Memoralia :: :: University of Virginia Library

Memoralia

Chivers, T. H. (1809-1858)

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BOCHSA.

PRAYER IN THE GARDEN.

THE POET'S SONG OF SORROW.

THE RAISING OF TABITHA.

HYMN TO THE DEITY.

THE POET.

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BOCHSA.

Compono hic profecto Canticum in Creatoris nostri landem.”—
Galen.

I knew an old man, Bochsa was his name,
Fresh from the Mountain Morning Land, who came
Into this Western Evening Land to charm us
With his rich oversoul of musical lore—
His polysongs of many sounds—tones learnt
Not from the voices of the birds on earth,
Nor any human speech—but heard in dreams—
In interlunar swoons, when his rapt soul
Drank inspiration, in the calm of night,
Out of the crystalline bubbling Wells of God,
Baptising us with dews of spiritual peace;
From his reminiscences of the life
He lived in Adam, when the World was young,
And he was happy in the love of God;
From Voices of the Nebilungen Land—
From the influx of God's life into his soul—
(Which was the fire Prometheus stole from Heaven—)
Burning therein rich songs of living fire,
Like those the Seraphim heard at Eden's Gates,
When the bright Morning Stars together sang,
And all the Sons of God shouted for joy.
That which the Ages waited long to see,
But had no eyes to see, nor ears to hear,—
Sounds which no other man had ever heard—
Tones rained down from the rolling of the spheres
In their swift Cycles round the Sun in Heaven—
Silence to all but to the Angel's ears—
He brought down from the Pre-existent State,
And scattered here on earth in showers of Pearls—
Making our souls rich with divine delights.

For God had couched his eyes to see—his ears
To hear—that which no other man could see
Or hear—but the great Seraphim in Heaven;
Therefore, he had received from God the power
To teach Mankind what Angels know above.
For when his trembling fingers swept the strings,
An Æolian thunder rolled out of each chord,
Like that which wells out of the heart of man
When God first sets his soul on fire with love—
As if an Angel's wing, in flight, had swept
The golden strings of some Celestial Lyre
Hung in the doors of Heaven—making us feel
Like that first rigor of the fervent heart,
When Beauty, for the first time in our lives,
Trances us, with the madness of pure joy,
Out of this world into the bliss of Heaven—
Regaling our rapt soul with sweetest peace.
For as the warm South feels when the North wind blows
Over his Ocean of transparent calm,
Waking, upon his sunny Sea of Peace,
Blue waves of cold, chilling us to the bone;
So did his gushes of Æolian song,
As if rained down from some Empyreal sphere,
Diffuse themselves through all our thrilling frames,
Chilling us with the instinct of new power—
Until, by feeding on the Bread of Heaven,
We grew transformed into the food we ate,
Assuming here on earth the life divine
The Angels live in Heaven—pure melody.
Then, when he did subdue his tender tones,
They fell as softly on our listening ears,
Burning our souls with rapture far too deep
For either words or tears—as when God's love,
In inspiration, overflows some Poet's soul,

Lifting him on the wings of thought to Heaven—
Making sonorous thunders of rich rhythm
Follow the lightning-wake of his swift Pen,
Tracing his Orphic immortality
Upon his golden pages—never to die.
At other times, with alternations swift,
With his right hand, as once Prometheus did,
He plucked from off the Altar of God's love,
Clothing our souls with vestments of pure joy,
The living coals of that immortal fire
Whose embers are the life of all the world—
Scattering the scintillations down on earth,
Like lightning-pearls, or whitest Diamond-dust
Tinctured with lucid Rubies pure as thought,
Into the hungry souls of all who heard,
Ravishing them out of this poor, mortal life
Into that ecstacy of endless peace
Known only to the souls who live in Heaven.
The rapt intensity of God-like calm
Which tranced his features, sealed him to the spot,
Causing his upturned face to glow with joy,
Bright as Hyperion rising in the East
To overflow the world with living joy—
Told that Christ's love was anchored in his heart:
While from his fingers' ends the dews of sound
Dript, changing into Jewels as they fell,
Bright as stalactites of crystal hung
In the Enchanted Caverns of the Nymphs.
The lucid, liquid, silvery touch of his
Soft fingers drew from out the strings such notes
As only follow from an Angel's hand—
Whose music seemed to run down from his soul
And crystalize itself thereon in sparkling tones
Of multicolored Jewels pure as love,

And perfect as those twelve Foundation-stones
Set in the Temple of the Living God.

