The Poetical Works of James Gates Percival :: :: University of Virginia Library

The Poetical Works of James Gates Percival

With a biographical sketch

Percival, James Gates (1795-1856)

VOL. II.

THE DREAM OF A DAY, AND OTHER POEMS. FIRST PUBLISHED IN 1843.

POSTHUMOUS POEMS.

JUVENILE POEMS.

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2. VOL. II.

PROMETHEUS.

Συ δ' ουδεπω ταπεινος, ουδ' εικεις κακοις,
Προς τοις παρουσι δ' αλλα προσλαβειν θελεις.
Æsch. Prom. Desm. 320.

PART I.

I.

They talk of love and pleasure,—but 'tis all
A tale of falsehood. Life is made of gloom:
The fairest scenes are clad in ruin's pall,
The loveliest pathway leads but to the tomb;
Alas! destruction is man's only doom.
We rise, and sigh our little lives away,
A moment blushes beauty's vernal bloom,
A moment brightens manhood's summer ray,
Then all is wrapt in cold and comfortless decay.

II.

And yet the busy insects sweat and toil,
And struggle hard to heap the shining ore:
How trifling seems their bustle and turmoil,
And even how trifling seems the sage's lore!
Even he who, buried in the classic store
Of ancient ages, ponders o'er the page
Of Tully or of Plato, does no more
Than with his bosom's quiet warfare wage,
And in an endless round of useless thought engage.

III.

Then close thy ponderous folio, and retire
To shady coverts, undisturbed retreats,
And lay thy careless hand upon thy lyre,
And call the Muses from their woodland seats:
But ah! the poet's pulse how vainly beats!
'Tis but vexation to attune his strings.
Even he who with the Chian bard competes
Had better close his fancy's soaring wings,
And own earth's highest bliss no true enjoyment brings.

IV.

We find this earth a gloomy, dull abode,
And yet we wish for pleasure;—sense is keen,
And so this life is but a toilsome road,
That leads us to a more delightful scene.
Well, if thou find'st a solace there, I ween
It is the only joy thou e'er canst know;
And yet it is but fancy, never seen
By mortal eye was all that lovely show,
That paradise where we so fondly wish to go.

V.

We have a body,—and the wintry wind
Will not respect the poet. No, the storm
Beats heavy on the case that holds a mind
Of heavenly mould, as on the vulgar form;
When bleak winds blow, how can the soul be warm?
Can fancy brighten in the cell of care?
Can inspiration's breath the soul inform,
When the limbs shiver in the gusty air,
And in the thin, pale face the fiends of hunger stare?

VI.

O, they may tell me of the ethereal flame
That burns and burns for ever;—'t is the dream
Of those high intellects, who well may claim
Relation to the pure, celestial beam:
The life eternal,—'t is a glorious theme,
Whereon bards, sages, have outpoured their fire;
Yet view it narrowly, and it will seem
But the wild mounting of unquenched desire,
The long extended wish to raise our being higher.

VII.

True, 't is a mighty stretch, when unconfined
The soul expatiates in imagined being,
And where the vulgar eye can only find
Dust, by a second sight strange visions seeing,
And still from wonder on to wonder fleeing,
By its enkindled feelings wildly driven,
It leaps the walls of earth, but ill agreeing
With those high-mounting thoughts to genius given,
Nor rests till it has set its eagle-foot in heaven.

VIII.

And there it culls the choicest fields of earth
For all the pure and beautiful and bright,
And gives a gay and odorous Eden birth,
And rains around a flood of golden light,
Where sun, moon, stars, no more awake the sight,
But, pouring from the Eternal's viewless throne,
It fills us with ineffable delight,
And, every stain of earth for ever flown,
We bathe and bask in this ethereal fount alone.

IX.

And flowers of every hue and scent are there;
The laughing fields are one enamelled bed,
And filled with sweetness breathes the fanning air,
And soaring birds are singing overhead,
And bubbling brooks, by living fountains fed,
O'er pebbled gems and pearl-sands winding play;
One boundless beauty o'er creation shed,
The storm, the cloud, the mist, have hied away,
And nothing dims the blaze of this immortal day.

X.

And man, a pure and quenchless beam of light,
All eye, all ear, all feeling, reason, soul,
He takes from good to good his tireless flight,
And, ever aiming at perfection's goal,
Sees at one instant-glance the moral whole;
Powers ever kindling, always on the wing,
The disembodied spark Prometheus stole,
To science, virtue, love, devotion, spring
His fancy, reason, heart,—creation's angel king.

XI.

The whole machine of worlds before his eye
Unfolded as a map, he glances through
Systems in moments, sees the comet fly
In its clear orbit through the fields of blue,
And every instant gives him something new,
Whereon his ever-quenchless thirst he feeds;
From star to insect, sun to falling dew,
From atom to the immortal mind, he speeds,
And in the glow of thought the boundless volume reads.

XII.

Truth stands before him in a full, clear blaze,
An intellectual sunbeam, and his eye
Can look upon it with unbending gaze,
And its minutest lineaments descry;
No speck nor line is passed unnoticed by,
And the bright form perfection's image wears.
And on its forehead sceptred majesty
The calm, but awful port of justice bears,
Who weeps when she condemns, but smiles not when she spares.

XIII.

Mercy! thou dearest attribute of Heaven,
The attractive charm, the smile of Deity,
To whom the keys of Paradise are given,—
Thy glance is love, thy brow benignity,
And bending o'er the world with tender eye,
Thy bright tears fall upon our hearts like dew,
And, melting at the call of clemency,
We raise to God again our earth-fixed view,
And in our bosom glows the living fire anew.

XIV.

The perfect sense of beauty,—how the heart,
Even in this low estate, with transport swells,
When Nature's charms at once upon us start!
The ocean's roaring waste, where grandeur dwells,
The cloud-girt mountain, whose bald summit tells,
Beneath a pure black sky the faintest star,
The flowery maze of woods, and hills, and dells,
The bubbling brook, the cascade sounding far,
Robed in a mellow mist, as Evening mounts her car,

XV.

And with her glowing pencil paints the skies
In hues, transparent, melting, deep, and clear,
The richest picture shown to mortal eyes,
And lovelier when a dearer self is near,
And we can whisper in her bending ear,
“How fair are these, and yet how fairer thou!”
And, pleased the artless flattery to hear,
Her full blue eyes in meek confusion bow,—
That hour, that look, that eye, are living to me now.

XVI.

But there the cloud of earth-born passion gone,
Taste, quick, correct, exalted, raised, refined,
Rears o'er the subject intellect her throne,
The pure Platonic ecstasy of mind;
By universal harmony defined,
It feels the fitness of each tint and hue,
Of every tone that breathes along the wind,
Of every motion, form, that charm the view,
And lives upon the grand, the beautiful, and new.

XVII.

The feelings of the heart retain their sway,
But are ennobled;—not the instinctive tie,
The storgè, that so often leads astray,
And poisons all the springs of infancy,
So that thenceforth to live is but to die,
And linger with a venom at the heart,
To feel the sinking of despondency,
To writhe around the early-planted dart,
And burn and pant with thirst that never can depart.

XVIII.

Such are the wounds indulgent parents give,
Who slay the smiling blossom of their love;
And if the blighted plant should lingering live,
The spirit cannot wing its flight above,
But in its restless agony will rove
Still on and onward in forbidden joy,
Till wildly, as a whirlwind's fury drove,
He rushes to the foes that soon destroy,
And then they weep, and curse their lost, deluded boy.

XIX.

His friendship warmed to love, all things, that feel,
In all his tenderness of feeling share;
His love, bright as devotion's holiest zeal,
For sex, without its ill, has being there;
All pleasure's smile and virtue's beauty wear,
And kindred souls in dear communion blend,
Love, purest love, without its sigh and care,
And hand in hand their mounting way they wend,
With hope that meets no chill, and joys that never end.

XX.

Devotion,—'tis an all-absorbing flame,—
The omnipotent, all-perfect, endless Being,
The Builder of the universal frame,
At one quick glance past, present, future, seeing,
By whom, hot, cold, moist, dry, good, ill, agreeing,
At last, the perfect birth of bliss comes forth,
And evil to its native darkness fleeing,
Virtue shines out in her unspotted worth,
And blasts to meanest dust the proudest forms of earth.

XXI.

Hark! hear the holy choir around the throne;
Their lips are coals, their pæans vocal fire;
They sing the Eternal Lord, who sits alone,
And still their swelling anthem rises higher,
The warbling of the universal lyre,
The harmony of hearts and souls and spheres.
O, how my bosom burns with long desire,
How flow my bitter, penitential tears!
O, 'tis a strain too loud and sweet for mortal ears!

XXII.

But stop, delirious fancy! now awaking
From thy enchanted dream, what meets thy sight?
The charmed spell, that bound thy senses, breaking,
Thy Eden withers in a simoom's blight,
And all its suns have set in endless night;
Love, sanctity, and glory, all a gleam,
Thy airy paradise has vanished quite,
And, falling, fading, flickering, dies life's beam,
Thy visioned heaven has fled. Alas! 't was but a dream!

XXIII.

O for those early days, when patriarchs dwelt
In pastoral tents, that rose beneath the palm,
When life was pure, and every bosom felt
Unwarped affection's sweetest, holiest balm,
And like the silent scene around them, calm,
Years stole along in one unruffled flow!
Their hearts aye warbled with devotion's psalm,
And as they saw their buds around them blow,
Their keenly glistening eye revealed the grateful glow.

XXIV.

They sat at evening, when their gathered flocks
Bleated and sported by the palm-crowned well,
The sun was glittering on the pointed rocks,
And long and wide the deepening shadows fell;
They sang their hymn, and in a choral swell
They raised their simple voices to the Power
Who smiled along the fair sky; they would dwell
Fondly and deeply on his praise; that hour
Was to them as to flowers that droop and fade the shower.

XXV.

He warmed them in the sunbeams, and they gazed
In wonder on that kindling fount of light,
And as, hung in the glowing west, it blazed
In brighter glories, with a full delight
They poured their pealing anthem, and when night
Lifted her silver forehead, and the moon
Rolled through the blue serenity, in bright
But softer radiance, they blessed the boon
That gave those hours the charm without the fire of noon.

XXVI.

Spring of the living world, the dawn of nature,
When man walked forth the lord of all below,
Erect and godlike in his giant stature,
Before the tainted gales of vice 'gan blow;
His conscience spotless as the new-fallen snow,
Pure as the crystal spouting from the spring,
He aimed no murderous dagger, drew no bow,
But at the soaring of the eagle's wing,
The gaunt wolf's stealthy step, the lion's ravening spring.

XXVII.

With brutes alone he armed himself for war;
Free to the winds his long locks dancing flew,
And at his prowling enemy afar
He shot his death-shaft from the nervy yew;
In morning's mist his shrill-voiced bugle blew,
And with the rising sun on tall rocks strode,
And bounding thro' the gemmed and sparkling dew,
The rose of health, that in his full cheek glowed,
Told of the pure, fresh stream that there enkindling flowed.

XXVIII.

This was the age when mind was all on fire,
The day of inspiration, when the soul,
Warmed, heightened, lifted, burning with desire
For all the great and lovely, to the goal
Of man's essential glory rushed; then stole
The sage his spark from heaven, the prophet spake
His deep-toned words of thunder, as when roll
The peals amid the clouds,—words that would break
The spirit's leaden sleep, and all its terrors wake.

XXIX.

He stood on Sinai, wrapped in storm-clouds, wild
His loose locks streamed around him, and his eye
Flashed indignation on a world defiled
With sense and slavery, who lost the high
Prerogative of power and spirit by
Their longings for their flesh-pots:—O, 't is lust
Which robs us of our freedom, makes us lie
Wallowing in willing wretchedness, nor burst
That thraldom of our woes, most foul, most hard, most curst.

XXX.

He saw those Samsons by a harlot shorn,
He saw them take the distaff, and assume
The soft and tawdry tunics which adorn
The leering siren; all their flush and bloom,
And might and vigor, all that can illume
And blazon manhood, by the magic rod
Of pleasure changed to weakness, squalor, gloom,
And they, who erst with port majestic trod,
Then drunk and gorged and numbed, in sleep lethargic nod.

XXXI.

He stood and raised his mighty voice in wrath,
And sent it, like a whirlwind, o'er those ears,
And thrilled them, like a simoom on its path
Of havoc. See, the slumbering giant hears,
And, waked and roused and kindled by his fears,
Starts into new life with an instant spring;
This is no time for soft, repentant tears;
At once away their wine-drenched spoils they fling,
Their energy is up, their souls are on the wing.

XXXII.

They did not lie, and wish, and long to break
The manacles which clasped them; they did tear
Cables as we would silk-threads, and did take
An upward journey, where the world shines fair,
The temple of true virtue, glory, where
Man lives and glows in sunshine, where the prize,
More rich than laurel wreaths, for all who dare
To reason's perfect, fearless freedom rise,
Sends forth bright beams, that dim and blind all meaner eyes.

XXXIII.

Go o'er the fields of Greece, and see her towers
Fallen and torn and crumbled,—see her fanes
Prostrate and weed-encircled; dimly lowers
Brute ignorance around them, slavery reigns
And lords it o'er their sacred cities, chains
Are riveted upon them, and they gall
Their cramped limbs to the bone, the lashed wretch strains
To rend the gnawing iron,—but his fall
Is in himself. Sleep on! ye well deserve your thrall.

XXXIV.

This is the old age of our fallen race;
We mince in steps correct, but feeble; creep
By rule unwavering in a tortoise pace;
We do not, like the new-born ancient, leap
At once o'er mind's old barriers, but we keep
Drilling and shaving down the wall; we play
With stones and shells and flowers, and as we peep
In nature's outward folds, like infants, say,
How bright and clear and pure our intellectual day.

XXXV.

We let gorged despots rise and plant their foot
Upon our prostrate necks, if they but give
Their golden counters. Tyranny takes root
In a rich soil of sloth and self;—we live
Like oysters in their closed shells;—can we strive
For freedom when this cobweb circle draws
Its tangling coils around us? Let us give
Our hearts to Nature and her sacred laws,
And we can fight unharmed, unchecked in freedom's cause.

XXXVI.

There are a few grand spirits who can feel
The beauty of simplicity, and pour
Their ardent wishes forth, and sternly deal
Their crumbling blows around them; they would soar,
Where man unfettered rises, proudly o'er
The common herd of slaves to power and rule:
Go, search the world, you cannot find a more
Weak, drivelling subject for a despot's tool,
Than him who dares not leave the lessons of his school.

XXXVII.

Cast back your sickened eye upon the dawn
Of Greek and Roman freedom. See their sons
Before the bulwark of their dear rights drawn,
Proud in their simple dignity, as runs
The courser to the fair stream;—on their thrones
They sat, all kings, all people;—they were free,
For they were strong and temperate, and in tones
Deep and canorous, nature's melody,
They sung in one full voice the hymn of liberty.

XXXVIII.

In Dorian mood they marched to meet their foes;
With measured step their awful front they bore,
As, when a mountain billow slowly flows,
Rising and heaving onward to the shore,
It rolls its mingled waters with a roar,
That echoes through the mountains; wide they dash,
Blue as the heavens they kiss, and, tumbling o'er,
They burst upon the coast, and foaming lash
The rocks and splintered cliffs; earth groans beneath the crash.

XXXIX.

Then liberty and law were brightest: men
Were not themselves,—the city was their soul;
They did not keep their treasures in a den,
And brood them, as a fowl her eggs,—the pole
To which their hearts were pointed, and the goal
Of all their strivings, was the public good;
The sage, with naked brow, and flowing stole,
And snowy beard, and eye majestic, stood,
And gave to willing minds their high but simple food.

XL.

It was not cates which pleased then, but they drew
And filled their brimming goblet from the stream,
And plucked the fruits that overhung it; few
But noble were their works,—the living beam
Of sunlight stamped their pages. We may dream
Of monsters, till the brain is mad,—the pure,
Bright images, wherewith their volumes teem,
The taste of nature always will allure,
And while man reads and thinks, and feels and loves, endure.

XLI.

Then Wisdom crowned her head with stars, and smiled
In Socrates, and glowed in Plato, shone
Like day's god in the Stagirite, who piled
A pyramid of high thoughts; as a throne,
It lorded o'er the world for ages; grown
Weak in a second childhood, they did count
And nicely measure each minutest stone,
And crawled around the base, but could not mount
And taste, upon the top, the pure ethereal fount.

XLII.

Then Eloquence was power,—it was the burst
Of feeling, clothed in words o'erwhelming, poured
From mind's long-cherished treasury, and nurst
By virtue into majesty; it soared
And thundered in Pericles; and was stored
With fire that flashed and kindled in that soul
Who called, when Philip, with barbarian horde,
Hung over Athens, and prepared to roll
His deluge on her towers, and drown her freedom's whole.

XLIII.

Then Poetry was inspiration,—loud,
And sweet, and rich, in speaking tones it rung,
As if a choir of muses from a cloud,
Sun-kindled, on the bright horizon hung;
Their voices harmonized, their lyres full strung,
Rolled a deep descant o'er a listening world.
There was a force, a majesty, when sung
The bard of Troy,—his living thoughts were hurled,
Like lightnings, when the folds of tempests are unfurled.

XLIV.

Was it the tumult of contending powers,
The clash of swords and shields, the rush of cars,
Or when aloft, in night's serenest hours,
The moon, encircled by her train of stars,
Poured her soft light around, and dewy airs
Breathed through the camp and cooled the warrior's brow,—
Was it the mellow slumber which repairs
The languid limbs, or keen-edged words, that bow
The soul in wondering awe,—or was it, round the prow,

XLV.

The purple wave disparting, and in foam
Roaring behind the vessel, as she flew,
A white-winged falcon, from her lessening home,
Ploughing the sea's broad back, as loudly blew
The winds among the cordage,—Nature threw
Her energy athwart his page, and shed
Her blaze upon his mind, and there we view,
If, chance, by taste, unwarped, unfettered, led,
A new-made world, all life and light, around us spread.

XLVI.

The times are altered:—man is now no more
The being of his capabilities;
The days of all his energy are o'er.
And will those fallen demigods arise
In all their panoply, and hear the cries
Of king-crushed myriads, who wear the chain
Of bondage? will light dawn upon their eyes,
And wake them from their iron sleep, again
To bare their breast in strife on freedom's holy plain?

XLVII.

A trumpet echoes o'er their tombs,—awake!
The long full peal is “Vengeance!—sleep no more!”
The marble walls, as by an earthquake, break,
And, lo! an armed legion onward pour
Bright casques and nodding plumes, and thirsting gore,
The blood of awe-struck tyrants, flash their swords;
Their march is as a torrent river's roar,
And, with a waked slave's desperation, towards
Their homes of icy gloom they drive Sarmatia's hordes.

XLVIII.

There is a flood of light rolled round the hill
Of Jove, and from its cloudy brightness spring
Spectres of long-departed greatness; still
Their heart-felt homage to that shrine they bring,
Which time has made all sacred, where the king
Of thunder sat upon his ivory throne,
And by him stood his bird, with ready wing
To pounce upon his foes. The days are flown
When darkness ruled as God,—Valor will claim his own,

XLIX.

And Rome again is free, and from thy shore,
Italia! Gaul and Goth and Hun shall fly;
Thy sons shall wash away their shame in gore,
And once again the year of liberty,
The mighty months of glory, they shall see,
Along thy radiant zodiac, on the path
Of ages, warn the nations, “We are free!”
O, who can tell the madness and the wrath,
The drunkenness of soul, a new-waked people hath?

L.

They stand for hearth and altar, wife and sire;
Their lisping infants call them to the fight,
And as they call, their eyeballs flashing fire,
And shouting with a courser's wild delight,
When loosed he bounds and prances in the might
Of young life. There is in the sound of home
A magic, and the patriot, in his right
Strong-founded, meets the prowling foes that come
To waste his land,—no threats his valor can benumb.

LI.

The torch that lights him in his high career
Was kindled at the purest, holiest flame;
He fights for all his bosom holds most dear,
And oh! no voice so conquering as the claim
Of filial tenderness and love; no name
So melting as sire, wife, and children,—all
Are in those sweet words blended. What is fame,
Though pealing with her trumpet to the call
Of kindred, bound and toiling in a tyrant's thrall?

LII.

He sees the noble and the learned stoop,
And kiss the feet that crush them, and the crowd,
In hopeless, cureless, willing bondage droop;
And yet he does not shrink beneath that cloud,
But, muttering execrations deep, not loud,
He whets his sword upon his heaped-up wrong;
And starting, like a spectre from his shroud,
Stung by the lash of slavery's knotted thong,
In all the might of wrath, he hurls his strength along.

LIII.

Even as a tigress, when her secret lair
The hunter hath invaded,—how she draws
Her limbs to all their tenseness, points her hair,
Gnashes her grinding teeth, and bares her claws,
And breathes a stifled growl, and in a pause
Of burning fury hangs upon the spring,
And, nerved and heated in a parent's cause,
Bounds roaring on the robber, like the wing
Of pouncing hawk, or stone hurled whizzing from the sling!

LIV.

They meet at Tivoli,—and night has spread
Her curtain o'er those legions, who would quench
The flame that Brutus, Tully, Cato, fed,
And from its lofty column madly wrench
The new-raised statue. Freemen will not blench,
When they have broke their fetters; but will arm
Their nervy hands with vengeance, and will clench
And grapple with their masters; for the charm
Of liberty's sweet voice the coldest heart will warm.

LV.

They meet, and they are victors;—but the soul,
Like his own mountain's lava glowing, dies,
And falls with hand firm-grasped upon the goal
Of all his longings. As he mounts the skies,
He drops his mantle on the youth, who rise
To give their lives, like him, to liberty;
Devoted to the noblest sacrifice,
Like stars of purest brightness, they shall be
The rallying-point where all the bruised and crushed shall flee.

LVI.

A dream,—a cruel dream! Fair rose the sun
Of freedom on that sky without a cloud;
Sweet was the dawn, when liberty was won
By hands unweaponed; and they hasted, proud
Of bloodless conquest, in their pæans loud
To those who Samson-like had rent their chain;
Then heavenward shone the foreheads which had bowed
To foreign rule for ages, and again
The people's majesty towered over hill and plain.

LVII.

And we did hope the Roman had awaked,
And ancient valor had revived anew,
And that the eagle's thirst of light unslaked,
As when above the Capitol she flew,
Still sought her eyry in the boundless blue;
And we did hope a spirit had gone forth,
Which tyrants and their parasites would rue,
And, like a torrent rolling to the north,
Would with it blend all hearts that kept man's native worth.

LVIII.

It seemed the renovation of the world,
The knell of despots, and the day when thrones
Were tottering, and crowns falling, when kings, hurled
From their base height of lust, should leave their bones
To moulder in their feudal filth; the stones
Which bound the arch of empire lost their hold,
And in the sudden crush were heard the groans
Of gorged and pampered spoilers, who had rolled
Like havoc on the dumb, weak tremblers of their fold.

LIX.

And we did see a nation on their way
To stop the invading torrent, ere it came
And deluged their fair fields. It was a day
Of breathless expectation, when the flame
Of freedom burned the highest, for the game
Of man's emancipation was at stake.
The heart that would not throb then, had no claim
And place in Honor's column,—'t would not wake
Even if a bolt from Heaven should by its pillow break.

LX.

They hung upon the mountains, like a storm
Crowning the Apennine with deep, dun shade,
And o'er them towered the bold and ardent form,
Who seemed in panoply of fire arrayed;
And from their pikes and bayonets there played
A stream of lightnings on the advancing host,
Which, trained and nurtured in the murdering trade,
Like tempest-billows rolling to the coast,
Marched slow and still and sure, to storm that rocky post.

LXI.

In all the discipline of war they came;
Their strong, squared columns moved with heavy tread,
Their step, their bearing, even their breath the same,
And not a murmur whispered through the dead
And boding silence; by a master led,
Even as a rock, that fronts the infuriate wave,
They saw them hanging on their mountain's head;
With cold, proud sneer they marked the untutored brave,
And knew here lay wide-yawned Italian freedom's grave.

LXII.

Secure and calm, they pitched their camp, and piled
Their arms, and furled their banners; all was still,
When, like the bursting of a hail-cloud, wild
Those sun-fired legions hurried down the hill,
And dashed against their robbers, with a will
To do all deeds of daring, and a might
Nerved into madness by those wrongs, that fill
The heart to overflowing; from that height,
In one wild rush, they poured their souls into the fight.

LXIII.

Awhile the Austrian wavered, for the blows
Fell with a giant's vigor; but the clear,
Quick-sighted leader bade their stretched wings close,
And circle in the headlong swarms; then fear
Usurped the seat of courage; far and near
The plain was covered with the flying bands.
In vain the patriot's effort, word, and tear,
His life's blood only drenched his country's sands,
Or stained with fruitless drops the brute invader's hands.

LXIV.

The invading wave rolls on,—no arm is raised
To stem its ceaseless progress; in its flood
It swallows all the hopes, on which men gazed
With such deep yearnings, as when linnets brood
Their callow nestlings,—they are now the food
Of sceptred ribaldry and regal sneers.
Well, let them laugh and revel in light mood,—
A voice of wrath, erelong, will thrill their ears,
And give them doubly full their cup of blood and tears.

LXV.

Fosterers of nations! whose parental hand
Scourges the unwilling subject to obey,
To you, ye self-misnomered holy band,
The goaded slaves their stripes and wounds shall pay;
Though now their heads in childlike fear they lay,
They keenly feel the smart of all their wrong;
They now may stoop and crawl, there is a day
When they will rise and to their vengeance throng;
Even now, ye trembling dread what will not linger long.

LXVI.

Aceldema of nations! thou hast bled
From countless gashes,—thou must still bleed on;
Thy children's gore that harvest-field has fed,
Where thou thy chains and manacles hast won;
Thy struggle for true liberty is done,
France, Italy, have roused and burst their thrall,
And started in that glorious race to run.
Where have their high words ended? See their fall.
The despots crush them now, and say, “So perish all

LXVII.

Who will not sleep contented, while we rule
And fleece and flay them.” You may writhe and turn,
And curse them, as you crouch, their earth-pressed stool;
Yes, ye may start a moment, spring and spurn
The foot that treads you; ye may glow and burn
With wrath to be so scoffed at, but a weight
Like mountains bows you down; dust is your urn;
The spirit is besotted:—this your fate,
To rise and stumble, kneel and kiss the hand you hate.

LXVIII.

One storm has come and gone;—the film is torn
From off your eyes;—you look, and Power is there;
Around his throne unnumbered shields are borne,
Serried in close array; you cannot tear
The monster from his pinnacle; his lair
Is filled with bones of freemen he has slain.
As a crouched lion, when his fangs are bare,
He casts around his keen eye; Hope in vain
Lifts up her gaze, his glance bends it to earth again.

LXIX.

Freedom can have no dwelling on that shore;
She must away and cross the Atlantic flood.
Why play the rude game over? you may pour
In waves, like torrent rivers, your best blood,
But it will end in “We have dared and stood
In battle for our rights; we sink again
Before an overwhelming weight, the food
Of tyrants and their parasites, who drain
Our tears like wine, and bind with doubled links our chain.”

LXX.

Severe and simple walked the Cyprian sage
In Athens' pictured porch; he showed and taught
Unbending virtue in a downward age,
And reckoned all the joys of sense as naught,
And mastered down the tide of swelling thought,
And bound on passion an unyielding rein;
With slow, sure step, the highest good he sought,
And shunning, as a viper's tooth, the stain
Of weakness, marched erect to Truth's majestic fane,

LXXI.

Which stood aloft in Doric plainness; bright
The sunbeams played upon its marble pride,
And from it flashed a stream of purest light
Down its ascending path,—as rolls the tide
Of snow-fed torrents, in a deep, a wide,
Resistless rush of waters, till the plain
Is satiate with its richness, then they glide
In summer's scanty wave, so pure, no stain
Darkens its liquid light, when rolling to the main.

LXXII.

So on the mind enwrapped in error's cloak,
Whom bigotry and sense have led astray,
If chance the fetters of his thought are broke,
And all the night that dimmed him swept away,
And on him Wisdom pours her fullest ray,
A flood seems rolled through his exulting soul,
And all its fulness hardly can allay
His new-waked thirst for knowledge; to the goal
Of truth he springs, and spurns indignant all control.

LXXIII.

Awhile he grasps at Science, with the strong,
Fierce spirit of ambition, when his car
O'er fortune's field of blood is borne along,
Drawn by the wildly-rushing steeds of war,
And hurrying on in quest of Fame's bright star,
That shines through smoke and dust and wounds and gore;
Justice and mercy cannot raise a bar
Across the torrent of his wrath; its roar
Drives virtue, love, and peace, affrighted from its shore.

LXXIV.

So on he rushes, in the high pursuit
Of knowledge, till his stored and wearied mind
Bows 'neath the weight of its collected fruit,
And, casting all its useless load behind,
No more to man's essential being blind,
His thought dwells only on the good supreme;
Then, calm in dignity, in taste refined,
A spirit pure and lucid as the beam
Ethereal, virtue's charms are his continual theme.

LXXV.

And what is virtue but the just employ
Of all our faculties, so that we live
Longest and soundest and serenest,—joy
Its handmaid, all the sweets that health can give,
The light heart, and the strong frame, which can strive,
Delighted in the war we must endure;
Thoughts clear, bold, tireless, feelings all alive,
No passion can subdue, no sense allure,
Even as our Sire in heaven, just, merciful, and pure.

LXXVI.

The animal is crushed, the god bears sway,
The immortal essence, the enkindling fire;
What powers, what energy, it can display,
When, freed from life's gross wants, it dare aspire,
And give a free reign to its high desire,
And longing for a mind that cannot sleep,
Even as Apollo with his golden lyre,
And canopied in sunbeams, he would sweep
His chords, and pour a hymn, harmonious, full, and deep.

LXXVII.

A hymn to Nature, and the unseen hand
That guides its living wheels, the moving soul
Of this material universe, who spanned
Within his grasp its circle, where suns roll,
Each in its fixed orb, and around the whole
Has drawn in viewless light its flaming walls;
This is the limit of our thought, the goal
Where mind's imaginative pinion falls,
When, wrapt in solemn thought, no link of earth inthralls.

LXXVIII.

I walk abroad at midnight, and my eye,
Purged from its sensual blindness, upward turns,
And wanders o'er the dark and spangled sky,
Where every star, a fount of being, burns,
And pours out life, as Naiads from their urns
Drop their refreshing dew on herbs and flowers;—
I gaze, until my fancy's eye discerns,
As in an azure hall, the assembled powers
Of nature spend in deep consult those solemn hours.

LXXIX.

Methinks I hear their language;—but it sounds
Too high for my conception, as the roar
Of thunder in the mountains, when it bounds
From peak to peak; or on the echoing shore
The tempest-driven billows bursting pour,
And raise their awful voices; or the groan
Rumbling in Ætna's entrails, ere its store
Of lava spouts its red jets; or the moan
Of winds, that war within their caverned walls of stone.

LXXX.

And there is melody among those spheres,
A music sweeter than the vernal train,
Or fay notes, which the nymph-struck shepherd hears.
Where moonlight dances on the liquid plain,
That curls before the west-wind, till the main
Seems waving like a ruffled sheet of fire:—
'T is Nature's Alleluia; and again
The stars exult, as when the Eternal Sire
Said, “Be there light,” and light shone forth at his desire.

LXXXI.

How my heart trembles on so vast a theme!—
The boundless source of energy and power,
The living essence of the good supreme,
The all-seeing eye that watches every hour,
That marks the opening of each bud and flower,
That paints the colors of the ephemeron's wing,
That counts the myriad drops which form the shower,
As wondrous, in the awakening call of spring,
As worlds that lie beyond the stretch of fancy's wing.

LXXXII.

With brute, unconscious gaze, man marks the earth
Take on its livery of early flowers;
He sees no beauty in this annual birth,
No ceaseless working of creative powers;
His soul, lethargic, wakes not in those hours
When air is living, and the waters teem
With new-born being, and the mantling bowers
Are full of love and melody, and seem
The happy Eden of a poet's raptured dream.

LXXXIII.

The sky is then serenest, and its arch
Of brighter sapphire; and the sportive train
Of life-awakening zephyrs, on their march,
Shed renovating influence o'er the plain;
The blue waves sparkle on the laughing main,
Which renders back to heaven its placid smile;
The checkered sky, now clear, now dropping rain
On flowers, that spread their leaves to catch it, while
The full-swoln river rolls a fertilizing Nile.

LXXXIV.

How lovely is the landscape! Morning peeps
Behind yon leafy mountain, and her eye
Looks o'er a fresh, green world, that calmly sleeps
In the sweet cradle of its infancy,
And, clustering round the rocky summits, fly
Light mists, now painted in the rich array
Of Heaven's majestic spectrum, which on high
Spans the dark tempest, as it steals away,
And westward glows in pomp the golden eye of day.

LXXXV.

Beneath the cliff that frowns in blackness lies
The mirror of dark waters, on it rest
Soft wreaths of snowy vapor, such as rise
Spotless in winter on the mountain's breast,
Soft as the downy couch by beauty prest,
And mantled in as gay a canopy
Of overhanging clouds in crimson drest,
All glow, transparency, and purity,
Fit curtain to the throne where dwells Eternity.

LXXXVI.

And now the sun springs upward from his bed,
Insufferably brilliant, and his blaze
Tinges with flowing gold the icy head
Of peaks which rise above the clouds, and gaze
In lonely grandeur on an endless maze
Of budding landscape, hills, woods, meadows, lakes,
Rivers, and winding rivulets, where plays
The wave in lines of silver. Day now breaks
In dazzling floods of light, and living Nature wakes

LXXXVII.

Her woodland choristers, and air is breathing
In tones of love-tuned harmony, the deep,
Heart-kindling, soul-inspiring anthem wreathing
The burst of native joy that will not sleep,
But at the summons of the dawn will leap,
And all its full-swoln tides of feeling pour,
And, as the light winds from the bright lake sweep
The mantling vapors, it will freely soar,
And with its strong voice drown the waterfall's wide roar.

LXXXVIII.

Let man come forth, and in the general throng
Of tuneful hearts his high devotion raise,
And, joining in the universal song
Of thankful rapture, centre all the rays
Of that heaven-lighted intellect, whose blaze,
Bright emanation from the ethereal beam,
For ever kindling through eternal days,
A disembodied spark, along life's stream,
Shall always hasten on to excellence supreme.

LXXXIX.

There is its only resting-place,—while here
We pine in heart-sick longing. Is the fire
That burns within our bosoms, for a sphere
Of brighter, purer being, something higher
Than all man ever reached to, the desire
Of sinless purity and tireless thought,
But the vibration of a living wire,
The motion of frail flesh more nicely wrought,
That trembles here awhile, and then consumes to naught?

XC.

Our thoughts are boundless, tho' our frames are frail,
Our souls immortal, though our limbs decay;
Though darkened in this poor life by a veil
Of suffering, dying matter, we shall play
In truth's eternal sunbeams; on the way
To Heaven's high capitol our car shall roll;
The temple of the Power whom all obey,
That is the mark we tend to, for the soul
Can take no lower flight, and seek no meaner goal.

XCI.

I feel it,—though the flesh is weak, I feel
The spirit has its energies untamed
By all its fatal wanderings; time may heal
The wounds which it has suffered; folly claimed
Too large a portion of its youth; ashamed
Of those low pleasures, it would leap and fly,
And soar on wings of lightning, like the famed
Elijah, when the chariot rushing by
Bore him with steeds of fire triumphant to the sky.

XCII.

We are as barks afloat upon the sea,
Helmless and oarless, when the light has fled,
The spirit, whose strong influence can free
The drowsy soul, that slumbers in the dead,
Cold night of moral darkness; from the bed
Of sloth he rouses at her sacred call,
And, kindling in the blaze around him shed,
Rends with strong effort sin's debasing thrall,
And gives to God his strength, his heart, his mind, his all.

XCIII.

Our home is not on earth; although we sleep,
And sink in seeming death awhile, yet then
The awakening voice speaks loudly, and we leap
To life and energy and light again;
We cannot slumber always in the den
Of sense and selfishness; the day will break,
Ere we for ever leave the haunts of men;
Even at the parting hour the soul will wake,
Nor like a senseless brute its unknown journey take.

XCIV.

How awful is that hour, when conscience stings
The hoary wretch, who on his death-bed hears,
Deep in his soul, the thundering voice that rings,
In one dark, damning moment, crimes of years,
And, screaming like a vulture in his ears,
Tells one by one his thoughts and deeds of shame!
How wild the fury of his soul careers!
His swart eye flashes with intensest flame,
And like the torture's rack the wrestling of his frame.

XCV.

Our souls have wings; their flight is like the rush
Of whirlwinds, and they upward point their way,
Like him who bears the thunder, when the flush
Of his keen eye feeds on the dazzling ray:
He claps his pinions in the blaze of day,
And, gaining on the loftiest arch his throne,
Darts his quick vision on his fated prey,
And, gathering all his vigor, he is gone,
And in an instant grasps his victim as his own.

XCVI.

We soar as proudly, and as quickly fall,
This moment in the empyrean, then we sink,
And, wrapping in the joys of sense our all,
The stream that flows from Heaven we cannot drink,
But we will lie along the flowery brink
Of pleasure's tempting current, till the wave
Is bitter and its banks bare, then we think
Of what we might have been, and, idly brave,
We take a short, weak flight, and drop into the grave.

XCVII.

My heart has felt new vigor, and the glow
Of high hopes and bright fancy, and the spring
Of that unchanging being, whither flow
The breathings of our spirit, when its wing
Is spread to take its last flight, where we cling
In all the storms of life, as to an oar;
There, like the shining serpent, we shall fling
Away our earthly shackles; there no more
The wind shall lift the waves and send them to the shore,

XCVIII.

To make wild music on the surging beach,
And fling the foam aloft in snowy curls,
And, pouring headlong through the sea-wall's breach,
Suck, in the raging vortex' giddy whirls,
The sea-bird lighting on the wave, that hurls
To swift destruction; but there is a rock,
Built strong, deep-planted,—Mercy there unfurls
Her white flag, and the bark that stands the shock,
The tempest-tossing tide, the breaker's burst, shall mock.

XCIX.

Much study is a weariness:—so said
The sage of sages, and the aching eye,
The pallid cheek, the trembling frame, the head
Throbbing with thought and torn with agony,
Attest his truth; and yet we will obey
The intellectual Numen, and will gaze
In wondering awe upon it, and will pay
Worship to its omnipotence; the blaze
Of mind is as a fount of fire, that upward plays

C.

Aloft on snow-clad mountains, on whose breast
Unspotted purity has ever lain;
The clouds of sense and passion cannot rest
Upon its shadowy summit, nor can stain
The white veil which enwraps it, nor in vain
Roll the white floods of liquid heat; they melt
The gathered stores of ages, to the plain
They pour them down in streams enkindling, felt
By every human heart, in myriad channels dealt.

CI.

This is the electric spark sent down from Heaven,
That woke to second life the man of clay;
The torch was lit in ether, light was given,
Which not all passion's storms can sweep away.
There is no closing to this once-risen day;
Tempests may darken, but the sun will glow,
Serene, unclouded, dazzling, and its ray
Through some small crevices will always flow,
Nor leave in utter night the world that gropes below.

CII.

And now and then some spirit from the throng,
With wings Dædalean, in his rage will soar,
And spreading wide his pinions, with a strong
And desperate effort, from this servile shore
Mounting like Minder's swans, whose voices pour
Melodious music, like the dying fall
Of zephyrs in a pine grove, or the roar
Heard through the lonely forest when the pall
Of night o'erhangs us, borne from some far waterfall.

CIII.

With wing as tireless, and with voice as sweet,
His eye the falcon's, and his heart the dove's,
He lifts his heavenward daring, till the heat
Of that same orb he aimed to, which he loves
To mark with keen eye till the cloud removes
That gave its glow a softness, with its blight
Withers his sinewy strength: so Heaven reproves
The minds that scan it with audacious sight,
And seek with restless gaze too pure, unmingled light.

CIV.

Gay was the paradise of love he drew,
And pictured in his fancy; he did dwell
Upon it till it had a life; he threw
A tint of Heaven athwart it. Who can tell
The yearnings of his heart, the charm, the spell,
That bound him to that vision? Cold Truth came
And plucked aside the veil,—he saw a hell,
And o'er it curled blue flakes of lurid flame.
He laid him down, and clasped his damp, chill brow in shame.

CV.

His fall is as the Titans', who would tear
The thunder from their monarch, and would pile
Their mountain stairway to Olympus, where
The bolt they grasped at pierced them; with a smile
Of fearless power the thunderer sat the while,
And mocked their fruitless toiling, then he hurled
His whitening arrows, and at once their guile
And force were blasted, and their fall unfurled
An awful warning flag to a presumptuous world.

CVI.

They stand, a beacon chained upon the rock;
Heaven o'er them lifts unveiled her boundless blue;
Ambition's sun still scorches, and the mock
Of all their high desires is full in view;
Affection cools their foreheads with no dew
Of melting hearts, no rain of pitying eyes;
The vulture, conscience, gnaws them; ever new
Their heart's torn fibres into life will rise;
The gorging fury clings, repelled she never flies.

CVII.

These are the men who dared to rend the veil
Religion hung around us; they would tear
The film from off our eyes, and break the pale
That bound the awe-struck spirit, nor would spare
The worship paid by ages; in the glare
Of their red torches Piety grew blind,
And saw no more her comforter; her fair
And fond hopes lost their beauty. Can the mind
When rifled of its faith, so dear a solace find?

CVIII.

They pull down Jove from his Idæan throne;
They quench the Jew's Shechinah, and the cross,
That bore the mangled corse of Heaven's own Son,
They trample in the dust, and spurn as dross;
And will they recompense the world its loss?
Have they a fairer light to cheer our gloom?
O, no!—the grave yawns on us as a fosse,
Where we must sleep for ever; this our doom,—
Body and mind shall rot and moulder in the tomb.

CIX.

There is a mourner, and her heart is broken.
She is a widow; she is old and poor;
Her only hope is in that sacred token
Of peaceful happiness, when life is o'er;
She asks nor wealth nor pleasure, begs no more
Than Heaven's delightful volume, and the sight
Of her Redeemer. Sceptics! would you pour
Your blasting vials on her head, and blight
Sharon's sweet rose, that blooms and charms her being's night?

CX.

She lives in her affections; for the grave
Has closed upon her husband, children; all
Her hopes are with the arm she trusts will save
Her treasured jewels; though her views are small,
Though she has never mounted high, to fall
And writhe in her debasement, yet the spring
Of her meek, tender feelings cannot pall
Her unperverted palate, but will bring
A joy without regret, a bliss that has no sting.

CXI.

Even as a fountain, whose unsullied wave
Wells in the pathless valley, flowing o'er
With silent waters, kissing, as they lave,
The pebbles with light rippling, and the shore
Of matted grass and flowers,—so softly pour
The breathings of her bosom, when she prays,
Low-bowed, before her Maker; then no more
She muses on the griefs of former days;
Her full heart melts and flows in Heaven's dissolving rays.

CXII.

And Faith can see a new world, and the eyes
Of saints look pity on her; death will come;
A few short moments over, and the prize
Of peace eternal waits her, and the tomb
Becomes her fondest pillow; all its gloom
Is scattered. What a meeting there will be
To her and all she loved here, and the bloom
Of new life from those cheeks shall never flee!
Theirs is the health which lasts through all eternity.

CXIII.

There is a war within me, and a strife
Between my meaner and my nobler powers;
I would, and yet I cannot, part with life:
'T is as a scorpion's sting to view those hours
Where soul has bowed to sense, and darkly lowers
The future in the distance. There are men,
Whose strange-blent nature now an angel's towers,
And rides among the loftiest, and then
Seeks, like a snarling dog, the cynic's squalid den.

