of Heaven
Poured lavish on thy head? and by the word
Felt the creation of another life
Burst in upon my mind? and from the cave
Hast thou not risen victorious over death,
To tell misdoubting man that he shall live?
I slept,—but now I wake; my opened eyes
Have dropped their earthly scales, and see how all
370
The sun of Faith reveals realities—
Truth sheds her light—Delusion reigns no more.
[OMITTED]
Not in the city—though the solemn tower
Of ancient and most reverend minster cast
Its holy shadow on the sleeper's bed,
And, with the anthems of its daily choir
And deep-toned worship of its holy bells,
Utter perpetual requiem—works of man,
Though consecrate to Heaven, are human still—
And I would rest my dust with God. No tower
Of mystic grandeur, anthem-peal, or chime
Of sacred bell, can hallow what the foot
Of vulgar crowds, on boisterous toil intent,
Or wealthy pleasure rolling constant by,
Shaking the very tombs, must desecrate.
Even sacred night is sacred there no more;
And weeping love in vain desires the hour
To see the spot where buried friendship lies,
And nourish heavenward thought upon its grave.
Not in the city's churchyard lay me down—
Whose trodden paths lead to no quiet spot
For holy contemplation, and the hour
Of solitary thought, that soothes the soul,
Purges from earth, exalts, and fits for heaven—
But bear me far away from man's domain,
And lay me down in nature's; where, alike
By day or night, the tearful friend may sit
Unnoticed by, and quite forget the world.
Of ancient and most reverend minster cast
Its holy shadow on the sleeper's bed,
And, with the anthems of its daily choir
And deep-toned worship of its holy bells,
Utter perpetual requiem—works of man,
Though consecrate to Heaven, are human still—
And I would rest my dust with God. No tower
Of mystic grandeur, anthem-peal, or chime
Of sacred bell, can hallow what the foot
Of vulgar crowds, on boisterous toil intent,
Or wealthy pleasure rolling constant by,
Shaking the very tombs, must desecrate.
Even sacred night is sacred there no more;
And weeping love in vain desires the hour
To see the spot where buried friendship lies,
And nourish heavenward thought upon its grave.
Not in the city's churchyard lay me down—
Whose trodden paths lead to no quiet spot
For holy contemplation, and the hour
Of solitary thought, that soothes the soul,
Purges from earth, exalts, and fits for heaven—
But bear me far away from man's domain,
And lay me down in nature's; where, alike
By day or night, the tearful friend may sit
Unnoticed by, and quite forget the world.
| The miscellaneous writings of Henry Ware | |