University of Virginia Library

I.

In this frail world, where man must live and die!
Which I have occupied one score of years—
There are but few, on whom we may rely,
And these poor, faithless few exposed to tears.
My God! this thought blot from my burning brain!
My heart! this heart once claimed uncommon glee,
But, lo! upon my cheek, was seen a stain—
The rainbow of a strife! Shall I be free?
It was the offspring of an unkind wife!
'Twas what I claimed as mine, in days of youth—
She filled my bosom with this monstrous strife;
And made asperities where paths were smooth.
My soul drank draughts from Hesper's lovely star,
And prophecied new coming days of joy—
But, lo! my heart can show a callous scar,
Which bled in tears, when I was mother's boy.
My moral deeds stood firm—the test of time—
My childhood splendor gave me no great vent
To revelry—but in disguise, in friendships clime,
There came an adder and my bosom rent!
Upon my cheek was seen a virgin smile,—
I was of kindest parents born and raised,
But irony and grief came clothed in guile,
And sapp'd me, when my friends, my virtues praised.
That social test, the cordial boon of heaven,
Surcharged my eyelid, till it burst a tear!
My God! 'twas then my bark was rudely driven,
Far from its port!—Oh! when shall it appear?
Mankind was treated kind enough by me,
Like a Samaritan I fed the poor;
E'en in misery! and, at my father's knee,
I condescended, and did him implore.
And like the faithfulness in Noah's dove,
I sought the olive—but forlorn I stood,—
When in meridian of my day of love,—
And fell a wreck in sorrow's raging flood.
I was a youth of temperance and love,
And gloried in the mandates of the truth—
Hear me, my God! for thou art throned above
To bear me record—make my pillow smooth.
I gloried in the sight of friendship's boon,
With steadfast attitude, upon her face
I gazed; but there were foes, which came too soon,
And stole my guerdon—left her in disgrace.
'Twas in feigned kindness I was thus deceived,
Which made this sorrow glow upon my face—
For I was but a pilgrim, and believed
Mankind were true, but I have learned my race—
My offering was sincere—I gave my heart!
A greater than the Paschal lamb of old,
She triumphed in the gift—it was a part
Of what I had—but soon the treasure sold—
I bore this with impunity—I bore her dart—
And revelled in the thrill of buoyant life;
Nor did I think that I had sold that part
Of human love, for this poor stipend—strife!
Here are my tears! here are my youthful teras!
A heap of ruin! how shall I see that face—
My own maternal sky—the soother of my fears?
I weep! thank God, a tear is no disgrace.

II.

Long have I worn the load of human woe!
My brow—my cheek can speak of endless grief.
If this be false, my heart alone can know,
By this alone—that nought can give relief.
I knew not what it was to suffer pain—
I left no work undone which God required;
And would entreat remission from again,
To rid my brother of distress—this I desired.
That which I saw was for the good of man,
My heart did inculcate it as a good—
This was that ocean where my river ran.
The Arnon of my soul laved where I stood!
I saw a cloud put out my hopes one day,
And like a bark cast on an angry tide,
Whose wrecking strength I could not beat away—
So did this rain dash o'er my youthful side.
Hear me heaven! for these are words of truth!
This is that patrimony which I pay
To thee! I spent the rest in blasted youth—
Yes, my soul's fires then blew the rest away.
I was a child of love, and played as one,
In all my youthful glee—my soul eat food
At her own banquet; yea, and as her son,
My heart received their sunbeams—it was good!
I had a social kindness, which shall last
Till this poor earth shall dwindle into death!
I saw what seemed a prospect—but that's past!
I breathed that vital air of inward faith,
Which none has had experience of, but man—
Poor, mortal man! and still, I falter not—here
Is my hope—within my breast—and I can
Boast of this—and, from this, proceeds the tear.

III.