CXIV.

They nestle in their prison; they can find
No friend to pour their hearts on; they would cling
Closer than ivy to the kindred mind
They touch. Its ice-cold freezes; then they fling
Affection to the winds, and madly spring
To shun their hated fellows in some cave;
A leaden weight confines their spirit's wing,
Life palls them, there is naught beyond the grave,
They turn a sneer on Him who gives his hand to save.

CXV.

Theirs is the boundless love of sentient being;—
As they have now the will, had they the power,
Were but their longings and their strength agreeing,
Their outspread hand a flood of bliss would shower,
And wake the moral world, as in the hour
Of spring wakes living nature;—from his sleep
Of vice and superstition man should tower;
Thoughts pure, high feelings, purpose strong and deep,
Should lift him on, like wings, up virtue's craggy steep.

CXVI.

And flowers should bloom on his ascending track,
Like roses on their wild thorns, by the way
The hunter scales the mountains, nor should lack
Music of tuneful birds; the flute should play
The soft airs of the shepherdess; when day
Spreads the broad plane-tree's noon shade, and when night
Spangles her silent canopy, away
By some dark cavern on the lonely height,
The full-voiced hymn should tell the hermit's holy flight;

CXVII.

Who sits alone in darkness, wrapped in musing,
Communing with the Universe, the Power,
Whose ceaseless mercy, love and life diffusing,
Bids the sun dart his warm rays, sends the shower,
Mantles the turf in green, and decks the bower
With tufted leaves and wreathed flowers, whose perfume,
Earth's incense, breathes most sweetly at the hour
When soft-descending night-dews steep the bloom,
And with their star-lit gems the mantling arch illume;

CXVIII.

And from this waste of beauty fills the urn
Of plenty with her fair fruits, spreads the plain
With all the wealth of harvest, the return
Of spring's delightful promise, with a chain
Of love and bounty binding life's domain
To Him who by his fiat gave it birth.
Else had these flowery fields a desert lain,
And all the riches of the teeming earth
Been withered by the touch of endless, hopeless dearth;

CXIX.

Else had one wilderness of rock and sand,
Treeless and herbless, where no rain nor dew
Poured their reviving influence, one land
Of sparkling barreness, appalled the view,
And o'er it heaven had raised its cloudless blue,
Hot as the burning steel's cerulean glow,
And the sun's blasting arrows darted through
The scorched brain, till its lava blood would flow
In torrents, and its veins throb with delirious throe;

CXX.

And man had died of thirst and famine;—Death
Comes not with direr aspect; eyes of blood,
Staring and bursting; frequent, fiery breath
Heaved from the breast, that seems one boiling flood
Of maddening pulses, writhing as a brood
Of serpents roused to fury; like their hiss
They rush along the swoln veins, and for food
His parched jaws gnaw his flesh, and oh! what bliss
To drain his life's warm stream!—there is no death like this.

CXXI.

This is the living prototype of hell,—
The earth all fire without, all flame within,
And conscience barking like a Hyæn's yell,
And pouring out her vialed wrath on sin;
She lights her torch unwasting,—then begin
Ages of endless torture, for the heart
Whom Circe and the tempting Sirens win,
While listening to their voice, must feel the smart
And pangs of unfed Hope's forever probing dart.

CXXII.

The clouds are gathering on the mountain-tops,
And in their dark veil wrap those cliffs and towers
Of wasteless granite, those enduring props,
On which the arch of heaven rests, where the powers
Of winter hold their rule, even in the hours
When sultry summer scorches; there they roll
And spread their frowning curtains; night there lowers
With an unusual blackness, and the pole
Rocks with the bolt, as if the knell of nature tolled.

CXXIII.

In hazy gloom the threatening tempest broods,
Crowning with ebon wreaths the mountain's cone,
And holding in its magazine the floods
That soon will hurry headlong from its throne,
From rock to rock impetuous pouring down
Their dark, foam-crested waters, as the mane
Waving amid the rush of war, and drown,
In their wide-wasting waves, the cultured plain,
And bear flocks, forests, towns, and harvests to the main.

CXXIV.

And see,—the cloudy billows heave their surges,
In airy tides, along yon western wall,
Now swiftly rolling as the roused wind urges,
Now hanging silent as the wild blasts fall,
Drooping in massy folds, as if the pall
Of all these sweet scenes o'er us were outspread;
Even as a spectre rising grim and tall
At night to some scared wanderer, fancy-led,
Sullen and dim and dark, towers yonder mountain's head.

CXXV.

A solemn pause,—the woods below are still;
No breezes wave their light leaves, and the lake
Lies like a sleeping mirror; on the hill
The white flocks eye the rain-drops, that will slake
Their hot thirst, and the screaming curlews take
Their circling flight along the silent stream;
Save their storm-loving music now awake,
Nature seems slumbering in a midnight dream;
She starts!—behold aloft that sudden, quivering gleam.

CXXVI.

The torch is lit among the clouds,—the peals
Roar through the lonely wilds, and echoing swell
Around the far horizon;—earth now feels
And trembles as she listens. Who can tell
The spirit's awe? as if it heard its knell,
It bows before the Power, whose hand controls
Lightning and wind and waves, who loves to dwell
In storms, and on its path the tempest rolls,
Whose words are bolts, whose glance electric pierces souls,

CXXVII.

And makes the bold blasphemer pale with awe,
And stills the madman's laugh, and strikes with dread
The brow, that bore defiance to the law
Stamped on the universe; he hides his head
In darkness like the ostrich; all those led
By his once fearless mocking slink away,
And o'er them prostrate, wrathful angels tread,
And draw their fiery arrows, and repay
With fear and death the hearts that dare to disobey.

CXXVIII.

'Tis night, and we are on the mountain-top:
The air is motionless, and not a breath
Of wind is whispered, and the pure dews drop
From heaven, like tears, upon this lovely death
Of nature, while the landscape underneath,
And the vast arch above, smile in the ray
Of the full moon, who, circled in her wreath
Of glory, walks, a queen, her lofty way,
And pours upon the world a softer, calmer day.

CXXIX.

The hills, the plains, and meadows, far below,
Sparkle with watery diamonds, and the stream
That steals in oft meanders, in its flow
Of peacefulness, is silvered with her beam,
And the round basins in the woodlands seem
Like mirrors circled in a pearly row,
And like the colors of the dying bream,
The soft mists hovering round them, bear the bow,
The aerial brede of light, lit with a mellower glow,

CXXX.

Than when it sits majestic on the storm,
What time it hangs along the eastern sky,
The herald of returning calm, its form,
As imaged erst, a maid of peaceful eye,
Who on her dewy saffron wings would fly,
And roll away the clouds along the wind,
And laughing as she saw the car on high
Shine in its full effulgence, as the mind,
Whom sense can never sink, nor passion's fury blind.

CXXXI.

So rolls that car along its arch of blue,
And shines with a serener effluence; air
Wakened by fanning breezes, charms anew
The flushed cheek with its coolness; heaven is fair,
A speck dims not its liquid azure, there
The eye can rest with calmness, and the green
And bloom of grass and flowers new richness wear,
And sweeter incense rises from the bean
And jessamine and rose, that scent this dewy scene.

CXXXII.

As when the twilight of a weary life
Comes on with quietness and purity,
And, after vainly struggling in the strife
Of pleasure or ambition, from the eye
The film falls, and the mantling vapors fly,
And man stands forth in his pure, native worth,
And, after tears for lost years hurried by,
The soul awakens to a second birth,
And for a few hours knows there is a heaven on earth.

CXXXIII.

Live for the present moment, but live so
As you might live for ever; let the cares
And toils of this poor transient being go,
And pluck the fruit the tree of knowledge bears,
And gaze upon the charms which virtue wears,
Till her eye's light has filled and warmed your breast;—
Be strong and bold and active;—he who dares
Contend in virtue's panoply is blest
Alone with Heaven's unstained, enduring, noiseless rest.

CXXXIV.

Give me the evening of a summer's day,
A long bright day of glory, when the sun
Is most effulgent, and the earth most gay,
And after deeds of lofty daring done,
And palms on many a field of combat won,
Where tempests rage, or noontide glows with power,
And when the mind its high career has run,
To seek a covert at this silent hour,
Where songs and gales may lull in some secluded bower.

CXXXV.

'T is night, and winds are hushed;—the leaves are still,
Or scarcely ruffle on the poplar bough,
And where a stream of waving light, the rill
Drips o'er the face of yonder mountain's brow,
The moonbeams shine as on Endymion; now
The forests are unpeopled of those gay
And lovely nymphs and wanton fauns, but how
They gave the fancy of the poet play,
And threw a rosy hue and perfume o'er his lay!

CXXXVI.

The Spring came forth, and with her came a train
Of hours and loves and graces; every bower
Concealed its nymph, and every flowery plain
Was full of light-winged Cupids; for the power
Of love awaked the universe, the hour,
When Hymen lit his torch, and Psyche came
Wrapped in the embrace of Eros, and a shower
Of sweets was poured around them, and a flame
Shot from the glowing eyes of that enamored dame.

CXXXVII.

She gave her soul to love, and on her lip
Her heart stood, and he kissed the prize away,
More sweet than when the dews from roses drip
In spangles on the grass, in early day,
When emerald sylphs on airy pinions play,
And lightly hover, as the leaves unfold
And spread their vermeil velvet, in the ray
Poured through the leafy canopy, and rolled
O'er all the bloom below in waving floods of gold:

CXXXVIII.

The lilac purpling with its luscious spires,
Breathing a milky sweetness, like the balm
From Aden's groves of myrrh, where summer fires
The living world to rapture; but the calm,
Cool shade of spreading maples, than the palm
With all its crimson clusters charms me more;
The violet, lurking underneath the halm
Of withered grass tufts, has a dearer store
Of sweets, than all the flowers that glow on Ceylon's shore.

CXXXIX.

The heart cannot be cold in such a shade;
It will be melted, as the icy stream
That steals with limpid current through the glade,
And murmurs not in winter, but the beam
Of warmth dissolves it; as a fleeting dream
The fretted icicles are gone, the wave,
Gliding o'er snowy sands in morning's gleam,
Chimes like the song of sorrow Cycnus gave,
In tones of dying woe, around his brother's grave.

CXL.

How poor, how weak, how impotent is man!
Cradled in imbecility, the prey
Of those who love him fondest, who will fan
His passions by indulgence, and will sway
To sense and self, and pride and fear, and play
Their apish tricks upon him, till his soul
Has lost its native innocence; the ray
Kindled from Heaven, while feeble yet, is stole
By sirens, and then quenched in pleasure's mantling bowl.

CXLI.

The foaming goblet sparkles to the brim,
And heedless youth hangs o'er the glowing stream,
And in its amber waters gayly swim
The fairest visions of enchantment's dream,
And o'er it plays a soft and sunny beam,
That steals in serpent windings to the heart,
And like a viper's hid in roses gleam
The flashings of its keen eyes, as a dart
With venom tipped, they give deep wounds that ne'er depart.

CXLII.

We lie along in gay voluptuous ease,—
The full vine mantles o'er us, and our pillow
Of mingled moss and flowers; the hum of bees
Sucking the dew of roses, and the willow
Now hung in downy bloom, and clothed in yellow,
Comes like a drowsy zephyr on the ear,
And the clear-flowing fountain murmurs mellow,
And airy birds in mazy circles veer,
And all seems fair and bright as some celestial sphere.

CXLIII.

We sip the cup of promise, and we drain
With eager lip its nectar, till the fume
Mounts kindling to the wild and heated brain;
And then all things a richer tint assume,
And are enrobed in splendor, and illumed
With gay looks, and bright eyes, and speaking glances,
And laughing frolic waves her spangled plume,
And revelry with light step featly dances,
And on their rainbow-wings flit round a crowd of fancies.

CXLIV.

And from our couch we spring,—we scarce can tread
This poor earth in our ecstasy; on high
We float through fields of ether, overhead
Swells with a bluer, loftier arch the sky,
And on an eagle's wings we seem to fly,
And all the kingdoms of the world appear
In dazzling beauty to the fancy's eye,
And like the tuneful spirit of some sphere,
The sweet winds pour full floods of music in our ear.

CXLV.

As breezes from Sabæa o'er the main
Waft fragance on their pinions from the groves
Of myrrh and cassia, and the snowy plain
Of coffee-blossoms, where the Queen of Loves,
Drawn in her pearly car by purple doves,
Would linger with most fondness on her way;
A land of passion,—under shady coves
Hollowed in living rock, they spend the day,
To see their houries dance and hear their citherns play.

CXLVI.

The past is gone,—it can return no more,
The dew of life exhaled, its glory set;
It has no other goods for me in store,
It is a dreary wilderness, and yet
I fondly look and linger. In the net
Of pleasure all the breathings of my soul,
The burning thoughts alone on Learning set
In tender childhood, pointed to the goal
Where bards and sages aimed, in youth blind leaders stole,

CXLVII.

And vile companions rifled, and they left
My heart dispirited and sunk and poor,
Of all its highest hopes and wants bereft,
A pinnace on the waves with naught to moor
Or bind it to the safe bank; from the shore,
Where my best powers stood weeping, o'er the deep,
Tossing and madly heaving, wild winds bore
My dark, distracted being, where fiends keep
Their orgies, and the worm that gnaws will never sleep.

CXLVIII.

There is no hope;—ten years the winds have blown,
That bore me to my ruin, and the waves
Roll in my wake like mountains. Joy has flown,
And left behind the lonely, turfless graves
Of early, fond attachments;—like the slaves
Bound fettered to the galley, at the oar
Still I must toil uncheered, or in the caves,
Where not a ray of hope comes, I must pour
Tears, bitter tears, that well from the heart's bleeding core.

CXLIX.

The soul that had its home with me was bright,
Its early promise as the flowers of spring,
Profuse in richness as the dawning light,
When the gay, rosy-footed hours take wing,
And from the glowing east the coursers spring,
That bear the car of day along its road,
And o'er a waking world their radiance fling,—
So bright the stream of mind within me flowed,
It had one only wish,—to scale the high abode,

CL.

Where Truth has reared her awful throne, and pure
Platonic Beauty sits, a smiling bride,
The Majesty that bows, and to allure
The winning charms of Virtue by his side.
Cursed be the drawling pedants, who divide
The monarch from his lovely queen, and sink
The soul in stupid awe, too soon to hide
Its coward head in Pleasure's lap, and drink
Her tempting, fiery draughts.—Stop! ye are on the brink

CLI.

Of endless woe and ruin;—sleep no more,—
The charm will soon be broken. Ye will wake,
And find the alluring hours that wooed you o'er,
And, rising like a fury, Vice will shake
Her smoky torch, and in your heart's blood slake
Its hell-lit fires, and you will seek in vain
The young days that have vanished; in the lake,
That priests have drawn so highly, there remain
But years of hopeless thought, and still returning pain.

CLII.

The world may scorn me, if they choose,—I care
But little for their scoffings,—I will think
Freely, while life shall linger on, and there
I find a plank, that bears me;—I may sink
For moments, but I rise again, nor shrink
From doing what the love of man inspires:
I will not flatter, fawn, nor crouch, nor wink
At what high-mounted wealth or power desires;
I have a loftier aim to which my soul aspires.

CLIII.

'Tis of no common order, but is founded
On all the capabilities of man,
Not like Condorcet's waking dreams, 'tis bounded
By what our free, unfettered efforts can,
The high career that Tully, Plato, ran,
Or higher still, the ideal they could form.
'T is ignorance, not nature, puts the ban
On these bright, perfect visions, which could warm
Worthies of old, who lived in virtue's darkest storm.

CLIV.

They saw man sunk around them, grovelling, vile,
A mass of brutal grossness, shivering fear,
Follies, that made the cold Abderite smile
And on his fellows look with bitter sneer,
And squalid woes, that drew the Ephesian's tear,
Which flowed for miseries he could not heal;
So wept the man, to whom all life was dear,
Whose heart was made most sensitive to feel,
And from a wretched world in hopeless sorrow steal.

CLV.

He could not cure the malady,—too deep
The poisoned dart was planted; but he gave
His witness, and his voice should never sleep,
A warning sound should issue from his grave,
And tell to ages words, which heard might save
From woes like those he suffered, woes like mine;
The man who will speak boldly, and will brave
A thoughtless world's contempt, deserves to shine
Bright in the loftiest niche of Fame's enduring shrine.

CLVI.

To feel a heart within thee, tender, flowing
In tears at others pain, and racked with thine,
A soul that longs for high attainments, glowing
For all that can ennoble, raise, refine,
Whose dearest longings seem almost divine,
The insatiate grasp for knowledge, and the aim
Of tireless, fearless virtue, then to pine,
Unknown, unvalued, and to quench the flame
Of mind in some low slough, and bid farewell to fame.

CLVII.

And why? because no hand was near to check
The wanderings of my childhood, but their care,
If care it could be called, which caused my wreck,
Made sin's descending path to me seem fair;
They poured her tempting fruits and viands there,
And kindled in my heart the lava-stream
Of wasting passion;—now I wake, and bare
Before me lie the horrors of that dream,
Which poor, perverted youth the fairest Eden deem.

CLVIII.

The world will never pity woes like mine,—
'T is only justice pouring out her flood.
I ask no pity, nor will I incline
Weakly before the cross, nor in the blood
Of others wash away my crimes;—I stood
Alone, wrapped in suspicion and despair,
For they did goad me early to that mood;—
I hate not men, but yet I will not share
Again their follies, hopes, their toils and fears, nor wear

CLIX.

The mantle of the hypocrite, nor bow
Before a fancied power, nor lisp the creed
Which offers them new life, they know not how,
A blind belief, whose ministers will lead,
Even as a hireling slave the shackled steed,
The many, who to Nature's laws are blind.
The heart whom early wrongs have taught to bleed,
When blended with a bright and well-stored mind,
In solace such as this, no hope, no joy can find.

CLX.

I will not lift my hand against those laws,
Which Nature wears enstamped upon her, nor
Gird me to battle in so weak a cause,
Nor waste my efforts in so fruitless war;
But I will weep the hopes I panted for,
Which virtue might have made reality,
And know that fortune with malignant star
Lighted my path, and with an evil eye
Left me to those who crawled in Epicurus' stye.

CLXI.

I see the charms of Virtue;—can I take
Again her narrow path, which leads to Heaven?
Beside it flows a fountain, which can slake
The temperate thirst of nature, there are given
Fruits which refresh, not kindle;—I have striven
Against the long perversions of my frame,
And I will strive; but no, by passion driven,
In evil hour I do the deed of shame,
And for a time I quench the soul's reviving flame.

CLXII.

I have no hand to cheer me;—was there one,
Whom I must ever long for, was that heart
Still mine in all my failings, as the sun
Wakens a slumbering world, she might impart
New being to me, and my soul would start,
As giants from their sleep, to run the race
Of glory, and to hurl the unerring dart,
Where Victory rears her palm-branch. No, my chase
Of fame is done, and left behind it scarce a trace.

PART II.

I.

Awake, thou sleeper, from thy languid dream
Of pleasure crowned with roses; thou must take
Anew the harp of solemn tone,—a theme
Demands thee to attune it, which should wake
The fire within thy bosom hid, and break
The flowery fetters that entwine thee. Hark!
A clear voice calls thee, where the blue waves make
Music around the light and bounding bark,
That rides the shoreless sea of mind, a heaven-built ark.

II.

Fair shines the sun to greet thee on thy way
Over the hurried ocean, heaven is clear
In its serenest vestment, light winds play
And sport along the billows, far and near
Earth, air, and sea are beautiful, a sphere
Of purest light o'erhangs thee, full the sail
Swells, as the north-wind, in its mild career,
With the still breathing of a summer gale,
O'er the long-rolling deep doth steadily prevail.

III.

On with thy voyage! leave the darker shore,
Where keener spirits feel their light grow dim,
And as thy white wing hastens on before
The breath of heaven, exalt thy farewell hymn;
Weave the fresh flowers to crown thy goblet's brim,
And pour thy offering to the powers who keep
Watch o'er the waters, while the vessel's rim
Rides low along the green wave, up the steep
Climbing, or sinking soft into the furrowed deep.

IV.

On o'er the boundless waters! thou wilt bear
Prayers for mild winds and sunshine; every soul,
That hath a portion of Heaven's fire, will share
In all thy fortunes: whether ocean roll
Calm in a mellowed brightness, or the whole
Wrath of the tempest lash it, still steer on,
Joyous or firm in courage; man's control
Is on the sea, and proudest wreaths are won
Alone in those wild storms where hardest deeds are done.

V.

Up with thy swelling canvas! now the gale
Woos thee to strain thy cordage, down the bay
The small waves fleet, like quick streams down the dale,
Speeding o'er polished stones their babbling way;
The shrill voice of the air forbids thy stay,
It summons thee to take the gift it throws
With such a smile before thee:—now when day
Sits on its high throne, and the pure sky glows
Unclouded, as the form of things in beauty rose;

VI.

Now, in this noon of life, this jubilee
Of the united elements, this flow
Of soul from eye to eye, this harmony
Of all that shine above with all below
In their unfaded loveliness, this glow
Of nature in its manhood; now expand
All to the embrace of the sweet airs, that blow,
Wafting fresh odors from the bowers they fanned,
To meet the sweeter breath of a diviner land:

VII.

Where on the coast the flowering myrtles bend,
Laden with Love's own garlands; in its rear
Towers a fair summit, where all treasures blend,
That Spring showers from her full urn; one may hear
Voices that speak all melody, tones dear
To young hearts, as the tones of those we love;
Sweeter the mellow touch, the more we near
The thicket where it dwells, as from her cove
The stock-dove's widowed voice comes wailing thro' the grove.

VIII.

Such is the land that welcomes thee afar
To cut thy long, bright track, and proudly go,
Led by the light of a celestial star,
That from its seat of beauty sparkles so,
As mind from its dark portal; in the flow
Of the broad stream of ocean, with thy sky
The dome to crown thy temple, and the glow
Of suns to light and cheer thee, send on high,
From off thy full-toned harp, sounds that should never die;

IX.

But with the hymns that have been sung, of old
Burning on lips of inspiration, glowing
Deep in those ancient hearts of keener mould,
With tireless energy their treasure throwing
In lavish gifts around them, and bestowing
New being on the wanderer of the wild;
Those spirits nerved with intellect, all-knowing,
Whose voice now roused in terror, now they smiled,
Reading soft words of love to the delighted child;

X.

With these, and all who have been of the train,
That hold the power of harmony to give
Joy unto others, as the melting rain
Wakens the earth, so that all freshly live,
And, as again in infancy, revive
With an intenser hue and shade of green,
When the waked bees come thicker from their hive,—
O, when these lords of harmony convene,
There be the farewell hymn that paints the parting scene.

XI.

Farewell to the lost land, where life was young,
And the fresh earth seemed lovely; where the heart
First felt the thrill of ecstasy, when, strung
With its fine tender chords, all could impart
Joy to its laughing innocence—I start
To find I am so cold, where all before
Was tinctured with divinity—we part,
Land of my early loves! thy once bright shore
Has lost its dearest charm. Farewell! we meet no more.

XII.

The world that is, seems Eden to the child;
The rainbows on a bubble are a spell
To chain him in sweet wonder; O, how wild
Do the first wakened throbs of feeling swell!
There is no music like the village bell,
That o'er the far hills sends its silver sound,
There is no beauty like the forms, that dwell
In flower and bud, and shell and insect, found,
When through the watered vale we take our infant round.

XIII.

But this is for the new mind,—soon we tire
Of all this simple loveliness we form
Within a magic fane, whose sun-gilt spire
Burns in the azure firmament,—the storm
Is portion of its majesty, we warm,
Not tremble in the lightning's vivid glare,—
Sounds must be heard from Heaven, that they inform
The spirit with the life of thought, and bear,
Through all their unseen flight, the souls that upward dare.

XIV.

The world imagined, to the world we feel,
Is glory and magnificence; we turn
From earth in sated weariness, but kneel
Before the pomp we dream of;—when the urn
Holds all that now hath form and life, we spurn
The shackles that debase us and confine;
Deep in its central fountain mind will burn
Brighter in darkness, like the gems that shine
With a fixed eye of fire, the stars of cave and mine.

XV.

When the gay visions once so fair are fled,
When Time has dropped his rose-wreaths, and his brow
Hath only snows to shade it; hearts have bled,
And healed themselves to be all callous; now,
In the cold years of vanished hope, we plough
And sow in barrenness, to reap in blight,—
Then the soul in its solitude doth bow
To its own grandeur, and from outer night
Turns to the world within, and finds all love and light.

XVI.

Darkness hath then no covering, but its veil
Is as a pictured curtain o'er a scene,
That hides the life of some bewitching tale,
And is itself all beauty; on the green
Before an ancient temple walks the queen
Of smiles, dispensing happiness to choirs
Of youths and maidens, whose ecstatic mien
Tells of the heart within, whose keen desires
Burn with the pure flame lit from Love's Olympian fires.

XVII.

Not kindled from the altar, which below
Stood in Idalia, bowered in myrtle shades,
The shrine of him who bore the burning bow,
Whose earthly passion, ere it ripens, fades:
'T is the one Spirit, who with light pervades
The infinite of being, but controls
Alike the insect floating through the glades
On the soft air of June, or human souls
New in their merry morn, or all that lives and rolls

XVIII.

Wide through the waste of ether, sun or star,
All linked by Harmony, which is the chain
That binds to earth the orbs that wheel afar
Through the blue fields of Nature's wide domain;
From the last glimmerer in the starry train,
To that which is to us the God of day,
From the beam glancing on the tossing main,
To the full floods that o'er creation play,
And feed the lamps of life, all feel that boundless sway.

XIX.

Love is attraction, and attraction love;—
The meeting of two fond eyes, and the beat
Of two accordant pulses, are above
Planets, that always tend, but never meet:
To us, that have a feeling, love is sweet,
The life of our existence, the great aim
Of all our hope and beauty,—but they fleet,
Moments of fond endearment,—years will tame
The electric throb of bliss, and quench the spirit's flame.

XX.

But yet there is to us a purer light,
And that is in the beautiful unfading,
The mould wherein all phantoms of delight
Are fashioned into loveliness; the shading
Of earth may give it softness, kindly aiding
The weakness of our feebler nature, while
Mind has not fledged its pinions; soon pervading
Space in its daring, as a long-sought isle,
It turns with naked gaze to that Eternal smile,

XXI.

Whose charm is on the universe, the blue
Mellowed with light's full essence on the sphere
Wrapping us in its mantle, whence the dew
Falls clear and pearly, like a tender tear
Shed on the hues, that fade so quickly here,
But are awhile so beautiful,—the sea
That smooths its gold, or, as the light winds veer,
Crisps it, or decks it o'er with stars,—the sea
Takes all it hath to charm, Eternal Love! from thee.

XXII.

And thee the fountains worship, where they lie
Curling in silent loveliness, or sending
Through the flowered vale the brook that prattles by,
Twinkling o'er polished pebbles; willows bending
Wave in thy soft breath, when its fragrance lending
Balm to the new spring makes the earth perfume:
All hues, that, o'er the tufted meadow blending,
As the wind sinks or rises oft, assume
New shades and tints, in thee expand their buds and bloom.

XXIII.

In thee all creatures gladden, on the air
Moving their filmy wings, or calm at sail
Skimming the winding water sheeted fair,
As the sun walks above it,—their bright mail
Burns on the polished mirror, which doth veil
To the bossed form, that studs it like a gem,—
Whether their serried pinions cut the gale,
Or their quick-glancing fins the current stem,
Or earth is their domain,—thy life enkindles them.

XXIV.

And man becomes thy worshipper, when first
The sense of beauty wakens him to kneel
Before the images which thou hast nurst,
And stamped them with thy deep eternal seal,—
Forms from which age and ruin cannot steal
The pure, free grace of nature;—but they wear
The magic charm, in which we live and feel
That we have caught a higher sense, and bear
New-wrought within our souls the essence of the fair.

XXV.

And to those forms of light our wishes tend,
And our fixed longing is to stand and gaze,
Where to the Parian stone the mind doth lend
Its own divinity, and pour its rays
Harmonious o'er the canvas, where life plays
In the flushed cheek, blue veins, and speaking eye,
And lip with passion trembling;—Mind can raise
From its unseen conceptions, where they lie
Bright in their mine, forms, hues, that look Eternity;

XXVI.

That send through the long waste of ages, pure
From the corruption of a grosser time,
Those models of perfection, which endure,
The guides of all the graceful and sublime
In our own nature, fashioned in the clime
Of the sweet myrtle, and the kindling vine,
Of roseate skies, green vales, and rocks that climb
Amid the never-wasting snows, and shine
In the glad Sun,—the seat of all they held divine.

XXVII.

It was from gazing on the fairy hues
That hung around the born and dying day,
The tender flush, whose mellow stain imbues
Heaven with all freaks of light, and where it lay
Deep-bosomed in a still and waveless bay,
The sea reflected all that glowed above,
Till a new sky, softer but not so gay,
Arched in its bosom, trembled like a dove,
When o'er her silken plumes wanders the light of love.

XXVIII.

It was from gazing on them, when the flowers
First wakened from their wintry sleep, and flung
Their first warm tints o'er garden beds and bowers,
When from the temple roof the swallow sung,
And in the thorny thicket sweetly rung,
Through the still moonlight hours, the heart-breathed tone
Of the lone warbler,—when the loosed steed sprung
Bright o'er the sounding plain, and the charmed zone,
In one soft twine of love, round all that lived was thrown.

XXIX.

When there were dances in the Platane shades,
And the vine arbors breathed with music,—Night
Looked from her starry throne on youths and maids,
Bounding and shouting in their full delight,
From the round orb of azure sparkled bright
The spirit in its ecstasy, wreathed gold
Flowed tressed behind them, as their footsteps light
Leaped in the mazy ring, and the wide fold
Of mantles waved to fly the clasping girdle's hold:

XXX.

And feeling voices blended with the lute,
Raising the hymn to beauty and to love,
The parent and the infant boy,—the flute,
In tempered sweetness, flowing like the dove,
In her deep sorrow, from the elm above
The dark stream sleeping in seclusion; so,
As the voice ceased, and Echo from her cove
Answered, the flute, in one continual flow,
Breathed every winding note and falling touch of woe:

XXXI.

And smiles were changed to tears, the dance became
Still, and the dancers breathless; you might see
In the soft dews of sorrow quenched the flame
Of buoyant passion;—soon the sound of glee
Rang on the merry cymbal, then all free,
As the winds hurry o'er the mountains, beat,
In numbered steps attuned to melody,
Round the close-shaven green their glancing feet,
Light as the spotted fawns through Tegean forests fleet.

XXXII.

And there the pencil and the chisel drew
Apollos and Dianas; there they wrought
Into one form the charms that nature threw
Round the fair youth of Athens; there they sought
All the soft lines of elegance, and caught
The grandeur too of loveliness, which lends
Power to the young god; there they culled and brought
From innocent forms the perfect grace, which sends
Such magic on the heart of youth, that awed it bends.

XXXIII.

Once they were planted in a marble fane
Built to the power that in the statue stood,
Or underneath the blue sky on the plain,
Or in the shadow of a sacred wood,
Or where the poplar quivered o'er the flood,
Itself in air, its image glassed below:
But now they stand, the artist's holy food,
Where the high dome permits the light to flow,
Aloft above the crowd that wondering gaze below.

XXXIV.

And there they stand, still perfect; though the stain
Of centuries has lent to them a hue,
Which tells of age and change, 't is not in vain,
But is their triumph: they have risen through
The roar of ruin round them, to renew
Taste in the land of music, and of form,
And tint, and shade;—so eagerly we view
The long-tost bark, that rudely beat the storm,
And rode unharmed, unwrecked, where all its terrors swarm.

XXXV.

They stand replete with life, the marble speaks,
And the cold eye looks passion; they might tell
Of cultured fields, where now the dead fen reeks,
Of pomp and feast, where bats and night birds dwell;
Though from their first-raised pedestal they fell,
Yet they revived in glory. It is sure,
Stamped by the seal of nature, that the well
Of Mind, where all its waters gather pure,
Shall with unquestioned spell all meaner hearts allure.

XXXVI.

We gaze on them, and on the ancient page,
And read its mystic characters, which seem,
Through the expanding haziness of age,
The fading forms of a majestic dream.
Cold is the heart, that not on such a theme
Feels the warm spirit kindle;—'t is the sound
Of a gone trumpet rolling on the stream
Of Time, and catching still at each rebound
Deeper and clearer tones to bear its warning round,

XXXVII.

And ever waken from the dull repose
Of peace and plenty, where we waste in rust
That love of high emprise which ever glows
When the roused mind hath sternly shook the dust
From off its robe, and in a childlike trust
To its own inspiration, and the power
That speaks from buried nations, at the bust
Of ancient Mind gives worship, in the hour
When the waked eyes of Heaven their tempering influence shower.

XXXVIII.

Language of Gods and godlike men! thy tone
First sounded on Olympus from the lyre
Of the glad virgins, when around the throne
They raised the joyful Pæan, in a choir
Alternate with Apollo, sitting higher,
The sovereign of all harmony;—thence came
That sounding speech, whose words, imbued with fire,
Could the wild wave of Athens bend and tame,
And wreathe the poet's harp with locks of lambent flame.

XXXIX.

Thy faintest tone is music,—when thy words
Come o'er my ear, I seem on wings at play
With every bard who sung thee, like the birds
Who feed on dewy air, and float in day,
Speeding in endless round their lives away,
Aloft above the region of the storm,
Where naught can soil their golden plumes, nor stay
Their swift career,—no sudden gust deform
The beauty of their flight, but all is still and warm,

XL.

And the clear sun stands over them, his hair
Waves gloriously athwart the perfect blue;
There is no rustling in the deep, calm air,
But one eternal tide is rolling through
The far expanse, and thus it ever drew
The waves of ether in its willing train;
Higher than ever wing of eagle flew,
Or white curl dimmed the noon-vault with its stain,
There, bird of Eden, spreads thy pure and bright domain.

XLI.

And thou too hast a voice, and oft at night,
When thy wing winds among the stars, 't is said
By those who watch the sky in fixed delight,
On fairy dreams of wooing fortune led,
When the cool winds around the flowery bed
Hid in the garden alcove long delay
Because the spot is fragrant, then 't is said
The midnight gazer hears thee far away,
Like a sweet angel's voice, salute the coming day.

XLII.

Fit image of those subtile kindled souls,
Who spurned at baseness, and arose from earth
Indignantly, who fixed in Heaven their goals,
Whose only rival was departed worth;
Whose restless passion labored in the birth
Of moral greatness;—whether on the page,
Statue, or canvas, round the quiet hearth,
On the loud Pnyx, or in the sanguine rage
Of fight,—they sought to charm and conquer every age.

XLIII.

And this with such a language, sweetly blending
All in one round of fulness, that it flowed
A streamlet or a torrent, ocean sending
Its blue waves on its rocky barrier,—glowed
Sparkles of beauty thickly o'er it,—strode
Mind on its breast, like Gods, who sail through air
Throned on a tempest-cloud,—whether the ode
Burned, or the epic thundered, or the fair,
Fond Lesbian sighed and wooed, the magic sound was there.

XLIV.

Yes, but the accent, the nice touch and tone,
Have perished with the tongues whose melody
Was Music's essence. Yes, the sound has flown
With the keen life aloft, where it will be
Absorbed and blended in Eternity,
The spirit of a grander, purer time:
Language of Heaven, O lend thy voice to me!
Give me the perfect note, the tempered chime,
That I at times may feel and live with the sublime;

XLV.

That I may read the rhapsodies and odes,
And proud harangues, and flowing histories,
Those flights where mortals mingled with the Gods,
And threw their eye beyond the life that is;
Those sun-bright lessons of the good and wise,
Those golden songs of a diviner age,—
O, could my mind but gain that long-sought prize,
O, could I take the early Grecian rage,
And pour Homeric fire along my wandering page,—

XLVI.

There should be altars to thee, and the flame
Should be ethereal, no gross earthly fire
Should taint their marble purity, but tame
The spark of Heaven should tremble down the wire,
And with the lightest element conspire
To roll full floods of snowy light to thee,
And I would warm my spirit in that pyre,
And all that lives within my heart should be
Devoted to thy will, Eternal Harmony!

XLVII.

Are there not moments when we fly from earth
And dwell in ether? Are there no bright hours
Along the dull of life? Is not the dearth
Of feeling quickened, and the dormant powers
Wakened, by living with the domes and towers
We fly to o'er the bounding sea? O fane
Of Grecian wisdom! that in ruin lowers
Over the rage of ignorance, again
Thou shalt be bright, renewed, and pure from every stain.

XLVIII.

And I would go, and worship at thy door;
I dare not enter, where thy form doth rear
That beaming lance, which stilled the battle's roar,
And stopped the clang of sword, the hum of spear,
Cutting the murk air in its dark career,
And thirsting for the shouting warrior's blood;
I feel within my soul a holy fear
Forbidding me to enter thy abode,
Where none but grandest minds and purest hearts have trod.

XLIX.

Wisdom enshrined in beauty,—O, how high
The order of that loveliness! the blue
That rolls and flashes in thy full, round eye,
Thy forehead arched with such a stainless hue,
As crowns the eternal mountains lifted through
The gathered night of clouds, the smile, the frown,
Blended in sweetness,—all in thee can view
How mind and virtue linked alone bring down
On mortal heads from Heaven the star-wreathed laurel crown.

L.

Would I might stand beneath thy temple's roof,
Closed from the entrance of all common light,
From all the sound and stir of man aloof,
Whose dark air makes thy ægis doubly bright,
As the broad flash glares through the cloud of night
With an intenser redness,—could I stand
Beneath thy roof, and from thy pure lips write
The volume of all Truth,—but no! my hand
Will not,—I am not one by whom thy lore is scanned.

LI.

No, I should rather fly among the bowers
That bloom around the Idalian dome, and take
From soft Sicilian plains the leaves and flowers,
Of which a coronal of love to make;—
Better for me a seat beside the lake,
Where the enchanter erst his wild harp hung
To moulder in the birches. Why not wake
Those witching notes again? Shall they be flung
To the wild mountain winds from chords so long unstrung?

LII.

And now I turn me to the misty island,
Which rises with its white cliffs from the ocean,
I turn to where the storm broods on the highland,
And the sea lifts its waves in angry motion,
And there again I feel a new devotion
Come with a spell of power athwart me; light
Burns, blazes over Greece, but wild commotion
Heaves in the bosoms of the North; their flight
Is on the whirlwind's wing, their home the womb of night.

LIII.

They follow nature, who hath girt their hills
With a dark belt of pines, whose fitful roar,
Far wafted on the wind, the stout heart fills
With its own wild sublimity; the shore
Breasts the rude shock of waves, that rush before
The north-wind bursting from the icy pole;
Yon peaks, that lift their foreheads bald and hoar,
Where the long wreaths, that tell of tempest, roll,
Stamp mightily and deep their grandeur on the soul.

LIV.

They love the rock, whose dark brow beetles far
Into the wallowing ocean, whose white waves
Join round the thundering crag in mingled war,
Where in the hollow cavern echo raves,
Like the long groans that seem to come from graves,
When sheeted spectres burst their cerements; high
The gannet wheels and screams, then, stooping, braves
The fury of the surge that rushes by,
And then rolls dim and far to mingle with the sky.

LV.

Their home is on the mountain, where in mist
They darkly dwell, and when the hollow sound
Of the crushed woods comes on, they fondly list
To hear the winds wake up, and gather round,
Till from each rocky battlement they bound,
Mingling and deepening, like the waves in war,
Which on the mid-sea heave and strive around
The rock, that dares their madness; loud afar
Rolls on the foam-lit main the rush of Odin's car.

LVI.

And when the night comes down, and deeper gloom
Falls on the cloud, that wraps the height in shade,
When the mist moves away, and opens room
To catch a glimpse of lakes in moonlight laid,
For all below is by the clear wind made
Serene in brightness, then the lone bard throws
A glance on distant beauty, and the maid,
White as the foam that on the lashed wave rose,
Sits lonely in her bower, and weeps her tender woes.

LVII.

Their tenderness is dark; it hath the hue
Of their own watery skies, and thence they bear
Its tints of paleness, for the light sent through
The floating veil of mist, that dims the air,
Sheds a faint glimmering on the landscape there,
So that the earth seems weeping; when they mourn
Their tones are wild, but soft; they do not tear
With a new pang the heart already torn,
That finds in the still look what kills, yet must be borne.

LVIII.

The soaring of their heights uplifts the soul,
And gives their heavenward daring to the heart,
And the tossed waves, that midway round them roll,
Seeming below, as if they were a part
Of a new ocean raging there, will dart
Their sternness on the eye, that loves to rise
From the low vale, and as it gazes start
To see above them floating in the skies
Peaks white with eldest snow, and gilt with sunset dyes.

LIX.

Dofra, thy brow is in that upper air,
No cloud e'er went as high, the eagle's wing
Has been thy only visitant, thy bare
And pillared cone is such a glorious thing
To the far-gazing Norseman, when the sting
Of a fond love of country prompts him on
To worship at thy base, and upward spring
To thy eternal walls, which in the sun
Flash far and purely forth, when the long day is done.

LX.

Far round thy fir-shagged base the torrent winds,
Hoarse as the voice of Liberty, who bears
With open breast the tempest, when it binds
Seas in its chain of frost, whose brow still wears
Part of its once deep frown, the will that dares
All, when invasion threats,—that torrent leaps
Down the dark gulf, and with its dashing tears
The rock in deeper rents, and ever keeps
Wild music in the wood, that o'er it bends and weeps;

LXI.

The roar of waters, and the rush of winds
Through the black boughs, whose tangled branches throw
Night o'er the rift, where the dashed vapor blinds,
And distant down the gushing waters glow
In their intense convulsion, as they go
Plunging and lifting high their frothy swell;
Then, as a new-sprung arrow, on they flow,
Roaring along a pit that seems a hell,
Where the shook caverns ring their echoes like a knell.

LXII.

So Mind takes color from the cloud, the storm,
The ocean, and the torrent: where clear skies
Brighten and purple o'er an earth, whose form
In the sweet dress of Southern summer lies,
Man drinks the beauty with his gladdened eyes,
And sends it out in music;—where the strand
Sounds with the surging waves, that proudly rise
To meet the frowning clouds, the soul is manned
To mingle in their wrath, and be as darkly grand.

LXIII.

Nature! when looking on thee, I become
Renewed to my first being, and am pure,
As thou art bright and lovely; from the hum
Of cities, where men linger and endure
That wasting death, which kills them with a sure
But long-felt torture, I now haste away
To climb thy rugged rocks, and find the cure
Of all my evils, and again be gay
In the clear sun, that gilds the fair autumnal day.

LXIV.

I cannot look upon those cloudless skies,
And not be lifted, for they seem to spread
With an unbounded vastness, and they rise
Beyond the height where early fancy, led
By its own grand aspirings, which were fed
On hopes nursed in their shrines below, had given
To the first powers their throne; so o'er my head,
As by an ever-moving hand still driven,
Wider and wider spreads the azure deep of heaven.

LXV.

I gaze and I am vaster;—thought takes wing
From off the rock I stand on, and goes far
Into the pure blue gulf, and there I bring
The myriad bands of night, and set each star
In its peculiar station, till they wear
All forms of brightness, and a magic train,
Show all the fabled world in picture there,
And then I seem to range them o'er again,
Like him who read them first on the Chaldæan plain.

LXVI.