Tontine Hotel, New Haven, Conn., April 10, 1852.

PRAYER IN THE GARDEN.

Alaster,
(at the grave of his child.)

What said Christ, when he grew fonder
For the Sunny Isles of Day?
“Sit ye here, while I go yonder
In the Garden there to pray.”
Then his fond Disciples, weary,
Waiting for their Lord so nigh—
Fell asleep, at midnight dreary,
On the ground where they did lie—
Hearing not his “Eloi!
Lama sabacthani!”

As he prayed within the Garden—
Garden of Gethsemane—
So I pray to God for pardon—
“Father! pass this cup from me!”
For it is too bitter—bitter—
Though I thirst—am more than dry!
Is not Death far better—fitter—
Than the death that I now die?
Answer, Saviour! “Eloi!
Lama sabachthani!”

As the bloody sweat of anguish
Oozed from out his pearly brow,
While his troubled soul did languish,
Trampled down by bitter woe;

So, from out my wounded spirit,
Bleeding now with agony,
Flow such drops, (I cannot bear it!)
And must staunch them, or must die—
Crying likewise, “Eloi!
Lama sabachthani!”

As his heart was torn assunder—
Sighing out his soul in pain—
When the Earthquake of the Thunder
Rent the Mountain Rock in twain;
So my soul, forever wounded—
Trampled down from Heaven on high—
By God's love feels still surrounded,
And has hopes that cannot die—
Though I cry out, “Eloi!
Lama sabachthani!”

As he bowed his soul in meekness
On the Cross, when crucified;
While the blood, that caused his weakness,
Flowed from out his wounded side;
Crying out, in his affliction,
“It IS FINISHED!” as he died!
I now suffer crucifixion—
Crying out as he then cried—
Suffering torture—“Eloi!
Lama sabachthani!”

Then, oh! Lord! redeem my precious,
Darling little Florence dear;
And to me be one time gracious—
Sorrowing now as I do here!
Yes, my God! my troubled spirit
Unto Thee doth loudly cry;

So that Thou in Heaven canst hear it—
Save her, Lord! or I must die!
Save her, Father! “Eloi!
Lama sabachthani!”

A Chorus of Ministering Angels
appear to the Father, comforting him with the following Song:—

Angels' Song.

That from her high Home in glory
Thou wouldst have her here to grieve
In this world, where thou art sorry—
None of us in Heaven believe.
What hast thou, but tribulation?
Wouldst thou turn her joys to pain?
Once in Heaven from thy probation—
Who would live on earth again?

Here with us, it is all pleasure—
Known but to the Saints above—
Bliss divine beyond all measure—
Just because our “God IS LOVE.”
Then rejoice, oh! Swan of Sorrow!
Pæans from thy deep heart pour!
Come to us in Heaven to-morrow,
And thy soul shall weep no more.

Alaster,
(falling into a trance.)
“Eloi!—Eloi!”—

Angels.
He cries no more “Lama sabachthani!”
We have entranced him so that he must die!
Oh! that his soul was now in Heaven on high
Drinking delight from his own purity.

Alaster,
(in a low, but distinct voice.)
“Eloi!—Eloi!”—

Angels.
Ah! sad soul! be not mistaken,
That our Lord, when called to die,
Was by his own Soul forsaken—
It was only Mary's cry.

Alaster,
(in a low tone.)
“Eloi!—Eloi!”