My God! how often have my parents wept—
Not for a prodigality of mine;
I was no alien—save from sin;—I left
Them not—save when there grew a special time.
They loved me, and I lov'd them all,
Beyond the reach of words,—why should I sigh?
Why should I thus complain? both great and small,
Have an appointed time to weep and die.
But I was born upon a day of heartfelt joy,
Nor, did the heavens pourtray aught but life
And love; was I nurtured as a conscious boy?
In all, save revelry—I paid no debt of strife.
I knew mankind by nought, but by a smile,
And I presumed all men of honest heart;
But in a later day, I see a guile,
Invested in the countenance and heart;
They nurture it, they hold it out in pride—
They mock the man, who dares to shun the dart,
That would impierce him in the trusted side,
And take possession of his harmless heart.
This I have seen, till I am weary to the soul!
Yet, man doth me abhor—hear me, truth!
For I have laid my hands on thee, to roll
My numbers down that stream, I sailed in youth;
And it was strange—it was an ugly sight—
That I should be exposed to such a frost!
For, like the morning sun, rose beaming bright,
A cloud eclipsed my beams,—my rays were lost!
Be not surprised—nor question what I say—
For my young heart can show a mighty scar!
Purporting what I felt—and that bright ray
Came from my childhood's brightest star—
But man must suffer; and if God has said
That all mankind has an appointed pain,
Let mine now pass—'tis come—'tis gone—'tis dead!
It has refined me—nor, let it come again.

IV.

Have I not felt the canker eat my heart?
Has not my soul complained in midst of pain?
Have I not been a blight, and felt the dart
Impierce, and wound me o'er and o'er again?
Hear me, my native land—give ear my earth!
Have I not stood the shock that would have dashed
Mankind beside, to death! and yet I stood.
Has not my heart, in filial love, been smashed
By hell's foul thunder; and the good
I would have shown—my heart has kept
Within?—hear, my parents—for thou, alone,
Can testimony bear—have I not wept—
And have my tears not laved my native home,
With rivers of such grief, as would have dried
The fountain head of life, in many men?
But still, my heart is rife with rheum—the day
May come, not far away—I humbly hope, when
This young cheek shall have it wiped away.
I do desire it, and my deeds shall bear
Me record of the truth—has man been true?
Have those, who have been vile to swear
My life away—which they have wished to do,
Can they, I say, bring aught to bear
Against me, and sustain it—hear truth!—my
Heart is strong—hear human evidence—no;
They are silent—their cupidity must die!
As they have done; and none believe it so!

V.

I got drunk in all the fibres of my heart—
My soul was gorged with a bright light,
From every human being; man is a part
Of God—the symbol of that glorious light,
Which lives beyond the sun or moon—and I
Was wedded in my soul to nature; when first
I saw creation's light—when first mine eye
Beheld the sunbeams thus intrude, I burst
Into this intellectual love—my nails—
My very feet and hands became enamoured
Of the world—my nature made me what I
Am, and what I am, I glory in—this
Was my evidence, the day I breathed a sigh
From out my mother's womb. There is a bliss
Beyond mortality, and my young thought
Did grapple at its utmost reach; I saw
A port—the star-light of pure love, which wrought
In me a fixedness, which made me draw
My star-beam from a source, which mortal man did
Hate me for—yet, I was firm—I love their
Scoffs—the growling envy of the heart hid
My perplexities, with joy—the old scar
Which their asperities have made—is here—
They can be seen—they are depicted on
My withered cheek; but in my bosom's sire,
There is a pearl—a precious gift, which none
But God, the giver, can expunge; the fire
Which first awoke me, what I am—so pure,
That alienated earth cannot deface me;
And this vile molestation may secure
Their venom—my basis is eternity!
And I will firmly stand—I can endure.

VI.