But Nature! thou hast more beneath me bright
In their rich autumn tints, than all I throw
Over the crystal arch, whose tranquil light
Takes every hue of mellowness below;
It kindles in the orchard's ruddy glow,
And on the colored woods, whose dying shade
Crowns the tall mountain with a wreath, whose flow,
Softly descending to the silent glade,
Seems like the evening cloud in airy tints arrayed.

LXVII.

And where the river winds along the vale,
Bending through sloping hills, which o'er it lift
Oaks faintly yielding to the rudest gale,
And clinging with close twining to the rift
Of the steep rocks, which, as the wild winds drift
The rain-clouds o'er their quivering tops, still rise
Contending with the gust, whose flight is swift,
Scouring with stormy wing the cold, dun skies,
On which the flock look up with faint, imploring eyes.

LXVIII.

Through that low, watered vale a sanguine stream
Winds, where the maple gives its leaf a hue
Of deepest carmine, and those wreathed boughs teem
With the same tint of blood and berries blue;
Deeper their contrast, as they meet us through
The oak's dark russet and the walnut's brown;
There we might weave of falling leaves a new
And brighter wreath than earth e'er gave to crown
The sun of lower life, before its light went down.

LXIX.

There is a pensive spirit in those woods,
The sighing of the lone wind in their leaves
Has much to soften; there the sunk heart broods
Intenser o'er its many wrongs, and grieves
With a far purer sorrow; it believes,
With fond illusion, that a form is there
Who hath her sorrows too; and then he weaves
Of the pale-tinted flowers a wreath, to bear
On his dishevelled locks, the garland of despair.

LXX.

To look upon thy form, thou dying year,
To see thy brightest honors thickly shed,
As withered flowers are scattered on a bier
By pious hands, who mourn a loved one dead;
To think how all that Spring and Summer spread
Of freshness and maturity are torn
By the rude winds, how coldly in their stead
The crusted frost hangs glimmering on the thorn,
And bends the widowed boughs, that stoop as if forlorn:

LXXI.

To think on this, and on the breathing hues
That wreathed the same earth in its fairest prime,
When the glad season with its life imbues
The very clods, and wakens from the slime
Of the low marsh new forms, that spread a time
A pictured mantle o'er it; when it blows,
Mocking the beauty of a tropic clime,
Where one eternal round of flowering throws
New bloom to crown the fruit, that swells and ripening glows:

LXXII.

To think on infancy, and then on death,
In the wild herb, or those fair forms we bind
Close to our hearts, as if their life and breath
Were portion of our being, where the mind
Is heightened, and all sympathies refined
To that high state where we are not our own.
To think on death—to leave the looks, that wind
Round all our thoughts their tenderness,—alone
To sit and hear the winds make sad and solemn moan

LXXIII.

Through the dark pines, whose foliage, in the sway
Of fitful gusts, waves mournfully, and throws
From its fine threads a sound, that sinks away
Faintly and sweetly, to a dying close,
Like a soft air to which the boatman rows
Over the moon-lit lake his gliding keel,
Which comes more calmly, for the still wind blows
So meekly through the summer night, we feel
Scarce on our wakeful ear the whispered echo steal,—

LXXIV.

To think on death, and how it rends the links
Of long and close communion, how it tears
One and another chord, till the heart sinks
Without one friend on whom to lay its cares,
And take his in return;—the spirit bears
Better a loved one's woes, than those it feels
Spring in its own lost hopes;—the heart that shares
With a long bosom-friend his burdens, heals
Its wounds, and still is soft;—alone, their closing steels.

LXXV.

'Tis good to think on death;—it bends the will
From that stern purpose which no man can hold
And yet be happy;—we must go and fill
Thought with affection, where pale mourners fold
The shroud around those chill limbs, whose fair mould
Imaged unearthly beauty. Why not blend
With tears awhile, and leave that stern, that cold
Contempt of all that waits us, when we end
Our proud career in death, where all, hope-lifted, bend.

LXXVI.

'Tis good to hold communion with the dead,
To walk the lane where bending willows throw
Gloom o'er the dark green turf, ere day is fled,
And cast deep shadow on the tomb below;
For, as we muse thus silently, we know
The worth of all our longings, and we pay
New worship unto purity, and so
We gather strength to take our toilsome way,
Which must be meekly borne, or life be thrown away.

LXXVII.

Better live long and tranquilly, if pure,
Than rush into the madness of a crowd,
Where all are eager for the prize, none sure;
Where busy voices clamor long and loud,
And man shows in the strife how feebly proud
Are his best aims to raise himself, and cast
His fellows in his rear;—how keen, when bowed
Beneath a firmer heel, he finds at last,
Are the condemning thoughts, that mock him, of the past.

LXXVIII.

But I must turn again to higher themes,
And, from the lifted summit where I stand
Casting a rapid glance o'er hills and streams,
That checker with their light a happy land,
Must find again my better powers expand
To a fit harmony with earth and sky,
Which spread before me, with so vast a hand,
Those forms that seem to bear eternity
Stamped on their iron brows, where age will ever be:

LXXIX.

The gray rocks, and the mountains wrapped in blue,
Towering far distant through the silent air,
That sleeps in noon-light, but in morning blew
Fresh o'er the russet plain, and scattered there
Shadows from flitting clouds, that earth seemed fair
Robed in a sheet of light, and then grew dim;—
Far distant through the haze, those mountains bear
Sky-lifted walls, that frown along the brim
Of earth, and, as I gaze, in vapor seem to swim.

LXXX.

They rise with twofold vastness through the dun
And quivering air, that broods along the heath,
Which gilds its dark waste with the reddening sun,
Whose sinking light seems ominous of death;
Air now is hushed, and not a whispered breath
Bears from the cedar-woods one sound away
To speak of life; a lightly curling wreath
O'er the far lake alone is seen to play,
And give one fairy hue to the departing day.

LXXXI.

'Tis the fit hour of high and solemn thought;
The sun sinks lower, and a wave of flame
Burns on the distant peaks; I feel my lot
Too scanty for those inner powers, that frame
Visions of glory, which no want should tame
To the poor level of our common days;
I would be with the heights, which stand the same,
Catching through countless years the dying rays,
That every evening crown the rocks in one full blaze.

LXXXII.

And here shall be my temple, where I pay
Devotion unto Nature, here the throne
On which my soul shall sit, and pass away
Beyond where ever wing of air has flown,
Or first-created beam of morning shone,
Through the void infinite, the far expanse,
Spread out beyond all life, by thought alone
Pervaded, where no atoms in their dance,
Ere sun and star came forth, rolled on the waves of chance.

LXXXIII.

To think is to exist, and when we go
Far in the range of intellect, we seem
Heightened in our existence: brute below
Move the dull crowd, a slow and sluggish stream,
Who think us madmen, who on mountains deem
There are more lofty musings, and new force
Caught from the purer air and clearer beam;
They know no upward hours, and as their source
Of life is in the dust, such is their being's course.

LXXXIV.

They are the pillars on which nations rest,
Useful, but rude. All beauty took its birth
In the rank mould,—now worshipped and caressed,
It once lay buried in its parent earth;
And thus the mean and sordid have their worth,
To bear aloft the finer form, and rear
The prouder seat of soul, that sallies forth
High in a purer element, to hear
The lore of minds who dwell in a celestial sphere;

LXXXV.

Who have been in the common herd, but long
Have found a home more genial, and have grown,
From this our infancy of reason, strong
In all that gives to intellect the tone
Of an exalted essence, such as shone
Faint in the bard and sage of ancient days;
Earth was around them,—now, they would not own
Those visions, where they wandered in a maze
Of dreams, that were sublime, and dazzle all who gaze.

LXXXVI.

But these were dreams of infancy; they broke
The chain of earthly appetite,—the will
To be all greatness burst the binding yoke
That ever bore their spirit downward, till
They leaped on a free pinion to fulfil
The grandeur they had purposed,—then the sky
Received them in its bosom, where they still
Haste on in eager hopes that never die,
To read all things that are, with an unsated eye.

LXXXVII.

Space is to them an ocean, where they rush
Voyaging in an endless circle; light
Comes from within, and as the mountains flush,
When morning sails athwart them, so their flight
Kindles all things they pass by, with so bright
And searching glance, they read them in their core:
Like a quick meteor hasting on in night,
They wander through a sea without a shore,
Which still hath something new to gather to their store.

LXXXVIII.

And they too have a centre, where they tend;
The universe rolls round it; there all power
Comes and goes forth; though lesser beings end,
Wasting and born and dying every hour,
Yet like the fabled amaranthine flower,
That ever held the same unfading glow,
Shedding its fragrance through the holy bower,
Where angels took their slumbers, in a flow
That bore a sense of Heaven to purer hearts below,—

LXXXIX.

Yet, like that never-dying flower, the whole
Lives one unchanging round, and ever draws
New motion from the animating soul,
Which acts on matter with eternal laws,
And is to each event the one first cause,
From which all changes emanate; like rays,
All spirits point to this, and there they pause,
And when all worlds are passed, the soul there lays
Its separate life aside, and mingles in that blaze.

XC.

Here we have only moments when we speed
Round the aerial ocean, o'er whose tides
The mind goes onward, like the breathless steed
On which the wretch who flies his ruin rides;
But the base will to earth for ever guides
The soaring pinion in its highest flight;
We cannot go where the free spirit glides
Serenely in a flowing wave of light;
We may be bright awhile, but more of life is night.

XCI.

'Tis a vain toil to send our fancy on,
In quest of higher worlds than this we know;
Cold want will come, when all we sought is won,
And then our new-fledged wing must stoop below;
I am not to the hope of Heaven a foe,
It comforts, lifts, and widens all who share
In the pure streams that from its fountain flow;
We must be pure ourselves, if we would dare
Take of the holy fire that wells and gushes there.

XCII.

'Tis a weak madness, or a base deceit,
To talk of hope like this, when life is stained
With all rank, reeking grossness;—when we meet,
In a fair life, a goodness all unfeigned,
Where one long love of purity hath reigned,
And the meek spirit charms us, like the rose
That in a thicket lurks, and there hath gained
Sweetness from all it fed on, till it throws
New fragrance on the wind,—we give a Heaven to those.

XCIII.

They have a heaven on earth: it ever springs
In the calm round of tender feeling, shown
By the dear cares and toils which Nature wrings,
With a most gentle pressure, from the lone
But happy parent, who amid her own,
Smiling like first-blown flowers around her, feeds
Her spirit with their looks of love; unknown
She lives within her shrine; her fond heart needs
No tongue to tell her worth, to gladden in her deeds.

XCIV.

They have their own reward: it is the law
Of our existence, that our hearts should cling
To those who from our life their being draw;
The favors that we render ever bring
Closer the cherished, till they are a thing
We cannot sever from us, but they tear
Roots from our hearts; the thankless child may sting,
Even as a serpent, but we meekly bear
All wrongs, and when the storm beats on him, clasp him there.

XCV.

The feeling of a parent never dies
But with our moral nature; all in vain
The wretch, by cold and cruel spurning, tries
To change that love to hate: the sense of pain
Shoots keenly through a mother's heart, the chain
Wound through life's tender years twines closer so;
Feelings, that in our better hours had lain
Silent, are often waked by some deep throe,
And as the torture racks, our loves intenser grow.

XCVI.

We send these fond endearments o'er the grave:
Heaven would be hell, if loved ones were not there,
And any spot a heaven, if we could save
From every stain of earth, and thither bear
The hearts that are to us our hope and care,
The soil whereon our purest pleasures grow;
Around the quiet hearth we often share,
From the quick change of thought, the tender flow
Of fondness waked by smiles, the world we love, below.

XCVII.

But now I turn me to the setting sun,
Whose broad fire dips behind yon rock, a tower
Fit for the eagle's aerie; day is done,
And earth is hushed at evening's dewy hour;
Down the high, wooded peak a golden shower
Flows through the twinkling leaves, that lightly play
In the cool wind, that wakens from its bower,
Hung where the curling river winds away
Through the green, watered vale, to meet the sheeted bay;

XCVIII.

On which the moon, who long had watched the set
Of the bright lord who gives her light, but dims
Her brightness, when they two in heaven are met,
Casts her pale shadow, which as softly swims
As nymphs who cleave the wave with snowy limbs,
Like lilies floating on a falling stream,
Whose incense-breathing cup now lightly skims
The crinkling sheet, and now with opal gleam
Dips in the brook, and takes from air a brighter beam;

XCIX.

Which is condensed, and parted into hues
That charm us in the rainbow; each waved tip
Of the glossed petals, in that light imbues
Its paleness with an iris fringe; the lip
Thus takes a sweeter beauty, when we sip
The infant stream of life from some bright bowl
Fretted with Eastern flowers; and as they drip
From the new rose, the pearls of morning roll
Such tints upon the eye, they pass into the soul.

C.

Sunlight and moonlight now are met in heaven;
This, like a furnace blazing in the west,
Lifts a wide flame, that, as a banner driven,
Glows where the mountain lake unfolds its breast,
And every tree in amber locks is tressed,
Flowing in waved fire down the green hill-side;
Round the far eastern sky the blue is dressed
With blushes, like a sweet Circassian bride,
Who looks with melting eye on Helle's rolling tide.

CI.

The vast arch lifts a darker canopy,
The perfect dome of nature, reared aloft
Above the columned rocks, that send it high,
Like a round temple-roof, which rises soft
Melting in evening air, where sunbeams waft
Flashes, that tip with gold the pointed spire,
And crown the statue there, and gem the haft
Of the bent sword, that, like a stream of fire,
Waves o'er the startled crowd, the sign of God's first ire.

CII.

But as I turn me to the silent sea,
Where not a wind is breathing, no calm swell
Creeps slowly whispering on; where in his lee,
Through the far deep, the sailor-boy can tell,
On the white bed of sand, each twisted shell
That lies where never waves in tempest sweep;—
I look, and as I hear the vesper bell
Swing solemnly afar, the moonbeams keep
Watch o'er the silver tide, that now is hushed in sleep.

CIII.

Day fades, and night grows brighter in her orb,
Which walks the blue air with a queen-like smile,
And seems with a soft gladness to absorb
All the deep blaze that lit yon rocky pile,
Where the sun took his farewell glance, the while
He rested on the throne of parting day,
Which is his royal seat;—as a far isle
Rolling amid the upper deep its way,
The moon glides on, as glides her shadow on the bay.

CIV.

Beauty is doubled here, and both are fair,
But the reflection hath a paler tint,
As when from out a calm and hazy air
The first wan rays in frosted autumn glint;
The moon aloft comes freshly from the mint,
Where first she took her loveliness; the bright
And dark she bears, like bosses by the dint
Of a deep die, give changes to her light,
As if a snowy veil with glittering pearls were dight.

CV.

Night steals apace, and brings the hour of stars,
Which come emerging from heaven's azure flow;
First in the west the loving planet bears
The charm of light, that hath a power to throw
Hope on the impassioned heart, who in her glow
Reads the fond omen of his happy flame;
She leads the way; then thicker splendors go.
Each to his seat, as when at once they came
Obedient to the voice whose word all power can tame.

CVI.

And now the night is full; unnumbered eyes
Look on us from infinitude; the dome
Whereon they hang, in darker azure lies
Round their intenser light; as when the foam
Crests the green wave, when barks are hurrying home
From the wild cloud that skirts the brooding sky,
And gives the sea a frown, before it come
To plough the surge in wrath, and roll it by
The rock, which in that rush still lifts its forehead high.

CVII.

They gather on the far-expanded arch,
Each in their separate orders, and go on
Sweeping the long, dark vault in silent march,
Until at last the western goal is won,
Or on the orient hill the morning sun
Come forth and quench their lesser light; yon plain
Is a wide list, where higher souls may run
In the bright form of star, and grandly gain
The only good reward, which here we seek in vain.

CVIII.

No wonder nations worshipped here, and bowed
Their foreheads in the dust before the fires
That watch o'er earth, and seem to speak aloud
The deeds of unborn ages;—man aspires
To the high seat of gods, and never tires
To read the infinite, the past, and throw
Looks full of hope before him; so those fires,
Which are so high, and look so far, must know
All that is big with fate, and will have birth below.

CIX.

Faith centres in the sky;—'t is there we turn,
When earth is only darkness, there we send
Our vows to those we fear, and there we burn,
When the last pulse beats low, to find the end
Of all we hate, and thus in hope we tend
To the high dwelling of the stars;—bright souls
Love with the purer elements to blend,
And so, when the deep knell its parting tolls,
They gaze on the pure light that ever round us rolls:

CX.

So those who have been gifted with the flame
Of an ascending intellect, whose light
Kindled as death drew near, and seemed the same,
Or fairer, on the verge of being's night;—
So they have fixed their last look on the bright,
Clear sky, as if awhile insphered and bound
In a full sense of glory;—their delight
Was too intensely keen to have a sound;
It spake in the long smile they cast so calmly round.

CXI.

The sun was setting when the Gueber drew
His parting breath; he gazed in worship there,
Life seemed concentred in that ardent view,
His spirit wandered into worlds of air,
To mingle with his god, and dying share
In the last flash of day;—the cold dim glaze
Fell on his eye, but yet he oft would bear
A fond look to the cloud that drank the rays,
And then he calmly died, as one who only pays

CXII.

Devotion on his pillow, ere he draw
His curtain round, and close his eye in sleep;
That fond idolater in dying saw,
As the day sank in glory in the deep,
That rolled in gilt waves o'er it with the sweep
Of a far-flashing brightness, there his eye
Beheld his god enshrined;—his soul could leap,
At such a calm and holy hour, to lie
Serenely on his couch, and with his loved lord die.

CXIII.

Centre of light and energy! thy way
Is through the unknown void; thou hast thy throne,
Morning, and evening, and at noon of day,
Far in the blue, untended and alone;
Ere the first-wakened airs of earth had blown,
On thou didst march, triumphant in thy light;
Then thou didst send thy glance, which still hath flown
Wide through the never-ending worlds of night,
And yet thy full orb burns with flash as keen and bright.

CXIV.

We call thee Lord of day,—and thou dost give
To Earth the fire that animates her crust,
And wakens all the forms that move and live,
From the fine viewless mould, which lurks in dust,
To him who looks to heaven, and on his bust
Bears stamped the seal of God, who gathers there
Lines of deep thought, high feeling, daring trust
In his own centred powers, who aims to share
In all his soul can frame of wide and great and fair.

CXV.

Thy path is high in heaven;—we cannot gaze
On the intense of light that girds thy car;
There is a crown of glory in thy rays,
Which bear thy pure divinity afar,
To mingle with the equal light of star,
For thou, so vast to us, art in the whole
One of the sparks of night, that fire the air,
And as around thy centre planets roll,
So thou too hast thy path around the central soul.

CXVI.

I am no fond idolater to thee,
One of the countless multitude who burn,
As lamps, around the one Eternity,
In whose contending forces systems turn
Their circles round that seat of life, the urn
Where all must sleep, if matter ever dies:—
Sight fails me here, but fancy can discern,
With the wide glance of her all-seeing eyes,
Where, in the heart of worlds, the ruling Spirit lies.

CXVII.

And thou too hast thy world, and unto thee
We are as nothing;—thou goest forth alone,
And movest through the wide aerial sea,
Glad as a conqueror resting on his throne
From a new victory, where he late had shown
Wider his power to nations;—so thy light
Comes with new pomp, as if thy strength had grown
With each revolving day, or thou at night
Had lit again thy fires, and thus renewed thy might.

CXVIII.

Age o'er thee has no power;—thou bringest the same
Light to renew the morning, as when first,
If not eternal, thou, with front of flame,
On the dark face of earth in glory burst,
And warmed the seas, and in their bosom nursed
The earliest things of life, the worm and shell;
Till through the sinking ocean mountains pierced,
And then came forth the land whereon we dwell,
Reared like a magic fane above the watery swell.

CXIX.

And there thy searching heat awoke the seeds
Of all that gives a charm to earth, and lends
An energy to nature; all that feeds
On the rich mould, and then in bearing bends
Its fruit again to earth, wherein it blends
The last and first of life; of all who bear
Their forms in motion, where the spirit tends
Instinctive, in their common good to share,
Which lies in things that breathe, or late were living there.

CXX.

They live in thee; without thee all were dead
And dark, no beam had lighted on the waste,
But one eternal night around had spread
Funereal gloom, and coldly thus defaced
This Eden, which thy fairy hand had graced
With such uncounted beauty;—all that blows
In the fresh air of Spring, and growing braced
Its form to manhood, when it stands and glows
In the full-tempered beam, that gladdens as it goes.

CXXI.

Thou lookest on the Earth, and then it smiles;
Thy light is hid, and all things droop and mourn;
Laughs the wide sea around her budding isles,
When thro' their heaven thy changing car is borne;
Thou wheel'st away thy flight, the woods are shorn
Of all their waving locks, and storms awake;
All that was once so beautiful is torn
By the wild winds which plough the lonely lake,
And in their maddening rush the crested mountains shake.

CXXII.

The Earth lies buried in a shroud of snow;
Life lingers, and would die, but thy return
Gives to their gladdened hearts an overflow
Of all the power that brooded in the urn
Of their chilled frames, and then they proudly spurn
All bands that would confine, and give to air
Hues, fragrance, shapes of beauty, till they burn,
When on a dewy morn thou dartest there
Rich waves of gold, to wreathe with fairer light the fair.

CXXIII.

The vales are thine; and when the touch of Spring
Thrills them, and gives them gladness, in thy light
They glitter, as the glancing swallow's wing
Dashes the water in his winding flight,
And leaves behind a wave, that crinkles bright,
And widens outward to the pebbled shore;—
The vales are thine, and when they wake from night,
The dews, that bend the grass tips, twinkling o'er
Their soft and oozy beds, look upward and adore.

CXXIV.

The hills are thine: they catch thy newest beam,
And gladden in thy parting, where the wood
Flames out in every leaf, and drinks the stream
That flows from out thy fulness, as a flood
Bursts from an unknown land, and rolls the food
Of nations in its waters,—so thy rays
Flow and give brighter tints than ever bud,
When a clear sheet of ice reflects a blaze
Of many twinkling gems, as every glossed bough plays.

CXXV.

Thine are the mountains, where they purely lift
Snows that have never wasted, in a sky
Which hath no stain; below the storm may drift
Its darkness, and the thunder-gust roar by,
Aloft in thy eternal smile they lie
Dazzling but cold; thy farewell glance looks there,
And when below thy hues of beauty die,
Girt round them as a rosy belt, they bear
Into the high, dark vault a brow that still is fair.

CXXVI.

The clouds are thine, and all their magic hues
Are pencilled by thee; when thou bendest low,
Or comest in thy strength, thy hand imbues
Their waving fold with such a perfect glow
Of all pure tints, the fairy pictures throw
Shame on the proudest art,—the tender stain
Hung round the verge of heaven, that as a bow
Girds the wide world, and in their blended chain
All tints to the deep gold, that flashes in thy train,—

CXXVII.

These are thy trophies, and thou bend'st thy arch,
The sign of triumph, in a seven-fold twine,
Where the spent storm is hasting on its march;
And there the glories of thy light combine,
And form with perfect curve a lifted line,
Striding the earth and air;—man looks and tells
How Peace and Mercy in its beauty shine,
And how the heavenly messenger impels
Her glad wings on the path, that thus in ether swells.

CXXVIII.

The ocean is thy vassal; thou dost sway
His waves to thy dominion, and they go,
Where thou in heaven dost guide them on their way,
Rising and falling in eternal flow;
Thou lookest on the waters, and they glow,
They take them wings and spring aloft in air,
And change to clouds, and then, dissolving, throw
Their treasures back to earth, and, rushing, tear
The mountain and the vale, as proudly on they bear.

CXXIX.

I too have been upon thy rolling breast,
Widest of waters! I have seen thee lie
Calm as an infant pillowed in its rest
On a fond mother's bosom, when the sky,
Not smoother, gave the deep its azure dye,
Till a new heaven was arched and glassed below,
And then the clouds, that gay in sunset fly,
Cast on it such a stain, it kindled so,
As in the cheek of youth the living roses grow.

CXXX.

I too have seen thee on thy surging path,
When the night tempest met thee; thou didst dash
Thy white arms high in heaven, as if in wrath
Threatening the angry sky; thy waves did lash
The laboring vessel, and with deadening crash
Rush madly forth to scourge its groaning sides;
Onward thy billows came to meet and clash
In a wild warfare, till the lifted tides
Mingled their yesty tops, where the dark storm-cloud rides.

CXXXI.

In thee, first light, the bounding ocean smiles,
When the quick winds uprear it in a swell,
That rolls in glittering green around the isles,
Where ever-springing fruits and blossoms dwell;
O, with a joy no gifted tongue can tell,
I hurry o'er the waters, when the sail
Swells tensely, and the light keel glances well
Over the curling billow, and the gale
Comes off from spicy groves to tell its winning tale.

CXXXII.

The soul is thine; of old thou wert the power
Who gave the poet life, and I in thee
Feel my heart gladden, at the holy hour
When thou art sinking in the silent sea;
Or when I climb the height, and wander free
In thy meridian glory, for the air
Sparkles and burns in thy intensity;
I feel thy light within me, and I share
In the full glow of soul thy spirit kindles there.

CXXXIII.

All have their moments, when the world looks dark
Behind, around, before them. Some have steeled
Their hearts to hope, and put out every spark
Faith lends the future,—minds, who will not yield
To aught but sense, who lurk beneath a shield
That bears unshocked the rudest brunt of fate;
They boast of their fixed hardness; they have healed
All the heart's wounds by searing; love and hate
Have died alike;—unmoved they sit, and sternly wait

CXXXIV.

Death, which hath lost all terrors, in the cold
Stifling of every passion and desire;
'T is the same sound, whether the bell has tolled,
Or the flute warbled out the lover's fire;
They laugh at Heaven and all who there aspire,
Who lowly crouch and bend to fear, they mock;
They strive, while they have vigor; when they tire,
They sit and muse, like Marius on a rock,
And thus in calm, deep thought the Book of Life unlock:—

100

CXXXV.

“It came, is gone, whence, whither, none can know:
Darkness behind, as deep a gloom before:
Wave after wave our generations go
Rolling to break upon an unknown shore;
Awhile we toss and sparkle, then no more
The eye beholds our being; we are fled,
And they who moved alone, and they who bore
Navies and convoys, soon, as quickly sped,
Have vanished in the waste, dark vacuum of the dead.

CXXXVI.

“Graves tell no tales, but silence dread and deep
Broods over them for ever; one long night
Wraps all that enter their domain in sleep,
On which no day hath ever poured its light;
But time, as it advances, still doth write
Eternity above their dark repose;
Ages have wheeled away in silent flight,
Man ever to his long oblivion goes;
What if he hath new life? Who hath it only knows.

CXXXVII.

“We stand the centre of Eternity,
Infinity around us: but we cling
To the few sands of life, that soon will be
Lost in the common mass, when Death shall fling
His clay-cold hand athwart us, and shall wring
The spirit from our forms; then dust to dust
Shall meanly moulder; we shall be a thing
For worms to feast on; do we rightly trust
We shall be then all mind, or is it a vain lust?

101

CXXXVIII.

“So man has questioned, since his being came
Forth from the womb of Nature; he has found
This dull life for his inner powers too tame,
And therefore he hath cast his view around,
And wandered far away, beyond the bound
Of the seen universe, to find a home
For his high soul to dwell in; though the ground
Receive the wasted corpse, yet he may roam,
On a swift, airy wing, beneath heaven's proudest dome.

CXXXIX.

“There is a lifting grandeur in the thought;
'Tis the extreme of ecstasy to rear
Our now base life above its sordid lot,
And kindle in a holy, happy sphere,
Where all that is of intellect is near,
And all pure feeling finds eternal food:
No wonder better souls have rested here
Intensely, as the sparrow guards her brood;
And it attracts the more, the more it is pursued.

CXL.

“They live in holy musing,—mind is drawn
From all external being,—calm repose
In the one chiefest essence, as the dawn
Sleeps on the silent valley, when the rose
Drips with its seeded dew, that slowly flows
From the still leaves, all are so hushed and calm,
When the blue flowers of day their leaves unclose,
And wake their azure eyes, and breathe their balm,
And the green linnet sucks the honey of the palm,

102

CXLI.

“Whose broad leaves hang unruffled by the sway
Of the cool air, that from the ocean steals
With breath so faint, that scarce the silk-tufts play
Round the green cane, when the night beauty seals
Her golden eye in slumber, but reveals
In tender lines of light the fringed lid;
When all that hath a life in silence feels
The moving of that Power, whose ways are hid
Deep in the core of things, unresting, and amid

CXLII.

“Myriads of viewless instruments, the springs
By which the eternal round of life goes on,
Whose sleep is in the tomb, when spirit flings
Its faded slough aside, again to run
In a fresh-glowing spoil, that gives the sun
Its light in burnished beauty. Do we fly,
Thus parted, Earth for ever? or does one
Take from another life, wherewith to ply
Awhile on gladdened wings, and then grow old and die?

CXLIII.

“Nature is one eternal circle: Life
Floats through the void, and is attracted, where
The elements, in their collected strife,
From Chaos raise a world in order fair,
To float through space, and on its bosom bear
Forms, that are fashioned with unnumbered wheels,
To walk, or swim, or on the buoyant air
Float in the calm of motion;—Life there steals,
And finds its home prepared; it enters, Matter feels,

103

CXLIV.

“And all awakes to energy; the blood
Courses the winding arteries, which convey
Spirit and heat in its air-kindled flood,
And send to all, the atoms which array
The form in rounded beauty, and their play
Paints on the new-born cheek the one full rose,
Which is the flower of love; we all obey,
Uncheated of our due, the charm, that glows,
And then turns sweetly pale, as passion ebbs and flows.

CXLV.

“Above the temple, where the Godhead sits,
Reason, the Deity and guide of man,
In the most lofty seat, as well befits
The Power whose sacred office is to span
All that is working round us, or that can
Meet us to please, to harm us, or destroy;
Who hath his band of feelings, who may scan
All that would seek an entrance; who, as joy
Draws or pain frights, seeks, shuns, what charm us or annoy.

CXLVI.

“There sits the Power upon his higher throne,
In a fair palace wrought, when life at first
In the grand form, where mind alone is shown,
The elements of thought and feeling nurst
From the blank infant state, till Genius burst
All earthly barriers, and aspired to Heaven;—
He sought to grasp its fire, and he was curst
By his own daring; now by fancy driven,
The victim of belief, he finds a longing given

104

CXLVII.

“To dwell with angels, and to fashion dreams
Of glory, goodness, perfect mind, pure love,
Consummate beauty, in whose gladdening beams
We seem exalted to a sense above
The common life, that chills us; but we prove,
In all this ecstasy, the torturing fire
Of a keen thirst, whose fountain doth remove
Farther, the more we seek it;—such desire
Burns the lost wretch, who finds, each step, the desert drier.

CXLVIII.

“Man, in the temperate use of all his powers,
Is happy: with the simple fruit and stream,
Labor and rest in their alternate hours,
His life is golden, as fond poets dream
Of the first age, the Paradise, the theme
Where the rapt spirit gladdens, and runs wild
Through citron shades, whose fruitage woos the beam,
To harden in its rind, through all that smiled
In the Elysian isles, where air was ever mild,

CXLIX.

“Brushing the light leaves on its jocund way,
Borne from the breast of ocean without cloud,
Save such light streaks as give the setting day
Its gilded glory, where the year was bowed
With an eternal harvest, in whose shroud
Earth seemed a heaven for gods, not home for men;
They dreamed of all these phantoms, and were proud
Of their creations, but cold winter then
Shut them to gnaw their hearts, and grovel in their den.

105

CL.

“Rapture is not the aim of man; in flowers
The serpent hides his venom, and the sting
Of the dread insect lurks in fairest bowers;
We were not made to wander on the wing,
But if we would be happy, we must bring
Our buoyed hearts to a plain and simple school;
We may, as the wild-vines their tendrils fling,
And waste their barren life, o'erleap all rule,
And grasp all light, till age our fruitless ardor cool.

CLI.

“We would be gods, and we would know all things,
And therefore we know nothing well; our thought
Would lift itself upon an eagle's wings,
And speed through all that Deity hath wrought
And fashioned by his fiat, until naught
Should be untravelled; but the aspiring flame
Consumes the active mind, and all it sought
Becomes its torment, for the breath of fame,
Like a Sirocco's blast, will sear and scorch our frame.

CLII.

“We seek the fountain-head, whence Genius flowed
Pure from the breast of Nature, where her stream
Was sparkling as the crystal, and it showed
The bright reflection of the solar beam,
Which from the Sun of mind, the high supreme
Of moral grace and beauty, and the throne
Of majesty unbounded, took its theme,
And in the Muse's morning splendor shone,
As in the dawn of light some snow-capped mountain's cone:

106

CLIII.

“And we go down the stream of ages, borne
Through cultured fields and deserts, and we take
All that is poured from Plenty's brimming horn
Of mind's collected treasures; there we slake
Our growing thirst, and thus by quenching make
Burning and wasting our intense desire;
We gather burdens, till our spirits ache
Beneath the weight of our attainments; higher,
Even on the grave's close brink, our mounting souls aspire:

CLIV.

“And then Death comes, which we have hurried on,
By our own longing to escape it; still
Hope points the temple we had almost won,
Its Doric columns crown the lifted hill,
And the departed great its porches fill,
And all the springs of Truth at last unlock;
Onward we leap to join them, with a will
That dies in effort;—so from the doomed rock
Prometheus saw the sea roll near, his torture's mock.

CLV.

“We are the slaves of Nature; sun and cloud
Brighten and darken,—cold and heat compel
The spirit to their rule; we may be proud
That we are lords of earth, and greatly tell
How elements, obedient to the spell
Of our high reason, follow where we go:
'T is a vain pride; for Glory's upward swell,
Lifting its tides, like oceans in their flow,
Finds in the meanest check full oft its overthrow.

107

CLVI.

“A breath may quell the tempest of a soul,
Whose gusts blow o'er a continent, and pour
Madness through nations; who, as wild seas roll,
When wind and earthquake dash them on the shore,
To bury thousands in their rush and roar,
Where ages had been calm and happy, send
One host to sweep a feebler host before
Its brute and causeless rage,—that life may end
By the dark, stagnant air, whose poison doth defend

CLVII.

“With a securer bulwark than the rock
Crowned with its iron jaws of death, which speak
Defiance to the invading wave, and mock
All, who, in their insatiate longing, seek
Wider and richer regions, where to wreak
The lust of a false greatness: in his snows
The Switzer finds his safeguard; winds are bleak,
And earth is barren, but his bosom shows
How hard and firmly nerved to bear and to oppose:

CLVIII.

“And in his damp, close woods the Carib dwells
Free, for the pestilence for ever spreads
Its purple folds around him, till it swells
Dire as a Hydra with its hundred heads;
Where snakes and reptiles batten in their beds,
And round the boughs their bloated circles twine;
Where the dull air its fatal influence sheds
In one eternal mist,—no pure beams shine,
But all that sleeps below is rayless as the mine.

108

CLIX.

“Man would be free, but is his own worst slave;
His tyrant is his appetite; he lives
Calmly in bondage, if he thus can save
The lust he long hath cherished; then he gives
His birthright to the pander, and believes
He hath his surest safety in that power;
He rests in quiet sloth; he never grieves
For the high glories of that ancient hour,
When Liberty sprang forth, and fiercely claimed her dower.

CLX.

“Base passions are our lords; and thus we bend
So silently to those who let us feed
On the rank garbage of low joys; we send
Rarely, if ever, to the hopes that breed
Strength in the heart, and give the mind the speed
Of a young courser, on its upward way;
The strong and lofty love the daring deed,—
Free in their own wide circuit, they obey
No power but their own might,—the weak too are their prey.

CLXI.

“Weakness is vice: man first was bold and strong,
Prompt to repel all force, to spurn all rule;
He felt his wants, he knew his rights; that throng
Of prurient, pampered appetites, which fool
The soul of its true being, in the school
Of reeking cities taught, he had not known;
And therefore he was not the flatterer's tool,
Who gives the cup of Circe, but alone
He walked erect, a god, and made the earth his own.

109

CLXII.

“We tell of meekness,—'t is the very curse
Of our degraded nature; we are driven
Close in a crowd, where all mean feelings nurse
Their blackness, and the feebler thus in Heaven
Look for the help that here they find not given,
And patiently submit to those who crush;
Fetters so galling had been sternly riven
By the first upward race; they would not hush
Wild nature in their hearts, but spend it in the rush

CLXIII.

“Of a determined will; though now firm laws
Rear iron walls to hem us darkly in,
We can be just, and ever in the cause
Of the first liberty speak in the din
Of prating slaves, who strive, and only win
New shackles by their toil; the few will hate
The tyrant, and be nobly free within;
They live in their own world; the mean will wait
Fawning around a lord;—such is the doom of fate.

CLXIV.

“It is our pride to conquer Nature:—Mind
Is an internal force, that oft can sway
Things to its great dominion; 't is designed
As the one balance, which at least can stay
Awhile the haste of causes, which convey
All in their downward flood, to where they mix
Again in that great furnace, where the play
Of first attractions ever will unfix
The binding links of life, and send us o'er the Styx,

110

CLXV.

“To wander through ten thousand changes, where
All first is gross and hateful, till we rise
From the rank, putrid heap, to spread in air
New forms, that veil at first their energies;
But as the tireless wing of Being flies,
Hasting for ever onward, they grow pure,
And spread new beauty to the admiring eyes
Of the pleased Earth, and silently allure
To taste their fleeting charms, too lovely to endure.

CLXVI.

“Why was the sense of beauty lent to man,
The feeling of fine forms, the taste of soul,
That speaks from eye and lip, and thus will fan
Love in the young beholder? Why the whole
Waste of creation sweetly can control
The fixed heart to devotion? Why hath Night
So many golden eyes? Why is the roll
Of Nature so accordant, when a blight
Withers our very lives, and poisons all delight?

CLXVII.

“Why are we not like Nature, ever new,
Freshening with every season? It is pain
To gaze, when sick and wasted, on the blue
Arching as purely o'er us, and the stain
Of the curled clouds that gather in the train
Which the low Sun makes glorious with his smile:
To see the light Spring weave her rosy chain,
And sow her pearls, no longer can beguile,
When age and want and sin our sinking hearts defile.

111

CLXVIII.

“Youth is the season when we must enjoy,
If we would know the sweets of life; the mind
Is then pure feeling, for no base alloy
Of gain hath blended with the ore refined
By the wise hand of Nature, who designed
The beautiful years to be alone the time
When we can fondly love, and loving find
In the adored the same glad passion chime,
As if two spirits met in one most tuneful rhyme.

CLXIX.

“O, there are eyes that have a language!—sweet
Comes their soft music round us, till the air
Is one intensest melody;—we beat
Through every pulse, as if a spring were there
To buoy us into upper worlds, and bear
Our fond hearts with linked arms, on whitest wings,
To a far island, where we two may share
Eternal looks, such as the live eye flings,
When it collects all fire, and as it blesses, stings.

CLXX.

“O, could we stop at this glad hour the wheels
Of Time, and make this point Eternity!
Could check that onward flight, which ever steals
Hues, forms, and soul, as the twined colors flee,
Which are above the sevenfold Harmony,
Whose perfect concord meets in the soft light
That sits upon a wave of clouds,—a sea
Of rolling vapor, pearled and purely white,
That as a curtain hangs the pale-lit throne of Night:

112

CLXXI.

O, could we dwell in rapture thus for ever,
Hearts burning with a high, empyreal flame,
Whose blended cones no reckless storm could sever,
But they should tremble upward till the same
Fine point of centred heat should ever aim
Higher and higher to the perfect glow;
As Dante saw from that celestial dame,
Once loved, now worshipped, Heaven's own splendors flow,
And gather in her smile, that looked so calm below.

CLXXII.

“It is not in us; we were fashioned here
For a more tranquil feeling, such as home
Sheds on two hearts, whose true and lasting sphere
Is round the holy hearth; hearts do not roam
When they are pledged by the young shoots, that come,
Like the green root-twigs, sweetly to renew
Our life in their dear lives, which are the sum
Of all our after being, where we view
Heaven, as the soul's fond smile those rose-lips trembles through.

CLXXIII.

“O, had I one on whom to fix my heart,
To sit beside me when my thoughts are sad,
And with her tender playfulness impart
Some of her pure joy to me, in whose glad,
Up-gazing eyes the love that once I had
Might find its lesser image formed complete
In all its mellow mildness! We grow mad
In dwelling on ideal woes,—we meet
Those loved looks in their smile, and mind regains its seat.

113

CLXXIV.

“And as those blue eyes on the canvas throw
Their watery glances to me, where the tear
Seems gathering to a starry drop, to flow
Down the soft damask of her cheek, I hear
From her moved lips a voice salute my ear,
That was so kind and so confiding; pain,
Which once did throb within me, now doth veer
To a calm stillness; the delirious brain
Seems by cool drops renewed to life's young bliss again.

CLXXV.

“And I would then that pictured form could talk
Of hours that once were happy, in the round
Of thought still growing, as at each new walk
With deeper hue the early bud is found,
Till it unfold its leaves, and scatter round
Its purest incense;—so our life steals by,
Catching new loves and hopes, which, closely wound
With every blended thought and wish, will try
The heart to its last throb, when loved ones leave or die.

CLXXVI.

“But there is one affection, which no stain
Of earth can ever darken, when two find,
The softer and the manlier, that a chain
Of kindred taste hath fastened mind to mind;—
'T is an attraction from all sense refined,
Not purer shone the sky-born vestal fire;
The good can only know it; 't is not blind,
As love is, unto baseness; its desire
Is, but with hands intwined, to lift our being higher.

114

CLXXVII.

“'T is life the twine of hearts from infancy
Beneath the same roof, who have kindly shown
All the fond aids of childhood;—such as we see
In minds, that have one sympathy alone,
That answer to each other, as the tone
Of woman's voice to the deep sounds that flow
From the fit organ-tubes more grandly blown;
With a dissolving concord blended so,
On through the waste of life those happy spirits go.

CLXXVIII.

“Life is to them in its revolving years
One round of fragrance, one parterre of flowers:
There is a very blessing in their tears;
They are as to the earth the first spring showers,
When, wakened by the music of the hours,
All loose their wintry bonds, and leap in air,
When up the mountain, which a forest towers,
The busy hands of life their colors bear,
Darkening the yellow tint, till one deep green is there.

CLXXIX.

“There is a very blessing in their tears;
Their fountain is in purity, they well
In a clean heart, whose fondness more endears
Than all the forms and blended tints that dwell
On a first master's canvas, and compel
Worship unto that miracle of skill,
Which can at once create, as with a spell,
On the blank sheet, such things of life as fill
The gazer with mute awe, and bend the sterner will.

115

CLXXX.

“There is a very blessing in their tears,
For while they flow in happiness, they heal
Wounds that bleed deep in other hearts,—Grief hears,
With a sweet sense of gladness, tones that feel
The sorrow they would comfort; we may steel,
In our despair, our hearts to all who lend
Kindness to those who suffer; but the seal
Of our shut tears is broken, when a friend
Weeps with us all our woes, and then our sorrows end.

CLXXXI.

“And we weep on and smile; the cloud gives way,
And a new light comes trembling through its shade;
We weep till all our grief is gone, and day
Again is pure above us;—thus we aid
One in another's evils, which were made
Partly to bind more feelingly the chain,
That links existence;—we are doubly paid
By our own calm from tears, and by the pain
Which we have gently healed, and made it bliss again.

CLXXXII.

“I turn me back, and find a barren waste,
Joyless and rayless; a few spots are there,
Where briefly it was granted me to taste
The tenderness of youthful love, and share
In the fond, mutual sympathy, the care
Of those on whom our full affections rest:
I dreamed, or it was real; but in air
The charm was broken; it was mine to test
With a long pang how dark and cold the rifled breast.