THE POET'S SONG OF SORROW.

A Poet sat down by the grave of his child,
Sing sorrow, sorrow, sorrow!
And mourned for his loss till his grief had grown wild—
Oh! sorrow, sorrow, sorrow!
Sing, oh! this deep sorrow shall be my pleasure—
This sorrow, this sorrow my pleasure shall be!
For here in this grave lies my heart's dearest treasure—
My sweet little Florence just taken from me!

With his hand on his heart, with his eyes turned to Heaven—
Sing sorrow, sorrow, sorrow!
He prayed thus to God—“May my sins be forgiven!”
Oh! sorrow, sorrow, sorrow!
Sing, oh! this deep sorrow shall be my pleasure—
This sorrow, this sorrow my pleasure shall be!
For here in this grave lies my heart's dearest treasure—
My sweet little Florence just taken from me!

His pale, slender hand now supported his head—
Sing sorrow, sorrow, sorrow!

As he knelt down to pray by the side of the dead!
Oh! sorrow, sorrow, sorrow!
Sing, oh! this deep sorrow shall be my pleasure—
This sorrow, this sorrow my pleasure shall be!
For here in this grave lies my heart's dearest treasure—
My sweet little Florence just taken from me!

His heart had so melted itself into tears—
Sing sorrow, sorrow, sorrow!
That his locks were all grey, but were grey not with years—
Oh! sorrow, sorrow, sorrow!
Sing, oh! this deep sorrow shall my pleasure—
This sorrow, this sorrow my pleasure shall be!
For here in this grave lies my heart's dearest treasure—
My sweet little Florence just taken from me!

The tears that he shed had so blinded his sight—
Sing sorrow, sorrow, sorrow!
That the bright world to him seemed as dark as the night—
Oh! sorrow, sorrow, sorrow!
Sing, oh! this deep sorrow shall be my pleasure—
This sorrow, this sorrow my pleasure shall be!
For here in this grave lies my heart's dearest treasure—
My sweet little Florence just taken from me!

At morning he prayed there, he prayed there at even—
Sing sorrow, sorrow, sorrow!
And all that he wished was to meet her in Heaven,
From sorrow, sorrow, sorrow!
Sing, oh! this deep sorrow shall be my pleasure—
This sorrow, this sorrow my pleasure shall be!
For high up in Heaven lives my heart's dearest treasure—
My sweet little Florence just taken from me!

Oak Grove, March 10, 1843.

THE RAISING OF TABITHA.

So, after they had closed her dying eyes,
And balmed her with perfumes which they had brought
From Gilead, they then sent, anon, two men
To Peter, that he might arrive in haste;
For, he had opened Saul of Tarsus' eyes,
And raised up Enaus from the dead, and now
They waited that he might restore her too.
So, after they arrived, he rose in haste,
And entered into Joppa where she was;
And when he entered into where she lay,
Seeing the women standing by in tears,
He lifted up her hand from off her breast,
And, pressing its cold, pulseless chill with his,
Felt the congealing shock drive back the blood
Recurrent through his tingling veins, as if
Each timid pulse sought rescue in his heart.
And after he had felt her pulseless wrist,
And prest the cold indifference of the palm
Of her unsocial hand with his, he laid,
With cautious ease, the stiffening fingers back,
And on her marble forehead laid it now—
The sometime kingdom of immortal thought—
And felt, by its soft coldness, that her soul
Had just sped home to glory!—All was still.
Not even the whispers of the odorous Breeze,
Lifting her raven locks with spirit-hands,
And weaving, with their glossy curls, the woof
Wherein to hide the fragrance he had stolen—
Disturbed the stillness of that awful hour!
So, after he had found that she was dead,
He lifted up his hands to God in Heaven,
And, praying, breathed his soul out over her,

And said, “Dorcas! ARISE!”—And as the dawn
Breaks through the sable curtains of the night,
Impatient for the day, there stole upon
Her bloodless cheeks the same soft, gentle hue,
That she had worn in childhood, like that Heaven
Puts on when Winter has been driven from earth,
And Spring, arrayed in all her bridal robes,
Weds Summer on the mountains. Then, as flowers,
That long have waited for the coming shower,
Lift up their drooping heads, revived again,
In tenfold purity—“she oped her eyes!”
And feeling now the newness of new life,
A vigorous pulse ran through her glowing heart,
“And, when she saw 'twas Peter, she sat up!”