Hear me, my God! for now, I speak the truth!
My very life and soul was sated with the dew
From that great sea of fire, which my sweet youth
Did glory in; until I upward grew,
To what you see me—pure and spotless;—here
Is my chaplet—if I have done my all—
If I have gained the chaplet—this bright tear
Is all the offering that I have;—although 'tis small,
Yet, on the altar of my life it e'er shall burn—
It is that incense, yea, the very dew
Which shall consign me, when my soul returns
To God—this tear has been the badge of few;
Still I admire it, and my heart can revel
In the glorious glow, which it can never
Feel again, from any source besides; I level
Not myself with puny ire; but I sever
From debauchery, as the dictates of my soul;
For on my heart's own tablet is inscribed
The assignations of a monstrous grief!
And still, an unsurveyed beatitude awaits
My sublunary life. I have laid up in store,
A vast inheritance—I felt it at my birth,
And now, at manhood's dawn, I feel it more,
Because I realize the buffetings of earth;
And lead my army with a greater skill,
Than when I was a youth—I then was pure—
I am not guilty now, but I remain so still;
But I have many sorrows to endure;
And why I feel the writhings of regret,
Is more than mortal tongue can tell; but I
Have powers in my being to express, and set
My pedigree of heart and soul, to vie
With human nature; I have that within
Me, which shall last till time has laid me low!
I have that spark within my soul, which shall
Be seen when I shall not exist; it is a wo—
Endured in all the vast extremity of thrall
And sympathy; for I have a whole sole
Development, which naught can disannul—
It is a thought conducted to a height, above
The mediocrity of little things!
It is the cement of the soul—the heart's own dove
The pure obsequiousness which springs
From that great reservoir of good, the love
Of heaven—it is an aspiration which shall
Lift me up to heaven; I have nurtured it
In storms and tempests; and that's not all,
I have sustained it in the vertex of regret.
When hope was most forlorn—this very eye
Which beams with that unearthly fire, can tell
What gnaws within—is there a canker? sigh
My heart, and show it—give one human swell—
A dilation from the soul, which ne'er shall die.
That great, unfettered flow of human feeling,
Which I cannot suppress—that man might see,
What worm begnaws—that vital core concealing
All its vile, consumptive bane, till I be
Bound by domination's cords, and brought to
Death's great pass—the vale for human beauty
To be tried—the chilling fire, which, shall so
Consign us, that the soul, in duty,
Shall resign itself—a retribution which
Shall bring us that great thought of time and life,
For an untired meditation; and enrich
Us with a legacy, so void of strife,
That the most thrilling theme of this great flame,
Will be an eulogy beyond content—
Throughtout eternity to be the same—
Not like to earth, mixed with a soul's lament.

VII.

Have I not bourn this?—hear my pleadings, heaven!
Have I not waded through the avenues of life?
Have I not been through earth's vile furnace driven—
And have I not supported under loads of strife?
Yes, I have—e'en from the very day I breathed,
In conscious life, and grew to be a boy,—
E'en from the very moment when I wreathed—
And in contortion, sucked the air of joy
In my lungs—the morn I claimed existence;
For I was born, as seemed, a weeping child;
And I was born, to bear, and my resistance,
Should be from the bottom of my soul! I smiled—
But, it was but an outlet for the many pangs
Which soon pursued! it did canal my heart!
And through that avenue, my anchor hangs,
When I should be at rest; for it was envy's dart
That did o'ertake me in my morn of life;
And I have warred with foes without a heart—
Without a soul; and more than all, I
Have a triumph over them, which shall be
My soul's own guerdon, when I come to die!
It shall be so; and they shall set me free!
For what I say, my heart and soul can see
Reflected from the mirror of their evil deeds—
My recompence shall be as thou would'st—free;
And in their most spontaneous growth, weeds,
Of poisonous kind, shall intersperse its bane,
And be a torment, which shall last so long,
That passers by, shall weep, and not regain
The loathsome sight—for their own wrong
They shall be brought to suffer—hear me, my God!
My youth has suffered by the fiends of hell!
And it was done upon my native sod,
Where all the parents of my youth now dwell.
If it is right, I will no more complain,
If it is wrong, it is as I believe;
'Tis in my sympathies I suffer pain!
My soul's sensorium, where in I bereave—
But that vile day is past—that briny rain
Which came from out the ocean of my soul,
Where terminated all my finer thoughts of pain,
Has almost reached its height—my soul's control
Has had some influence—nor rise again.

VIII.

There is that within me which shall last, till
Time's transitions shall be past and gone! I
Have it written on my heart, nor can I sell
This patrimony for a baser lore! my
Soul must fire my heart, and raise me up, far
From that immortality which grovels
In the dust, and shines like an eclipsed star!
Be thou my shield!—for I am not a marvel!
My soul first eat the sunbeam of her love,
When I was but a boy; and ever since
Have I been fettered with that power from above.
Though I am dust, yet will I make my own
Election, and abstain from littleness—here
Am I! what you see me now, I am alone—
In sight of man—abroad—here is a tear!
The greatest guerdon that my soul has
Ever sought—it is a precious thing—my
Soul doth reverence this, as love—but alas!
Should I expound this last—you may rely—
Though costly—though it cost me pain—I love
It, and I have a habit—a kind spark—
I have a mode—which I cannot—I have not drove—
As I am weeping to retrieve my heart—
From that vast sympathetic load, which came
Upon me, when I was a boy. It is
A cruel recompence! yet, I have felt
It not for the great prisal of the thing,
Which I have lost—hear me heaven! this guilt
Has not been on me; for I can dig far
Brighter diamonds from the mine of earth. I
Could resort to that Ægeræ of my soul,
And from Castalia could I drink my
Potion, with a soul enlivening thrill. Roll
On, thou billow, for the calm which nurtures
Me, amidst my rudest shock, will smooth
The dimpled cheek of this vast sea—virtue
Has set her seal upon me; and it shall sooth
The last expiring torture which may burn.