116

CLXXXIII.

“There was a madness in the feeling; fire
Seemed to rush through my whirling brain; one stream
Bathed it in torture: thought could never tire
In painting all that I could shape or dream
Of years of mingled joy, till one supreme
And perfect sense of glory filled me: light
Was in my life—a moment; then the beam
Sunk, and a sudden rush of tenfold night
Chilled me to my heart's core; all being seemed one blight.

CLXXXIV.

“And then that deep intensity of pain;—
I could have pressed my forehead with the weight
Of a whole world, and yet my throbbing brain
Bounded beneath my strained hand: all seemed hate
And leering scorn around me, tyrant fate
Methought had stamped me for eternal woe;
There was no cool, soft dew shed to abate
The fever of despair;—tears could not flow,
But with another's tears, and then I melted so,

CLXXXV.

“As the doomed wretch, who on the scaffold hears
Pardon:—at first he gazes wildly round,
And mocks the offer; hope is lost in fears,
But as he drinks renewed the silver sound,
With such interest joy his heart-strings bound,
It is too keen, too deadening:—tears first start
Few to his swimming eyes, but he has found
Freshness in those scant drops, and then his heart
Flows, and his melting frame in every gush takes part.

117

CLXXXVI.

“I wept and I was calm; as when at night,
After a stormy day, the sky turns clear,
And all the world of stars are doubly bright,
As the cloud sails away, and the wide sphere
Swells darkly pure behind it, till it near
The orb that rules the still hours, then its fold
Whitens and shines impearled, and then we hear
The cock crow, as the silver planet, rolled
On the unshaded heaven, makes all things bright, but cold.

CLXXXVII.

“The earth, that sleeps below in silence, seems
Sprinkled with light, for each clear drop of rain,
That bends the leaves, and grass, and closed flowers, teems
With her mild lustre;—now she casts a stain
On the white clouds behind her, not in vain,
Bending athwart their curls the breded bow;
And as the north-wind whispers o'er the plain,
The drops, that fell with such a silent flow,
Harden to fretted frost, and whiten all below.

CLXXXVIII.

“It is one land of loveliness;—but chill
Comes the pale landscape o'er me;—not a tread
Disturbs the calm;—the lone tree on the hill
Waves in its frosted foliage;—fountains fed
From earth's warm bosom, as they kiss it, shed
A fresh green o'er the meadow-grass, alone
Living amid a world that lies as dead
In a pale, corpse-like beauty, while a zone
Of a most tender tint round all that is seems thrown.

118

CLXXXIX.

“Such was the calm that brooded o'er my heart,
Silent but cold;—I wondered, and I grew
Tranquil, though but a moment; as a dart
Leaps on the lurking deer, who wildly flew,
Seeking the woodland covert, as they blew
The maddening horn behind him, so there came,
Through my hot brain, to madden me anew,
The same wild thoughts, which soon were blown to flame,
Till one convulsive throb ran quivering through my frame.

CXC.

“And then I thought of death, I sternly rushed
To the steep brink, and eyed the depth below:
I stood poised for the plunge; my forehead, flushed
With the hot pain within me, seemed to glow
On the cool wave;—with a last parting throe
I yielded up my being, but a thought
Checked me,—I might not perish. Some sure blow,
That would end all at once,—such death I sought,
To wither in one breath, then go where all is naught.

CXCI.

“Again I steeled me, and the flashing tip
Of a sharp dagger met my bounding breast;
It seemed with drops of living blood to drip;
Already on the seat of life 't was prest,
And I was sinking to eternal rest,
When a loud voice seemed yelling, ‘Madman, stay!
Bear with a sterner will the stern behest
Of fate.’ I threw the shining dirk away,
And with a deep, wild groan I hasted to obey.

119

CXCII.

“My heart seemed hardened from that very hour,—
Feeling was deadened in it,—smiles and tears
Were gone for ever,—friendship had no power
To give me comfort,—all that so endears
In the fair face of woman, hopes and fears
That have in her their fountain, all had fled;
But life had grown eternal, countless years
At once had flown, a wider being spread,
Dark, silent, dim, around,—I wandered with the dead.

CXCIII.

“And coldly I live on, and will live on,
Till life hath ceased to torture, and the grave
Hides me from man, and that long home is won
Which welcomes us to quench us, or to save
From all that sinks us here. O, I could brave
Hell and its fires, if with it strength would grow.
There is no pain like weakness;—Justice gave
No keener rack than this, to live and know,
Weak, scorned, that our own hand had wrought our overthrow.

CXCIV.

“Well, let the world pass on; I stand unmoved
In all its uproar,—all it hath of good
Is now turned poison,—those I fondly loved
Have died, or hate me;—as the tempter stood
In Eden, nursing in his heart a brood
Of all dark passions, so I look on life;
I find no charm without, my only food
Of thought is in the keen and quenchless strife,—
I wrestle with despair, where all of ill is rife.

120

CXCV.

“But evil is my good;—I cannot turn
Back to renew the freshness of young days.
Talk not to me of penitence,—I spurn
The weakness of the stooping wretch, who pays
Awe to the hand that crushes him, and lays
The weight of such existence on his soul;
I asked not to have being, nor to raise
My life from out the brute and senseless whole,
Which ever sleeps the same, though years and ages roll.

CXCVI.

“We must submit or die:—If all would end
With the last twinkling of this lamp,—why, well;
I could bear on; but thought will sometimes send
Questions across the dark, dread gulf, where dwell
All wild and formless visions,—'t is the hell
That kindles with its fires the doubting brain;
It may be,—and those few short words will tell
Racks to the lingering heart, that longs in vain
To find some calm retreat to quell its raging pain.

CXCVII.

“There is, they say, a bending form of love,
Who spreads his dove-wings over us, and bears
The wearied in his gentle arms above
All earth has to assail us, sorrows, cares,
Toil and disease and want, till cool, sweet airs
Breathe odors from the never-fading flowers
That grow in Heaven, where peace eternal wears
The same undying smile, and, as the hours
Steal silently along, descends in balmy showers.

121

CXCVIII.

“'T is a fond fancy;—some may find it sweet,
Full of all happy visions,—life will seem
Bliss in their upward longings,—there they meet
All their once loved ones heightened;—such a dream
Heals many a broken heart, and then they deem
All is one light around them: let them bend
Deep o'er their long devotion,—let the theme
Of all their words be, of the one Great Friend,
Who saves them from all pain, and bids all sorrows end.

CXCIX.

“'T is not for me,—I am of sterner mould;
I must live on in my own heart, and find
Strength to sustain—by thought; my only hold
Is on that unbent energy of mind,
Which, as the storm beats harder on, will bind
Closer its will around it, and endure;
Which shuns all concord with its own base kind,
Where it for ever totters, but grows pure
And firm in solitude, which is its only cure.

CC.

“I will not look on Nature,—'t is too fair,
And hath too much of beauty, when it lies
Spread in the sunlight;—we must hate, or share
In the same being;—when the clouded skies
In one black front of coming tempest rise,
And bear their rolling waves in torrents on,
Then I can wander forth, and lift my eyes
With a wild sense of power,—the hollow moan
Of the far mountain-winds hath music in its tone.

122

CCI.

“I must make home in darkness,—I can sit
Days on the sunward rocks that crown the peak
Of a long Alpine wave,—such things befit
The soul collected in its might to seek
Food in the desert: as the raven's beak
Bore life unto the lonely man, so I
Feed on the darkest forms, and proudly wreak
My wrath on Nature, who hath bent the sky,
So glorious and so vast, round such as crawl and die.

CCII.

“The sense of fair and lofty,—this will wring
The form that finds itself in cold decay,
Hateful to those we loved, and thus we fling
The wooing Beauty from us, and array
All in a shroud: we cast all hope away,
As a fond thing to cheat the infant; pride
Comes where ambition fled, and when the gay
And lovely from our dark looks turn aside,
Abhorrent and in fear, our part is to deride.

CCIII.

“We have gone through the dusk of death, and known
All the grave hath of horrors; we have seen
Each separate form of pain, have heard the groan,
And the loud maniac laugh; we too have been
Partakers in these torments, and have then
Come out to be the scorner, and to wear
One broad, cold sneer;—we have no part with men,
But like a leering devil we must bear
Proud on our up-curled lips the scoff that trembles there.

123

CCIV.

“We now can smile, and feel at heart a hell;—
'T is a blue meteor on a cloud, that brings
Plague o'er a sleeping earth, and tolls the knell
Of a lost land, and scatters from its wings
Big drops of venom;—such the smile hate wrings
From the crushed heart, that hardened as it bore;
So I must live, and look on men as things
That are my bane,—so hide in my heart's core
The grief I cannot tell, till life's poor dream is o'er.

CCV.

“Then be my spirit firm: the storm may rush
In all its rage around me,—clouds may rend
Their gloom in one broad flash, and in one gush
Pour their wide deluge o'er me,—earth may send
Swarms of all ills and plagues,—they shall not bend
My soul from its fixed bearing: here on high,
Where the rude rocks and snows eternal lend
Bulwarks to my retreat, and the clear sky
Lifts over me its roof,—I sternly sit and die.”

CCVI.

'T is the wild rage of madness, thus to send
Defiance unto Nature, thus to build
A wall of scorpions, cherishing a fiend
Within a human bosom, sternly willed
To be the common foe, and darkly filled
With all that form the worst of passions,—hate,
Till every warning voice within is stilled,
And all is nerved to meet the doom of fate,
As if man stood alone without a lord or mate;

124

CCVII.

As if these feeble bodies had the power
To battle with the elements, to stand
Sole, as an oak, to whom the wintry shower
And summer dew fall like: no heart is manned,
Or fenced in iron, that the icy hand
Of want may not subdue it, and compel
The boldest daring to its stern command;
'T is the relentless tyrant of a hell,
In whose cold, sordid dens the heart turns hard and fell.

CCVIII.

Man is a very infant, when alone;—
The desert, and the forest, and the sea,
Lifting its boundless brine, and with a zone
Of azure clasping earth,—man cannot be,
Lost in their barren silence, firm and free,—
Nature will lift her voice, and bend him low;
Thirst, hunger, fear, and madness, like the tree
Whose dew is death, a chilling shade will throw,
Where the heart kindles not with a fond, social glow.

CCIX.

Then farewell, Solitude! where hate is nursed,
And doubt is cherished; I would rend away
The links that bind my spirit there, and burst
From my dark cell of silence into day,
And climb with tireless hand my upward way,
Where all who wield the hearts of men have trod;
Honor and love are there, and these repay
For the dull cares and toils wherein we plod,—
They have a spell to charm the slave, who turns the clod.

125

CCX.

Why mount the higher track, that leads to fame?
Why seek to twine a halo round thy brow?
Can the wide echo of a bruited name
Stifle the cry of vulgar want, when thou
Art in the ruder conflict forced to bow
To the hard insolence of common men?
Better have dug the earth, or steered the prow,
Than gain the heights which few can gain, and then
Drudge in the sordid path, where meaner minds have been.

CCXI.

And wherefore doubt? Belief is doubly dear,
When truth has never drawn aside the veil
That hides the laws of Nature. All who fear
Will find a hope,—one voice can ill avail
Amid the cry of thousands,—we must quail
Submissive to the common creed, or die,
Should fortune waft not with a flattering gale,
And send the gilded bark in triumph by;—
They can do all, who daze with pomp the vulgar eye.

CCXII.

My work is ended:—I have gained the shore,
Whose flowers are fancy, and whose fruits deceit;
And I have furled my sail to try no more
The gentle breath of favor, nor to beat
With adverse gales, nor where the wild winds meet
On the contending waters: youth's quick swell
Is sunk to manhood's calm, and now my feet
Must take a weary pilgrimage, and tell,
On through the waste of age, to all I loved, farewell.

Tupelo.

126

THE MIND.

Of Mind, and its mysterious agencies,
And most of all, its high creative power,
In fashioning the elements of things
To loftier images than have on earth
Or in the sky their home,—that come to us
In the still visitation of a dream,
Or rise in light before us when we muse,
Or at the bidding of the mightier take
Fixed residence in fitly-sounding verse,
Or on the glowing canvas, or in shapes
Hewn from the living rock:—of these, and all
That wake in us our better thoughts, and lead
The spirit to the enduring and sublime,
It is my purpose now to hold awhile
Seemly discourse, and with befitting words
Clothe the conceptions I have sought to frame.

There are, diffused through nature, certain Forms,
That ever hold dominion o'er the Mind,
And with an awful or a pleasing power
Control it to their bidding. Life may change
In its perpetual round; Manners may take
All fashions and devices, putting on
Greater variety of antic shapes,
Than Puck or Proteus; but with an eternal
And ever-constant unity, they keep
Their stations and their aspects. Whether high,
Or simply fair, mighty, or only turned
To elegant minuteness, still they stand
On the wide forehead of the Universe,
As undecaying as its suns and stars,
As bright, and as divine. The willing soul

127

Bows to them with an adoration pure
And unalloyed by aught that can defile
Or darken. No mean interest hath a place
In the still worship offered up to them,
Whether we meet them in the vaulted sky
Or the invisible air, or see them round us,
Creatures of earth, as we are, but informed
With this unquestioned title to command
The heart's obedience. Hence in every age
Men have been devotees unto their shrine;
And they have stood erect, when all beside
Went to the ground in ruin; or if fallen
In some convulsion, when a starless night
Clouded the nations, they have risen again
With the first touch of dawn, and as they came
Into the light of day, man's orisons
Were first to them directed,—all his awe
And love and silent wonder planted there,
As if they were the centre of his soul,
The point to which his passions and desires
Bent as unto their lode-star. These are they
To which the generous spirit ever turns,
When he is kindled by the holy fire
From off the eternal altar, and has caught
Unwearied longing for the blest abode
Of all departed greatness. When he rises
To the conception of enduring fame,
And has revealed before the keener eye
Of his most inward sense the great and fair,
The beautiful and lofty,—then his vows
Are paid to these alone;—no other power
Can claim his high devotion, none can awe
His fearless will, nor steal upon his heart
With an inviting smile,—his eye is dim,
His ear untuned, his every feeling dull
To aught beside,—nothing can charm him then,
That breathes not this pure essence,—nothing draw
His love, nor kindle hope,—the nicest work
Of Art without the impress of these forms

128

Can fix no wandering glance,—no linked sounds
Of most elaborate music, if they flow not,
With ready lapse, from this perpetual fount
Of all blest harmony, can soothe his ear
Even to a moment's listening;—all to him
Is jarring and discordant, if it tell not
Of these enduring forms, that have no change.

They are but one with Truth;—only that Truth
Comes to us with a slow and doubtful step,
Measuring the ground she treads on, and for ever
Turning her curious eye to see that all
Is right behind, and with a keen survey
Choosing her onward path. But these, which are
Lords of the Heart, as she is of the Mind
In its pure reason,—these at once approach,
And with their outstretched pennons overshadow
The willing soul. We look abroad on earth
And heaven,—we see the glories of the day,
And night's more tranquil glories,—we look down
From some uplifted pinnacle, and gaze
On waving woods and ever-varying shapes
Of hill and level,—we behold the sea
Working in ceaseless undulation, while
Its never-wearied voice sends up to Heaven
Its one eternal hymn,—we stand and look,
Shuddering, down to the gulf, where leaps the river
With all its wealth of waves, and through the night
Of the profound catch only now and then
A flash of foam,—we listen to the sound
Of its unwasting din, and feel the earth
Shake where we tread,—and as we look, we tremble,
And know at once the mighty and the vast
That dwell around us. Like the revelation
Of centuries and ages yet to come,
That in the moment of a hallowed dream
Startle the prophet's eye, so the sublime
Strikes instant on the heart. 'T is but to look,
And all is felt and known,—and he who then

129

Is equal to the burden may be filled
With the conceptions of a loftier vision
Than poet ever sung, or painter drew,
And yet find all his efforts to portray
The thoughts that fill him, like the faint endeavor
To throw off from his laboring heart the weight
Of an oppressive dream. Much has been thrown
On living canvas,—much been cast abroad
In words of loftiest import,—much been framed
By plastic hands to shapes of awe and wonder;
But nothing ever bodied out the soul
In its most daring flight. The eagle soars not
Above the highest clouds; and when at sunset
The sky is full of fiery shapes, that lie
Filling the half of heaven, there are that catch
The sun's last smile, too high for any wing
To fly to,—but they are the loveliest
And brightest;—so the visions of the soul
Are often higher than the boldest leap
Of Execution, who with vain attempt
Lags far behind the rapid lightning-glance
Of quick Conception. Hence there may have been
Poets who never framed a show of words
From out the busy workings of their brain,
And who in solitude and loneliness
Communed with all sublimity, and played
With every shape of beauty, and yet never
Put forth one visible sign to tell the world
How much they felt and knew. And some there are
Whose minds are like a treasure-house of art,
Full of such pictures as an Agnolo
Would summon forth in vain,—faces that breathe
All passion and all pride, and attitudes
All might and force, all loveliness and love;
Shrinking from sight, and with beseeching art
Kneeling before their fond idolatry;
Or shrouded in inherent majesty,
And wrapped about with mystery as with clouds,
Looking a soul of high command, beneath

130

Portending brows, where terror sits, and scorn
Of every meaner thing. Yes, there are minds
Who know not even the names of these high arts,
And yet have all their elements and powers;
The imagination, wonder, love, and awe,
Awe silent, deep, and wonder proud and high,
And love tender and glowing, and a wealth
Of bright creations, richer than the west,
When, at the hour of setting, overcast
With every shape of air. Then who shall say,
That Poetry consists in ordered verse,
And Painting in the rules of light and shade,
And measured tint, and shapes exact and true?
Who would not rather own, these are but aids
To give a higher charm to what alone
Is all attractive? If the unchanging forms
Of greatness or of beauty fill the page
Or canvas, little care we, if all art
Is centred there. We see them, and we pay
Due homage, and in doing this, we own
There is one beautiful, and only one,
One great, one true. Hence there are bards, who lived
So early, that their very lives are fable,
Whose rhapsodies and songs have come to us
From ages of which history has no record,
And yet are read with the same eagerness
As when they first were sung. Eternal youth
Is round them. Like the never-fading bay,
They flourish in a green old age, and go
Forward, with step as firm, and brow as high,
To the last consummation, as at first
They charmed the listening crowd in chieftain's hall,
Or after battle in the tented field,
Or when at night they sat beneath the moon,
The round, full moon, and o'er the Ægean sailed,
Keeping due time, with balanced oars, to sounds
Of minstrel music. Though a chosen few
Alone can read the ancient words, that seem

131

Like magic letters to the common eye;
Yet in the humble garb of common prose,
Or in the guise of more ambitious verse;
Bereft of all their sounding harmony,
Or hidden by a load of modern art,
Unseemly ornament, and fitted ill
To the simplicity of heroic times;—
Yet even through all these shadowings, every eye,
That hath a natural sense, can see the brightness
And beauty Time can never dim or fade.

And yet these are, for minds that have a share
In that imaginative opulence
Which gives a life to all created things,
The coldest and the dumbest. Not the crowd,
Who keep the gift of nature unperverted,
Through all the busy clamorings of want,
And all the needful cares of animal life,
The toils that comfort and necessity
Impose so quickly on us. Therefore they
Look not with transport on the enduring forms
Of an eternal nature. Not the whole
In its unchanging rest commands their eye,
But ever shifting circumstance alone
Sways them, and therefore what is falsely styled
By the great name of Life, the sacred name
Of the pure vital Being, calls alone
Their hearts to joy. They praise the ready hand
That imitates the imitative tricks
One from another borrows in the round
Of senseless ceremony and idle form;
And with their noisy plaudits cheer the voice
That gives an echo to the vapid jest
Of poor mechanic life, and wakes a laugh
Only because it comes upon their blank
And stolid dulness, like a farthing candle
Lighting a stifled vault. These have their day,
And well are they rewarded. What they give,
That they receive. They deal in common things,—

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They tell the vulgar, be they high or low,
Just what they are; and for this, they may live
As richly vulgar as their wishes claim.

Not so the few, who earnestly have sought
To seat themselves on the far eminence
Where the eternal Geniuses are holding
Their intellectual court. Not so with them.
Their aim was not to catch the popular air.
They did not seek to spread their open wings
To such a fickle gale. They took their way
Beneath the guidance of a better star,
And with the heralding of better sounds
Than the cheap clamors of the common voice.
They formed their own conceptions, and with toil,
Long, earnest toil, they brought their laboring minds
To the high level of the fame they loved,
And then went boldly on. They were alone
In their endeavor. None to cheer them nigh;
None to speak favorable words of praise.
They charmed their solitude with lofty verse,
And made their hours of exile bright with song.
They had no comforter, and asked for none;
No help, for none they needed. Loneliness
Was their best good; it left them to themselves,
Kept out all vain intrusion, and around them
Spread silently an atmosphere of thought,
A Sabbath of devotion, such as never
Hallowed the twilight vaults of ancient minster,
Or filled with many prayers the hermit's cave.
It was the deep devotion of the mind
In all its powers, sending itself abroad
In search of every fair and blessed thing,
And with a winning charm enticing home
All to itself. They came at its command,
Trooping like summer clouds, when the wide air
Is thick with them, and every one is touched
By the full noon to a transparent brightness,
Like heaps of orient pearl. The kindled eye

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Ran over them, as lightning sends its flash
Instant through all the billows of the storm,
And took the fairest, and at once they stood
In meet array, as if a temple rose,
Graced with the purest lines of Grecian art,
At the sweet touch of an Apollo's lyre.

But they are gone, and now are of the few,
Whose fame goes brightening on from age to age,
Taking allowed precedency of all
Who in their day were lauded by the crowd,
For motley jests, and tales of low intrigue,
And such entangled stories as they love,
Like riddles, to untie. These lived at ease,
Courting and courted; shaping all to suit
The ear of such as had the strings of favor
At their control; speaking smooth flatteries,
And with obsequious readiness commending
Their suit of wealth, not fame. The present day
Bounded their narrow aim. They cared for naught,
So they were wafted swimmingly along
The even tide. Opinions, none they sought,
But golden; and they recked not if oblivion
Seized them and all their deeds, when they had danced
Their merry life away, and death had come
To close their masquerade, and send them where
No laugh could reach them, and no goblet flow.
And such has been their fate,—for novelty
Is the fantastic sovereign of the train
Of their once high admirers. 'T is with them,
As with the imps of fortune. When they shine
Gaudy and glittering, they are then surrounded
By a whole swarm of such as are, like them,
The insects of a day; but when they lose
The polish of their plumes, and dark adversity
Hovers above them, like a boding owl,
Scared by the omen, all their summer friends
Fly to the shelter of a newer shade.
But the true champions of the undying strain,

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That ever-sounding melody of Heaven,
Whose essence is eternally the same,—
These, as they had no favor from the world
Whose love is change, so they are still above it,
And ever mounting to a purer sky,
And a less clouded air, a clearer sun
Lights them, and fuller emanations flow
From their inherent brightness, so that they
Kindle with years, and catch from every age
Some new reflection of their glory, till
Like Deities they ride in the mid-heaven,
Commanding worship and forbidding doubt,
And with a sure compulsion leading us
To look upon them with becoming awe.

It were not difficult to say of them,
Theirs was the better choice, if all we knew
Were this their end. The generous love of fame!
There is no higher passion that can fill
The laboring breast. It hath a touch of Heaven;
And he who owns it is awhile refined
From the poor dross of earth, and then he shines
In Nature's purest ore. His thoughts are bent
From the base aim of mercenary life,
And, centred in the goal of his desires,
Bear the man upward, till he wears about him
The livery of honor, and the weeds
Of Mind's nobility, whose seal is stamped
In the true mint of Glory. If we knew
Only the first warm breathings after fame,
The strife to gain the lofty seat they hold,
While yet the heart was young, the spirit full
Of crowding fancies, and the vigorous arm
Ready to do the bidding of the will,
And do it bravely,—could we then behold him
Wearing his clustering honors with a grace
That showed he well deserved them, neither bowed
Beneath their weight, nor yet elate with pride,
But keeping on his even way, well knowing

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They were his due, and so were but a part
Of his own state,—not as a mumming pageant
Worn for a moment's bravery, then cast off,
Like borrowed robes,—not as a player's crown,
Who struts awhile the King, and then retires
To revel with his menial,—but as things
Of high concernment, which with gentle bearing
He should assume, and with a household thrift
Closely retain;—could we then follow him
To his recess, and mark his holy musing,
The quick and sudden motion of his eye,
The working of his eloquent lips, the lines
Deep furrowed in his brow, the dexter hand
Armed for its toil, the other firmly clasped,
As if the earnest purpose of his will
Had set its token there,—had we then seen
How when his upward glance had caught the light,
That falls from Heaven, and the prophetic power
Descended on him, how his flying fingers
Ran o'er the page, giving to fleeting thoughts
A soul and form, and coining words of might,
Such as shall ever hold mysterious power
Over the listening world;—could we then leap
Athwart the desolate gulf, wherein he sank,
When the loud burst of curious novelty
Had died away,—when all his noblest doings
Were as a twice-told tale,—when but to say,
This thing is Tasso's, were enough to damn it,
And call from some low scribbler high remarks,
How he had fallen away,—how he had then
Lost his first fire and finish,—lost the beauty
And all the sweetness of his earlier strains,—
How, when he scorned to be the drudge of princes,
And do their bidding for a scanty dole,
When he preferred to follow out the path
He had begun so nobly, to the toil
That breaks the spirit, and unmans the heart,
By which some great man sought to bind him down
To be his client and his slave, and when

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He found for this, and all that he had shed
Of light around his country's name, neglect
And bitterer taunts, and false upbraidings, telling
How he had thrown aside that good the state
And people pressed upon him, and had chosen
To wander forth in povery, and beg
His way from door to door, casting dishonor
On the high art he practised, and despite
On those who patiently, with kind intent,
Sought to befriend him warmly, but in vain,—
How, with a spirit that disdained to tell
His sorrows, or repel the insolent falsehoods
A cold world loaded him withal, and choosing
Rather to keep the freedom of his thoughts,
Than live a gilded bondsman, he retired
Silently to an unobserved retreat,
And there with lean and chilling poverty
Wrestled his way to death;—could we o'erleap
That interval of woe, and see him now
In his confirmed regality, the monarch
Of a whole host of worthies, like the star
Of Jove, who shows his golden front in heaven
First of the midnight train,—O, we would proudly
Pronounce his choice the happiest, and our yearnings
Would be to live and die and rule like him.

But these are only men. The glowing mind
Rich in unborrowed light,—the feeling heart,
Whose strings are moved by every breath of hope
And joy and fear,—the spirit, whose aspirings
Are after loftiest fame,—the vast desires
For knowledge and for power,—these cannot save
The man, who bears them deep within himself,
From the assaults of fortune. He has need,
Like other men, of comfort and of friends,
And most of all,—of love. Such men are made
To be most happy, or most miserable,
According as their life is turned to hope
Or to despair. Open the path of Fame

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Brightly before them,—let their motives, toils,
Rewards, and honors be proportioned to them,
Filling the very compass of their powers,
And moving onward with an even flow,—
None are so happy,—none so full of hope,
So earnest in their labors, and so bent
To measure life by deeds, and not by years.
But set them on a path that they abhor,
Where every day tells them more sullenly,
They only toil to live, and live to toil,—
Where not a ray of hope falls on the dull
And joyless round of labor, ever turning
In the same fruitless circle,—not a motive
To bear them onward,—all their best desires
Lavished in bitterest regrets, their powers
Buried in cold obstruction, and their strength
Wasted in most laborious idleness,—
Bind them to such a slavish lot as this,
And they will wear their life away in sighs;
And if they plunge not in their deep despair
In some forbidden gulf of appetite,
Seeking to drown the keener sense of wrong
In the mere animal and grosser pleasures,
They will go sorrowing to an early grave,
Or in their madness rush before their time,
Unsummoned and unbidden, to their doom.

O, would that History had not to tell
The wrongs of those that now are reverenced
With a religious awe! Who would not change
The best estate that wealth or present power
Can lavish on the man, whose path has been
Ever ascending, and that easily,
As if it were a pastime to be great
In the world's way,—who would not change it all,
To wear the crown of Milton or of Dante,
Spenser or Tasso? Who but must allow
The meanness of his spirit, and confess
He has no feeling of the stirring hope

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That sends us after fame. And yet 't is painful
To think how these were left to pine away
A sad old age, and sink into a grave,
Unwept, unhonored;—how the Bard of Heaven,
Who could not plume his wing for lower flight
Than its empyreal towers,—how he decayed,
Blind, lonely, poor, the prey of slow disease,
And harsh neglect, that eat with keener tooth
Into his generous heart,—how he retired
Into a dark retreat, that he might shun
The sentence of outlawry from a king,
Who played the fool and vice upon his throne,
Making one half his people fools like him,
And on the rest slipping the dogs of war;—
How Dante, who with his capacious mind
Mastered his age, and held the golden key
Of all its wisdom,—he who equally
Sang of the bliss of Heaven, the woe of Hell,
Groping through the dim caves of Erebus,
And winding up the penitential mount,
Then soaring through the widening orbs of Heaven
Up to the Holiest,—how his native Florence,
His dear, ungrateful Florence, thrust him out,
And on him closed her ponderous iron doors,
Barring to the last moment all return,
And with a stern and savage cruelty
Chasing him in his exile, till they left
No pillow for his head, no dying pillow,
Where he might find an instant of repose,
Even for his last confession,—how he went
Sadly from court to court, seeking a shelter,
And, all too bold and free to please the ear
Of princes, or command the turbulent crowd,
How, after many wanderings, he found
'T was hard to climb another's stair, and bitter
To eat another's bread, and leaving this,
His only legacy, went to his grave
Willingly, as a laborer to his couch,
Seeking in death the kindness he had never

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Found in his home,—thus telling to the world,
How desolate and cold the height of fame.
Nor can we think with less indignant sorrow,
How Tasso, full of tenderness and love,
The worshipper of beauty, with a heart
Framed to all gentleness and elegance,
Whose very words were music, and whose thoughts
Were all of hope and joy,—how he was doomed
To wear the maniac's chain, and keep account
Of the long, lingering hours, and days, and years,
Within the narrow compass of his cell,
Feeding at times his heart on dreams of love,
And visions of bright honor, then upbraiding
The dark barbarian who had bound him there,
Till reason went indeed, and his high soul
Raved in distempered conference with spirits,
For even his madness was sublime, and took
Its color from the mind that wrought the web
Of love and war;—how Spenser sued in vain,
At the deaf ears of courtiers, for a boon,
Only a pittance of the fair estate
Rent from him by the hand of violence,—
How, when through long entreaty, which had bowed
His better spirit, though it proudly scorned
To play the beggar's part, his queen had deigned
To give a scanty dole, the unfeeling Burleigh
Withheld it, even in his extremity,
Withheld it, though it might have given his heart
A warmer fire, and helped to smooth for him
The passage to the grave;—O, it is painful,
To think the very chiefest of the mighty,
Heroes in song, as there are those in war,—
How they were made the butt and sport of fools,
Trampled and crushed by such as would have perished
Utterly, had not they asserted thus
An impious fame! O, 't is enough to deaden
All the fond hopes, the generous desires,
The emulous strivings of a heart awake

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To high ambition, and with early glow
Bearing itself up the proud eminence
Of intellectual fame! Go on, fond youth,
While yet the charm is on thee, and the power
Of virtue is unquestioned,—let no thought
Of what may come disturb thee,—there is in thee
A buoyancy that can awhile sustain
The world's cold burden;—let this time of respite
Be filled up well, for it may give to thee
Fit leisure for attaining such a height
As after violence cannot wrench thee from.
Know too the high-strung hopes of youth impart
An energy and passion to the song
That they inspire. There may be nicer art,
And a more fitting harmony of sounds,
And words of better choice in riper strains;
But youth, and, much too often, hope is gone,—
At least the hope of greatness, and for this
Nothing is left, but what the erring light
Of a far-distant glory, or the call
Of instant need, can waken. Therefore seize
The undoubting moment, and may Heaven befriend thee,
And lead thee in the shadow of thy faith,
Nor quite desert thee, till the point is gained
When thou canst say, a victory is won,
That none should scorn.

But let us turn aside,
From thoughts so little kindred to the scope
Of our endeavor,—let us rather choose
A path that winds through a fair wilderness,
Where all the visible things are leaves and flowers,
Green leaves and sunny flowers, and all the air
Is ravishing with perfume and with song.
So let us to a feast of nectared sweets,
The banquet of celestial poesy,—
And while the hours permit us to enjoy
The blessed light of heaven, let us abroad,

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And 'mid the graceful garniture of fields
Take our delighted way. Nor shall we lack
Companions to our revelry in air,
Or the still waters. Sounds shall go with us,
The voice of the light winds, the liquid lapse
Of sunny streams, and haply from the wood
A choir of tuneful birds, taking their last,
And not ungrateful, farewell of the shades
Where they have nestled and have plumed their young
In the gay season. If our thoughts incline
To a more gentle mood, we shall have friends
In the now fading boughs, and withered flowers.
They will have meanings for us, such as quell
Heart-stirring discontent, and hopes too high
For the mind's peace. They tell us of decay,
And lead us to the evening of our days,
Making life's darker shades familiar to us,
In no ungraceful guise, but shedding round them
A pensive beauty. Let us then abroad,
And in the open theatre of fields
And forests let us read the magic lines,
Where Spirit stamps on all inferior Being
Its essence and its power.

There is a life
In all things, so a gifted mind hath told
In most oracular verse,—and we may well
Forgive a heart, that could not brook the sight
Of any suffering thing, that he indulged
Such fond imaginings as gave to him
Companions wheresoe'er he took his way
Through hill or valley. He beheld himself
Surrounded by a multitude of friends,
Who with familiar faces welcomed him
In the blank desert; for the changing sky,
Cloudless, or overshadowed by all shapes,
That grow from air, the sun who walks at noon
Untended, and the lesser light that binds

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Her brow with stars, and all her retinue
Of living lamps, had each a voice for him
Distinctly audible, though to other ears
They had no sound. The mountain, whose bald forehead
Looked o'er a host of hills, each compassing
A grassy vale, and in each vale a lake
Of crystalline waters, and a busy brook
Winding in ever-shifting light along
The daisy-tufted meadows, now asleep
In a smooth-mirrored pool, then all awake
To leap the cascade, and go hurriedly
Over the sparkling pebbles and bright sands,—
The mountain, and its train, had all for him
A welcome, and they uttered it with smiles
All the long summer, and they told to him
In winter such high mysteries, he learned
To speak a holier language, and his heart
Was ever haunted by a silent power,
In whose immediate presence he became
Thoughtful and calm;—and so his lofty faith,
Which some of poorer spirit have pronounced
A madness, was to him the quickening spring
Of Poesy, such as we cannot read
Without a sense of awe. Then wherefore doubt,
At least the gracious tendency of belief
So rich in comfort to the lonely mind,
That oftentimes finds all access denied
To the society of living men,
Perchance, of books? The captive, who may catch
Glimpses of nature through his dungeon bars,
If so persuaded, may have friends with him,
The livelong day: and in his darker hours,
The silver planet, or the many lights,
That keep their watch above him, or the clouds,
That lie so tranquilly on the far hills,
Will speak a meaning, that hath power to calm
His passionate soul, and lead him unto rest
Through a fair train of sadly pleasing dreams.

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With such a gifted spirit, one may read
The open leaves of a philosophy,
Not reared from cold deduction, but descending,
A living spirit, from the purer shrine
Of a celestial reason. One is found
By slow and lingering search, and then requires
Close questioning of minutest circumstance,
To know it has the genuine stamp. The other
Is in us, as an instinct, where it lives
A part of us, we can as ill throw off
As bid the vital pulses cease to play,
And yet expect to live,—the spirit of life,
And hope, and elevation, and eternity,—
The fountain of all honor, all desire
After a higher and a better state,—
An influence so quickening, it imbues
All things we see with its own qualities,
And therefore Poetry, another name
For this innate Philosophy, so often
Gives life and body to invisible things,
And animates the insensible, diffusing
The feelings, passions, tendencies of man,
Through the whole range of being. Though on earth,
And most of all in living things, as birds
And flowers, in things that beautify, and fill
The air with harmony, and in the waters,
So full of change, so apt to elegance
Or power,—so tranquil when they lie at rest,
So sportive when they trip it lightly on
Their prattling way, and with so terrible
And lion-like severity, when roused
To break their bonds, and hurry forth to war
With winds and storms,—though it find much on earth
Suited to its high purpose, yet the sky
Is its peculiar home, and most of all,
When it is shadowed by a shifting veil
Of clouds, like to the curtain of a stage,
Beautiful in itself, and yet concealing
A more exalted beauty. Shapes of air,

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Born of the woods and waters, but sublimed
Unto a loftier Being! ye alone
Are in perpetual change. All other things
Seem to have times of rest, but ye are passing
With an unwearied flow to newer shapes
Grotesque and wild. Ye too have ever been
The Poet's treasure-house, where he has gathered
A store of metaphors, to deck withal
Gentle or mighty themes. I then may dare
To call ye from your dwellings, and compel ye
To stoop and listen. Who that ever looked
Delighted on the full magnificence
Of a stored Heaven, when all the painted lights
Of morning and of evening are abroad,
Or watched the moon dispensing to the wreaths,
That round her roll, tinctures of pearl and opal,—
Who would not pardon me this invocation
To things like clouds? I recollect one night,
A winter's night,—the air is clearer then,
And all the skyey creatures have a touch
Of majesty about them,—there were clouds,
So thick, they blotted out the maiden moon,
Then in her fulness, and the scanty light
That visited the earth came through the rifts
Where they had parted. I had gone abroad
Upon some fanciful intent, and long
Had dallied with the dancing radiance,
That now and then flitted from parting clouds
Over the snow-fields, when at once it seemed,
Just by me, as if Heaven itself were opened,
And from the Visible Presence there had come
A sudden flash, to herald the approach
Of some celestial messenger. I stood
As startled as if instantly a bolt
Fell smouldering at my feet; but on the moment
Turning me whence the emanation flowed,
I saw the moon unveiled,—pure, spotless orb
She stood in a deep sea of glorious light,
Too deep to sound. It seemed as if a wall

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Were built around her, of the brightest silver,
Or rather like the changeful brilliancy
Of girasole or opal. It enclosed
The semblance of a well, and it meseemed
I occupied its depth, and from above
The sky looked in, sole tenanted and filled
By the round moon. Language were all in vain
To give a body to the spectacle
That met me then; and yet I will not shrink
From my endeavor. First there seemed below
A solid mass just touched by the full light,
And palely passing into utter darkness
On the low-lying clouds;—above it rose
Huge piles, like rounded rocks, that glowed intensely
With a rich golden blaze; and higher still
There lay ten thousand painted heaps of foam,
Pure white, and covered over with such rainbows
As gem the morning dew; and still above them
Shone a whole harvest of such seeded pearl
As the swart Genii pour from coral urns,
To win the favor of their love,—they seemed
All hues, and from them mounted waveringly,
Even to the centre, where they seemed to fan
Pale Dian's face, long shadowy streamers, floating
Like pennons on the newly risen gale,
That freshly steals ashore,—they seemed to grow
From that deep bed of pearls, like sea-fans waving
Over the white sands of the ocean's floor.
Glorious creation!—vision of a moment!
It vanished, leaving not a rack behind.
The clouds closed in, heavy and lowering clouds,
And the night thickened, and the flaky snow
Began to fall. I then betook myself
To my warm hearth, and musing, as I sat,
A vision stood before me. Then, methought,
A mountain rose above the highest clouds,
Far in the distance, like a shadowy thing
Floating in thinnest air. The driven snow,
Hardened by centuries of frost, beheld,

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A winter's midnight, on the highest Alps,
When the moon holds unquestioned sway in heaven,
Were dim to such a brightness as encompassed
That shadowy cone. Methought, around it flew
A multitude of white-winged cherubim,
And well as I could read their looks, so far,
Each with a most severe serenity,
As if all thought;—and at the highest point
There seemed the likeness of a throne, whereon
Sat one, whose eye steadily gazed upon
The sky above him, reading all there therein,
Planet and star, as most familiar letters,
His pastime, not his toil;—and by him sat
One, who ran over with perpetual glance
All visible things, seeking to fashion them
To one fixed law; and at his other hand,
A spirit of a most sagacious eye,
With an internal vision questioning
Mind and its thoughts. Methought a voice proclaimed,
This is the seat of intellect, where pure
And freed from all investment, passion, pride
Fancy, and other shades, that might impair
The edge of sight,—it holds supremacy
Over imagination's highest flight,
And the most gifted spirits, who would throw
Their rainbow colors round the form of Truth
Masking the perfect brightness of the sun
With infinite variety of hues
Born of the pictured morning. As I gazed
With deep intensity, rapt and engulfed
In wonder and in awe, as when the martyr
Sees the world passing with its clouds away,
And from the sapphire walls and crystal gates
Of the highest Heaven a wave of light descending,
And round it myriads of golden wings,
Like the bright margin of the o'erflowing stream
At which he drinks and lives,—drinks and awakes
To immortality and joy;—or rather

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Like the strong gaze of Dante, when he saw,
Then standing in the loftiest sphere of Heaven,
A radiant point, shedding such burning brightness,
None but the blessed could behold and live,
And therefore veiled by the nine circular choirs
Of saints and angels;—or when he beheld,
As to that empyrean he ascended,
His guide, his own Beatrice, there transformed
To a most spiritual shape of light, encircled
With such a dazzling glory as the sun
Holds at the fullest noon, when the clear air,
Dense in its clearness, heightens to the highest
The lustre of his beams;—then as I gazed,
A most majestic sea of rolling clouds
Seemed to surround that throne, and it advanced,
And gradually took form, and I beheld,
Each on his shadowy car, spirits, who told,
By their commanding attitudes, that they
Were wont to rule. They occupied three spheres;—
The highest, like the throne they now surrounded,
Bright, snowy, pure, only the waving folds
That circled it were tinted with the hues
That fall from diamond prisms, the deepest hues
That flow from light. The one below it seemed
Woven from silken curls of tenderest blue,
Edged with the ruby tints that fill the sky
Just as the twilight vanishes. The lowest
Was like an awful thunder-cloud, a ridge
Of gloomy towers, each with its summit bronzed
By an ill-omened flame, and all beneath
Purple and dun, down to its lowest depth,
Where all was dark,—unmingled darkness, deep
As bottomless abyss, or the profound
Of central caves. This sea of clouds rolled on,
Like the slow tide of lavas, or the storm
That hangs for hours on the far-distant hills,
Deepening its horrors, till the unclouded sun
Is saddened in its shade.

