 | Specimens of American poetry |  |
GEORGE W. PATTEN
THE ISLE OF LOVE.
There's a bright sunny spot where the cinnamon trees
Shed their richest perfumes to the soft wooing breeze;
Where the rose is as sweet and as bright is the sky,
As the balm of thy breath and the glance of thine eye.
And clouds pass as soon o'er that beautiful Isle,
As the tear on thy cheek disappears at thy smile.
Come! haste thee, fair Irene, oh! haste thee with me,
To that far distant land in the Ægean sea.
Shed their richest perfumes to the soft wooing breeze;
Where the rose is as sweet and as bright is the sky,
As the balm of thy breath and the glance of thine eye.
And clouds pass as soon o'er that beautiful Isle,
As the tear on thy cheek disappears at thy smile.
Come! haste thee, fair Irene, oh! haste thee with me,
To that far distant land in the Ægean sea.
Light breezes are swelling the gossamer sail,
Of my love-freighted bark for the evergreen vale;
And loudly the night bird is chanting her lay,
To rouse thee from slumber—away and away—
We'll land at the groves and the wild flowers there,
I'll twine in a wreath for thy soft flaxen hair;
And we'll roam like the antelope, reckless and free,
O'er that bright sunny Isle in the Ægean sea.
Of my love-freighted bark for the evergreen vale;
And loudly the night bird is chanting her lay,
To rouse thee from slumber—away and away—
We'll land at the groves and the wild flowers there,
I'll twine in a wreath for thy soft flaxen hair;
And we'll roam like the antelope, reckless and free,
O'er that bright sunny Isle in the Ægean sea.
Soft music is there—for the mermaiden's shell,
Is often heard winding through mountain and dell;
And the song of the sea spirits steals from the shore,
With the low sullen sound of the waves' distant roar.
And the tones of thy voice—oh! how sweetly they'll blend,
With the strains which the harps of the Ocean Nymphs send;
While I list to the notes as they float on the lea,
Of that far distant land in the Ægean sea.
Is often heard winding through mountain and dell;
And the song of the sea spirits steals from the shore,
With the low sullen sound of the waves' distant roar.
And the tones of thy voice—oh! how sweetly they'll blend,
With the strains which the harps of the Ocean Nymphs send;
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Of that far distant land in the Ægean sea.
Far—far 'mid its bowers sequester'd and lone,
Young Love hath erected a jessamine throne;
And sworn with an oath which no mortal may say,
That none but the fairest its sceptre shall sway.
Then haste thee, fair Irene, oh! haste thee tonight,
While the stars are yet pale, and the moon is yet bright,
For, love, he hath destined that sceptre for thee
In that bright sunny Isle of the Ægean sea.
Young Love hath erected a jessamine throne;
And sworn with an oath which no mortal may say,
That none but the fairest its sceptre shall sway.
Then haste thee, fair Irene, oh! haste thee tonight,
While the stars are yet pale, and the moon is yet bright,
For, love, he hath destined that sceptre for thee
In that bright sunny Isle of the Ægean sea.
THE WARRIOR.
“The morning sun is shining bright upon the battle plain,
And still thou sleep'st!—wake! warrior, wake—and take thy steed again,
The gore he 's shaken from his mane, and now 't is floating fast,
Upon the breeze as it was wont amid the battle blast,
Thrice hath the war-peal thunder'd past since thou hast sunk to sleep,
Hath not it changed thy dreary dream, nor broke thy slumber deep?
Thrice hath the foemen's banner red in triumph floated by;
Did not the gleaming of its stars arrest thy closing eye?
Thy charger hot hath raised his voice as if thy rest to break;
He listens for his rider's call—wake! slumbering warrior—wake!”
And still thou sleep'st!—wake! warrior, wake—and take thy steed again,
The gore he 's shaken from his mane, and now 't is floating fast,
Upon the breeze as it was wont amid the battle blast,
Thrice hath the war-peal thunder'd past since thou hast sunk to sleep,
Hath not it changed thy dreary dream, nor broke thy slumber deep?
Thrice hath the foemen's banner red in triumph floated by;
Did not the gleaming of its stars arrest thy closing eye?
Thy charger hot hath raised his voice as if thy rest to break;
He listens for his rider's call—wake! slumbering warrior—wake!”
“Hush! gentle stranger, hush that strain,” a weeping mother sung,
And sadly on the sighing winds the mournful music rung,
“Hush, gentle stranger, hush that strain—my heart is lone and drear,
Thou canst not wake my warrior boy, who sleeps in silence here.