IX.

Have I not been a mock for hell and all
Her clan? have I not had my bosom torn?
Did I then falter? and, did I then fall?
Was I a wreck of love, as soon as born?
Did I not have the heart-string which first bound
Me to the world, cut loose from all its ties?
Hear me, my God! did I not then control
The interdictor of my love—she dies!
Oh, my Angeline! answer for my soul,
For thou wast that bright spark which shone with love—
And thou could'st expungate it, of its guile,
Had I descended from my lofty height above,
To grapple at such finitude; and shall I smile
At such an aspiration? I have not
Sought my refuge in the frantic song—I
Have not, in my human wo, been seen where
Hell would weep to look! no; till I come to die,
Will I be such a slave, not till I rot,
Will I be made to bow beneath the yoke
Of that cupidity; which wallows in the lot
Of poor subordination! though they provoke
Me, it shall be that emulative spark,
Which shall dilate my soul, and raise my heart's
Priority above this puny dart.

X.

But thou, my Angeline! hast been the star
Which made me wonder with thy light—
The wilderness has been my home—afar
From that pure home—where I arose a blight,
To weep! but I must bear it; I can do
It, with that whole-soul firmness of a man,
Which I now claim; then let this shadow flit
Before mine eyes—my heart is firm, where ran
The Amazon of grief! 'tis palpable—'tis strong—
And where is there a foe to make me wrong.
Oh, Angeline! my Angeline! whence comes
This pleasing thought, beclouded with a tear!
Where is my native land, my native home?—
The time, the place, where I beheld thee, dear!
Is not this the cause of such a weight? hear,
My love—is this not the great fount, from whence
My current runs! behold this briny tear!
And be my seraph, my own soul's defence.
Can'st thou remember, on that morn, I rose
And paid that debt of love which broke my heart!
My soul can bear me testimony. Close
The gap—my boyhood suffered much—we part!
But we shall never meet again! I go—
Perhaps, afar—but [illeg.] recollect—like
Juno's dove, transport a rapture for my woe!
And give me that which I do not dislike.

XI.

The kisses my mother gave me, was not
Like that sweet nectar, which thou did'st implant
Within my life: no, it shall be forgot—
Not while I live; it may be when I plant
My scion in the mouldering urn, where lies
The last remaining monument of love;
But it shall sprout when I am gone! when I
Am lost to earth's pure light, there shall arise
Within the compass of my soul's bright eye,
A gorgeous landscape of unfading dies:
It shall illumine when I might sink in gloom;
The pure, ennobling fire of God, which burns
Within my bosom! for there shall be room
For such a magnitude of bliss! return,
Oh! Angeline, return! but why should I
Expect that which shall never be—farewell!
And where is human speech? the dialect
Of heaven—to expound this word—farewell!
Oh! Angeline, would to God that thou could'st
Know, what rivers flow from out the ocean
Of my troubled soul! I know that thou woulds't
Give me what I ask—my God! devotion
Has quite killed me; not many days, gone by,
Thou wast the only starlight to my soul!
Oh! where is Dante's vast prophetic eye?
And where is poor Alferi's bones—roll
On, ye waves of trouble—roll! I do rely
Upon thy precepts! it has taught my heart
A lesson which it never shall forget!
Oh! thou, Beatrice of my life! we part!
But I would love thee still! I owe no debt—
I have disbarred my heart! 'tis all that I
Can do! but such a tribute, I forgot
In part, but thy sweet name shall never die.

XII.