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The highest sphere
Bore on its airy seats four of the train,
Who, by their calm serenity, betokened
How deep their thoughts,—and therefore they were seated
The nearest to the Mind's celestial throne:
But by the golden hues that flowed around them,
Visions of fancy, such as they had loved,
Were shadowed forth. Two were bereft of sight;
Their outward eyes were closed, yet not the less
They rolled their sightless orbs from earth to heaven
With hurried glance, and often fixed them long
On the bright sky, as if in holy trance
They saw unveiled the very throne of glory,
The habitation of the One Supreme,
Or the Olympian dwelling of the gods
Of the olden time, before the living Sun
Descended, and made visible to man
The secrets of the Mightiest. I could hear
Their voices, full, sonorous, rolling on,
Like the perpetual stream of ocean, borne
To earth's remotest shores. Yet not alike
Their tones,—for one was ever up at heaven,
Or, if it took a softer note, as pure
As the far echo of an angel's lyre
Behind a golden cloud. Less harmony
Was in the other song, for now the bolt
Seemed suddenly hurled in rattling peals, and then
The shrill blast of the trumpet told of war,
And then the merry din of flutes and viols
Rang, like a festive glee; and then, methought,
Loud laughter shook the dome, and last of all
Came a low-muttered sound, as if from caves
An oracle went forth, or bodiless ghost
Gibbered in Hades. Of the other two,
One by the broad expansion of his brow,
And his high-arching forehead, fair as heaven
When air is purged by storms, and by an eye,
Now calm, anon in a fine frenzy rolling,

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Then all dissolved in smiles, and by the light
And delicate contour of his lips, revealed,
Not only all the majesty of thought,
But a quick change of fancy, ever shifting
Like clouds before the wind, and with it too
A nice observance of the smallest seemings,
By which the admiring world have judged him gifted
With a seer's eye. The summit where he sat
Was fair as bodiless thought; but all below
There hung such wealth of folds as round the couch
Of royal beauty wave;—and they were part
Too rich to gaze on fixedly, while others,
Sweeping in cumbrous trains, were dim and dark
With horror, and beside them not a few
Trailed to the ground like serpent coils, obscenely
Dallying with meanest things. The last who held
That upper station wore a thoughtful look
Of mild humanity, whereon was stamped
The seal of power. It seemed his happiness
To gaze on loftiest Being, and to read
The deep recesses of the human heart,
And with a chain of tenderest links to twine
Man and his feeblest nature to the height
Of all Divinity;—so, though his voice
At times might chide the thunder, it resounded
So full and loud, it stole at other times
Like the low breathings of a happy child
In its undreaming sleep, or like the whisper
Of summer winds through the still forest boughs,
Or like the scarce heard murmur of a brook
Kissing its turfy margin. These were they
Who rode the proudest; but so much of thought,
Busy and deep, and such a silent calmness
Of passion filled them, that they bore themselves
Meekly in all their honors.

In the sphere
Beneath them, there were many; but I marked
Two of so gentle aspect, they controlled

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My thoughts to them alone. The one had bound
His front with olive, where few scattered leaves
Of laurel, and a twine of greenest myrtle,
Added their graces. He had sung of peace
Cheerfully and most sweetly, and of love
With an undying strain; but when he took
The warlike trumpet, broken were the sounds
That issued, though a few were nobly filled:
And soon he laid it by with a sad look,
As if he had done violence to himself
By so unwelcome effort. Then he sung:
“Lay me beneath the hospitable shade
Of ancient boughs, and let me dream away,
In quiet musing, such a blameless life
As marked the golden age; and let me hear
The sweet musician of the silent night
Pour out her tender heart, till sleep steal on,
Opening the ivory door of happy visions,
Though all unreal, that the cheated soul,
Awhile may wander through Elysium,
And quaff oblivion on a couch of flowers.”
Thus sang he, while the other listening lay,
Propped on his elbow, like a heart-sick girl
Reading a tale of visionary grief.
There was a dewy softness in his eye,
And this awhile threw over him a cloud,
That added sweeter beauty to his face,
Itself so beautiful, it seemed the shrine
Of all the fair and lovely. One would say
His being was essential elegance,
And nothing came within its charmed sphere
But took a brighter hue, and bore around it
Something to grace and please. Even majesty
Softened itself before him, and became
The minister of kindness. He could sing
Of war, but it was honorable war,
The pride of chivalry, that sunned itself
In ladies' eyes; but most of all he loved
To tell us of enchanted palaces,

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Groves, gardens, lakes, and rivers, mingled all,
As if not art, but nature, had bestowed them,
And yet so tasteful that the hand of art
Was surely there, and then to fill their shades
With a voluptuous beauty, wantoning
In innocent dalliance, for he never dreamed
Of aught that was not pure,—his inmost soul
Shone as sincerely pure as mountain ice
Hewn from the glacier. So he played with beauty,
And with enamored fondness followed it
Through sorrow to his grave.

I turned me then
To the lower sphere, and on its fiery towers
Saw three, who there sat proudly eminent,
Erect and firm. Lines of unwearied thought
Were stamped, but an intensity of passion,
That burned like a red furnace, gave to them
A wild, mysterious glare. Passion had gained
The mastery, and meditation served
Only to give more fatal energy
To what it willed, and, willing, bore at once
To the irrevocable act. Such spirits
Have made the world turn pale. Passion thus guided
Has given us conquerors, who have swept the earth
With a consuming fire, and with the blaze
Of conflagration dazzled us, and then
Left after them a gloom, that sank like night
Over the frighted nations.

Of the three,
One sat with sternly gathered brows, and mused
Earnestly, while his swart eye shot beneath
A fire that had no rest. He found his pleasure
In planting daggers in the naked heart,
And one by one drawing them out again,
To count the beaded drops, and slowly tell
Each agonizing throb. Therefore he took
The horrors of the Atridæ for his theme,

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Where every passion strove for mastery,
And every sense of duty went to war
With hatred and revenge;—fit theme for one
Who loved to put the spirit on the rack,
And wrench the instincts of our better nature
From all they clung to. He too willingly
Sent all his energy into the wrongs
Of that mysterious Titan, who bestowed
On man the gift of fire, or rather gave
A light from heaven,—Knowledge, the blessed light
That quickens us, and bids our clay-cold spirits
Awake and live,—and for this act of kindness
Was seized by the revengeful gods, and bound
In adamantine chains,—confined by power
Struggling with truth in a captivity
That has no end, till one shall stoop from Heaven
To bear for him his sufferings, and descend
Into the gloomy depths of Tartarus.
Strange and mysterious words, and spoken too
In a dark age, when nothing yet of light
From off a higher altar had descended
To fill the idol temple. Boldly, too,
This, and full many a startling truth were spoken,
That have been, and will yet be, carried on
To their fulfilment. Yes, the time will come
When all the fetters violence and pride,
Hypocrisy and fraud, have twined around
The soul of man, shall sever like the flax
Before the furnace, and the united voice
Of earth proclaim, that every chain is broken,
And every spirit free. The time draws nigh
When the glad shout shall ring. It will not come
At the loud summons of impatient pride,
But in the silent going on of things
All shall be finished. Let us then await
Calmly the close.

Another sat with eye
Scowling in sickly hate of human things,

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And now with loftiest aspirations breathing
After sublimer worlds, then pouring out
Reproach and scorn, and with indignant wrath
Cursing the meanness of the baser crowd,
Whose touch he felt was bane,—then with a sneer
Laughing at folly like a gay buffoon,
Seemingly, but a bitterness withal
Curled on his lip, and gave a hollow sound
Even to his merriest gibes. A fallen spirit
Had better filled his place, for so he seemed,
Pandering the baser passions, with a voice
That might have borne itself among the highest,
And long been hailed, for its redeeming power,
By all the wise and good.

Between the two
Sat one, who seemed to rule. His deep sunk eye
Burnt with an ominous glare, and on his brow
Strong passion worked; and yet at times he raised
His look aloft, and then a moment's calmness
Stilled it, but soon prevailing nature took
Her wonted way. This man had suffered wrong,
Foully and cruelly had suffered wrong,
And this he had resented, till his mind
Lost the kind balance which had lifted him
To the calm regions of unruffled thought,
And holy musing. His resentment gained
Such mastery o'er him, he contrived a web
Of most unearthly dreams,—visions of hell
And all its horrors,—that he thus might vent
His hatred, and deal out a deep damnation
On all his foes. Methought he yet looked down
Into his gulfs, and saw them writhing there,
With a delighted scorn.

While thus I gazed,
Silent and wondering, from his cloudy seat
He moved to meet me, like a messenger
Deputed from the spirits there assembled

154

To hold communion with me. He advanced
Till he bent over me, and then, meseemed,
He stretched his ghostly hand, and with a sign
Of mute attention thus addressed me: “Hear
Carefully what I utter, and retain it
Deep in thy heart of hearts. We are a band
Who gave ourselves in life to the high art
Of song. For this we left the flowery walks
Of pleasure, and forewent the better aims
Of wealth and power,—and some of us were doomed
To bear the burden of consuming care,
And wrestle onward to a welcome grave
Through poverty and scorn,—and yet we bore
Manfully all our wrongs, and never broke
The allegiance we had vowed, but rather chose
To leave all the world covets most, and keep
The honorable service of the lyre,
Whose rich reward is fame. And we have gained it,
And thus far we are happy. If thy heart
Feel aught of longing to be one of us,
Be cautious and considerate, ere thou take
The last resolve. If thou canst bear alone
Penury and all its evils, and yet worse
Malevolence, and all its foul-mouthed brood
Of slanderers, and if thou canst brook the scorn
And insolence of wealth, the pride of power,
The falsehood of the envious, and the coldness
Of an ungrateful country,—then go on
And conquer. Long and arduous is the way
To climb the heights we hold, and thou must bide
Many a pitiless storm, and nerve thyself
To many a painful struggle. If thy purpose
Is fixed, then welcome. We will hover o'er thee,
Thy guardian spirits, and thy careful ear
May often listen to our friendly voice,
After thy earnest toils. We now are with thee;—
Thou hast the records we have left behind,
And thou canst read them, as we wrote them down,
Fresh from the heart,—and this it is to hold

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Communion with us. Let it not depress thee,
That few will bid thee welcome on thy way,
For 't is the common lot of all who choose
The higher path, and with a generous pride
Scorn to consult the popular ear. This land
Is freedom's chosen seat, and all may here
Live in content and bodily comfort, yet
'T is not the nourishing soil of higher arts,
And loftier wisdom. Wherefore else should he,
Who, had he lived in Leo's brighter age,
Might have commanded princes, by the touch
Of a magician's wand, for such it is
That gives a living semblance to a sheet
Of pictured canvas,—wherefore should he waste
His precious time in painting valentines,
Or idle shepherds sitting on a bank
Beside a glassy pool, and, worst of all,
Bringing conceptions only not divine
To the scant compass of a parlor piece,—
And this to furnish out his daily store,
While he is toiling at the mighty task
To which he has devoted all his soul
And all his riper years,—which, when it comes
To the broad light, shall vindicate his fame
In front of every foe, and send to ages
His name and power,—else wherefore lives he not
Rich in the generous gifts of a glad people,
As he is rich in thought? There is no feeling
Above the common wants and common pleasures
Of calm, contented life. So be assured,
If thou hast chosen our companionship,
Thou shalt have solitude enough to please
A hermit, and thy cell may show like his.”

Read before the Connecticut Alpha of the Phi Beta Kappa Society, September 13, 1825.

156

THE SUICIDE.

'T was where a granite cliff high-beetling towered
Above the billows of the western main,
Deep in a grot, by sable yews imbowered,
A youth retired to ponder and complain.

'T was near the nightfall of a winter's day,
The sun was hid in clouds of dunnest gloom;
Before the north-wind rose the whitening spray,
And the loud breakers roared the sailor's doom.

Dark, sullen, gloomy as the scene around,
The soul that harbored in that youthful breast;
To him the wild roar was a soothing sound,
The only one could hush his woes to rest.

His was a soul that once was warm and kind,—
That once could love with gentlest, purest flame;
So mild, so lovely, was his infant mind,
His cheek ne'er reddened with the blush of shame.

But never could he brook the frown of pride,—
This was the killing stroke that smote his heart;
All other wounds of fortune he defied,—
This—this to him was death's envenomed dart.

He felt himself too good to crouch and bend
Before the man whose only boast was birth;
O, he would sooner his own bosom rend,
Than bow before the haughtiest lord of earth!

There was a savage sternness in his breast;
No half-way passion could his bosom move,
None e'er by him were scorned and then caressed;
His was all gloomy hate, or glowing love.

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Those whom he scorned he passed unheeded by;
He never lured a foe with artful wile,
But when a friend or lover met his eye,
Each word was sweetness and each look a smile.

He once could love, but oh! that time was o'er;
His heart was now the seat of hate alone;
As peaceful—is the wintry tempest's roar,
As cheerful—torture's agonizing groan.

He would have loved, had not his frozen heart
Suspected every form, though e'er so fair;
How could he love, when racked by every smart,
And all the gloomy horrors of despair?

Insult him, he was wilder than the storm;
His blood in boiling vengeance through him rushed,
And those who thought they trampled on a worm
Soon found an adder in the form they crushed.

In dissipation he had revelled long,
Had known the wildest paths that vice e'er trod;
He roamed, seduced by pleasure's siren song,
Until he hated man, himself, and God.

He hated man, because he thought a foe
Smiled in each scene, and lurked in every path;
He scorned himself, for he had sunk so low;
He hated God, because he feared his wrath.

So warm his passions, and so stern his will,
So wild, and yet so tender, was his eye,
So warped his heart to everything that 's ill,
He was not fit to live,—much less to die.

The wind that whistled round the gloomy walls,
The billows roaring on the rocks below,
The trickling drop that freezes as it falls,
Seemed warm and cheerful as that child of woe.

158

Oft had I seen this youth pass heedless by,
All negligent his dress, and wild his mien;
The tear was always starting in his eye,
A smile was never in his features seen.

With languid air, with eye by sorrow seared,
And downcast look, he walked,—then paused awhile,
And in the darkness of his gloom he feared
To raise his head, lest he should see a smile.

So much the victim of despair and fear,
He looked more sadly when he heard one speak;
And when he saw a smile,—O, then the tear
Streamed o'er the furrows of his woe-worn cheek!

So wan his cheek, his countenance so pale,
He seemed just sinking to an early tomb;
So tottering were his steps, his form so frail,
A ghost seemed wandering in the cavern's gloom.

He walked, then stopped; then started, stopped again;
Then raised to Heaven his wild and impious eye;
Then gnashed his teeth, as in severest pain,
Or feebly groaned, or heaved a long-drawn sigh.

With hands in fury clenched, he beat his breast,
Then smote his forehead, stamped, and wildly raved;
It seemed no soothing hand could give him rest,
He seemed too far abandoned to be saved.

“Are these the joys of life?” he wildly cried;
“Are these the pleasures man enjoys below?
The siren voice that said, ‘Be happy,’ lied,
It called me not to happiness, but woe.

“Life,—'t is a pang that racks us for a while,
Then like a bubble bursts and all is o'er;
Its highest joys, even woman's lovely smile,
To me are gloomy as yon billows' roar.

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“I'll live no more,—I know the world too well,—
I'll trust no longer to its soothing voice;—
Let those who choose in pain and sorrow dwell,—
Death is my fondest, death my only choice.

“Live,—shall I live without the slightest meed,
Without one voice to dwell upon my name,
With hand too weak to do one noble deed,
Or pluck one leaflet from the wreath of fame?—

“Live, while consumption, ghastly, gloomy, pale,
Even to a shadow wears my form away,—
Shrink at the rustling of the gentlest gale,
And pine, to dark despondency a prey?

“Say, is this life? How trifling, O how vain,
To give one struggle for a world like this!
How cold, how heavy, pleasure's flowery chain,
How sickening every cup of earthly bliss!

“I've drained the goblet, and I know how vile,
How mean and empty, all terrestrial joys;
Reason surveys them with a pitying smile,
And stamps with words of lightning, ‘Infant toys.’

“How easy, when depression sinks me low,
To leave this world and seek another shore,—
Careless if pleasure laugh, or all be woe,
If smooth the waves, or loud the billows roar!

“How easy, O how trifling, with the steel
To pierce a heart that loves no scene below,
To wound a breast too callous e'er to feel
A pang less cruel than a demon's woe!

“Does not the smiling surface of the wave
Kindly invite to take my endless sleep?
How sweet to rest within a watery grave
How soft those slumbers,—that repose how deep!

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“The death-winged ball can pierce my frenzied brain,
The knife can loose the shackles of my soul,
An opiate, that can ease my every pain,
Smiles, how inviting! in the poisoned bowl.

“And thou, sweet drug! canst shed the balmy dew
Of sleep eternal o'er my wearied eyes,
And give repose, as calm to mortal view
As when the infant wrapt in slumber lies.

“Still thou art slow, though sure,—ah! can I wait
A single moment, ere I sink in death?
Perhaps I may lament it when too late,
And struggle to regain my fleeting breath.

“Give me the knife, the dagger, or the ball;—
O, I can take them with a smile serene!
Then like a flash of lightning I may fall,
And rush at once into the world unseen.”

The withered leaves, that decked a beechen bough,
Rustled,—he turned and gazed with frozen stare;
Such gloom, such horror, settled on his brow,
He seemed the very image of despair:

“Disturb me not,—there 's naught can give relief;
Heaven deigns no soothing comforter to send;
There is but one can soothe my gnawing grief,
It is the best of earthly good,—a friend.

“A friend,—I thought I once had friends,—but no!
Friendship, thou cherub! ne'er wert to me given;
Friendship is not a flower that blooms below,—
If there is friendship it must be in Heaven:

“And when I 've seen the pious widow's woe,
And viewed no Christian friend or heaven-born fair
E'er deign to wipe away the tears that flow,
I 've thought even friendship was not real there:

161

“And when no human form on me would roll
The glance that soothes, or beam the smiles that bless,
My dog, the only solace of my soul,
Even bit the hand extended to caress.

“What if some female form should deign to smile,
And chase away the gloom that clouds my breast?
Could I be happy,—could I stay awhile?
Yes, woman's smile could make me cheerful,—blest.

“The heart that 's tortured with remorse is dead
To all the joys that woman's love can give;
Affection does not smile where hope is fled;
Where conscience frowns, that charmer cannot live.

“Can Love, the sweetest cherub, ever deign
To live, where doubt, despair, distraction, dwell?
Ah, no! this fond idea must be vain,
Love in my bosom is a saint in hell.

“Let others boast their skill to charm the soul,
And proffer pleasure to the expecting eye,
To bid the glance with mimic sweetness roll,
And heave the bosom with an empty sigh;

“Away such base deceivers from my sight!
Hide them, ye shades of midnight, from my view!
Think you such flatteries can my soul delight?
Farewell such love, such hollow friends adieu.

“No smooth deceit e'er floated from my tongue,
By flattery's wiles these lips of mine ne'er moved;
On them—on them this truth has always hung,
‘I ever hated all, and nothing loved.’

“And what if man or woman shun my form.
And view a tiger in the gloom I wear?
To me their smiles are blacker than the storm;
There seems a serpent ever lurking there.

162

“The charms of Vice detained my soul too long:
What sounds of sweetness in her love-notes flow!
But misery's sigh is in her sweetest song,
And in her gayest smile the tear of woe.

“The eye that beams so fondly ill conceals
Distraction's silent gaze and icy glare;
The lip that smiles so sweetly still reveals
The paleness, and the quivering of despair.

“I drank her cup of promised bliss,—I lay
In soft repose on beds of roses flung,
There heard her Ariel harp its wind-notes play,
And all the siren music of her tongue,—

“In slumber soft, I closed my swimming eyes,
While sounds ecstatic seemed around to flow:
I slept—no more in happiness to rise;
I closed my eyes to bliss,—I woke to woe.

“Look at my eye, and see the glare of pain;
Look at my cheek, it is the hue of death;
See there the softness of her flowery chain,
There mark the sweetness of her balmy breath.

“Shun, shun the road she points to,—death is there;
Her sweetest voice is but a funeral knell,
Her gayest smile is but the gloom of care,
And though she calls to heaven, she leads to hell.

“What's earth, what's life, to space, eternity?
'Tis but a flash, a glance, from birth to death;
And he who ruled the world would only be
Lord of a point,—a creature of a breath.

“And what is it to gain a hero's name,
Or build one's greatness on the rabble's roar?
'T is but to light a feeble, flickering flame,
That shines a moment, and is seen no more.

163

“Once Cæsar gained the summit of renown,
For him fame's trumpet blew its loudest peals;
But what to him is Glory's shining crown?
It heightens but the blackness it reveals.

“What is the greatness Science can display,
Or from the best-tuned lyre what can we gain?
But that the fluttering insect of a day
May hum our praise, and all be still again.

“What if a Titian's tints, a Rubens' fire,
A Raphael's grandeur, o'er my canvas glow?
These tints, that fire, that grandeur, soon expire,
And melt as quickly as the summer's snow.

“Let boastful Wealth his richest stores unfold,
And Pride his pomp of ancestry display;
A speck of yellow dust is all their gold,
An infant's rattle, all their proud array.

“What praise to shine in Fashion's brightest ray?
What is that fame by fops so dearly sought?
'T is but the mere ephemeron of a day,—
'T is but the very meanest part of naught.

“And thou, proud monarch, frowning on thy throne!
What is the space between thy power and me?
'T is but to sit above the crowd alone,
And lord it o'er a few poor worms like thee.

“Ah! when I look on man, and see how low,
How vile, has sunk the basely grovelling crowd,
I still can scarcely think this child of woe
Can have sufficient meanness to be proud.

“Depart, Renown! O, hie thee far away!
And Fortune, though in all thy splendor drest!
O, from this world you 've torn my only stay,
And left not even one motive in my breast.

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“This world has now so dull and gloomy grown,
So sickening every sight where'er I range,—
'Mid all life's bustle, I am still so lone,
I'd leave it, were it only for a change.

“What balm shall heal my wounds, or soothe my woes?
How shall I sink to my untimely grave?
Shall this sweet opiate lull me to repose,
Or shall I plunge beneath the roaring wave?

“Come, sweetest draught, I woo thee to my lips
With all the fondness of a lover's breast;
No thirsty, weary pilgrim fondlier sips
The cooling fount, or lays him down to rest.

“Come, do thy work, and free my struggling soul,
Swift as the lightning, from life's heavy chain:
I care not if I reach Heaven's shining goal,
Or plunge beneath the waves of endless pain.

“You gave me life,—take back the gift you gave,
Nor think I 'd thank you for such trash as this;
Sweeter to me annihilation's grave,
O, sweeter than the highest heaven of bliss!

“Roll on the winds your most terrific storm,
And shade the skies with more than Egypt's gloom;
Then with your vengeful lightnings scathe my form,
And hurl me to my never-ending doom.

“I've plunged in guilt, till I can plunge no more;
I've been to man and God the fellest foe;
On me—on me each cup of fury pour,
And whelm me in the deepest gulf of woe.”

But ere the sun had dipped his orb of light
Beneath the wave that swelled along the main,
A momentary brilliance met the sight,
And shone reflected o'er the watery plain.

165

The trembling lustre glanced upon his eye,—
There was a something, neither smile nor tear,
A sound, nor comfort's voice, nor sorrow's sigh,
Fell scarcely heard upon the listener's ear.

“Can there no ray like this of mercy shine,
To dissipate my soul's terrific gloom?
Is there no beam from Heaven, no light divine,
Can gild the path that leads me to my tomb?

“Must all within be desolate and sad,
Must all seem frowning to the mental sight,
When the last sunbeam makes all nature glad,
And ushers in with smiles the shades of night?

“May I not hope, although dark clouds of woe
Hang o'er my soul, and sink it to the grave,—
May I not hope for happiness below,
That Heaven will smile, and mercy deign to save?

“The light is gone, and all is dark again,—
So flies the light that shone upon my soul;
Night's horrors thicken o'er the heaving main,—
So round my heart despair, distraction, roll.

“What! shall I catch at hope's illusive gleams,
That glance like meteors thro' my frenzied brain?
What! shall I trust to fancy's wildering dreams?
No! death and ruin welcome once again.

“No! I can pierce the grave's tremendous gloom,
And through its dunnest shades unfaltering pry,
Can read with look unmoved my direst doom,
And view the world of woe with heedless eye.

“O, you may tell me of the quenchless flame,
And gnawing worm that never, never dies,
Or read each furious devil name by name,—
The hottest hell within my bosom lies.

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“Is this your kindness,—you who made my soul,
And formed it to be sensible of woe,
Then bade a world of anguish o'er it roll,
And through my veins despair's dark currents flow?

“Why was I made for misery alone?
Why were my joys but preludes to my pain?
Why was my voice but formed to breathe the groan,
Or why my tongue but fashioned to complain?

“You bade a thousand pleasures round me smile,
But mingled poison in their balmy breath;
Bade angel forms exert their every wile,
To lure me sweetly on to sin and death:

“Is this your kindness,—thus to charm my eyes,
By what would certainly my soul undo?
O, is it not sufficient to chastise?
Must you allure me, and then punish too?

“O happy prospect! for before my sight
Annihilation rises dark and drear:
Or to my vision glares hell's murky light,
And sighs, and groans, and gnashings, fill my ear.

“What clouds around the grave's dark regions roll!
I'd give the wealth of worlds to pierce their gloom,
And read, imprinted on the eternal scroll,
The awful words of flame that mark my doom.

“The thoughts of an hereafter wake my fear,
And fill my soul with agonizing throes;
Methinks some accent whispers in my ear,
And tells me, nothing will my pangs compose.

“Nothing!—there 's something awful in that sound;
O, shall my all be crumbled into dust?
Shall mind—shall body rot beneath the ground,
Nor soul immortal from my cerement burst?

167

“Nothing!—away, thou phantom, from my brain!
Away, thou deadlier fiend than ever rose
To rack the doubting soul with hellish pain,
Or fill it with a maniac fancy's woes!

“Nothing!—unreal shade of all that's ill,
Cease, cease thy clamors, nor disturb me more!
Hush! let that demon voice of thine be still,—
O, hie thee to thy dark Tartarean shore!

“What if I pry beyond the yawning grave?
Is there a light can point my wildered way?
Is there an arm of Mercy stretched to save?
O, help that arm, and guide me, genial ray!

“I look, but all is darker than the gloom
That hung, a sooty mist, o'er Egypt's land;
I listen, all is stiller than the tomb;
There is no ray,—no Mercy's outstretched hand.

“Come, then, each busy devil to my breast,
Come every fiend of hell, and nestle there.
Rack me,—Religion cannot give me rest;
If Mercy will not whisper,—yell, Despair!

“My ear is open to thy piercing cry:
Pour it,—to every suffering I'm resigned.
But hark!—methought I heard an angel fly
With downy pinions on the passing wind.

“No! 't was an idle fancy,—mock no more,
Thou cheating spirit, thou art false though fair;
No! 't was the wave of ruin's sullen roar;
No! 't was the hollow voice of dark Despair.

“Come, grisly Death! and whet thy bloody dart;
Come, waft upon the breeze my dying knell;
O, misery and woe have filled my heart!
O, hell to me is nothing,—nothing 's hell!”

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He said, and lifted high the poisoned draught;
“This gives,” he cried, “my body to the tomb,—
To nothing, dreary nothing, it shall waft
My soul, or yield it to its endless doom.

“A doom that strikes my shuddering soul with dread,
And almost drives my purpose from my breast;
Speak not those words,—for every hope is fled;
In death, in darkness, is my only rest.

“Come to my lips,” he spake, with features calm,
“Come to my lips, thou cordial of my woes;
Pour in my wounded heart thy healing balm,
And in eternal sleep my eyelids close.

“Come, lovely draught! O, lovelier than the spring!
And sweeter than the morning's dewy breath!
Come, to my soul oblivion's comforts bring.”
He said, and calmly drank the cup of death.

When life was weak and faint, his ardent soul
Unfolded all the vigor of its powers;
Then through the fields of lore he flew, and stole
With ceaseless toil, the honey of its flowers.

His heart expanded with his growing mind,
And love, and charity, and thirst of fame,
Unbending worth, ambition unconfined,
O, these he wished, his bosom's only aim!

O, he would think of these, until the glow
Brightened his cheek and kindled up his eye;
Then in a rushing flood his thoughts would flow,
And lift him to the all-o'erarching sky.

And yet his soul was tender;—there was one
Who made his heart throb, and his pulses beat;
She was his all, his only light, his sun,—
Her eye was brightest, and her voice most sweet.

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She was to him an angel;—he was young,
The down of youth had just begun to grow;
His eye for ever on her image hung,
There would his centring thoughts for ever flow.

O love how ill requited!—could a soul,
Then soaring to perfection, blend with one
Who only thought of transient sport, whose whole
Enjoyment ceased below, where his begun?

And then his fearfulness and shrinking eye,—
She knew her power, and yet she could not know
The worth of him who doated;—with a sigh
Of grief and wounded pride, he let her go.

First love,—with what a deep, strong, fixed impress
It prints the yielding heart of childhood! Gone,
No other eye the lone, lost soul can bless,
Hope then is fled, the feelings are undone.

How all unequal were his mind and form!
This knew the blinking owls, that shunned his light;
To wound his bosom, and to raise the storm
He ill could master, seemed their sole delight.

Abused, neglected, fatherless, no hand
To guide or guard him, left alone to steer
His dangerous way,—can youth securely stand,
When not a parent, friend, or hope is near?

He conquered in intelligence, but those
Who felt his strength there, still his weakness knew;
They crushed his spirit first, and then, to close
Their work, they made him like their grovelling crew.

The light of Heaven was gone,—ambition still
Lurked with him to the last, but he was blind;
And genius struggled on through every ill,
But peace and innocence were left behind.

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Years hurried by,—but what a raging sea
Was that young heart!—wild as a steed he ran,
Till he was swallowed in misanthropy,
And swore eternal enmity to man.

And yet he could not hate,—at every look,
That told the wounded bosom's throbbing swell,
His frame in sympathetic shivering shook,
His hand, though raised in wrath, in pity fell.

He longed to cast his hateful chains away,
He longed to be all virtue, reason, soul;
In vain he strove against the headlong sway
Of passion,—till its gulf absorbed the whole.

'Mid all his folly, weakness, guilt, one beam
Across the darkness of his being shone,—
Most dastardly and shameful did he deem
To take one mite that was not all his own.

She came,—at last the kindred spirit came,
The same bright look, the same dissolving eye;
Her bosom lit with that ethereal flame,
Which warmed him, when in youth his soul was high.

Informing and informed, theirs was the pure
Delight of blended intellect,—their way
Was strewed with reason's choicest pleasures, sure
To last with those whom guilt leads not astray.

Awhile his spirit kindled,—hope, and love,
And friendship, days of peace and joy arose,
And lifted all his ardent thoughts above
The memory of his follies and his woes.

His way had been unequal—now he soared
On rushing wings, and now he sunk in night;
But then he felt new life around him poured,
He aimed to Heaven his strong, untiring flight.

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'T was but a moment,—like the dying flash,
The soul's last sparkle, ere its lights are fled;
Then folly came, his kindling hopes to dash,
And hide his spirit with the moral dead.

Too late! too late!—thou couldst not call him back,
With all thy charms thou couldst not: guilt, despair,
So long had dogged him in his wayward track,
They quenched the light that once shone brightly there.

An outcast, self-condemned, he takes his way,
He knows and cares not whither; he can weep
No more,—his only wish his head to lay
In endless death and everlasting sleep.

Ah, who can bear the self-abhorring thought
Of time, chance, talent, wasted,—who can think
Of friendship, love, fame, science, gone to naught,
And not in hopeless desperation sink?

Behind are summits, lofty, pure, and bright,
Where blow the life-reviving gales of Heaven;
Below expand the jaws of deepest night,
And there he falls, by power resistless driven.

The links that bind to life are torn away;
The hope, the assuring hope of better days,
Friendship that warms us with a genial ray,
And love, that kindles with an ardent blaze.

These he has left, and books have lost their charm;
The brightest sky is but a veil of gloom;
His mind, hand, useless, where can be the harm
In drawing to his only couch, the tomb?

Ye who abused, neglected, rent, and stained
That heart, when pure and tender, come and dwell
On these dark ruins, and, by Heaven arraigned,
Feel, as you look, the scorpion stings of hell.

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But no! your cold, black bosoms cannot feel;
Amid the rank weeds, flowers can never blow;
Your hearts, encrusted in their case of steel,
No feelings of remorse or pity know.

Yes, you will say, poor, weak, and childish boy,
Infirm of purpose, shook by every sigh,
A thing of air, a light, fantastic toy,—
What reck we if such shadows live or die?

But no! my life's blood calls aloud to Heaven,
The arm of Justice cannot, will not sleep;
A perfect retribution shall be given,
And Vengeance on your heads her coals shall heap.

Where minds like this are ruined, guilt must be,
And where guilt is, remorse will gnaw the soul,
And every moment teem with agony,
And sleepless thoughts in burning torrents roll.

And thou, arch moral-murderer! hear my curse:
Go, gorge and wallow in thy priestly sty;
Than what thou art, I cannot wish thee worse,—
There with thy kindred reptiles crawl and die.

THE WRECK.

A TALE.

'T was a calm summer evening. On the sea,
Spread out a perfect mirror, there was seen,
In the blue, hazy distance, one white sail,
That caught the eye of hope and love. She came,
When her light task was ended, to the brow
Of a commanding precipice, that hung
Its dark wall o'er the waters. By the staff,
On which a flag was hoisted, she sat down

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In the red sun-light, which, to all below,
Gave a deep tincture to the towering cliff,
And the loose folds that tremulously waved
In the scarce-breathing sea-wind, and the snow
Of her own tender paleness. She had caught
The sail from the lone cottage of her sire;
For she was motherless, and had not known
The name of sister; but her heart was bound
In the affection of a father's heart,
And in the love of one who was not there,
But far upon the ocean. She had been
Nursed tenderly and fondly; for the hand
That reared her in that solitude was full,
And might have lived in cities, and have been
Courted by the vain crowd, but that he chose
The silence of a distant, wild retreat,
Which left him to the company of books,
And the dear culture of the infant mind,
To which his heart was knit by all the links
That bind us to the cherished and the young,
The gentle and the lovely. He had fled
From a harsh world; and on the ocean's brink,
And in the bosom of romantic hills,
And by the channel of a broken stream,
Had sought communion with the beautiful
And the sublime of Nature; but he still
Nourished the kindest feelings; and in one
Who had from him her life, and was the life
Of his decaying years, he treasured up
All he had ever known of early love
And youth's devoted passion. She had grown,
In her unstained seclusion, bright and pure
As a first opened rose-bud, when it spreads
Its pink leaves to the sweetest dawn of May,
After a night-shower, which had wet the woods
And gardens with the big, round drops that hang
Dancing in the fresh breeze, and tremblingly
Specking the flowers with light. She too had been
Not only shielded from all tint and stain

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Of the world's evil, that the first clear stream
Of feeling in her heart still flowed as clear
As when it first ran onward, like a spring
That ever comes from the deep-caverned rock
Flowing in virgin crystal,—but her mind
Was lifted by the guidance of a mind
Wrought to habitual greatness, and endued
With the true sense of glory. She was taught
That happiness was in the tender heart
And the waked soul; that the full treasure spread
In beauty o'er the ocean and the earth,
With change of season, and its ever new
And grand or lovely aspect was enough
To move the heart to rapture, and supply
The food of thought, the never-failing spring
Of sweet sensations and unwasting joys.
But nature still was in her, and she soon
Felt, that the fond affection of her sire,
And her loved tasks,—the study of high thoughts,
Poured out in sainted volumes, which had been
Stamped in the mint of Genius, and had come
Unhurt through darkest ages, bright as gems
That sparkle, though in dust,—the skilful touch
Of instruments of music, and the voice
Sweet in its untaught melody, as birds
Clear-warbling in the bushes, but attuned
To the just flow of harmony,—the hand
That woke the forms of pencilled life, and gave
Its color to the violet, and its fire
To the dark eye, its blushes to the cheek
And to the lip its sweetness, or that drew
O'er the pure lawn the silken thread, and wove
The full-leafed vine, and the luxuriant rose,
All petals and vermilion,—or the walk
On the rude shore, to hear the rushing waves,
Or view the wide sea sleeping,—on the hill
To catch the living landscape, and combine
The miracles of Nature in one full
And deep enchantment,—or to trace the brook

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Up to its highest fountain in the shade
Of a thick tuft of alders, and go down
By all its leaps and windings, gathering there
The forest roses, and the nameless flowers,
That open in the wilderness, and live
Awhile in sweetest loveliness, and die
Without an eye to watch them, or a heart
To gladden in their beauty,—or in that,
The fondest to the pure and delicate,
The gentle deed of charity, the gift
That cheers the widow, or dries up the flow
Of a lone orphan's bitterness, the voice,
The melting voice of sympathy, which heals,
With a far softer touch, the wounded heart,
Than the cold alms dropped by a scornful hand,
That flings the dole it grudges,—such but tears
Anew the closed wound open, while the friend,
Who smiles when smoothing down the lonely couch,
And does kind deeds, which any one can do
Who has a feeling spirit, such a friend
Heals with a searching balsam:—though her days
Passed on in such sweet labors, still she felt
Alone, and there was in her virgin heart
A void that all her pleasures could not fill.
She was not made to waste her years alone,
But the great voice of Nature spake to her,
That loving, and beloved by one like her,
Youthful and beautiful, her heart would find
In the fond interchange of looks and thoughts,
And in the deep anxiety of love,
The measure of her joyous spirit full.

And such an one she found. One Sabbath eve
She sat within an ivied church hard by,
Beside her honored father, when the choir
Sang their last chant, and the deep organ-peal
Was dying through the twilight vault away;
When the set sun had thrown upon the broad
And checkered window one full saffron blaze,

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So that the pillars glittered, and the gold
And crimson of the pulpit tapestry
Shone like the clouds that curtained o'er the west,
And seemed to glow, as they were folds of fire
Hung round the dark blue mountains; when the light
Fell through the aisles, and glanced along the seats
So clear, the eye was dazzled, and all forms
Were half intensely bright, and half deep shade;—
Then, as the magic sunset, and the place
Hallowed to her pure spirit, and the sounds
Of closing melody, and the calm words,
That asked a blessing on the silent crowd,
Who listened to the prayer with breathless awe,—
As these came o'er her feelings with a charm
Of most delicious sweetness, when her soul
Caught part of the new energy abroad
In that deep-hallowed mansion, and was far
Ascending to the glory which pervades
The one Eternal Temple,—then her eye,
Living with her rapt spirit, chanced to fall
On the bright features of a noble youth,
Whose eye fell full on hers. As if a sense
Of kindred being had at once possessed
Their spirits, and a sacred fire informed
Their souls with one new life, they looked and loved.
It was the birth of passion;—there went forth
From each an influence, that as a chain
Linked their young hearts together. They would turn
Aside their eyes, but in an instant back
They glanced and met; and as they met, they fell
In deep confusion downward. Then their hearts
Beat throbbingly; a blush rose on their cheeks,
Flushing and fading like the changeful play
Of colors on a dolphin. Thus they looked
Few minutes, and then parted; but as back
They sauntered to their several homes, they turned
Momently to behold the lovely thing,
Which, once beloved, grew dearer every time
Their fond eyes met; and when they heard a sound

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From lips that long had trembled,—when the touch
Thrilled them, and tender words were given in fear,
So that the low voice quivered, and the words
Died half unfinished,—it was then beheld
As something more than mortal.

Love went on,
Day after day expanding, like the flower
That closes with the darkness, and awakes
When the new morn awakens. So their love
Caught new life from their often interviews,
And opened, and grew riper; their young hearts
Beat in a truer harmony the more
Their looks were blended, and their words exchanged.
So they passed on in love, a flowery path
Over a fragrant meadow, where all hues
Of loveliness were painted, and all airs
Of fragrance flowing. In the pure blue heaven,
Calm as a summer day, serenity
Smiled ever, and their hearts partook the calm
That reigned so bright around them. 'T was a time
Of Eden, such as soon will pass away,
And leave the storm behind it. Not for earth,
Not for the changeful beings who in sport
Or sorrow dwell amid its thorns and flowers,
Is this serenity a certain thing,
Above the reach of passion, or the clouds
That chill and darken. They had lived awhile
Most happy, in their pure and innocent love:
They were too young for evil; and they knew
But ill the feeling which pervaded them,
And drew them to each other's side, and made
Their hours of meeting ecstasy. Their play,
Their walks, their books, their talk of other days
And other nations, all that they had gleaned
From Nature and from man,—these had a zest,
Which they could ill account for; but they knew,
And keenly felt, its happiness. They looked
Affection, but they told it not: their love

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Was silent; it grew on through many years,
And ripened as the tender down of youth
Showed the approach of manhood. Then it spake,
And would not be denied. The quiet stream,
Which through its banks of velvet turf and flowers
Flowed in an unseen channel, with a voice
Low whispering o'er its smooth and sandy bed,—
This stream now gathered strength, and, checked and bound,
Rushed to its freedom;—it could not prevail.
The laws of honor, and the stern behest
Of a false order, chained them, and compelled
Their kindred spirits to a separate path,
And told them they must part, and meet no more.

Her life was humble, and her simple home
Showed little of the greatness which lay hid
Beneath so plain a shelter. Ivied walls,
And woodbines trained to overarch the doors
And windows; some few beds of summer flowers,
And a wild shrubbery, where neatness reigned,
And only checked the too luxuriant growth
Of Nature, but subdued it not; within,
A plain, well-ordered household, without show
Of wealth or fashion;—this concealed from all,
Who were not in the secret, what had marred
The peace of its possessor, and had drawn
The parasite and flatterer to disturb
The rest he sought so earnestly and long.
He found it, and was happy. He had marked
The growing fondness of these youthful ones,
And sometimes feared, but did not yet refuse
His sanction to their interviews. No sign
Of aught but common friendship yet had met
His watchful eye; but when he saw the flame
Come forth in energy, and at the time
When love is danger, and, if checked not, death,—
Then he was filled with fears, and well he knew,
Unless their fondness could be linked by law,

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In the pure bond of wedded love, that ruin
Would soon o'ertake them, and his treasured child
Be cast on the cold world, its sport and scorn
Therefore he sought the parents of the youth,
The high and lordly. In their castle hall
They met him, under frowning battlements,
Behind the high-arched gateway, in the midst
Of trophies and of pictures, which revealed
The greatness of their ancestry. Their pride
Was stung by the base offer, and they spurned
The good man from their presence, and pronounced
Their deepest malediction on their son,
If he should ever think of stooping down
From the high perch of his nobility,
To-woo and wed with plebeians, and those poor.

It soon was ended;—with the generous heart
Of a young noble, who has joined the pride
Of lofty birth with all the unchecked force
Of nature, he refused to bend his soul
To the stern mandates of society.
He loved,—loved keenly; and he could not bow
To what seemed tyranny, and so he sought
His wonted happiness, at least the bliss
Of mutual tears, and vows of tenderness,
Never to leave their loves, but always cling
To the fixed hope, that there should be a time
When they could meet unfettered, and be blessed
With the full happiness of certain love.
He sought his usual meeting, but he found
The welcome door closed on him, and was told,
He must away, for though his noble life,
Bright with its many virtues, and high deeds,
Had naught to alienate her father's heart,
Yet their unequal fortunes must for ever
Part them, and therefore he must not delay.
He turned with heavy heart, and slowly went,
With often pauses, to the sounding shore,
And, seated on a broken rock, looked long

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Over the far, blue waters. “I will go,”
He said, after long silence, “I will go
To other lands, and find in other worlds
Wherewith to quell this passion, if a love
So long and deeply cherished can be quelled
By time and change. There is no pleasure here;
The cold, dead-hearted nuptials, which the great
Seek, in their anxious longing to retain
The show of their once sure ascendency,
Made sure by personal greatness, and the sway
Of a high spirit, and a lofty mind
O'er meaner souls,—these are my deepest scorn,
My horror, and my loathing. I am one
Who find within me a nobility
That spurns the idle prating of the great,
And their mean boast of what their fathers were,
While they themselves are fools, effeminates,
The scorn of all who know the worth of mind
And virtue. I have cherished in my heart
A love for one whose beauty would have charmed
In Athens, and have won the sensual love
Of Eastern monarchs; but to the pure heart,
And the great soul within her, 't is to me
As nothing, and I know what 't is to love
A spiritual beauty, and behind the foil
Of an unblemished loveliness still find
Charms of a higher order, and a power
Deeper and more resistless. Had I found
Such thoughts and feelings, such a clear, deep stream
Of mind, in one whom vulgar men had thrown
As a dull pebble from them, I had loved,
Not with a love less fond, nor with a flame
Of less intense devotion. I must go;
I must forget. There is a sense of death
Comes o'er me, when I tear myself away
From one so bright and lovely. Had the sun
Set in an endless darkness, life had been
Not darker than the journey I must take
Alone, along a hard and thorny way,

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Where only interest rules, and faith and love
Are banished, and the cold and heartless crowd
Live, each the other's plunderer, as if life
Were only meant for rapine, and poor man
Were made to prey upon his kindred wretch.
But I must go;—only one short adieu,
Only a few fond words, a few dear looks,
One kiss at parting, and our hopes are ended.
We long have dreamed of happiness, long known
Joys which were more than mortal, long have felt
The bliss of mingled hearts and blended souls,
And long have thought the vision was eternal;
It vanishes, and I am now a wretch,
And what will be her sorrows, none can tell.”