I 've comb'd his flowing flaxen hair, and from it wiped the dew,
Come, gaze upon the features pale, which oft I 've loved to view,
And if thy bosom e'er hath throbb'd a warrior's joys to know,
Oh! read them on that sunken cheek—and in a mother's wo.
—They said, my boy, that Fame would twine a laurel green for thee,
Alas! alas! that it should leave the cypress sad to me.’”
And sadly on the sighing winds the mournful music rung,
“Hush, gentle stranger, hush that strain—my heart is lone and drear,
Thou canst not wake my warrior boy, who sleeps in silence here.
I 've comb'd his flowing flaxen hair, and from it wiped the dew,
Come, gaze upon the features pale, which oft I 've loved to view,
And if thy bosom e'er hath throbb'd a warrior's joys to know,
Oh! read them on that sunken cheek—and in a mother's wo.
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Alas! alas! that it should leave the cypress sad to me.’”
THE MOTHER.
“She sleeps! how long she sleeps! the sun hath sunk beneath the west,
And risen twice, yet still she keeps that deep and placid rest.
Why do they pass before me thus, her slumbering form to view?
Come hither, brother, thou and I will gaze upon her too;
But stay! we will not look there yet, but let us wait until
The midnight stars are beaming bright, and all around is still,
Save when the moaning winds sweep by in whispers low and deep,
And then together we will go and view her in her sleep.”
And risen twice, yet still she keeps that deep and placid rest.
Why do they pass before me thus, her slumbering form to view?
Come hither, brother, thou and I will gaze upon her too;
But stay! we will not look there yet, but let us wait until
The midnight stars are beaming bright, and all around is still,
Save when the moaning winds sweep by in whispers low and deep,
And then together we will go and view her in her sleep.”
“Sister! tread softly! hark! that sound! 't was but the midnight hour
Tolling so harsh and heavily from yonder distant tower;
Come, sister, tremble not, 't is true the time is lone and drear,
And dimly burns the taper dark that sits beside the bier;
But thou didst breathe a prayer to me, a whisper'd prayer but now,
To come at midnight hour and gaze upon thy mother's brow.
This is the hour, and we have pass'd along the silent hall,
And thus, as by the dead we stand, I take away the pall—
And here the coffin's lid I move—and here I raise the veil—
Turn, gentle sister, turn and look upon her features pale;
Stoop down and kiss her pallid cheek—though cold and damp it be,
It is the same which in thy mirth so oft was press'd by thee.
And clasp in thine the lifeless hand that lays upon her breast,
Where pillow'd in thine infant years thou oft hast sunk to rest.”
Tolling so harsh and heavily from yonder distant tower;
Come, sister, tremble not, 't is true the time is lone and drear,
And dimly burns the taper dark that sits beside the bier;
But thou didst breathe a prayer to me, a whisper'd prayer but now,
To come at midnight hour and gaze upon thy mother's brow.
This is the hour, and we have pass'd along the silent hall,
And thus, as by the dead we stand, I take away the pall—
And here the coffin's lid I move—and here I raise the veil—
Turn, gentle sister, turn and look upon her features pale;
Stoop down and kiss her pallid cheek—though cold and damp it be,
It is the same which in thy mirth so oft was press'd by thee.
And clasp in thine the lifeless hand that lays upon her breast,
Where pillow'd in thine infant years thou oft hast sunk to rest.”
“My eyes grow dim!—sweet brother, haste! and come with me away!
Is this the form which once I loved! this ghastly thing of clay?
They told me that she only slept—and that she still was fair,
As when upon her brow I used to part her raven hair.
Is this my mother?—No, oh! no,—not this on which I 've gazed,
Her eyes were bright like angel's eyes, but these are fix'd and glazed,
Her lips were smiling like the sky that never knew a cloud;
But these are silent, closed and pale—pale as the winding shroud.
My eyes grow dim, sweet brother, haste and come with me away—
No, this is not the form I loved—this ghastly thing of clay.”
Is this the form which once I loved! this ghastly thing of clay?
They told me that she only slept—and that she still was fair,
As when upon her brow I used to part her raven hair.
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Her eyes were bright like angel's eyes, but these are fix'd and glazed,
Her lips were smiling like the sky that never knew a cloud;
But these are silent, closed and pale—pale as the winding shroud.
My eyes grow dim, sweet brother, haste and come with me away—
No, this is not the form I loved—this ghastly thing of clay.”
| Specimens of American poetry | |