Oh, Angeline! thou wast to me, a boon—
A precious boon indeed! the very light
By which I made created things more bright!
Shall we part? and I have said, farewell! night's
Sable gloom, now lowers o'er my future
Years! they are an execration to my
Weal! shall I forbid thy sight, oh! nurture
That poor, transient spark, which glimmers round thy
Heart—for it has much to show! it grows more
Callous every day! it is the cause—my
Sighs proceed from such an honest heart, I
Do behold my sorrow there—it is not
For the loss, I grieve! it is that such a dye
Was ever cast! my God! did I not lift my
Thoughts above misfortune? did I not raise my
Soul above that adverse vale of woe? did
I not reach my aspirations forth? I
Did! hear me, truth, in all my grief! forbid
It heaven! that I should thus become a dupe! my
Sorrows measure in their magnitude, just
In proportion to the height I rose from
Earth. I feel the load surround my heart! dust
As I am, I could not feel what I have
Felt, had I not prophecied that glory
Which, with open arms, now save me from the grave—
And for this very trial I am sorry!

XIII.

So let it be; but there was that within,
Which strengthened me, when my young bosom heaved
A sigh or groan! it was, in truth, a sin,
That I should suffer thus, I once was young—bereaved
My loss—it is not in truth, the loss—but this,
That it had ever happened—so let it be!
There is a glorious magnitude of bliss,
Which I shall never waste—my eyes shall see
What they have never seen; and, for this loss,
I am indebted for that legacy—I own
The knowledge of mankind—the mighty cross
Which rends the heart—disturbs the soul—the lone,
Pure testimony of a feeling child!
I must refund adversity the prize
She made me win, for I have often smiled
Since that; and when my cheek was scared, my eyes
Did sparkle with the fire of joy, to think
I knew the value of a tear! though I was shivered
By the perturbed winds of envy, the brink
Has never boasted of my fall. I am delivered!
And I glory in redemption, which I knew
Not of, before—my God! take such wild things
From my mind's eye! it drains my heart's own dew—
From out my bosom, this pure fountain springs—
The asylum of all my nicer ties
Of truth,—it is as pure as love—farewell!
The mountains of the heart—within the scales
Of heaven—could not ponder such a load! well,
Let it weigh—for when I left my house, I
Knew its gravity!—within the compass
Of my eye, there was a mist, which my
Untramelled thought shall ne'er forget! alas!
There was a heaviness—my God! what was
I, on that day? I had no comforter!
My mother loved me; and my do[illeg.]ll friends did
Kiss me oft, but there was something greater
Than all this, within; and when I looked, I
Saw the big blue tear, surround my eye, ah!
What a thought it is!—no marvel—rely
Upon my word; for my young breast felt then,
What it shall never, feel again! my eye
Was overwhelmed with gloom—the chaos which
Suffused my vision, stole upon me, when
My will was as the grain of sand; a stitch
Was taken in the wound, and my young heart
With love's first, pure intention, has been rich,
And healed with double energy;—I part!
But I shall never see thy face again.
Though it may rain me calumny and grief!
I am determined, and no love can feign
Itself, that I can be deceived; my soul's relief
Is found; and my mind's eye shall not loose sight
Of that free star of glory, where my love
Shall be exalted o'er the canopy
Of heaven; the principle came from above—
The herald of life's self;—it e'er shall be
With me, immortal;—then, fare thee well!
My Angeline, farewell! the hand that thou
Didst shake in youthful days, shall tremble far
From thee; but unto thee, I pay this vow!
And heaven has borne record of the same; where
I shall go, thou ne'er shalt come—farewell!
Thou hast deceived me, I have wept!
But now, I wipe my tears; and what I tell
Thee, is graven with an iron pen; bereft
Of thee, is cruel! thou hast treated me
Amiss—farewell! through all eternity.

XIV.

My God! shall I repress my youthful sighs?—
I left my home! my mother wept and mourned!
But I was not a prodigal—my eyes
Behold strange aspects: my thoughts returned
And travelled in the regions of the sky!
But, Oh, my heart! I wept in bitterness!
And I shall ne'er forget that limpid stream,
Which trickled down that vale, when sickness
Curled my brow! Oh! what a thought; 'tis no dream!
Far from the sight of mortal man, I poured
My bitterness—it was a beauteous stream; and God
Had spared no pains in nature, to afford
Creation's children pleasure in the sight.
It was a stream, far from my native sod;
And when I think of it, it is delight
Seen through the vale of dried up tears,—
Within the wilderness of execrated years.