The sun was setting, and his last rays threw
Bright colors on the clouds that hung around
The mountains, dimly rising in the west,
Over a broad expanse of sheeted gold,
On which a ship lay floating. It was calm,—
Her sails were set, but yet the dying wind
Scarce wooed them, as they trembled on the yard
With an uncertain motion. She arose,
As a swan rises on her gilded wings,
When on a lake at sunset she uprears
Her form from out the waveless stream, and steers
Into the far, blue ether,—so that ship
Seemed lifted from the waters, and suspended,
Winged with her bright sails, in the silent air.
A voice came from that ship, the voice of joy,
The song of a light heart, and it invoked
The coming of the breeze, to send them forth
Over the rolling ocean. He looked out
On the wide sea, and on the sheeted bay,
And on the rocking vessel; and at once
His purpose was resolved. He must away,
He must to other regions, and there strive
To conquer love so cherished. He drew out
His pencil, and then traced few hurried lines,

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Telling her of his absence, and his hope
Of happiness at his return, and yet
Ending it with a fear that he should never
Cross the wide waters to her. He too gave
His signal; if perchance a ship drew near,
And bore a pennon on the topmast yard,
White with a heart stamped on it, she might know
He was there, hastening home, and be prepared
To meet him, and be happy. This he took,
And up a narrow valley, hung with trees,
Whose roots clung to the rifted rock, whose boughs
Met, and o'erarched the glade,—along the bank
Of a clear stream, that calmly wound its way
Under this verdant canopy, and flowed
Through a fresh turf, and beds of scented flowers,—
Up this he took his path, and as he drew
Near to the garden wall, and stood with ear
Attentive to a sound, that came to him
On the still evening air as if a hymn
Were sung above the clouds, and floated down
Through mist and dews, and softly fell to earth,
Charming the ear of darkness, soon he saw
Beneath a vine bower, seated on a couch
Of closely matted turf, the tender girl,
Where all his wishes centred, and he drew
Silently through the thicket to her side.
She started first in fear, but when she saw
The well-known youth, she deeply blushed and smiled;
Then thinking of his banishment, she dropped
Warm tears of truest sorrow. He, with fond
And feeling voice, consoled her, and renewed
His oft repeated vows, and told of years
Of undisturbed affection,—how that time
And truth would conquer, and their love would be
Brighter by their affliction. Though his heart
Ached with the thought of parting, and was forced
Even to a stern composure, yet he smiled
To make her happy. “We must part awhile;

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I must go o'er the sea to other lands;
It is the call of duty; but fear not,
I shall return, and then our loves are sure.
Dream not of danger on the sea,—one Power
Protects us always, and the honest heart
Fears not the tempest. We must part awhile;
A few short months,—though short, they must be long
Without thy dear society; but yet
We must endure it, and our love will be
The fonder after parting,—it will grow
Intenser in our absence, and again
Burn with a keener glow when I return.
Fear not; this is my last resolve, and this
My parting kiss.” He put the folded lines
In her soft hand, and kissed her offered lips
Ardently, and then suddenly withdrew
From her embrace, and down the narrow vale
Fled on with hasty footsteps to the shore.
Along the beach he wandered, looking out
Upon the glorious sunset, which arrayed
All things in glory, painting them with gold
And deepest red and azure. Overhead
The sky was colored with a purest blue,
And there one star shone forth, the star of love,
His beacon; and it hung above the ship
As if it led him thither. He received
The omen, and went onward. Out at sea
The broad waves heaved, now blue, now green, now tipped
With a gilt foam, and on the unruffled bay
There was a circle round the setting sun
Of a most glittering gold; and as it spread
Farther and farther out, it changed its hue
To a clear, glassy silver, till it seemed
Thin air, and the far mountains hung above it
Suspended in the sky. They darkly frowned,
And their long shadows travelled o'er the bay,
As the sun sank still lower, while their ridge

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Glowed like a flaming furnace, and a line
Of mottled clouds, that rose behind them, streaming
Into the clear, cold north, was dyed with tints,
Like the new rainbow when it first comes out
From the dark bosom of the thunder-cloud,
And spans it with its beauty, or the hues
That veiled Aurora, when she first awoke
And sprang from darkness, and with saffron robe
And rosy fingers, drove her fiery car
On over Ida to the higher heaven.

He went amid these glorious things of earth,
Transient as glorious, and along the beach
Of snowy sands, and rounded pebbles, walked,
Watching the coming of the evening tide,
Rising with every ripple, as it kissed
The gravel with a softly gurgling sound,
And still advancing up the level shore,
Till, in his deep abstraction, it flowed round
His footprints, and awoke him. When he came
Where a long reef stretched out, and in its bays,
Scooped from the shelving rocks, received the sea,
And held it as a mirror deep and dark,
He paused, and standing then against the ship,
He gave his signal. Soon he saw on board
The stir of preparation; they let down
A boat, and soon her raised and dipping oars
Flashed in the setting light, and round her prow
The gilt sea swelled and crinkled, spreading out
In a wide circle; and she glided on
Smoothly, and with a whispering sound, that grew
Louder with every dipping of the oars,
Until she neared the reef, and sent a surge
Up through its coves, and covered them with foam.
He stepped on board, and soon they bore him back
To the scarce rocking vessel, where she lay
Waiting the night-wind. On the deck he sat,
And looked to one point only, save at times,
When his eye glanced around the mingled scene

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Of beauty and sublimity. Meanwhile
The sun had set, the painted sky and clouds
Put off their liveries, the bay its robe
Of brightness, and the stars were thick in heaven.
They looked upon the waters, and below
Another sky swelled out, thick set with stars,
And checkered with light clouds, which from the north
Came flitting o'er the dim-seen hills, and shot
Like birds across the bay. A distant shade
Dimmed the clear sheet; it darkened, and it drew
Nearer. The waveless sea was seen to rise
In feathery curls, and soon it met the ship,
And a breeze struck her. Quick the floating sails
Rose up and drooped again. The wind came on
Fresher; the curls were waves; the sails were filled
Tensely; the vessel righted to her course,
And ploughed the waters; round her prow the foam
Tossed, and went back along her polished sides,
And floated off, bounding the rushing wake,
That seemed to pour in torrents from her stern.
The wind still freshened, and the sails were stretched,
Till the yards cracked. She bent before its force,
And dipped her lee-side low beneath the waves.
Straight out she went to sea, as when a hawk
Darts on a dove, and with a motionless wing
Cuts the light, yielding air. The mountains dipped
Their dark walls to the waters, and the hills
Scarce reared their green tops o'er them. One white point,
On which a lighthouse blazed, alone stood out
In the broad sea, and there he fixed his eye,
Taking his last look of his native shore.
Night wore away, and still the wind blew strong,
And the ship ploughed the waves, which now were heaved
In high and rolling billows. All were glad,
And laughed and shouted as she darted on,

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And plunged amid the foam, and tossed it high
Over the deck, as when a strong, curbed steed
Flings the froth from him in his eager race.
All had been dimly star-lit, but the moon,
Late rising, silvered o'er the tossing sea
And lighted up its foam-wreaths, and just threw
One parting glance upon the distant shores.
They met his eye;—the sinking rocks were bright,
And a clear line of silver marked the hills,
Where he had said farewell. A sudden tear
Gushed, and his heart was melted; but he soon
Repressed the weakness, and he calmly watched
The fading vision. Just as it retired
Into the common darkness, on his eyes
Sleep fell, and with his looks turned to his home,
And, dearer than his home, to her he loved,
He closed them, and his thoughts were lost in dreams,
Bright and too glad to be realities.
Calmly he slept, and lived on happy dreams,
Till from the bosom of the boundless sea,
Now spreading far and wide without a shore,
The cloudless sun arose, and he awoke.

The sky was still serene, and from the bed
Of ocean darted forth the glowing sun,
And flashed along the waters. On they sailed:
The wind blew steady, and they saw that sun
Rise, and go down, and set, and still it blew
Freshly and calmly. They had left the shore
Long leagues behind them, and the mid-sea now
Bore them upon its bosom on their way
To lands where other flowers and other trees
Dress out the landscape, and where other men
Walk in the light of heaven. Thither he went,
And none knew, of his kindred, when or where
He had escaped them. They with anxious quest
Sought him, and after long and fruitless search
Believed him dead. Awhile they mourned his loss,
As great ones mourn, and then he passed away

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Into oblivion, and they filled his place
In their affections with a gilded toy,
And found their treasures ampler by his death.
Not so with her who loved him; when he fled,
She followed, but soon sank beneath the weight
Of deep and sudden sorrow. He had gone
Over the sea; had sought the dangerous wave,
And might be wrecked, or on some distant shore
Lingering a hopeless captive. To that point
Where the flag waved, she often bent her steps,
And gazed upon the ocean earnestly,
Watching each dim speck on the farthest verge
Of sight, and deeming every cloud a sail,
And every wreath of foam her lover's sign.
Two years had gone away, and she had thus
Sought the high cliff at morning, noon, and night,
And gazed in eager longing till her eye
Was fixed and glazed. Her cheek grew thin and pale;
Her form was wasted; and all knew that sorrow
Preyed on the blossom of her health, and ate
Her life away. A little while, and death
Would come to her deliverance. Little know
The cold, unfeeling crowd how strong the love,
The first, warm love of youth; how long it lives
Unfed and unrequited; how it bears
Absence and cruel scorn, and still looks calm
And patient on the eye that turns aside
And shows its studied coldness,—how much more
It burns and feeds upon the flame of life,
When it was fully met, and found a heart
As warm and ardent, and as bent to hers,
As hers to him. Youth is the time of love;
All other loves are lifeless, and but flowers
Wreathed round decay, and with a livid hue
Blowing upon a grave. The first, fresh love
Dies never wholly; it lives on through pain
And disappointment: often when the heart
Is crushed, and all its sympathies pressed out,
This lingers and awakens, and shines bright,

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Even on the borders of a wretched grave.
Unhappy he, who throws that gift away;
Unhappy he, who lets a tender heart,
Bound to him by the earliest ties of love,
Fall from him by his own neglect and die,
Because it met no kindness, and was spurned
Even in the earnest offer. Life soon fades,
And with it love; and when it once has faded,
There is no after bloom, no second spring.
“So passes in the passage of a day
The flower and verdure of our mortal life;
Nor, though the Spring renew her fruits and flowers,
Doth it renew its beauty, but it fades
Once and for ever. Let us pluck the rose
In the unclouded morning of this day,
Which soon will lose its bright serenity.
O, let us pluck the first blown rose of love;
Let us love now in this our fairest youth,
When love can find a full and fond return.”

One evening I had wandered by the shore,
Looking upon the ocean, as it lay
Spread in its beauty round me. 'T was a time
For spirits, all had such serenity.
Scarce had a cloud checkered the autumn sky,
That rose above me in a boundless arch
Of purest azure. All the woods were hung
With many tints, the fading livery
Of life, in which it mourns the coming storms
Of winter, and the quiet winds awoke
Faint dirges in their withered leaves, and breathed
Their sorrows through the groves. My heart felt soft
Under their tender influence. I seemed
A sharer in the grief of sighing winds
And whispering trees. I clomb the rock, and trod
The dying grass that grew upon its brow,
And gazed upon the ocean, now as bright

189

As in the freshest spring, unchangeable,
Always the same, or only to the force
Of calm and tempest yielding, never old,
And never fading; in its wildest storms
Soon to be calm, and when in sheeted light
Spread to the farthest circle of the sky,
Soon to obey the winds and wake in wrath.

I walked along that rock, and heard the waves
Chafing its foot, and saw the tossing foam
Playing in eddies round it. Then the tide
Had risen, and a wind came from the sea,
Curling the little waves, until they broke
In infant surges on the murmuring shore.
The sky grew dark; and, as I homeward turned,
I saw a woman sitting by the staff
On which the signal hung, with mantle wrapped
Close round her, and with eye intently fixed
On an approaching vessel, as it came
Quickly before the wind, and up the bay
Glided. She followed it with earnest look,
Until it turned a distant point, and drew
Dimly behind the hills, and vanished. Then
She turned again to sea, and long she looked
On the white curls of foam, as if she saw
A signal there; but yet there was no sail
On the dark waters. With a lingering foot
Back she retired, and, often turning, looked
Still earnestly abroad, and found no hope.
I saw her weep, and faintly hang her head,
As a pale lily hangs, when, filled with rain,
After long summer heat and heavy showers,
It bends upon its withered stalk, and sheds
The unwelcome moisture. Slowly she withdrew
Into a thicket, where a trodden path,
Her daily path, led to her father's home.

He saw her fading cheek; he knew the fire
That wasted her; and with a parent's love

190

He sought to heal her grief, but only made
The wound still deeper. Comfort cannot soothe
The heart, whose life is centred in the thought
Of happy loves once known, and still in hope
Living with a consuming energy.
He found remonstrance fruitless, reason vain;
And therefore, with a kindness which was wise,
He humored her, and let her seek that rock
Unchecked, and only watched, that naught of harm
Might meet her. So she sought it when the snow
Mantled it, and the sea was rudely lashed
By the cold north-wind; but a father's hand
Was near to guard her. It was now divined,
That he whom she had loved had crossed the sea,
And still was living, and would soon return.
Some then were joyous, not with unfeigned joy;
For when they told their hopes, that he would come
From his long wanderings home, they inly felt
A sorrow, which revealed itself, and checked
Often the words of comfort which they gave
To those who wept his loss sincerely, those
Who cannot conquer nature, which will make
A child for ever dear, and through the clouds,
That vice and selfish greatness cast around,
Sometimes will flash abroad, and be revealed.

Winter had passed away, and then Spring came,
Lovely as ever, with her crown of flowers,
And dress of verdure. She was decked with smiles,
And as she danced along the springing turf,
New flowers awoke to welcome her, and birds
Hailed her from bush and forest. Then the sea,
Girt by its greener shores, seemed rolling on
With brighter waves, and the sun sparkled there
With an unusual brilliancy. The earth
Was beautiful, and like the seat of Gods,
Or what we dream of Eden; and all hearts
Were sharers in its gladness. Bird and beast

191

Felt it, and, as they leaped, or as they flew,
They spake their joy; and even the voiceless woods,
Mute in themselves, were vocal with the winds,
And the low-murmuring breezes through their boughs
Seemed to speak out their still and quiet bliss.
All hearts were glad with the glad season. One
Alone knew naught of pleasure, and the smiles
Of others were a mockery to her,
And told her of the joy that once had been,
But was not, and she could not hope would be.
Hope, by too long deferring, had gone out,
And left her soul in darkness. Still she went
Daily to that one point, and there she gazed
Fixedly on the ocean, till her head
Grew dizzy, and her reason almost went;
And then she wandered home, and wept away
The fever of her brain. A woodbine grew
Over her window, and its leaves shut out
The light, and now its flowers were opening forth
Their sweetness, and the wind that entered there
Came loaded with its perfume. Once she loved
The tufted flowers, and she inhaled their breath
With a deep sense of gladness; but she now
Repelled it as a hateful thing, and wished
The vine were torn and scattered. Every year
A linnet came, and built her cup-like nest
Within that arbor, and she fed her young,
And sang them to their slumbers, and at dawn
Wakened them with her clear and lively note.
She fed the timid creature, till it grew
Familiar, and would sit upon her hand,
And pick the crumbs she gave it; but she now
Neglected it, and when it came, and sought
Her former kindness, she regarded not
Its fluttering and its song. Her heart was chilled
And dead to all its softer sympathies.
It cherished but one feeling,—hopeless love,
Love stronger by endurance, ever growing
With the decay of life and all its powers.

192

He had been wandering long, and found no rest.
Nothing could tear the image from his soul,
That dwelt there as an ever-present God,
Controlling all his being. He had seen
Nature in a new beauty; and a heart
Free from all other influence had swelled
Beneath the bright enchantment; but he looked
On all the fair variety around
With a cold eye, because he looked alone,
And felt that what he looked on was not seen
By one who had been ever in his walks,
As an attendant spirit, watching all
That lifted him, or soothed him, with a sense
Of kindred awe or pleasure. When alone,
He could not mingle with the glorious things
Of earth and heaven; he could not pass away
Into the open depths of the far sky,
And dwell among its many-colored forms
Of cloud and vapor, where they hung the arch,
As with imperial tapestry, and veiled
The throne of the Omnipotent. The Earth,
Now in its newest spring, all dressed with flowers,
And redolent of roses and of vines
From their wide purple beds, and sunward slopes,
Where the bee murmured, and the early dews
Soon rose in clouds of perfume, as the dawn
Came o'er the pine-clad mountains, and lit up
A world of present life and ancient ruin,
Where the rose bloomed as brightly, and the vine
Shot forth as heavy clusters, and full wreaths
Of ivy twined around each tottering pile,
And mantled arch and column, with its deep,
Luxuriant verdure; all that he beheld
Of ever-growing nature, and of man,
Whose works are fading, and when they decay
Have no restoring energy, but drop
Fragment by fragment into utter ruin,—
All that had waked in other hearts the love
Of ancient glory, and the proud resolve

193

To be, as they were, glorious, or had filled
The soul with sorrow, and the eyes with tears,
Over their fallen greatness, yet had made
This sorrow partly joyous, by the sight
Of a new life for ever springing round them,
And still as fresh and fragant as when first,
Bright from the quarry, their new temples stood
Proud in the sun, and lifted high their fronts
To the admiring eye of gods and men,—
This had to him no pleasure; he could not
Rase out the deep-fixed passion, which so long
Had been his daily happiness, and formed
And fashioned all his studies and his joys
To this one pure enjoyment. Earth was fair,
And Heaven was glorious, when he heard her say
They were thus fair and glorious; but alone,
They had no form nor color, and were lost
In one dim, melancholy hue of death.
And so with man,—he wandered through the crowd
In solitude, that coldest solitude,
Which tortures, while it chills us. They were gay
And busy, but he heeded not; the great
Rolled by him, and were noticed not; the poor
Pleaded, and yet he listened not;—one thought
Alone went with him, and all other things
Stirred round him like the shadows of a dream.
He would not linger thus; he looked to home,
And her who gave to home a double charm.
He was resolved, and soon again the sea
Received him; and for many days the sun
Beheld him steering to his native shore.

'T was a calm summer evening. One white sail
Moved on the silent water, motionless,
Scarce stealing to the shore. She watched that sail,
And followed it with an inquiring eye,
In every tack it took to catch the wind,
Fancying she saw the signal. Slowly on
It came. The glassy ocean seemed to change

194

At distance into air; and so the ship
Seemed moving like a bird along the sky.
Sometimes it stood athwart her, and the sails,
Hung loosely on the yards, seemed waving lines
Tinged with the sunset; and again it turned
With prow directed to her, and at once
The broad white canvas threw its silvery sheet
Full on her eye, and glittering in the west.
Nearer it came, but slowly; till at length
Its form was marked distinctly, and she caught
Eagerly, as it waved upon a yard
Near the main topmast, what her wearied eye
Had sought so long, and found not. It was there,—
The signal, one white pennon, with a heart
Stamped in its centre; and at once her joy
Was speechless and overflowing. Fixed, she looked
With trembling earnestness, and down her cheeks
The tears ran fast, and her scarce-moving lips
Had words without a voice. Thus she sat long,
Motionless in the fervor of her joy,
Absorbed in one emotion, which had bound
Her form unto her spirit, and had made
All other powers the ministers to thought.
They hurried through her mind, her first, fond love,
Its many pleasures, hours of early hope
Unclouded by the fear of coming ill,
And present happiness, which, like the dawn
In the sweet month of May, is full of life,
And yet serene and tranquil, budding out
With blossoms of futurity, and spreading
To the bright eye of Heaven the tender flowers,
Where the young fruit lies hidden, till the sun
Ripen it to its full maturity.
These hurried through her mind, and with them came
Long, anxious days, long days of bitterness,
Dark with the fears that weigh upon the heart
Whose love is young and tender, when the chance
Of sea or battle passes o'er the head
Of him who has the secret of her soul.

195

The sun was setting, and the dazzling orb
Sunk down behind the mountains, darting up
Long rays of golden light into the air,
Like glories round the sacred countenance
In one of Raphael's pictures. All was clear
But one dark cloud, which rose from out the point
Where the storm gathers after sultry days,
And launches forth the lightning. This heaved up
Its dusky billows, and their tips were tinged
With a bright flame, while all below was dark
Fearfully, and it swelled before the wind,
Like the strong canvas of a gallant ship
Standing before the tempest. It just crowned
The hill at sunset; but it now came on,
First slowly, till it rose upon the air,
Frowning, and threw its shadow o'er the earth,
And flashed intensely; then it seemed to move
With a new pace, and every instant swept
Still farther on the sky, and sent its voice
Deep-roaring with the mingled sound of winds
Amid the shaken forests, and the peals
Re-echoed from the mountains. Now the sea
Darkened beneath its shadow, and it curled
Without a breath, as if it shook in fear
Before the coming tempest. She looked wild,
First on the cloud, then on the ship, which now
Steered to a cove behind a sandy point,
On which the lighthouse stood, but yet the winds
Were light and baffling, and against her course;
And so the sails flapped loosely, and she rocked
Motionless on the crisping waves, and lay
Waiting, a victim, for the threatening storm.
Then, as she looked with an intenser gaze,
She saw the sweeps put out, and every arm
Strained to the effort, but their strength availed not
To send them to a haven. Then her heart
Sank, and her hopes were darkened, till her form
Shook with her fears. The clouds rolled on the wind
In mingling billows, and the lightnings leaped

196

From point to point; then in an instant burst
The thunder-crash, and one undying roar
Filled the wide air. At last the cold wind came,
And the flag streamed and quivered, and her robes
Flew lightly round her. First, short broken waves
Rose on the bay; their tops were white with foam,
And on they hurried, like the darting flight
Of sea-mews when they fly before the storm.
She looked upon the ship; all hands aloft
Took in the sails, and scarcely were they furled,
When the blast struck her. To its force she bowed,
And as the waves rose now with mountain swell,
Upward she sprang, and then she rushed away
Into the gulfy waters. Now the storm
Stood o'er her, and the rain and hail came down
In torrents. All was darkness; through the air
The gushing clouds streamed onward, and they took
The nearest headlands from her straining sight,
And made the sea invisible, but when
A flash revealed it, and she saw the surge
Pouring upon the rocks below, all foam
And fury. What a mingled sound above,
Around her, and beneath her! One long peal
Seemed to pervade the heavens; and one wide rush
Of winds and rain poured by her; and the sound
Of the dashed billows on the rocks below
Rang like a knell. No vessel met her then;
They lit the signal lamp, she saw it not;
They fired the gun, but in the louder roar
Of waters it was drowned, and they were left
Alone to struggle with the warring waves.
A cry went forth, “A ship was on the rocks!”
And hundreds crowded to the shore to aid
The suffering crew, and fires were kindled there,
But all availed not,—not a man was saved.
The storm went swiftly by; and soon the winds
Subsided, and the western sky shone out,
And light glanced o'er the waters. On a reef,
That stretched from off the cliffs along that shore,

197

The broken wreck lay scattered; and at last
One and another corse came floating up,
But none were saved. They wandered o'er the sands;
And here a bale lay stranded, there an oar,
And there a yard. Just as the cloud had flown
Over the zenith, and the moon shone out
From its dark bosom, she went down the rocks,
And bent her trembling steps along the shore.

The moon looked out in sadness, and her light
Threw a faint glimmering on the broken waves,
And paled the dying watch-fires, as they fell
Flickering away, and showed the fearful looks
Of those who watched the wreck, and stood to save.
The waves still rolled tremendously, and burst
Loud thundering on the rocks: they tossed the foam
High up the hills, and ploughed the moving sands,
Sweeping the fragments forth, then rushing back
With a devouring strength, that cleared the shore.
The west shone fair; the evening star was bright,
And many glittering stars were gathering round,
Set in a deep, dark blue. The distant hills
Showed faintly, and long wreaths of mist arose
Curling around their sides, like cottage smoke
Sent from the hidden valley in the dawn.
O'er all the moon presided, and her face,
Though clear, was darkened, and it filled the heart
Of the beholder with a silent awe,
And a cold, heavy sadness. On the sea
Her light descended, and a silver wake
Came from beneath her onward to the shore,
Crossing the bursting waves. The cloud still lay
Dark-rolling in the east, and often sent
Pale flashes forth; and still the thunder growled
Fainter and fainter, as the storm moved on
Over the distant ocean. There the moon
Lit a faint bow, that spanned the cloud, and seemed
Just fading into darkness. All was still,
But the contending waters, and the drops,

198

Now trickling from the forest leaves, were heard
Pattering upon the grass; and as a sign
That a sure calm had come, the fire-fly lit
Its lamp along the meadows, and the chirp
Of the green locust from the thicket told
How tranquil was the air. A solemn fear
Went through the hearts of all, as they surveyed
The corpses, but their faces all were strange.
They took them from the beach, and decently
Conveyed them to a shelter, there to wait
The last sad offices. Alone she went
Still farther on the shore, until she came
Where a long reef stood out, on which the ship
Was broken; and the very reef where he
First went on board, despairing and resolved.
One feeling led her onward, and sustained
Her wasted body (which was sinking fast
Beneath the desperate conflict) with the strength
Of madness, and her easy steps betrayed not
The woe that wrung within her. She had seen
Her lover standing far upon that reef;
Had seen the boat go there, and bear him off,
And as the ship went out to sea had fainted.
Therefore she sought that reef, with a wild hope—
Such often tokens madness—that she there
Might find him safely rescued. She now stood
On the projecting rocks, and as she threw
Her dark eye downward to a glimmering cove,
She saw him. Lifted by the swelling wave,
He seemed yet living, and a shrill laugh told
Her glad but wandering spirit. Down she leaped
And clasped him;—he was motionless and cold.
She kissed him, but he opened not his eyes,
And smiled not. Then she spake the much-loved name,
With an endearing tone, but none replied.
“Art thou not living? Thou wert once so kind,
Thy smile so happy, and thy kiss so warm!
But thou art cold now, and thine eye darts not

199

Upon me, as it wont to do; thy lips
Move not, thou hast no voice, no welcome for me.”
She raised her head, and as she caught the moon
Half veiled in vapor, from her glassy eye
The tears stole down, and with a quivering voice,
Faint as a night-wind through the falling leaves
In autumn, “It is over then,” she spake;
“The dream is over; he indeed is wrecked,
As I had fancied long; he cannot wake;
This is not sleep; there is no life-blood here;
No flush upon his forehead; he is cold,
And will not wake again. He said to me,
Farewell, perhaps for ever;—O, too true
The last fond words at parting!—but for ever—
Ah, no!—I meet him,—I have lingered long,—
He calls me on my journey,—he awaits me,
And why do I delay?—I come, my love;—
Only a moment, and I come, my love.”
Suddenly she sprang forth, with outstretched arms,
And a wild look, that told there was no hope;
A few short steps, she paused, and then sank down,
As a flower sinks upon the new-mown turf,
Beautiful even in death. They came, and raised
The dying girl. Her loose locks floated wide;
And on her slender neck her languid head
Drooped, and her eyes were closed. Her lips still moved
With the last breath, and then were still. At once
Her madness was no more. A tender smile
Played round her, and her looks were full of love
And gentleness, such as when first she met,
And first awoke his love. She long had borne
The conflict, and with desperate energy
Been nerved to all endurance; but this shock
Subdued her, and her spirit had departed,
And well they knew its passage was in peace.
They both were buried, where they first had met,
Beneath one stone, and they were wept by all.
A willow grows above them, with its boughs

200

Drooping, as if in sorrow; and at night
A sweet bird sings there, and the village girls
Say 't is a spirit's voice. They dress that grave
Each Sabbath-day with roses; and they strew
Fresh violets there on May-day, and then sing
A simple tale of true love, till their hearts
Are swelling, and their cheeks are bathed in tears.
Love knows no rank, and when two hearts would meet
On earth, but cannot, they will meet in Heaven.
All hearts that love are equal in the grave.

“Cosi trapassa al trapassar d' un giorno,” &c.— Tasso.

201

THE DREAM OF A DAY, AND OTHER POEMS. FIRST PUBLISHED IN 1843.

205

THE DREAM OF A DAY.

In silent gloom the world before me lay,
In deepest night embosomed it reposed;
All genial hues of life had passed away,
In sleep profound the eye of day had closed;
Beamed through the voiceless calm no fitful ray,
Great Nature's heart to stillness all composed;
Oblivious dreams alone were moving there,
Like soft wings fanning light the summer air.

Meseemed a rustling plume was hovering o'er me,—
Unwonted yearnings thronged around my heart;
A spirit, half unseen, stood dim before me;—
I caught the vision with unconscious start,
And suddenly a shadowy grasp upbore me,
Swift as the glancing of a feathered dart,
Gently as stream of air through darkness gliding,
Then softly as on pillowed down subsiding.

206

Silence was broken, as my flight descended;—
A whispered tone of most Æolian sweetness,
Where many voices seemed accordant blended
All to a dulcet swell of full completeness,
Breathing as if by golden harps attended,
Now lingering slow, now waked to magic fleetness,
Heaved now in solemn surge, now faintly falling,
Like voice of love in airy distance calling.

Again all laid in deeper calm, as when
The midnight storm, far o'er the hills departing,
Murmurs in echoes lightly first, and then
Whispers its soft farewell, the spirit starting
At the still hush that follows, or as when pain,
Like flashes through the frame intensely darting,
Yields to a soothing balm, how blest reposes
The heart, and slumber sweet the eyelid closes.

All lay a void before me, when afar
Just gleamed, as moonlight through a rifted cloud,
A tremulous ray, fainter than smallest star
Quivering through haze, and dim as spectre shroud
Floating in night of caves, while round the air
Gathered intenser gloom: as ocean, ploughed
By gliding keel, trembles in liquid light,
So dawned that ray forth from profoundest night.

Slowly it dawned, and images arose
From out the void, as worlds from chaos born,
Hovering like phantoms o'er a stream that flows
Deep under veil of mist in earliest morn:
As leafy boughs, when fresh the zephyr blows,
Shift in the wave, or on the dew-bright thorn
Quick rainbows dance, uncertain so they played,
And half unveiled, amid that world of shade.

207

Then from the abyss, as pillared flame ascending,
Upstreamed a fuller day, and widely rolled
Its kindling light, distincter being lending
To what seemed shadowy dreams; its iris fold
Turned slowly back the night, in vain contending
Before its fulgent arms: first silvery cold
They gleamed, then warm and golden glowed before me;
Earth smiled around, and heaven's blue glittered o'er me.

A scene of orient pomp, where lay united
In loved embrace the vivid and the tender,—
Temple and tower, by self-effulgence lighted,
Streaming through clustered palms their magic splendor,—
Column, the fervent pilgrim hailed delighted,
Reared to his country's saviour and defender,—
Palace, whose thousand windows, ruby-flashing,
Tinted the fountain o'er its terrace dashing.

Again in classic beauty still reposing,
A soft Ionian sky above it swelling,—
Long flowery vales in gentle vistas closing,—
Peaks snowy pure, dark summits cloud-compelling,—
Smooth marble hills, the wandering bee composing
To nectared sleep,—rocks, the mysterious dwelling
Of prescient god,—bright city, fitly moulded,
Round lofty fane and citadel enfolded.

Again wild nature,—Alp on Alp uplifted,
Shooting into the heaven in pointed pride,—
Rose-tinted snows, blue, glassy torrents rifted
Deep to dark night,—dim gorges yawning wide
'Mid jetty crags, o'er which the cat'ract, drifted
In surging foam, heaved broad its thund'ring tide,—
Far glimpses through rude glens to lake and stream
Reposing peacefully, as in a dream.

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And then a pastoral scene of my own land,—
Groves darkly green, white farms, and pastures gay
With golden flowers,—brooks stealing over sand
Or smooth-worn pebbles, murmuring light away,—
Blue rye-fields, yielding to the gentle hand
Of the cool west-wind,—scented fields of hay,
Falling in purple bloom,—free hearts that feel
Their being doubled in their country's weal.

And there my heart reposed, as mother yearning
Over her cradled infant, sweetly smiling
In innocent dreams,—its rose lip lightly turning
In slumbering joy, some shape of love beguiling
Its quiet soul to bliss; so I, discerning
Those scenes where erst my happy spirit, whiling
In sportful peace life's dawn away, yet knew
No griefs that wring, felt life revived anew.

Beneath a broad-crowned oak, on sloping hill
O'erlooking wide the lovely region round,
On soft, thick turf I lay: the air was still;
Distinctly heard was each remotest sound,
The clacking wheel in cornfield, at the mill
The circling plash, and far the faint rebound
Of low and bleat from mountain-side, the stir
Of insect swarms, the drone bee's hum and swirr.

The sun rolled on to noon: through the light leaves
Scarce quivering in the tremulous air, the blue
Of heaven looked gently, as when fondly weaves
Young love its tenderest smile, while trembling through
Checked tears—for even when blest it inly grieves
Unconscious—darts its glance, as light through dew.
In the cool shade I lay, while o'er the ground
Waved the warm undulations wide around.

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Half slumbering I lay:—then as a veil
Fell the faint lid, and dim the scene afar
Floated in magic shade: the freshening gale,
Breathed from the rolling sea, then stirred the air
And whispering softly, as the fond heart's tale
Told in the twilight dusk, awoke me there
With its cool kisses; low the sun descending
With the blue mountain haze was richly blending.

Evening came on apace: in full-orbed glory
The sun drew to his couch,—through vistaed trees
He glided,—flashing broad and full he wore a
Look of unwonted joy, for rest and ease
After his day of toil,—far clouds hung hoary
Along the east, then kindled by degrees
As slow he sunk,—fresh bloomed the aerial rose,
While streamed the west, as gushing furnace glows.

Twilight erelong to solemn darkness faded:
The wide funereal flame grew amber clear,
And, ever lower sinking, softly shaded
Its light with mellower tints; round the wide sphere
A belt of palest violet was braided,
Pale as the flower we scatter on the bier;
This died away, and one by one on high
The stars took up their night-watch in the sky.

I sat amid the darkness, and above
The oak looked spectrally, while every star
Hung o'er me like a messenger of love,
Herald of some fair world, if world more fair
Than this brave earth has being; as a dove
Hovering suspended in the summer air,
Peace brooded with light wings, the voiceless sleep
Of tired hearts beating low in slumber deep.

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A spirit stood before me, half unseen,
Majestic and severe, yet o'er him played
A genial light;—subdued though high his mien,
As by a strong, collected spirit swayed,—
In even balance justly poised between
Each wild extreme, proud strength by feeling stayed,—
Dwelling in upper realms serenely bright,
Lifted above the shadowy sphere of night.

He stood before me, and I heard a tone,
Such as from mortal lips had never flowed,
Soft, yet commanding, gentle, yet alone
It bowed the listener's heart;—anon it glowed
Intensely fervent, then, like wood-notes thrown
On the chance winds, in airy lightness rode,—
Now swelled like ocean surge, now pausing fell
Like the last murmur of a muffled bell.

“Lone pilgrim through life's gloom,” thus spake the shade,
“Hold on with steady will along thy way:
Thou by a kindly favoring hand wert made:
Hard though thy lot, yet thine what can repay
Long years of bitter toil,—the holy aid
Of spirit aye is thine, be that thy stay:
Thine to behold the true, to feel the pure,
To know the good and lovely,—these endure.

“Hold on,—thou hast in thee thy best reward;
Poor are the largest stores of sordid gain,
If from the heaven of thought the soul is barred,
If the high spirit's bliss is sought in vain:
Think not thy lonely lot is cold or hard,
The world has never bound thee with its chain;
Free as the birds of heaven thy heart can soar,
Thou canst create new worlds,—what wouldst thou more?

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“The future age will know thee,—yea, even now
Hearts beat and tremble at thy bidding, tears
Flow as thou movest thy wand, thy word can bow
Even ruder natures, the dull soul uprears
As thou thy trumpet-blast attunest,—thou
Speakest, and each remotest valley hears;
Thou hast the gift of song,—a wealth is thine,
Richer than all the treasures of the mine.

“Hold on,—glad spirits company thy path,—
They minister to thee, though all unseen;
Even when the tempest lifts its voice in wrath,
Thou joyest in its strength; the orient sheen
Gladdens thee with its beauty; winter hath
A holy charm that soothes thee, like the green
Of infant May,—all nature is thy friend,
All seasons to thy life enchantment lend.

“Man too thou know'st and feelest,—all the springs
That wake his smile and tear, his joy and sorrow,
All that uplifts him on emotion's wings,
Each longing for a fair and blest to-morrow,
Each tone that soothes or saddens, all that rings
Joyously to him, thou canst fitly borrow
From thy own breast, and blend it in a strain,
To which each human heart beats back again.

“Thine the unfettered thought, alone controlled
By Nature's truth; thine the wide-seeing eye,
Catching the delicate shades, yet apt to hold
The whole in its embrace,—before it lie
Pictured in fairest light, as chart unrolled,
Fields of the present and of destiny:
The voice of Truth amid the senseless throng
May now be lost; 't is heard and felt erelong.

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“Hold on,—live for the world,—live for all time;—
Rise in thy conscious power, but gently bear
Thy form among thy fellows; sternly climb
The spirit's alpine peaks; 'mid snow towers there
Nurse the pure thought, but yet accordant chime
With lowlier hearts in valleys green and fair.
Sustain thyself,—yield to no meaner hand,
Even though he rule awhile thy own dear land.

“Brief is his power; oblivion waits the churl
Bound to his own poor self; his form decays,
But sooner fades his name. Thou shalt unfurl
Thy standard to the winds of future days;—
Well mayest thou in thy soul defiance hurl
On such who would subdue thee; thou shalt raise
Thy name, when they are dust, and nothing more:
Hold on,—in earnest hope still look before.

“Nerved to a stern resolve, fulfil thy lot,—
Reveal the secrets Nature has unveiled thee;
All higher gifts by toil intense are bought;—
Has thy firm will in action ever failed thee?
Only on distant summits fame is sought;—
Sorrow and gloom thy nature has entailed thee,
But bright thy present joys, and brighter far
The hope that draws thee like a heavenly star.”

The voice was still;—its tone in distance dying
Breathed in my ear, like harp faint heard at even,
Soft as the autumn wind through sere leaves sighing,
When flaky clouds athwart the moon are driven.
Far through the viewless gloom the spirit flying,
Winged his high passage to his native heaven,
But o'er me still he seemed in kindness bending,
Fresh hope and firmer purpose to me lending.

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GENIUS WAKING.

Slumber's heavy chain hath bound thee,—
Where is now thy fire?
Feebler wings are gathering round thee,—
Shall they hover higher?
Can no power, no spell recall thee
From inglorious dreams?
O, could glory so appall thee
With his burning beams?

Thine was once the highest pinion
In the midway air;
With a proud and sure dominion,
Thou didst upward bear:
Like the herald, winged with lightning,
From the Olympian throne,
Ever mounting, ever brightening,
Thou wert there alone.

Where the pillared props of heaven
Glitter with eternal snows,
Where no darkling clouds are driven,
Where no fountain flows,—
Far above the rolling thunder,
When the surging storm
Rent its sulphury folds asunder,
We beheld thy form.

O, what rare and heavenly brightness
Flowed around thy plumes,
As a cascade's foamy whiteness
Lights a cavern's glooms;—
Wheeling through the shadowy ocean,
Like a shape of light,
With serene and placid motion,
Thou wert dazzling bright.

From that cloudless region stooping,
Downward thou didst rush,

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Not with pinion faint and drooping,
But the tempest's gush;—
Up again undaunted soaring,
Thou didst pierce the cloud,
When the warring winds were roaring
Fearfully and loud.

Where is now that restless longing
After higher things?
Come they not, like visions, thronging
On their airy wings?
Why should not their glow enchant thee
Upward to their bliss?
Surely danger cannot daunt thee
From a heaven like this.

But thou slumberest;—faint and quivering
Hangs thy ruffled wing,
Like a dove's in winter shivering,
Or a feebler thing.
Where is now thy might and motion,
Thy imperial flight?
Where is now thy heart's devotion,
Where thy spirit's light?

Hark! his rustling plumage gathers
Closer to his side,
Close, as when the storm-bird weathers
Ocean's hurrying tide;—
Now his nodding beak is steady,
Wide his burning eye,—
Now his opening wings are ready,
And his aim—how high!

Now he curves his neck, and proudly—
Now is stretched for flight;—
Hark! his wings—they thunder loudly,
And their flash—how bright!
Onward—onward, over mountain,
Through the rack and storm,
Now like sunset over fountain
Flits his glancing form.

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Glorious bird! thy dream has left thee,
Thou hast reached thy heaven;—
Lingering slumber hath not reft thee
Of the glory given;—
With a bold, a fearless pinion,
On thy starry road,
None, to fame's supreme dominion,
Mightier ever trode.

TO THE EAGLE.

Bird of the broad and sweeping wing!
Thy home is high in heaven,
Where wide the storms their banners fling,
And the tempest clouds are driven.
Thy throne is on the mountain-top;
Thy fields the boundless air;
And hoary peaks, that proudly prop
The skies, thy dwellings are.

Thou sittest, like a thing of light,
Amid the noontide blaze;
The midway sun is clear and bright,—
It cannot dim thy gaze.
Thy pinions, to the rushing blast
O'er the bursting billow spread,
Where the vessel plunges, hurry past,
Like an angel of the dead.

Thou art perched aloft on the beetling crag,
And the waves are white below,
And on, with a haste that cannot lag,
They rush in an endless flow.
Again thou hast plumed thy wing for flight
To lands beyond the sea,
And away like a spirit wreathed in light,
Thou hurriest wild and free.

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Thou hurriest over the myriad waves,
And thou leavest them all behind;
Thou sweepest that place of unknown graves,
Fleet as the tempest wind.
When the night-storm gathers dim and dark,
With a shrill and a boding scream,
Thou rushest by the foundering bark,
Quick as a passing dream.

Lord of the boundless realm of air!
In thy imperial name
The hearts of the bold and ardent dare
The dangerous path of fame.
Beneath the shade of thy golden wings,
The Roman legions bore,
From the river of Egypt's cloudy springs,
Their pride, to the polar shore.

For thee they fought, for thee they fell,
And their oath was on thee laid:
To thee the clarions raised their swell,
And the dying warrior prayed.
Thou wert, through an age of death and fears,
The image of pride and power,
Till the gathered rage of a thousand years
Burst forth in one awful hour.

And then, a deluge of wrath it came,
And the nations shook with dread;
And it swept the earth, till its fields were flame,
And piled with the mingled dead.
Kings were rolled in the wasteful flood,
With the low and crouching slave;
And together lay, in a shroud of blood,
The coward and the brave.

And where was then thy fearless flight?
“O'er the dark, mysterious sea,
To the lands that caught the setting light,
The cradle of liberty.

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There, on the silent and lonely shore,
For ages I watched alone,
And the world, in its darkness, asked no more,
Where the glorious bird had flown.