New York, June 8, 1834.

The Disciple mentioned in Acts, 30: 34, who was raised to life in Joppa, was called Tabitha, which, being interpreted, signifies Dorcas, or the Gazelle, from the beauty of her eyes. This is still a comparison in the East; and the greatest compliment you can pay to a fine woman is to say, Aine el Czazel—you have the eyes of the Gazelle.

HYMN TO THE DEITY.

“Heal me, oh! Lord! and I shall be healed; and save me, and I shall be saved; for Thou art my praise.”—

Jer. 17: 14.

Lord! let the rivers of thy love,
Pour down upon me from above;
Let the bright waves of glory roll
Around this Sanctuary of my soul.

Let not the Island-clouds that lie
In the Pavillion of the sky,
Gather around thy Dwelling-place,
And hide the glory of thy face.

Thou art upon the raging seas,
And in the whispers of the breeze;

And in the lightnings of the sky,
Filling the firmament on high.

Thou art upon the mighty hills,
And in the music of the rills;
And in the whirlwinds of the sea,
And in the voice that speaks to Thee.

Thou art upon the darkest night,
And in the brightest of the light;
And in the Highest Heaven, as well
As in the lowest depths of Hell.

Thus, seeing that thy Home is here,
And feeling that thy voice is near;
And knowing what thy strength must be—
I offer up my prayer to Thee!

Oak Grove, Ga., 1834.

THE POET.

The Poet, through all things on earth, can see
Glimpses of that Celestial State to be.
The Voices of all Ages, from their dim
Abodes, (his foregone echoes,) answer him.
God's holy Messenger to ignorant men
To lead them safely back to Heaven again;
For that Celestial State is far above
This low, terrestial one in heavenly love.
He is the Echo of great Nature's voice,
Whose utterance makes the heart of Man rejoice—
That God-made Memnon who dost ever make
Celestial music for his own soul's sake;
Thus he becomes the Prophet of all time,
Archangel-like, in thunderous tones sublime—
Preaching that mystic music unto men,

Which Angels shall rehearse in Heaven again.
Then listen to him while he sings to thee
Of what thou art—what thou shalt surely be;
For knowing not what thou art now—hast been—
Is not to know what thou shalt be again;
Which, knowing not, will teach thy soul to know
What, only known, will bring thee deepest wo!
He plucks the fruit of that Igdrasil-tree
Whose roots grow in the heart of Deity.
He speaks of the Eternal Source of things,
And gives to wingless Man an Angel's wings.
He tells him of his soul's lost Paradise,
And how he may regain it in the skies—
That his peculiar mode of being here,
Is not the being that shall live up there.
He tells why Man cannot be happy here,
Because his hopes of joy are fixed up there.
He shall be happy in the world to come,
Who lives as this were not his Heavenly Home.
He is the Pole-Star of this life's dark night—
The only Pharos to the Ports of Light—
That great, divinest, Everlasting Day,
God-lighted, shining here on earth alway.
He is the Temple of the Living God,
Built here on earth for His Divine Abode.
Rapt with Archangel-might, his sunlike song
Gushes in golden music from his tongue,
Where God's Sphere-melody is heard on high
Flooding the ocean-ether endlessly—
(Radiating from the rolling Stars like light
Out of the sun, encompassing his flight—)
Until the unborn Ages yet to be,
Are rapt with his great Seraph-melody.

Villa Allegra, Ga., March 15, 1849.