“But there came a bold and hardy few,
And they breasted the unknown wave;
I caught afar the wandering crew,
And I knew they were high and brave.
I wheeled around the welcome bark,
As it sought the desolate shore,
And up to heaven, like a joyous lark,
My quivering pinions bore.

“And now that bold and hardy few
Are a nation wide and strong,
And danger and doubt I have led them through,
And they worship me in song;
And over their bright and glancing arms,
On field and lake and sea,
With an eye that fires, and a spell that charms,
I guide them to victory.“

SENECA LAKE.

One evening in the pleasant month of May,
On a green hillock swelling from the shore
Above thy emerald wave, when the clear west
Was all one sheet of light, I sat me down,
Wearied, yet happy. I had wandered long,
That bright, fair day; and all the way my path
Was tended by a warm and soothing air,
That breathed like bliss; and round me all the woods
Opened their yellow buds, and every cottage
Was bowered in blossoms, for the orchard trees
Were all in flower. I came, at close of day,
Down to thy brink, and it was pleasure there
To bathe my dripping forehead in thy cool,
Transparent waters. I refreshed me long

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With the bright sparkling stream, and from the pebbles,
That bedded all thy margin, singled out
Rare casts of unknown shells, from off thy cliffs
Broken by wintry surges. Thou wert calm,
Even as an infant calm, that gentle evening;
And one could hardly dream thou 'dst ever met
And wrestled with the storm. A breath of air,
Felt only in its coolness, from the west
Stole over thee, and stirred thy golden mirror
Into long waves, that only showed themselves
In ripples on thy shore,—far distant ripples,
Breaking the silence with their quiet kisses,
And softly murmuring peace. Up the green hillock
I mounted languidly, and at the summit
On the new grass reposed, and saw that evening
Fade sweetly over thee.
Far to the south
Thy slumbering waters floated, one long sheet
Of burnished gold,—between thy nearer shores
Softly embraced, and melting distantly
Into a yellow haze, embosomed low
'Mid shadowy hills and misty mountains, all
Covered with showery light, as with a veil
Of airy gauze. Beautiful were thy shores,
And manifold their outlines, here up-swelling
In bossy green,—there hung in slaty cliffs,
Black as if hewn from jet, and overtopped
With the dark cedar's tufts, or new-leaved birch,
Bright as the wave below. How glassy clear
The far expanse! Beneath it all the sky
Swelled downward, and its fleecy clouds were gay
With all their rainbow fringes, and the trees
And cliffs and grassy knolls were all repeated
Along the uncertain shores,—so clearly seen
Beneath the invisible transparency,
That land and water mingled, and the one
Seemed melting in the other. O, how soft
Yon mountain's heavenly blue, and all o'erlaid
With a pale tint of roses! Deep between

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The ever-narrowing lake, just faintly marked
By its reflected light, and farther on
Buried in vapory foam, as if a surf
Heaved on its utmost shore. How deep the silence!
Only the rustling boughs, the broken ripple,
The cricket and the tree-frog, with the tinkle
Of bells in fold and pasture, or a voice
Heard from a distant farm, or hollow bay
Of home-returning hound,—a virgin land
Just rescued from the wilderness, still showing
Wrecks of the giant forest, yet all bright
With a luxuriant culture, springing wheat,
And meadows richly green,—the blessed gift
Of liberty and law. I gazed upon them,
And on the unchanging lake, and felt awhile
Unutterable joy,—I loved my land
With more than filial love,—it was a joy
That only spake in tears.
With early dawn
I woke, and found the lake was up before me,
For a fresh, stirring breeze came from the south,
And all its deep-green waves were tossed and mingled
Into a war of foam. The new-risen sun
Shone on them, as if they were worlds of stars,
Or gems, or crystals, or some other thing
Sparry and flashing bright. A gentle murmur,
A roar scarce uttered, like a voice of mirth
Amid the dancing waters, blended well
With the Æolian whispering of boughs
In a wide grove of pines. The fields and woods
Were sparkling all with dew, and curling smoke
Rose from the cottage fires;—the robin, too,
And the brown thrush, and other birds concealed
Amid the half-blown thickets, joyously
Poured out their morning songs, and thus attended,
I wandered by the shore. O, it was pleasant
To feel the dashing of the dewy spray
Rain on my forehead, and to look between
Long crests of foam, into an unknown depth

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Of deepest green, and then to see that green
Soft changing into snow. Over this waste
Of rolling surges, on a lofty bank,
With a broad surf beneath it, brightly shone
White roofs and spires, and gilded vanes, and windows,
Each like a flame,—thy peaceful tenements,
Geneva, aptly named; for not the walls
By the blue, arrowy Rhone, nor Leman's lake,
With all its vineyard shores and mouldering castles,
Nor even its shaggy mountains, nor above
Its world of Alpine snows,—these are not more
Than thou, bright Seneca, whether at peace,
As I at evening met thee, or this morning,
Tossed into foam. Thou too shalt have thy fame:
Genius shall make thy hills his home, and here
Shall build his airy visions,—bards shall come,
And fondly sing thee,—pilgrims too shall haunt
Thy sacred waters, and in after ages,
O, may some votary sit on the hillock,
At evening, by thy shore!

LAYS OF THE SEASONS.

SPRING.

Come to my festival! Come to my festival!
This is the first day of May;
The sun is rejoicing alone in heaven;
The clouds have all hurried away.
Down in the meadow the blossoms are waking,
Light on their twigs the young leaves are shaking;
Round the warm knolls the lambs are a-leaping,
The colt from his fold o'er the pasture is sweeping;
And on the bright lake the little waves break,
For there the cool west is at play.
Come to my festival! Come to my festival!
This is the first day of May.

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Come to my festival! Come to my festival!
Lose not so happy a day:
The maidens are pranking their locks with flowers,
And donning their proudest array.
Over the mountain the south-wind is rolling,
And tossing its forest in billows,
Through orchard and vineyard and garden strolling,
And whispering among the green willows.
Then mount the plumed bonnet, with true-love knots on it,
Haste hither!—O, how can ye stay?
Come to my festival! Come to my festival!
This is the first day of May.

SUMMER.

Golden is the harvest field,
Bright the sky above,
And its orb a burning shield
On the arm of Jove;
Hot the wearied reaper toils
Till the day is done,
And the flashing ocean boils
Round the setting sun.
O, some cool, some midnight cave
By the rushing river,
There my beating pulse to lave,
Sleep and dream for ever!

All are now in serious strife,
Gathering in their grain;
'T is their being, hope, and life:—
Hark! the hurrying wain,—
No! the distant thunder peal,
Rolling from the hills:—
See the eddying tempest wheel!
How it swells and stills!
High above its brazen van
Juts—behind it roars
Wind, hail, thunder;—what is man,
When the deluge pours!

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AUTUMN.

My horn is overflowing,
My fruits all red,
And not a wind is blowing,
But sweets have fed.
The vineyard slope is gushing
With purple wine,
And amber streams are rushing
From every vine.
Near hill to far blue mountain,
Low vale and plain,
Wild lake and rock-built fountain,
My song of joy repeat again.

Young girls beside their lovers
Now pluck the vine,—
Its yellow foliage covers
Love's softest twine.
With loaded baskets reeling,
They home return;
And when the dance is wheeling,
Black eyes—they burn.
Io, Io triumphe!
The pæans swell;
And now their nectar flowing,
That gush of joy, O, who can tell!

WINTER.

Below me rings the lake,
The stars above me burn,
Away the skaters break,
And glide and wheel and turn;
Keen blows the cutting north,
Against the wind they drive,
And as they hurry forth,
The air is all alive.

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Shout and carol, jest and boast,
So they sound along;
Send thy keenest arrows, Frost!
We will give thee song.

The east is growing bright,
The crystal forest flashes,
And in the dawning light,
Like gold the cascade dashes.
The rainbow spans the sky,
But all her proudest show,
Her deepest tinctures die
Before the pomp below.
Rock and river, tree and fountain,
Glitter thick with gems;
Rolling hill and craggy mountain
Glow like diadems.

THE LIGHT GUITAR.

The light guitar, the light guitar!
I hear its tinkling sound afar,
Where underneath the evening star
The dance is wheeling;
And many a laugh, and many a shout,
The busy echoes toss about,
Till joyous with the merry rout
The hills are pealing.

The light guitar,—I know it well;
I heard it first when evening fell
Around the vine-embowered well
By Rhone's broad river.
Joy to thy valleys, gay Provence!
Thou sunny paradise of France;
Carols at eve, and song and dance,
Are thine for ever.

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The light guitar,—it sends me where
A living glory fills the air,
And all of gay and bright and fair
Is full to flowing.
Below me sleeps the purple sea,
Above me clouds of amber flee,
And gold on every tower and tree
And spire is glowing.

The light guitar,—its warning sound
Maiden and youth are thronging round,
With song and shout, and leap and bound,—
No dream of sorrow.
Away with grief, away with care!
Glad thoughts alone are welcome there;
They care not, if or dark or fair
May rise the morrow.

Then glory to the light guitar,—
Its holiest time the evening star,
When liquid voices echo far
By rock and river.
O, might such heavenly nights be mine,
Where overhead the rambling vine
Lets quivering through the bright moonshine,
By Rhone for ever!

THE VINTAGE DANCE.

Come, the dance, the dance!
Night is nigh us:
How the shades advance!
Soon joy will fly us:
Be happy while we may;
Dull cares, away, away!
Be only song and play,
As time speeds by us.

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Our vintage all is in;
Our vats o'erflowing;—
Now wake the merry din,
Eyes, cheeks, all glowing.
We owe the generous vine
A pledge of best old wine,
And clustering ivy's twine,
And flowers new blowing.

Pluck, pluck the autumn flowers,
And deftly twine them;—
Maidens, in lonely hours,
May then divine them:
One, with its eye of blue,
Shall tell the heart is true;
Another, blushing new,
Softly incline them.

Then wheel the dance, the dance,
Around the fountain;—
The satyrs hear, and prance
On ivied mountain;
The fauns come stealing nigh,
And roll the roguish eye,
Quick mischief in it:—
Back to your craggy wood!
The maiden's heart is good;
Ye cannot win it.

SONG.

Long years have seen me roaming
A sad and weary way,
Like traveller tired at gloaming,
A sultry summer's day;
No lamp of love before me,
No twinkling parlor fire,

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But clouds and darkness o'er me,
My only friend my lyre.
A welcome shed now greets me,
Though low its portal be,
And ready kindness meets me,
And peace that will not flee:
So here my heart reposes,
And finds at last its home;
Its day of wandering closes;
It rests, no more to roam.
So when, by tempest battered,
The seaman, bent ashore,
Sails torn and colors tattered,
Still ploughs the ocean's roar,
If but a watch-light twinkle
With hospitable glow,
Joy-tears his hard cheeks sprinkle,
And hope's bright fountains flow:
His home is all before him,
The dwelling of his sires;
His own blue sky is o'er him,
And near his altar-fires:
Awhile his burdened feelings
Like silent waters run,
Then burst in echoed pealings,
“My land—my land is won!”

SONG.

Strike, strike the note of sorrow,
That late so moved me!
My sinking heart would borrow,
From sounds so passing sweet,
Fond moments once so fleet
Beside the youth who loved me.

O, set the music flowing!
My soul for ever

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Could dwell on words so glowing,
On sounds so soft and clear,
To all my heart so dear,
They can be silent never.

Give me the lute,—the lute,
For I would ring it!
O, breathe that Spartan flute,
And wake my languid soul,
Till, loosed from earth's control,
Heaven's fire shall wing it!

No! touch the chord of feeling,
And lightly wake it!
And as I hear, come stealing
From out my bleeding heart
Tears, such as woes impart:—
Be still, or else ye break it.

TO A BUTTERFLY.

Thou, who in the early spring
Hoverest on filmy wing,
Visiting the bright-eyed flowers,
Fluttering in loaded bowers,
Settling on the reddening rose,
Reddening ere it fully blows,
When its crisp and folded leaves
Just unroll their dewy tips,
Soft as infant beauty's lips,
Or anything that love believes,—
Little wanderer after pleasure,
Where is that enchanted treasure,
All that live are seeking for?
Is it in the blossom, or
Where we seek it, in the roses
Of a maiden's cheek, or rather

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In the many lights that gather
When her smiling lip uncloses?
Wouldst thou rather kiss a flower,
When 't is drooping with a shower,
Or with trembling, quivering wing
Rest thee on a dearer thing,
On a lip that has no stain,
On a brow that feels no pain,
In the beamings of an eye,
Where a world of visions lie,
Such as to the blest are given,
All of heaven,—all of heaven?
If thou lovest the blossom, I
Love the cheek, the lip and eye.

THE VOICE OF NATURE.

A voice is heard in the winds and waves,
In the sound of the ever-rolling sea;
'T is whispered amid the gloom of graves,
And it speaks from the hill-top loud and free:
'T is murmuring in every breath of air,
And it pauses not when the leaves are still;
Where the waters are falling, it prattles there,
And it whistles along the heathery hill.

Up on the brown and briery steep,
When the bramble stirs with the nestling bird,
Down in the green and glassy deep,
When the coral rustles, that voice is heard:
Far it is borne on the summer breeze,
O'er sunny meadow and flowery plain;
Then it steals to the glancing trees,
And is lost in their shadowy gloom again.

Hark! its wandering echoes wake;—
They are now in the heart of the rifted rock;

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Now they lie on the slumbering lake;
Now are at play with the bounding flock.
Not a withering leaf by the wind is stirred.
Not a murmur moves through the bending corn,
But far that summoning voice is heard,
Like the loud, clear notes of the winding horn.

O, 't is a voice that comes from Heaven,
Borne like a spirit in light along,
Now like the rush of a tempest driven,
Murmuring now in the charm of song.
Hear ye the voice?—then come away
Far from the haunts of ruder men,—
Come, where the leaves and fountains play;—
You may love and be happy then.

SONG.

Ye come to me with eyes of light,
Fair creatures of my dreams!
Ye move around me, calm and bright,
Like sunset over streams,
When the last flush of dying day
In liquid lustre glows,
Then passes into night away,
Like rain-drops from a rose.

Fair creatures! soft your voices are:
I hear their tender tone,
And all the twilight echoes bear
Their melody alone.
It fills the rocks, the woods, the plain,
With an all-pervading thrill;
And, listening to the invisible strain,
The breathless air is still.

All innocent your beauty blows,—
'T is bright and purely fair:

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The rose, the young and virgin rose,
Buds forth in sweetness there;
And there are light and laughing eyes,
That never have wept in pain,—
Hope beckons you on, as away she flies,
And love, that must all be vain.

O, stay, fair creatures,—I bid you stay!
With you my dreams are heaven.
Too soon the vision must fade away;
Not for ever those joys were given.
Bend over me now that winning smile,
That lingering look of light!
Ye fade:—O, pause and charm awhile,
Ere ye vanish away in night!

SONG.

O, sing to me one song of thine,
One song before we part,
That I may bear away with me
Its music in my heart.
Let it be a gentle one,
A song of early joy,
Such as a fair-haired maiden sings
To win her much-loved boy.

O, sing to me the song I heard,
The other day, at noon,
When it came to me like a warbling bird,
And ceased as short and soon.
Bashfully that song was still,
For I started from out the trees;
So the bird is hush, when the bramble-bush
Stirs with the passing breeze.

Turn not so tearfully away,—
I cannot bear to part,

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With anything but hope and joy
In the swelling of my heart.
Look up to me with laughing eyes,—
We shall meet again erelong;
And then the greeting I shall have
Will be thy gentle song.

So sing to me that song of joy,
That song of summer bowers,
Murmuring like the soft, warm breath
Of a south-wind over flowers.
I will kiss thee as thou warblest on,
My token as I part,
And so will bear away with me
Thy music in my heart.

SAPPHO.

She stands in act to fall;—her garland torn,
Its withered rose-leaves round the rock are blowing;
Loose to the winds her locks dishevelled flowing,
Tell of the many sorrows she has borne.

Her eye, up-turned to heaven, has lost its fire;—
One hand is pressed to feel her bosom beating,
And mark her lingering pulses back retreating,
The other wanders o'er her silent lyre.

Clear rolls the midway sun,—she knows it not;
Vainly the winds waft by the flower's perfume;
To her the sky is hung in deepest gloom,—
She only feels the noon-beam burning hot.

What to the broken heart the dancing waves,
The air all kindling,—what a sounding name?
O, what a mockery, to dream of fame!
It only lures us on to make us slaves.

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And Love,—O, what art thou with all thy light?
Ineffable joy is round thee, till we know
Thou art but as a vision of the night;—
And then the bursting heart, how deep its woe!

“They tell me I shall live,—my name shall rise
When nature falls;—O, blest illusion, stay!”
A moment hopes and joys around her play;
Then darkness hides her,—faint she sinks and dies.

SONNETS.

[I. O, there are moments, when the dreaming soul]

O, there are moments, when the dreaming soul
Forgets this earth, and wanders far away
Into some region of eternal day,
Where the bright waves in calm and sunshine roll.

Thither it wanders, and has reached its goal;—
The good, the great, the beautiful are there,
And wreaths of victory crown their flowing hair,
And as they move, such music fills the air,
As ne'er from fabled bower or cavern stole.

Soft to the heart it winds, and hushes deep
Its cares and sorrows. Thought then, fancy-free,
Flies on from bliss to bliss, till finding thee
It pauses, as the musk-rose charms the bee,
Tranced, as in happy dream of magic sleep.

[II. O Evening! I have loved thee with a joy]

O Evening! I have loved thee with a joy
Tender and pure, and thou hast ever been
A soother of my sorrows. When a boy,
I wandered often to a lonely glen,

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And, far from all the stir and noise of men,
Held fond communion with unearthly things,
Such as come gathering brightly round us, when
Imagination soars and shakes her wings.

Yes, in that secret valley, doubly dear
For all its natural beauty, and the hush
That ever brooded o'er it, I would lay
My thoughts in deepest calm, and if a bush
Rustled, or small bird shook the beechen spray,
There seemed a ministering angel whispering near.

[III. O, there are tears of joy, and they are fed]

O, there are tears of joy, and they are fed
From the heart's secret fountain, where they well
Like springs in some mysterious cavern's bed,
Made holy by the sibyl's murmuring spell.

Forth from the darkling cave they calmly flow,
Crystalline pure, to heaven's rejoicing light,
And over sifted sands and pebbles bright,
Down through the sacred grove of laurels go.

So when my thoughts, long wearied by the rush
Of life's too busy cares, would pause and keep
Awhile a sabbath's stillness, and would lay
Each passionate longing, then I can but weep
Tears, happy tears, in many a sudden gush,
And with them all my sorrows melt away.

[IV. O would that dreams were not the things they are]

O would that dreams were not the things they are,
Mere unsubstantial pageants, born and dying
With the light sleep that makes them, coming, flying,
Like evening clouds, how beautiful and fair.

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O, they are thinner than the empty air,
And yet how blessed, when they bend and smile
How the heart flows away in rapture, while,
Dear fond illusions, they are lingering there!

They have a touch and voice. That bosom, swelling
With a young world of joys, how softly heaves:
It lifts its gauzy veil, like feathery leaves
Waved lightly over Yemen's palmy dwelling,
A higher bliss than even hope believes,
To the fixed eye of slumbering fondness telling.

[V. Shadows of hoary forests, solemn haunts]

Shadows of hoary forests, solemn haunts
Of wild, unearthly glooms! O, I would be
A dweller in your darkness, and to me
There I would find all that the spirit pants
To reach of boundless thoughts. Ye are the fane
To mightiest musings sacred,—to the sweep
Of visions dim but high, emotions deep,
Such as in breathless rest till then had lain.

Then go they forth, and, from the flowery vale
Of life's too joyous spring, among the storms
Launch their unfettered wings, till giant forms,
Born of the tempest, round them fold a veil
Of awe and lifting wonder. Such the flight
Of the waked spirit, when the world is night.

[VI. My soul goes often wandering to your glooms]

My soul goes often wandering to your glooms,
And rests beneath your shadow,—often dwells
My spirit in your silence, often tells
Over your opening glades their mingled blooms.

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How, like a vein of silver, steals along
The mountain brook 'mid ferns and brakes and flowers;
And how, when all is still in calmer hours,
Comes floating o'er the hills some artless song!

Low lies yon narrow vale, and there it strays,
The truant stream, to either wooded steep,
As if to kiss its mossy foot, and plays
Now over pebbly shallows, and now deep
Rests in a sheeted pool, while opening through
The wide plain melts in soft and shadowy blue.

[VII. Am I not all alone? The world is still]

Am I not all alone? The world is still
In passionless slumber;—not a tree but feels
The far pervading hush, and softer steals
The misty river by. Yon broad, bare hill
Looks coldly up to heaven, and all the stars
Seem eyes deep fixed in silence, as if bound
By some unearthly spell;—no other sound
But the owl's unfrequent moan. Their airy cars
The winds have stationed on the mountain peaks.
Am I not all alone?—A spirit speaks
From the abyss of night, “Not all alone,—
Nature is round thee with her banded powers,
And ancient genius haunts thee in these hours;—
Mind and its kingdom now are all thine own.”

[VIII. Deep sunk in thought, he sat beside the river]

Deep sunk in thought, he sat beside the river,—
Its wave in liquid lapses glided by,
Nor watched, in crystal depth, his vacant eye
The willow's high o'er-arching foliage quiver.

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From dream to shadowy dream returning ever,
He sat, like statue, on the grassy verge;
His thoughts, a phantom train, in airy surge
Streamed visionary onward, pausing never.

As autumn wind, in mountain forest weaving
Its wondrous tapestry of leaf and bower,
O'ermastering the night's resplendent flower,
With tints, like hues of heaven, the eye deceiving,—
So, lost in labyrinthine maze, he wove
A wreath of flowers; the golden thread was love.

[IX. Whence? Whither? Where?—A taper point of light]

Whence? Whither? Where?—A taper point of light,
My life and world,—the infinite around;
A sea, not even highest thought can sound;
A formless void; unchanging, endless night.

In vain the struggling spirit aims its flight
To the empyrean, seen as is a star,
Sole glimmering through the hazy night afar,—
In vain it beats its wings with daring might.

What yonder gleams? What heavenly shapes arise
From out the bodiless waste? Behold the dawn,
Sent from on high! Uncounted ages gone,
Burst full and glorious on my wondering eyes:
Sun-clear the world around, and far away
A boundless future sweeps in golden day.

THE CONTRAST.

To his gallant horse the warrior sprung,—
They called, but he would not stay;
And the hoof of his hurrying charger rung,
As to battle he rushed away.

237

She stood aloft on the warder's tower,
And she followed him over the plain,
And she watched through many a silent hour,
But she heard not his tramp again.

They came, when the morning was cold and pale,
With a warrior on his bier,
And his banner, rent like a tattered sail,
Showed he died not the death of fear.
They brought him in pride and sorrow back
To the home he had left so gay,
When he gallantly flew on glory's track,
And to battle rushed away.

BALLAD.

“Whither away, in thy swift-winged bark,
Over the waters blue?”
“The way is long, and the night is dark,
And before the song of the matin lark
My voyage must be through.

“On Clutha's rock a castle tall
Frowns over the waters blue.
My lord, within that castle tall,
In deadly peril holds his all;
And my life to my lord is due.

“I have twenty stout and stalwart men,
As ever tugged at yew.
You may search the land, nor find again
Twenty such stout and stalwart men,
Nor twenty hearts so true.

“And every man, by his trusty side,
Has a falchion keen and new;

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And with blades so keen and hearts so tried,
Their way to their lord they would soon divide
A host of leaguers through.

“And hosts of leaguers throng around
My lord and his vassals few;
And where shall his valiant liege be found,
Who would not stand his inch of ground,
To his lord and his honor true?

“Many long months they have stood at bay,
With sword and spear and yew;
And the few the leaguers could not slay,
Famine and toil have thinned away,—
But firm that noble few.

“To lend our lives to a lord so brave,
We skim the waters blue;
And we would hurry us over the wave,
That noble few to reach and save,
Though a raging whirlwind blew.

“The wave curls high, and its top is white
As the plume of the wild sea-mew;
And the bark cuts swift as an arrow's flight,
And its way is like the track of light,
Where the falling meteor flew.

“Though dark the night, and the wind blow strong
As ever tempest blew,
To Clutha's rock we scud along,
And cheer our way with tale and song
Of the fearless heart and true.

“Then away, away, in my swift-winged bark,
Over the waters blue;—
The way is long, and the night is dark,
And before the song of the matin lark
My voyage must be through.”

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SONGS.

[I. O Guadalaxara!]

O Guadalaxara!
Thy beautiful river
Is rolling on ever
Its waters so clear.

O Guadalaxara!
Thy evergreens, bending
Their wide boughs, are lending
A shadow, how dear.

O Guadalaxara!
Thy current is flowing,
Like gales softly blowing,
Or flutes breathing near.

The town of Pesara
Stands brightly beside thee,
And gay galleys ride thee,
O Guadalaxara!

[II. Murmuring river]

Murmuring river,
Falling ever,
And silent never,
Thou hurriest by.
Now softly flowing,
And brightly glowing,
And clearly showing,
Thy waters lie.

Through meadows bending,
Sweet flowers are sending
Their breath, and lending
Thy wave perfume.

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The myrtle covers
Thy banks, and lovers,
As evening hovers,
Are in its gloom.

And lilies, swelling
With dew, and smelling
Of morn, are telling
Their leaves below.
No fairest flower,
In bush or bower,
So takes the shower,
And scents it so.

Dark eyes are flashing,
And fair hands dashing
Thy foam, and plashing
The bubbles fly.
So, murmuring river,
Falling ever,
And silent never,
Thou hurriest by.

[III. Music and dances]

Music and dances,
Smiles and bright glances,
Love's happy chances,
All are at play.
Youths with gay sashes,
Girls with calashes,
Quick as light flashes,
Foot it away.

Viols are tinkling,
Light feet are twinkling,
Snowy veils crinkling,
Round as they go.

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Soft voices prattle,
Castanets rattle,
Love's mimic battle
Mingles them so.

Now the dance closes,—
Baskets of roses,
Woven in posies,
Gayly they twine.
Goblets are clashing,
Amber lights flashing,
Young lovers dashing
Beauty in wine.

All now is over,—
White mantles hover,
Each with a lover,
Back to the town.
None of them misses
Sweetest of blisses,
Dewy wet kisses,—
That is love's crown.

GREEK APPEAL TO AMERICA.

1827.

Rouse ye at a nation's call,—
Rouse, and rescue, one and all!
Help, or liberty shall fall,
Fall in blood and shame!

Shame to him who coldly draws
Backward from the noblest cause!
Not to him who fights and fa's,—
His a glorious name.

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Sons of more than mortal sires,
We have lit again their fires,
Or to be our funeral pyres,
Or our sun of fame.

Hear ye not the widow's cry?
“Help us, or we faint and die:
See! the murderous foe is nigh,—
Hark, the wasting flame!

“Whither shall we fly for aid?
Where is now the warrior's blade?
Low the mighty heart is laid,
Death alone could tame.

“To the mountain, to the cave,
Let us go, and weep the brave;—
Better die than live a slave,—
Better death than shame!”

No,—forbid it, chosen land!
Open wide thy helping hand,—
Pour thy corn and wine, like sand;—
What is wealth to fame!

Quick, before the flame expire,—
Feed, O, feed the holy fire!
Feed, and it shall kindle higher,—
Win a generous name!

OUR FLAG.

Lift, lift the eagle banner high,
Our guide to fame;—
On ocean's breezes bid it fly,
Like meteors wafting through the sky
Their pomp of flame,

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Till, wide on every sea unfurled,
It tell to an admiring world
Our name.

O, proudly burns its beacon light
On victory's path!
Thro' freedom's dawn, thro' danger's night,
Onward, still onward, rolling bright,
It swept in wrath;—
Still lightning-like, to him who dares
Confront the terror of our stars,
Its scath.

Still heavenward mounts the generous flame,
And never tires:—
Does Envy dare insult our name,
Or lurking Falsehood brand with shame
Our buried sires?
The armed Colossus thunders by,
Wide wave our stripes,—the dastard lie
Expires.

SPRING.

Low breathed the western wind at close of day;
The bloomy shrubs were bent with heavy showers;
The clouds had hardly rolled their wreaths away,
They darkly hung, where high the mountain towers;
Through flowery vale, the dashing stream
Leaped sparklingly, in many a fall;
And evening's rosy beam
Tinted the forest tall.

The loving birds were emulous in song;
The cattle lowed; on slope of sunny hill
Sported the lambs, and wildly raced along
The turf that bore its beaded treasures still;

244

And as they swept, a shower of light
Flew round, like gems that deck the snow,
When morning glances bright
On hill and valley flow.

And gleaming o'er a wood-embowered lake,
Floated 'mid dreamy haze the golden ray;
The rippling wave, in many a yellow flake,
Curled round the dewy rock, and slid away:
In rustic boat, his dipping oars
Attuned to song the peasant-boy;
Gliding by happy shores,
He felt the season's joy.

By willowy isle, with silvery catkins bowed,
He skimmed the sheeted gold; and on my ear
Echoed his song, now sweetly low, now loud
As when the patriot ode is swelling near.
From rock to rock the music rung;
By wooded hill it died along:
Light was the heart that sung
That wild and woodland song.

“The buds are now unfolding,
And gayly swings the vine;
In woods the birds are holding
Their merry valentine;
On hill, in meadow waking,
Peep out the blue-eyed flowers:
And forest-leaves are making
A shade for summer hours:
And why should not my heart be gay,
When all the world is now at play?

“And every heart is beating,
Is beating full with love;
Advancing, now retreating,
How gently woos the dove!
On topmost bough high swinging,—
Ah, there is none so gay!

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So clear his voice is ringing,
As merry thrush to-day:
And I will merrily sing my song,
As o'er the lake I skim along.”

YOUTH RECALLED.

In deepest shade, by fountain sparkling clear,
High o'er me, darkly heaved, the forest dome,
Sweet tones, long silent, melt upon my ear,—
They soothe my spirit like the voice of home;
And, blended with them, floats a beam of light,
Radiant, but gentle, through the shadowy night.

My heart, that sunk in dim, oblivious dream,
Wakes at the tones, and feels its life again;
My downcast eye uprises to the beam;
Softly untwines my bosom's heavy chain:
A stream of melody around me flows;
Anew the smothered fire of feeling glows.

The charm, long lost, is found, and gushing pours,
From fancy's heaven, its beauty, as a shower;
The mystic deep casts up its wondrous stores;
Mind stands in panoply of fullest power.
Heaving with wakened purpose, swells the soul
Its barriers fall; its gathered treasures roll.

Light covers all around,—light from on high,
Soft as the last retiring tint of even,
Full as the glow that fills the morning sky,
Pure as the midmost blue of cloudless heaven:
Like pillared bronze the lofty trunks aspire,
And every leaf above is tipped with fire.

And round me still the magic music flows;
A thousand different tones dissolve in one:

246

Softer than ever gale of evening blows,
They blend in harmony's enchanted zone.
With pictured web and golden fringe they bind,
For higher flight, the renovated mind.

I feel it round me twine,—the band of power;
Youth beats in every vein; life bursts in bloom:
All seems as when, at twilight's blissful hour,
Breathed from the flowery grove the gale's perfume;
The laugh, the shout, the dance,—and then the strain
Of tenderest love dissolved the heart again.

Ye greet me fair, ye years of hope and joy,
Ye days of trembling fears and ardent loves,
The reeling madness of the impassioned boy;—
Through wizard wilds again my spirit roves,
And beauty, veiled in fancy's heavenly hue,
Smiles and recedes before my longing view.

The light has fled; the tones that won my heart
Back to its early heaven, again are still:
A deeper darkness broods,—with sudden start
Repelled, my life relapses from its thrill:
Heavier the shades descend, and on my ear
Only the bubbling fountain murmurs near.

A VISION.

“Whence dost thou come to me,
Sweetest of visions,
Filling my slumbers with holiest joy?”

“Kindly I bring to thee
Feelings of childhood,
That in thy dreams thou be happy awhile.”

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“Why dost thou steal from me
Ever as slumber
Flies, and reality chills me again?”

“Life thou must struggle through:
Strive,—and in slumber
Sweetly again I will steal to thy soul.”

THE POET'S WORLD.

Bright World! too beautiful for human eye,
Creation of poetic thought, in vain
I seek thee here. Thou bendest far away
Thy airy orbit. Thine are other suns,
And other stars,—a brightness all thy own,
A day self-lighted, and thy magic night
Is but a veil o'er day. I seek thee here,
When morning lights the east, and tips with gems
Deep set in waving gold, high mountain-peak,
Then tower and tree, and over field and grove
Pours out a flood of pearls, and sheets the sea
With liquid flame;—I seek thee, when at noon
High on his throne, the visible lord of light
Rides in his fullest blaze, and dashes wide
Thick flashes from his wheels;—I seek thee, too,
When twilight shades the meadow, and the hills
Alone are lighted,—when the sky above
Smiles with a fading beauty, and below
Uncertain floats the plain,—nor less when night,
Clad in her sable robe, sits silently
Above the slumbering earth, and through the vast,
Immeasurable darkness, shadowy forms
Unbidden come and go;—I seek thee here,
And yet I find thee not. In all its change
Of time and season,—all its shifting scenes
Of sun and storm,—of life new bursting forth

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In blossomy spring, vigorous in manly pride,
Or ripe for harvest,—all of high and bright,
Deep and obscure,—the clear, expanded arch
Broad sweeping o'er us, or with pictured wreaths
Hung festively at dawn, or heaving forth
Black, billowy mountains, like a chain of Alps
Uplifted into heaven,—wide forest glooms
Far stretching into night, and yawning caves
Where the void infinite opens,—still retreats
Low under sheltering woods, and shady banks
Hollowed in coves, where fountains welling out
Freshen the turf and flowers;—in all its change
Earth holds thee not. Thine is a fuller growth
Of beauty,—thine the genial life that springs
From the o'erteeming mind, and heightens all
That even here seems glorious. Man, who walks
In dignity and grace,—heroic pride,
Or yielding loveliness,—earth's angel erst,
Radiant and pure,—now sad and dimly fair,
Even when brightest,—Man is but the shade
Of thy Humanity,—such heavenly forms,
As float amid the stars, and dwell enthroned
In light unstained. Thou risest to the eye
Of solitary thought, as from the depths
Of mountain valleys, when the level ray
First paints the aerial rose, uprolling clouds
Swell into towering peaks, and glitter bright
With all the glow of dawn,—intenser far
In brightness,—more magnificent and vast
In thy extension, and thy several hues
And shapes purer and fairer. Mind in thee
Reveals its heavenly spring,—in thee it tells
Its godlike birth,—not from the trivial play
Of blended atoms, but a spiritual flame
Warming and kindling into higher life
Our perishable frames, here poor and weak,
The creatures of decay, obscuring oft
Its living beams, and even in dim eclipse
Quenching its orb,—and yet the eye within

249

Still gazes on thee, through the gathered mist
Of evil passions, sees thee rolling free
In thy unclouded track, and at the sight
Hope springs and hurries to thee.

MINNESONG.

I.

“In dem walde süze döne
Singent kleiniu vogellin;
An der heide blümen schöne
Blüjent gein des Meien schin.”—

Liehtenstein.

“In the wood the little birdis
Warble sweet their roundelay;
On the heath the pretty flouris
Blossom in the sheen of May.”

May has come:—the woods are ringing;
Clearer sounds the hunter's horn;
Birds in every brake are singing;
Yellow-green the springing corn.

May has come:—in field and meadow
Starry bloom the virgin flowers;
Broad the maple flings its shadow;
Snowy white the elder bowers.

Green the slope of yonder mountain,
Mellowed to a golden glow;
Under feathery birch, the fountain
Sparkles in its gurgling flow.

Orchards redden,—crimson blushes
Tremble o'er the apple-boughs;
There her young the robin hushes,
Still beside her trilling spouse.

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Joy, on glittering pinions driven,
Gayly flits around, above;
Glancing, kindles earth and heaven;—
All is life and light and love.

II.

“Ir wangen wurden rot,
Sam diu rose, da si bi den lilien stat.”—

Vogelweide.

“Her cheeks grew red as the rose,
That by the lily blows.”

“Take this garland for thy golden hair,”—
So I spake unto a maiden fair,
Maid with eyes of love, like heaven's own blue,
Thinnest veil of cloud soft shining through;—
“Take this garland,—'t is of earliest bloom,
Newly plucked, and filled with fresh perfume.
Had I jewel rare, and precious stone,
Gems of Ind, O, they were thine alone;
Costliest gift for thee were all too poor;—
Take this garland,—I can give no more.
Fairer flowers than these indeed I know;
On the lonely heath afar they blow:
There the violet peeps beside the spring,
Coyly peeps, as loving linnets sing;—
Go with me, and we will gather there
Fairer, sweeter flowers to wreathe thy hair.”
Bashfully the maid the garland took;
Like rewarded child, she blushed and shook:
Clearest red her cheek, as when the rose,
Dewy sheen, behind the lily blows.
Low she bowed, and love-looks sparkled clear,
Under silken lashes, through a tear:
That was my reward;—O, there was one,
Holier far, my lips shall breathe to none.

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III.

“Vor dem walde, in einem tal,
Schone sank diu nahtegal.”—

Vogelweide.

“'Fore the wood, and in a dale,
Lovely sang the nightingale.”

Under the willow, in a meadow,
Where the brook was running clear,
There was my pillow, dark in shadow,
Blossom and verdure springing near.
'Fore the wood, and in a dale,
Lovely sang the nightingale.

Silent reclining the willow under,
Just as evening faded away,
Sweetly shining, a heavenly wonder
Bent over me, as there I lay:
Light her form; her face was pale;—
Lovely sang the nightingale.

Nymph of fountain, in dewy brightness
Rising from wave in vest of green;
Dryad of mountain, with airy lightness
Flitting around the huntress queen;—
All to that heavenly form must veil,
Smiling as sang the nightingale.

Then she addressed me,—“O, why dost linger
Here in a world that chains thy will?”
Softly she pressed me with snowy finger;
Pulse and beating heart were still.
Lovely sang, in the lonely dale,
Fainter and fainter, the nightingale.

252

THE KNIGHT.

“Was er trug von eysen an
Das were wiser als ein Swan
Sein Waffenrock gab lichten schin.

“Di clare süsse reine
Di werde ussekorne
Di edelhochgeborne
Eyn vil hercelibes wip.”—

Rudolff.

“What he had of iron on,
That was whiter than a swan;
Light and bright his armor shone.

“The bright, sweet, pure,
The worthy chosen,
The nobly high-born,
A wife to heart most dear.”

Who yonder rides through wind and rain,
With plumed helm and shield and spear?
How fleet he dashes o'er the plain!
The distant shelter soon is near.
With bearing bold he scours along;
He bends with practised hand the rein:
From clash of arms and battle throng,
To wife and home he turns again.
He who so proudly speeds afar
Is the famed champion, Adhemar.

On gallant steed, in armor bright,
To serve his king he rode to war:
Erect he moved in burnished light;
'Mid crowds his helmet shone, a star.
He couched his lance; he burst away;
His gallop thundered o'er the field:
In dust the bleeding foeman lay;
Unhurt by splintered lance his shield.
He drew his flashing blade,—and wide
Rolled startled back the warrior tide.

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The victory won, with glory crowned,
To wife and home, as country, true,
As praise and blessing echoed round,
Back to that wife and home he flew.
Loud bursts the storm; the river swells;
He dashes through the roaring wave:
Nor field nor flood his spirit quells,—
Life has no terrors for the brave.
And now across that sweep of plain,
See, see! the gallant champion strain.

She gazes from the highest tower;—
The night is dark; the wind is chill.
Through midnight's wildest, dreariest hour,
With sleepless eye she gazes still.
The bright, the pure, the chosen one,
Of noblest dames the fairest star,
In worth, in loveliness, alone,
Through night and storm, sat watching there.
Hark, yonder horn! He comes!—she springs,
And flies, as if her feet were wings.

She draws the bolt; the ponderous gate
Rolls back, as from a giant's hand:
Quick falls the bridge,—she cannot wait;
Love draws her forth with magic band.
Tramp! tramp!—her Adhemar is near,
And now she sees his armor bright,—
His eager welcome meets her ear;
He comes,—he springs,—she clasps her knight.
What cares he for the wind or rain?
He holds his Ylia again.

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LIFE'S DREAM.

“Ach! dürften wir mit Trämen nicht
Die Wirklichkeit verweben,
Wie arm an Farbe, Glanz und Licht
Wärst dann du Menschenleben?”—
A. W. Schlegel. “Ah! could we not entwine
Reality with dreams,
How poor in color, glow, and light
Wert thou then, Human Life?”

“Wer trüge Lebenslast und seine Leere,
Wenn nicht der kurze Traum der Liebe wäre?”—
Meyer.

“Who would bear the burden and emptiness of life, if the short dream of love were not?”

“Des Lebens Traum verschwindet,
Mit ihm des Lebens Glück.”—
Ernst B*sch*. “Life's dream disappears,—with it, life's bliss.”

Light and bright the vision plays,
Like the evening's fitful blaze
Over meadow careering along.
Fairy phantoms hover; blossoms strow
Thick the verdure, as with snow;
Breathes the elfin's magical song.

Fair the moon in azure floats,
Bending o'er the enchanting notes,
As if longing to glide from her sphere:
White wings faintly quiver; near and far
Glow-worm twinkles back to star,
Lighting a softer galaxy here.

Sweet by sparkling fountain sings,
Sweet and clear, as tone that rings
Pure from Harmony's crystalline throne,—
Sweetly sings a spirit; still the air
Drinks the song,—its pulses bear
Far through the night the heavenly tone.

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Peering quick from shadowy glades,
Glancing back to deeper shades,
Forms too bright and beautiful play:
Gentle voices whisper; snowy doves
Circle forth, as sent by loves,—
Wheel then on fanning pinions away.

Quick steps hurry to my side;
Round my heart soft touches glide,
Wreathing fetters of lily and rose.
Viewless forms embrace me; whispers say,
“Press the joys,—not long they stay:
Comes like a stream the pleasure, and flows.”

Sweetly dim the trance of love:
As through veil of roses wove,
Steals its purple light to the soul.
Break the magic slumber,—cold and bare,
Waste and dark, life meets us there:
Break the dream,—thou hast withered the whole!

THE HEXLI. (LITTLE WITCH.)

“I lauf no alli Dörfer us,
i such und frog vo Hus zu Hus,
und würd mer nit mi Hexli chund,
se würdi ebe nümme g'sund.”—

Hebel.

“I run through all the villages,
I seek and ask from house to house,
And if I do not find my Hexli,
Then I shall never be well.”

I whittled at a stick one day,—
'T was just to pass the time away:
A little girl came tripping by,
With rosy look and witching eye.

With artless smile and simple grace,
She loooked me sweetly in my face,

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And said, “That knife is sharp, I ween,—
Another thing will cut as keen.”

And then she laughed, and said, “Good-day,”
And like a dream had flown away;
The voice, the look, was with me still,
When all at once I felt me ill.

I could not work, I could not play;
I saw and heard her all the day.
That witching eye was sharp, I ween;
O, that was what would cut so keen.

I saw and heard her day and night,—
Her voice so soft, her eye so bright:
When others lay in slumber sweet,
I heard the clock each hour repeat

I could not stay and linger so:
Like one entranced, away I go;
Through field and forest, far and wide,
I seek if there the witch doth hide.

By bush and brake, by rock and hill,
Where'er I go, I see her still:
The little girl, with witching eye,
Is ever, ever tripping by.

Through town and village, too, I stray;
At every house I call and say,
“O, can you tell me where to find
The little girl that witched my mind?”

I 've sought her many a weary mile;
Methought I saw her all the while:
Ah! if I can't the witch obtain,
I never shall be well again.

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THE MAIDEN.

“Ein schlichtes Mädchen nur,
Einfach und treu dem angebohrnen Stande,
War seine Welt diess Thal.”—
Schink. “Only a modest maiden,
Simple, and faithful to her native manners,
Was all her world this vale.”

“Solch einen Geist, in einem solchen Blicke,
Zeigt nur dein Lächeln uns.”—
Von Friedelberg. “Such a soul, in such a look,
Thy smile alone reveals us.”

Through a valley flows a gentle river,
Gently flows, with waters deep and clear;
In a flowery meadow, spreading near,
Silken leaves of slender poplars quiver.
There a quiet maiden singeth ever
Simple melodies of truth and love:
Pure and artless as the snowy dove,
Evil thought hath stained her bosom never.

Lovely, too, as rose but half unfolded;
Modest as that rose, when bent with dew:
Blue her eye, as heaven's own softest hue;
Lip as fresh as living ruby moulded.
Smiles she hath that tell of sunny feeling,—
Only smiles like hers such feeling tell;
Touch the chord of grief, and at the spell,
Tears of love and innocence are stealing.
Home and parent, kindred, friend and lover,
All embraced within this lonely vale,—
All beyond is to her but a tale:
This her world, and heaven just arches over.

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THE POWER OF SONG.

“Sângen innehar all lifvets lycka.”—
Hedborn. “The bliss of life is all in song.”

“Zatichli vieterki, zamolkli pticzek chory,
I prilegli stada.”—
Krilov.

“Still became the winds, silent the choirs of birds, and side by side the flocks reclined.”

“Og dets betydningsrige toner svæved'
Melodisk giennem Seclets storme hen,
Men ak!—som Æolsharpens harmonier,
Tidt overdövede afhule vindstöd,
Dog aldrig qvalte.”—
Pram.

“And away its full-meaning tones floated melodiously through the storms of time, but ah! like the harmonies of the Æolian harp, often drowned by the hollow blast, yet never stifled.”

In the temple stands the golden lyre,
Near the presence of the genial power;
Round it plays an orb of holiest fire;—
So it stands, and waits the inspiring hour.
Rolls the sun unto his highest throne;
Broad he fills the temple's vaulted shade:
Touched by hands unseen, in solemn tone,
Rings the harp,—the winds are laid.

Slow and full they swell,—the mystic chords;
Stillness, more than awful, fills the air:
Mingled with the tones, sublimest words
High the listening soul, in glory, bear.
Light is all around him; light and love,
As on wings, aloft the listener raise:
Ever wider heaves the arch above;
Fairer beauty round him plays.

Now they swell, the tones, and swells the breast,
Kindled with the bliss of great design:
Faint the music whispers; hushed to rest,
Couched on flowers, the passions all recline:

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Clear the harp resounds; the spirit's eye
Keenest glance through nature's wonders throws:
Tenderer touches glide, and silently
Blest the tear of feeling flows.

How hushed the winds! how calm the air!
The leaf is still on bush and tree;
No blossom shakes, and quietly
The herd and flock are resting there.
They feel the soothing power of song;
A stream of love, it flows along;—
The winds are still; the sky is fair.

By magic shores the vessel glides;
Entranced by song, the waves are laid:
Visions of home, forgotten, fade;
In peace the storm-beat wanderer rides.
Smooth sleeps the sea; serenest day
Smiles o'er the ocean far away:
The power of song has hushed the tides.

Pale in the west the glow decays,
That late arose in golden fire;
Waked by the touch of soft desire,
Through twilight shades the music plays.
In darkened vale its pulses thrill;
Peace broods above the glimmering hill;
His flight the fleeting moment stays.

It comes—the storm, so long repelled,
In wilder rage again;
Like wintry stream, by barrier swelled,
Loud bursts it o'er the plain:
With gathered might it sweeps along;
Like thunder, peals its roar:

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The Æolian melodies of song
Are lost, amid the wildering throng;
The lyre is heard no more.

A moment's pause the tempest feels,
And soft the heavenly tone,
As evening hymn from cottage steals,
Breathes sweetly faint and lone.
Uncertain, as if thrilled with fear,
It melts and dies away:
I turn, and wait with longing ear,
And low and dim it rises near,
Quick falls,—it cannot stay.

Serene and calm the world of song,
Above the cloud and gale:
There flows a sheeted stream along,
Through many a silent vale:
There ever blue the sunny sky;
Spring-warm the wooing air:
White filmy wreaths of beauty lie,
Alone, in holiest rest, on high;—
Love dwells for ever there.

LAYS.

[I. Mellow fades the glow of even]

Mellow fades the glow of even;
Cool the shadow round the spring:
Clouds, by Autumn breezes driven,
Stream along the amber heaven,
Bright and clear as spirit's wing.
From the holy shrine of feeling,
Kindled by departing day,
Blessed visions flit away,—
Through the pictured forest stealing,
Round the magic mountain play.

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Melting with the blue afar,
Lightly tipped with golden flame,
Flashing like the regal star,
Sky-o'ercrowned, ascends the car,
Bent around the course of fame.
Far it sweeps in dazzling light;
Fire-winged coursers urge the wheel;
Echoes wide the ringing steel:—
Who can tell the full delight,
Tell the joy the champions feel?

Soft its dreamy shade diffusing,
Twilight streams athwart the grove,
Fills the soul with silent musing,
Till in devious trances losing
All its thoughts, it sinks in love.
Soft and still as moonlit ocean,
Silver-mirrored, deep and clear,
Hidden music pulsing near,
Glides it, with unconscious motion,
Far away to holier sphere.

Startled by the instant flash,
Breaks the flower-enwoven dream;—
Thunder rends with deadening crash;
Winds the mingling branches lash;
Bursts the storm, like wintry stream.
Where is now the musing soul?
Nerved to meet the raging war,
Stern it mounts its iron car:
Swift the crushing chariots roll,
Fierce his steeds the warrior bear.

Far away the pausing thunder
Echoes from remotest hill;
Faint the rain-drop patters under
Loaded leaves that bend asunder,
As with trickling streams they fill.

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So the still, small voice of feeling,
'Mid the din of inward strife,
To the heart with passion rife,
Mild as zephyr whispers healing,
Breathes, and wakes the soul to life.

[II. Hark! the song]

Hark! the song
Floats along,
Clearly swelling, softly dying,
Soft as wind in roses sighing.

O'er the plain
Sweeps again
Sudden burst of hope and gladness,—
Trembles then the trill of sadness.

Rock and hill
Give it still,
Bright and clear, the sweet emotion,—
Deep and full, the heart's devotion.

Shadows fall,—
Voices call
Fondly home the truant, straying
Down the brook in eddies playing.

Daylight flies,—
Amber skies,
O'er the shadowy mountain glowing,
Darken; yet the song is flowing.

[III. Through the wood, in evening's shadow, straying]

Through the wood, in evening's shadow, straying;
O'er me arched the boughs, in silent gloom;
Deep in dreamy vision, long delaying,
Fades to night the day's departing bloom.

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Fades the skyey rose, that over mountain
Blossomed wide and full in fields of air,—
Bloomed in heaven aloft, and low in fountain
Shone in softer tints, as pure and fair.

Darkness veils me round, and voices, gliding
Through the murmuring foliage, seem to say:
“Pause, and listen to the spirit's chiding,—
Haste, O, haste to brighter worlds away!

“Mark the last, soft tint of day, receding
O'er the top of yonder solemn pine!
So departs the lingering spirit, leading
To yon purer day's eternal shine.

“There await thee all thy heart has cherished;
There the early loved, the hoped and gone:
Not a treasure of thy heart has perished,—
All to yonder world of rest have flown.”

[IV. Speed thee far]

Speed thee far,—
Fancy lends thee her car;—
Over ocean away
Speed to holier day.

Ocean's swell
Bears on its bosom the shell;
Love shall open the sail
Full to the favoring gale.

Wing of might,
Sent from the fountain of light,
High on billows of air
Thee, in triumph, shall bear.

Youth shall bring
Wine from perennial spring,—

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Over the goblet shall shine
Halo of glory divine.

Round the throne,
Beauty shall loosen her zone;—
Melting in kindling shower,
Spirit shall fill thee with power.

[V. O that I lay on yonder mountain]

O that I lay on yonder mountain,
So blue and fair,—
In shade of rock, by gushing fountain,
Aloft in air.

The cloud and storm might swell below me,
The thunder roll,—
Yet waves of light should overflow me,
And warm my soul;

And peace, unbroken peace, for ever
Around me play;
And thought, serene and calm, be never
Compelled away;

And blush of dawn, and rose of even,
My heart should fill
Oft with the loveliness of heaven,
So bright and still.

O, had I but the eagle's pinion,
Thither I'd soar,
And there possess my sole dominion,
Till life be o'er.

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[VI. They call me,—they call me, from meadow and grove]

They call me,—they call me, from meadow and grove;
They sing to me sweetly of hope and of love;
And dove-like and peacefully, over
My pillow they hover.

And they say to me kindly: “O, hasten away!
No longer in dreamy oblivion stay;—
Young life with its bloom is before thee,
And heaven is o'er thee.

“O'er valley and mountain, in beauty and light,
The world stretches onward, so dewy and bright;
The roses are budding beside thee;—
What joy shall betide thee!

“The day has awakened, so fresh and so fair;
The clouds float aloft in the warm summer air;
All nature is swelling with gladness;—
O, sink not in sadness.”

I hear ye,—I hear ye,—I will not delay,
But up, and o'er valley and mountain away;—
Through life, like a bird, I will hie me;—
Hope never shall fly me.

[VII. “O, rest thee here in silent bower]

“O, rest thee here in silent bower;—
The noon-shut folds its yellow flower,
The air shines quivering o'er the hill,
And all around is hushed and still.

“On mossy pillow lay thee here.
A spring, so cool, is bubbling near;—

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O, lay thee down!—a draught I'll bring,
So clear and sparkling, from that spring.

“Ah! thou a long and weary way
Hast travelled through the sultry day;—
Close soft thy eyes, and I will keep
Watch o'er thee in thy gentle sleep.

“My heart is rich,—my hand is free,
However poor and low I be:
I have but little in my store;—
I give thee all,—what could I more?”

“Thy cup I drink, and now I close
My weary eyes in sweet repose.
Thy heart is rich,—thy hand is free!
A princess, thou shalt go with me.”

[VIII. The song is still, that over heath and mountain]

The song is still, that over heath and mountain,
When closed the day,
Thro' glimmering wood, by sky-empurpled fountain,
Stole soft away,—
In shady vale, by stream through roses playing,
On golden hill,
Breathed faint and low, as tenderly delaying,—
The song is still.

The song is still, that clear in morning hovered
O'er field and grove,
When billowy mist the winding valley covered,
Rocks glowed above,—
When bleat and bark, from bushy lawn repeated,
Rose round the hill,—
The joyous song, that light and buoyant fleeted,—
The song is still.

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O, wake the song!—its notes remembered waken
My love of home:
Spite of my firmer will, my heart is shaken
By thoughts that come,
Thoughts of my early days,—in frolic measure
They glide along:
The song of youth, to notes of love and pleasure,—
O, wake the song!

[IX. Night is on the hill]

Night is on the hill,—
Hushed the clattering mill:
Deeper shadows fall,—
Only mothers call,
Careless as they roam,
Laughing youngsters home.

Now the evening star,
Over mountain far,
Mild in beauty beaming,
On the fountain streaming,
Turns the eye of love
To the heaven above.

Dark and darker spread
Shadows o'er the bed
Of the woodland lake;
Fainter ripples break
On the pebbled shore:
Evening's breeze is o'er.

Night is deep and still;
Stars unnumbered fill
Nature's temple o'er me;
Glides a light before me,
Steals in darkness far,—
'T is my spirit's star.

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[X. Bells are ringing]

Bells are ringing;
Maidens singing
By the village tree:
Wreaths and banners flying,
Youth his vigor trying,
Joy is wild and free.

Harvest over,
Friend and lover
Hasten to the green:
Love with crown of myrtle,
Health in forest kirtle,
Beauty rules as queen.

Fleetly glancing,
Lightly dancing,
All is laugh and song;
So till golden even
Kindles earth and heaven,
So they wheel along.

Bright in gushes,
Smiles and blushes
Come and flit away.
Harvest now is over,
So shall friend and lover
Greet the festive day.

[XI. The snow is gone]

The snow is gone;
The waters run,
Through valley rushing,
From cavern gushing,
And foam along
In light and song.

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The sky is blue;
The Spring is new;
The buds are swelling;
The stag is belling;
The lark and dove
Bring life and love.

The woods are green;
In emerald sheen
The grass is springing;
The vales are ringing
With hound and horn:
Young May is born!

[XII. Give me that fond music]

Give me that fond music,
That charmed my heart so sweetly:
Softly breathed its numbers,
Deep to my inmost soul.
The light-winged dance obeys it;
The maidens trip it featly;
All darker passion slumbers;
Full tides of gladness roll.

Still the sound is flowing,
Like summer brook at even,
Over pebbles leaping
In sparkling joy along.
The wind is faintly blowing;
The clouds are bright in heaven;
The spirits there are keeping
A festival of song.

Wake the sounding viol!
Dark eyes, with speaking glances,
Kindle high with pleasure,
As rings the well-known strain.

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With easy gliding motion,
Involved in graceful fancies
Of light uncertain measure,
Responds the mimic train.

[XIII. Morning is lightest]

Morning is lightest
Only when heaven is fair.
Beauty is brightest
Only when virtue is there.

Crystal of fountain,
Foam from the heart of the sea,
Snow of the mountain,
Virtue! are emblems of thee.

Beauty! we lend thee
Blossom and gem of the mine:
Stars, too, attend thee;
Thine are the rose and the vine.

Flowers by the fountain,
Mirrored below in the spring;
Gems on the mountain,
Studding the snow as a ring;—

Clearest and whitest
Soften by veiling their glow:
Fairest and brightest
Only are loveliest so.

[XIV. 'T is dawn]

'T is dawn:
The rosy light is breaking;
To song the birds are waking;
And starry beads are shaking
Along the grassy lawn.

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'T is noon:
Blue rise the hills before me;
Pure swells the azure o'er me;
And radiant blossoms pour me
The balmy breath of June.

'T is even:
Gay clouds, like curtains, lie
Athwart the golden sky;
The wind goes whispering by,
Like soothing voice from heaven.

'T is night:
The world how hushed and still!
Dim towers the shadowy hill;
Earth's guardian spirits fill
Their urns with holy light.

[XV. Joy! Joy!]

Joy! Joy!
The long dark night is past;
The weary way is done;
Bright o'er the mountain, fast
Ascends the cheering sun.

Joy! Joy!
My heart revives again;
My soul new lights its fires;
I speed along the plain,
With hope that never tires.

See! See!
The well-known hill is nigh;
The spiry poplars rise;
The brook is winding by;
There still my cottage lies.

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Hark! Hark!
What welcome sounds of home!
I know their meaning well:
Far, far my foot may roam,
Yet deep and strong their spell.

Hark! Hark!
The longing heifer lows;
Shrill barks my faithful Tray:
His master's tread he knows,
And see! he bounds away.

Shout! Shout!
The goal, the goal is nigh;
My love is at the door:
We run, we leap, we fly;
We meet to part no more!

[XVI. Faintly breathes the maiden's song]

Faintly breathes the maiden's song
Through the twilight grove;
Softly sweet it steals along; —
'T is the song of love.

Evening slumbers hushed and still;
Mute the hum of day:
Only winds the gurgling rill
Under flowers away.

Whispered voices echo far
Through the shadowy vale;
Glimmers by a twinkling star
Dian's crescent pale.

Fade in darkness bush and tree:
Rock and wood grow dim:
Wide o'er plain and silent sea
Wavering phantoms swim.

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Still the maiden's murmured song
Trembles through the grove;
Steals, like spirit's breath, along;—
'T is the song of love.

[XVII. In sheeted gold the river glides]

In sheeted gold the river glides
By rock with forest crowned;
Deep-mirrored in its crystal tides,
Bright swell the hills around.

High over yonder mountain wall,
That darkly girds the west,
Broad flashes light heaven's airy hall,
And stream on ocean's breast.

Shot upward as a furnace flare,
Day's funeral fires ascend;
Then, fading through the hazy air,
The softer colors blend:

And as each fleecy cloud they stain,
Filling the sky with bloom,
The freshening breeze along the plain
Wafts from the flowers perfume:

And wakened by the gentle hour,
From garden thicket flows
Love-music, worthy of its bower,
Its sheltering bower of rose.

It steals along in softest tone,
The siren melody:
I sit and drink the song alone;
My spirit then how free!

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[XVIII. Sitting by a meadow brook]

Sitting by a meadow brook,
In the month of June,
Once a short repose I took,
Just at sunny noon.

Blossoms, many-tinted, shone
O'er the meadow far;
But one blossom stood alone,
'Mong them all a star.

Once it seemed a full-blown rose;
Golden lily then:
Wreaths of snowdrops now unclose;
Blooms the rose again.

Who can tell the wondrous flower,—
Flower that reigns alone?
He who beauty's magic power
O'er the heart has known.

[XIX. How gentle the water's motion]

How gentle the water's motion,—
How silent the silver sea!
The moonbeam sleeps on the ocean,
How calmly and peacefully!

My bark, on the mirror gliding,
Seems borne by spirits along,
Or in tremulous stillness riding,
Deep fixed by the siren's song.

Bright quivers the sea before me,
Like gush of furnace in flow;
The stars are glittering o'er me,—
Bright glitter the stars below.

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What voice faint uttered is stealing
In silence along the sea?
It wakes my inmost feeling;—
Thou fairest, it leads me to thee.

[XX. The night is still:—on meadow and silvery fountain]

The night is still:—on meadow and silvery fountain
The moonbeam sleeps, like innocence cradled in love:
With softened smile, it rests on the snow of the mountain,
And tints the sky, like wing of ethereal dove.

A cloud sails by, with lightest and easiest motion,
Now bossed with pearl, now shining with purple and gold,—
It glides away, like vessel afar on the ocean,
And spirits of bliss seem borne on its silvery fold.

A gentle wind, with fragrance of jessamine laden,
Steals faintly on, as longing for calm and repose,
And with it steals the lingering song of the maiden,
Whose lonely heart is lightened by song of its woes.

O, list the song!—if beauty and innocence ever
Have touched thy soul, thy heart will respond to the strain.
The voice of love, of sorrow and longing, will never,
In soothing tones, be lost to thy spirit again.

[XXI. Over hill and plain and mountain]

Over hill and plain and mountain
Speeds away, on pinions strong,
Nerved with life from holy fountain,
Far away, the soul of song.

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O'er it swells the arch of heaven,
Boundless arch of softest blue;
Round it rise the halls of even,
Hung with every gorgeous hue.

To the spirit-land of wonder,
Cloud-concealed, it speeds afar,
Borne on wings of rushing thunder,
Sounding like the tempest car,—

Rolling high, like ocean surges,
When the midnight Typhon rings,—
Hollow as a nation's dirges,
When the Almighty vengeance stings,—

Deep and full as torrent pouring
From a wasted Alp of snows,—
Awful as a Volcan roaring,
Ere its fiery deluge flows;—

Yet as stream in shady valley,
Gurgling low through grass and flowers;
Evening wind in garden alley,
Brushing dew from lilac bowers;

Mellow horn, as twilight closes,
Winding through the slumbering grove;
Maiden heart, by hedge of roses,
Murmuring faint its lay of love;—

Yet so soft their echo lingers
Round the tranced listener's ear,
Sweet as, struck by fairy fingers,
Breathes the wind-harp, dim and clear.

On by keenest longing driven,
Speeds away their eagle flight,
Till, the magic cloud-wall riven,
Dazzling pours a sea of light.

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Then as beams the land of wonder,
Bursting from its cloudy veil,
Anthem tones, like peals of thunder,
Bid the new inspirer hail.

[XXII. From rock rebounding]

From rock rebounding,
Through wood resounding,
In changeful echo is ringing
The early horn,
And Youth from his couch is springing,
To greet the morn.

The bright beams quiver
On lake, and on river;
The dew from the forest is falling,
In starry light;
And Spring on her train is calling,
To wing their flight.

Young Day! we hail thee!
Gay clouds half veil thee,
As over the dewy mountain
Thou risest fair:
Beneath thy smile, the fountain
High sparkles there.

Glad songs attend thee;
New blossoms lend thee,
By fairy touch unfolded,
Their first perfume,
And delicate hands have moulded
Their varied bloom.

Joy hovers by thee,
And Health is nigh thee;

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A merry dance is bounding
Before thy car;
Their songs, aloft resounding,
Are borne afar.

I run to meet thee,—
With song to greet thee:
Thy handmaid, Beauty, around me
Her loosened zone
Has flung, and laughing has bound me,
To be her own.

SLAVONIA.

1. PART I.

[_]

[The following series of Sonnets is applicable to the four leading branches of the Slavonic race, namely: the first two, to the Russian; the third, to the Servian; the fourth, to the Polish; and the fifth, to the Bohemian.]

[I. Near Moskva's stream, through heath and forest gliding]

“Malenkoy krolik w trawkie zelenoy
S miloy podruz'koy tam otdychaet;
Golub na wietoczkie spit.”—
Karamsin. “There, in the green grass, softly reposes,
Close by his dear little loveling, the cony;
There the dove sleeps on the bough.”

Near Moskva's stream, through heath and forest gliding,
Deep in a river-vale, by meadow green,
Embowered in beech, a lonely church is seen,
Like timid fawn in dewy thicket hiding.

Above its roof, a Grecian crosslet, shining,
Points to the pious serf his heavenward way;

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Around it spreads, bestrewn with blossoms gay,
The field, where wearied hearts are safe reclining.

O'er swelling graves, the bounding rabbit plays;
All breathes of peace and gentleness around;
Light steals the maiden by; subdued each sound;
Even fainter glances there the evening blaze.
There, nestling side by side, at twilight's close,
Soft coo the billing doves, and then repose.

[II. Inspiring Spirit! thou art everywhere]

“Tam widiel gory nad soboiu,
I sprasziwal, kotoroy wiek
Zastal ich w molodosti suszczich.”—
Dmitriev. “There I saw above me mountains,
And I asked of them, what century
Met them in their youth.”

Inspiring Spirit! thou art everywhere.
The forest and the desert; ocean's breast;
The ice-peak, where the condor builds his nest;
The plain; the hill; the vale;—thou still art there.

'T is not alone on Zion's holy height,
Nor on Parnassus, thou hast reared thy shrine:
Thy kindling voice and energy divine
Are felt in realms of old Cimmerian night.

By Volga's princely stream, thy fiery car
Uplifts the gifted soul, that owns thy sway,
Aloft, above the gilded dome of Tzar;—
O'er boundless steppes and dusky wilds away,
O'er castled hill, where reigns the proud Boyar,
Free, amid slaves, he mounts to meet thy day.

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[III. What is that descending yonder mountain?]

“Trepetin li nowi wenci na naszoj snaszi?
Wije li se crwen barjak nad milim kumom?
Jeli zdrawo kon̄ zelenko pod mladoz'en̄om?”—
Nar. Srp. Pjesm. “Tremble not new-woven garlands there on our sister?
Waves not the crimson banner over the sponsor?
Is not strong the dapple-gray under the bridegroom?”

“What is that descending yonder mountain?
Waves the Aga's crimson flag afar?
Comes the Turkish wolf to wage us war?
Or does shepherd lead his flock to fountain?

“Yonder see the wedding-banner flying,—
Garlands waving in the maiden's hair;—
O, how tall and slender, fresh and fair!”
So the long expectant train is crying.

Give this happy day aloose to joy;
Glad the heart with instrument and song;
Flit, with maiden dear, in dance along;
Let not care nor thought your bliss annoy!
Under slavery's chain the bosom swells;—
There, the fount of gentle feeling wells.

[IV. Still Spring returns, and scatters wide its roses]

“Piekny to widok Czertomeliku,
Sto wysp przerz'nely Dniepru strumienie,
Brzoza sie kapie w kaz'dym strumyku,
Slychac szum trzciny, slowika pienie.”
—Slowacki. “How beautiful this view of Czertomelik!
The Dnieper's streams divide a hundred islands;
In every stream the birch-tree dips its branches;
We hear the murmuring reed, and night-bird warbling.”

Still Spring returns, and scatters wide its roses;
The nightingale in leafy thicket sings,

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And heavenward mounts the lark on quivering wings;
In flowery pomp the silent plain reposes.

Nature is still the same, unchanging ever;
She brings her gifts with each returning year,
And lavish pours her horn of plenty here,
By castled hill and silver-sheeted river.

Still lordly Dnieper rolls as wild and free,
As when the Polish banner graced its shore;—
That banner waves along its banks no more;
Through isles as green it seeks the Pontic sea.
Nature is ever free!—Why should the brave
And noble heart of Poland sink,—a slave!

[V. By Muldava trips a rose-lipped maiden]

“Gdi, ma mila, gdi do lesa;
Podjwey se geli rosa:
Rosyczka ge piekna bjla,
Roste na nj rosmaryna,
Bude gj z'jt moge mila.”—
Czesk. Nar. Pjsn. “Go, my dearest, to the wood;
See if still the dew is there:
Lovely is the early dew;
In it grows the rosemary;
Thou shalt on it live, my love.”

By Muldava trips a rose-lipped maiden,—
She has crowned her hat with summer flowers;
Fresh and dewy as the fabled Hours,
There she trips along, with blossoms laden.

How the valley with her voice is ringing,
Like the evening songster's, soft and clear!
In her happy eye a sparkling tear:
She a simple Cheskian lay is singing.

O, how strong the love of country glows
In the peasant's heart, when all is gone,

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King and state, his language left alone,
Blooming still, as over graves the rose.
From his bosom pours the stream of song,
Full, in artless melody, along.

2. PART II.

RUSSIA.

[I. Still burns the prophet's fire, as when of old]

“Niczto!—no Ty wo mnie sijaesz
Weliczestwom Twoich debrot;
Wo mnie sebia izobraz'aesz,
Kak solnce w maloy kaplie wod.”—
Derzhavin.

“Nothing!—but thou shinest in me with the majesty of thy goodness; in me thou imagest thyself, like the sun in a little drop of water.”

Still burns the prophet's fire, as when of old
Elijah called, on Carmel, on the name,
The one sole name; and see! it mounts in flame,
Just on the limits of eternal cold.

Pure, bright, and full, it swells;—a sacred glow
Rolls o'er the spotless wilderness of snow,
And floating flakes of crystal burn as gems,
Worthy to shine in angels' diadems:

And then, in sounding tones, come thoughts of power,
Full of sublimity and truth and awe:
Thunders in majesty the unyielding law;
Relenting grace descends in healing shower.

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We feel as nothing in the infinite:
We feel that infinite within our souls,—
Away the cloud of doubt and darkness rolls;
Our spirits stand, assured and free, in light.

[II. Not the trumpet calls to fight]

“Och wy Ruskïe dobrye molodcy!
Nadiewayte wy sabli wostryia,
Czto idet zlodiey na swiatuju Rus.”—
Shulepnikov. “Hey, brave Russian youths!
Gird your swords so keen,
For your holy land the foe invades.”

Not the trumpet calls to fight,—
Louder calls the patriot Tzar.
Strongly armed with sword and right,
We rush to war.

Treads the Frank our holy land,
By the world-invader led,—
Soon we make the ruffian band
Its gory bed.

Moscow's fire, an altar-flame,
Lights us through a waste of snow;
On, through ice, we chase the game
With fervid glow.

Louder than the trumpet's peal,
Rings the voice of patriot Tzar;—
With fiery hearts and flashing steel,
We rush to war.

284

SERVIA.

[I. Go forth, and ask no blessing on thy sword]

“Zemalsko je za maleno carstwo,
A nebesko u wek i do weka.”—
N. S P. (Tzar Lazar.) “Small and transient is an earthly kingdom,
But the heavenly is now and ever.”

“Go forth, and ask no blessing on thy sword,—
Go forth, and rush upon the turbaned foe:
Strong be the hand that deals the deadly blow;
That hand shall scatter wide the Turkish horde.”

“Thine shall be earthly power and fame; but know,
The gates of Heaven shall ever on thee close;—
In vain for thee the stream of mercy flows,
For thou hast chosen thy good, thy all, below.

“Pause on the field, and bend thyself in prayer;
Yield reverently unto thy God and Lord;
Listen the hopes and terrors of his word.
Then thou shalt fall,—thy better lot is there,—
Thy crown shall be in Heaven.” He knelt and prayed;
He marched and fought, and low in death was laid.

[II. For faith and fame! be that the cry]

“Srbli wiczu: za wjeru risztiansku,
I za slawu imena Srpskoga!”—
N. S. P. “Cry the Servians: For the faith of Christians,
And the glory of the name of Servia!”

For faith and fame! be that the cry.
We have our pride, and we our fame;—
Heroes, of high and mighty name,
On thousand fields of battle lie.

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Long centuries we in arms have stood;
Have kept our faith, when others fell:
The Turk might crush, he could not quell;—
Our covenant we have sealed in blood.

Our land is free,—the cross alone
Shines o'er our vales, and crowns our hills:
The peasant reaps the soil he tills;
The Moslem vultures far have flown.

Again they come!—like clouds of night,
They hang along yon mountain's brow.
Rise, Servians! be heroes now;—
This be the last and fatal fight.

Hark to the charge! their Allahu,
It rings, not ours,—it rings their knell.
Rush to the shock, and, bursting through,
Leave not a Turk the tale to tell.

POLAND.

[I. Thou standest as a castle on a rock]

“Dzis sepy czarnem skrzydlem oblatuja groby,
Jak w miescie, ktore calkiem wybije zaraza,
Wiecznie z baszt powiewaja choragwie z'aloby.”
Mickiewicz. “Now, black-winged vultures hover over graves,
As in a town, by wasting plague consumed,
Wave ever funeral-banners on the walls.”

Thou standest as a castle on a rock,
Dismantled, dark;—the hospitable flame
No longer lights its halls; unknown to fame,
The simple shepherd shelters there his flock.

With trumpet-peal its gilded arches rung;
Forth from its gates the lordly champions rode;

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Bannered and helmed, the dazzling torrent flowed;
On tower and keep the royal standard hung.

A fire has swept along those festive halls;
Broken and toppling, reel the blackened walls;
The voice of love and hope and joy is gone.
Like funeral-flags, the raven spreads his wings;
In chambers once the proud abode of kings,
Now dwell the lizard and the owl alone.

[II. Vengeance calls you! quick, be ready]

“Zemsta pospiech radzi.
Juz' pojechali—Niech ich Bog prowadzi.”—
Slowacki. “Vengeance bids haste.
Already they are gone—may God conduct them.”

Vengeance calls you! quick, be ready!
Rouse ye, in the name of God.
Onward, onward! strong and steady;—
Dash to earth the oppressor's rod.
Vengeance calls! ye brave, ye brave!
Rise, and spurn the name of slave.

Grasp the sword! its edge is keen:
Seize the gun! its ball is true:
Sweep your land from tyrants clean,—
Haste, and scour it through and through.
Onward, onward!—vengeance cries.
Rush to arms,—the tyrant flies.

By the souls of patriots gone,
Wake! arise! your fetters break!
See, Kosciuszko bids you on!
Hark, Sobieski cries, Awake!
Rise, and front the despot Czar,—
Rise, and dare the unequal war.

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Vengeance calls you! quick, be ready!
Think of what your sires have been.
Onward, onward! strong and steady;—
Drive the tyrant to his den.
On, and let the watchword be,
Country, home, and liberty!

BOHEMIA.

[I. The rose now blooms,—with love my bosom heaves]

“Wyrostla mnie bjla ruoz'e, ga gi trhat nebudu;
Milowala gsem Wencliczka, wjc milowat nebudu.”
Czesk. Nar. Pjsn. “Full for me the rose has opened, but I will not pluck the rose;
I have given my heart to Wensly, but I'll love the youth no more.”

The rose now blooms,—with love my bosom heaves;
It fades and withers,—sorrow chills my heart:
The cold rains trickle o'er the faded leaves,—
Tears from their secret fount unbidden start.

The dewy morning rises fresh and fair,—
Hope comes again, to wake my love anew:
With blooms of May the maiden wreathes her hair,—
Joy swells my heart, as swells the rose with dew.

Thus flows the Cheskian song; the song thus flows
In Servia's vales, on Russia's boundless plains,
By Visla's banks, unfettered or in chains,
Where'er the pure Slavonian spirit glows.
Ages have rolled away, yet still remain
The seeds, that time and force have crushed in vain.

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[II. A holy feeling leads them on]

“Kdoz' gste Boz'j bogownjky
A zakona geho.”—
Zizka. “Ye warriors of God, and of his law.”

A holy feeling leads them on;
For God their swords they draw:
Their chief, the fearless champion
Of God, and of his law.

Not theirs, the strength of mortal fight;
Religion nerves their hands:
They lift their arms for truth and right;
For faith, each warrior stands.

The ardent hymn, the solemn prayer,
Instead of trump and drum,
Tell to their enemies: “Beware!—
The sacred legions come.”

With brow serene and steady eye,
Firm foot and measured tread,—
“Huss!” burst at once the battle-cry,—
“His blood for truth was shed.”

And loud, as pealing thunder, breaks
From thousand hearts their hymn:
Headlong they rush,—earth 'neath them shakes,—
Smoke rolls,—the day is dim.

“Huss!” swells the cry, and Zizka's shout
Rings through the roar of war.
The foe recoils,—he breaks in rout
And scatters wide and far.

“Glory to God!” the victory song;—
“Praise him,—the field is won.
He only makes the warrior strong.
His will—his will be done!”

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TEUTONIA.

[_]

[Under this head is grouped a number of pieces, which, by the structure of their verse, if not by their style and manner, are, in character, German. The stanza, in each, is formed on the model indicated by the motto prefixed. In the third and fifth, the rhythm of the air is observed, rather than that of the original verse.]

HOPE.

“Hoffnung, Hoffnung, immer grün.”—
Herder. “Hope, Hope, for ever green.”

Dark before me lies my way:
Not a blossom by it springs;
Not a bird, on sunny wings,
Hovers round, and tunes his lay.
On it stretches, wild and lone:
Chill the wind is whistling there;
Gone the light that early shone;
Vanished long, the young and fair.

As with heaving heart I tread
Silent onward, heaven uncloses;
Hope descends on clouds of roses;
Instant all my gloom has fled.
Like an overswelling river,
Round her flows a stream of light:
Radiant pinions o'er it quiver;
Countless joys are there in flight.

But a moment—dark again,
Dark and dreary, shuts the sky:
Heavy clouds above me lie;
Round me clings an icy chain.

290

O, could but a single ray
Gleam from cottage lamp or star,
Then, along my lingering way,
I could seek my home afar.

Hark! what low and distant note
Softly through the gloom is stealing?
With it comes a voice of healing;
Sounds of heaven around me float.
Light, like vernal dawn, ascending,
O'er new-wakened beauty plays;
Flowers, with feathered foliage blending,
Tremble in the golden blaze.

Soon the soothing voice is still;
Broods the silence of the grave:
O'er me shades of cypress wave;
Darker fears my bosom fill.
Thus must ever be my doom:—
Light and song a moment shed;
Then a cloud of deeper gloom
Rolled, like torrent, o'er my head.

“Speed thee on!”—in sweetest tone,
Hope, the young and lovely ever,
Breathes,—the song shall leave me never,—
“Speed thee!—soon thy night has flown.
All the light, the love, the bliss,
E'er in holiest vision given,
In a fairer world than this,
Greet thee soon;—thy home is Heaven!”

291

SKATING.

“Wir gleiten, o Brüder, mit fröhlichem Sinn
Auf Sternengefilden das Leben dahin.”—
Herder. “We glide, O brothers! in cheerful play,
O'er starry fields, through life away.”

We speed o'er the star-lighted mirror along,
And the wood and the mountain re-echo our song.
As on, like the wing of the eagle, we sweep,
Now gliding, now wheeling, we ring o'er the deep.
The winds whistle keenly,—the red cheek is warm,
And there's none who would yield not his breast to the storm.

The stars are above us, so full and so bright,
And the mirror below us is gemmed with their light.
Like the far-wheeling hawk, in the mid-air we fly;
A sky is above us,—below us a sky.
As onward we glide in our race, we keep time;
And clear as the morning bell echoes our chime.

By pine-covered rock, and by willow-bound shore,
Breast even with breast, like a torrent we pour.
Short, quick are our strokes, as we haste to the mark,
And shrill is our cry, as the trill of the lark.
The goal is now reached, and we bend us away,
Wide wheeling, or curving in fanciful play.

How fondly I loved, when my life-blood was young,—
When buoyant my heart, and my limbs newly strung,—
When the friends of my childhood were round me and near,—
O'er the dark lake to sweep in our sounding career;
And high beat my soul, with enthusiast glow,
As a clear-ringing music was pealing below.

292

We heeded no danger,—we carelessly flew
O'er a deep, that in darkness was lost to our view;
And onward we rushed, in the heat of our strife,
As, o'er danger and ruin, we hurry through life.
So we sped in our flight, as on pinions along,
And the wood and the mountain re-echoed our song.

THE CHARGE.

“Wohlauf Kameraden, aufs Pferd, aufs Pferd!
Ins Feld, in die Freyheit gezogen.”—
Schiller. “Arouse ye, my comrades,—to horse, to horse!
To the field, and to freedom, advancing.”

The horn and the trumpet are ringing afar,
As the summons to battle is sounding;
And the steed, as he catches the signal of war,
In the pride of his spirit is bounding.
Shrill it echoes afar, over hill and o'er plain,
And the wide distant mountains repeat it again;
And the shout of the warrior, and nearer the song,
Peal aloud, as the glittering bands are hurrying along.
As on, on, on, on, pours the tide of fight,
Still aloft floats the tossing flag, in the glance of morning's light.

We leap to our saddles, we range us in line,
As the voice of the trumpet is calling.
O'er the crown of yon ridge, bright their drawn sabres shine;
Down its slope, like a flood, they are falling.
“Give the spur,—to the charge,—ere the foeman is nigh:
Rush amain, as the forest rings loud with your cry:
Speed on to the shock, in his midway career,—
For our sires still were first in fight; they never thought of fear!”
So on, on, on, on, o'er the sounding plain,
To the wild conflict fierce they rush, and together dash amain.

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THE WILD HUNTER.

“Es kam die Nacht gezogen.”—
Schreiber.

What gloomy shapes are bending,
In darkness, o'er the plain?
The distant hills ascending,
Behold! they sweep amain.
The rock and the forest re-echo the sound
Of horn and of trumpet, of horse and of hound;—
Hurra! with horn and hound,
The rocks and woods resound.

He hurries on affrighted,
The wanderer, through the gloom
Alone by flashes lighted,
He hurries to his doom!
Then it rolls from afar, like the echoing peal
Of the storm, and the mountain-tops quiver and reel,—
The quivering mountains reel,
As bursts the echoing peal!

“And whither art thou flying,
Thou wanderer, on thy way?
The heavy wind is sighing,
And see, the lightnings play.”
“But hark, from the heart of the deep-rolling cloud,
The horn of the huntsman is ringing aloud,—
From the deep-rolling cloud,
The horn rings long and loud.”

“And why so wildly straying?
Seest not, on yonder height,
Around the white walls playing,
The mellow evening light?”
“In terror I haste from that castle away;
There wildly the hounds of the dark hunter bay,—

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The hounds there wildly bay;
In fear I haste away!”

“Unreal dreams affright thee;
Wild visions haunt thy soul.
Wouldst thou 'mid rocks benight thee,
When near the thunders roll?”
“The steeds are in chase, and the bay of the hound,
Keen scenting my track, is now pealing around,—
The hollow bay of hound
Peals awfully around!”

In wild despair retreating
Before the gathering host,
Through rock and forest fleeting,
He mutters, Lost! lost! lost!
Then the storm bursts above him with echoing peal!
And around him the troops of the wild hunter wheel,—
As bursts the echoing peal,
Around they dash and wheel!

And swift the host advancing,
Beneath their thundering tread,
The rocks and trees are dancing;
Their blades flash keenly red.
The woods bow before them; the cliffs crack, and pour
Their avalanche prone, 'mid the rush and the roar,—
The cliffs loud crackling pour,
Amid the rush and roar!

How sweetly dawns the morning!
The fearful night is gone.
Yon chapel bell its warning
Rings faintly all alone.
On the breeze, as it curls over meadow and lake,
Breathes the voice of the bird from her nest in the brake,
And, floating far away,
Welcomes the peaceful day!

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THE HUNTER DEATH.

“Ich hab' eine Wiege so schmuck und nett.”—
Schmidt.

I am a bold hunter,—my hunt is wide;
I mount in the morning, and swift I ride;
O'er vale, o'er hill, I speed away,
And pause not, rest not, through the long, long day.

My string is of sinew, my bow is long,
And sharp is my arrow, my arm is strong:
I point my shaft with deadly aim;
It whizzes, pierces,—then it burns like flame.

And I have a carabine slung on my back,—
It rings through the forest with startling crack;
Like thunder-crash it echoes round,
And, jarring, quivering, 'neath it shakes the ground.

And sure is the foot of my coal-black steed;
Ever onward he rushes with lightning speed:
He snuffs in every wind the prey,
Then, high exulting, wildly bursts away.

And keen is the scent of my well-trained pack;
Through wood and through thicket they keep the track;
The game his subtlest art may try,—
It aids not, boots not, quick the hounds are by.

I sound on my clanging horn his knell,
And fiercely they answer with howl and yell:
They plunge through swamp, they dash through flood,
Yet wilder rages, hot, their thirst for blood.

296

One hound is jet-black, and I call him War;
And his strong limbs are spotted with wound and scar;
His eye is red, like coal its fire,
And ever sleepless burns his demon ire.

Another close follows with hoarser din,
Coarse-featured and shaggy,—I call him Sin:
Bloodshot his eye,—his froth is blue,
And drips its venom thick, like poison dew.

Another is sallow, and gaunt of limb;
His lips are pale, and his eye is dim:
I call him Famine,—but he is strong,
And swift, yet silent, sweeps, like night, along.

So with twanging bow, and with clanging horn,
To dusk of night, from break of morn,
On coal-black steed, I speed away,
And pause not, rest not, through the long, long day.

THE BARD.

“Was hör' ich draussen vor dem Thor.”—
Goethe.

The bard sits lonely in the hall,
His cherished harp beside him.
From friend so dear, whate'er befall,
No moment can divide him.
Erect and calm, he sits alone,—
The only friend he feels his own,
His cherished harp beside him.

A pageant throng now fills the hall:—
There beauty darts her glances,
And mingled voices joyous call
For song and wine and dances.

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He sits apart from all the train,—
The song and dance invite in vain;
Unfelt are beauty's glances.

The present has no charms for him;
The distant only wakes him.
Where hoary eld lies dark and dim,
A living spirit takes him.
Unbidden to life's banquet, he
Wide wanders, all alone, yet free,
As ancient glory wakes him.

The song is swelling in the hall,
Loud music clangs around him,
When quick, as touched by lightning, fall
The chains that silent bound him.
He throws his hand athwart his strings;
A clear, sweet tone, preluding, rings;
His Genius hovers round him.

The song is hushed; the clang is still;
Spell-bound, they pause to hear him:
He bends and sways their hearts at will;
Entranced they gather near him:
Full-toned, yet soft, his measures roll;
They fill with deep delight the soul:
They cannot choose but hear him.

The bard has gone,—his song is o'er,
Yet still he sits before them.
He wakes his magic harp no more;
Its tones still hover o'er them.
Away he wanders, sad and lone,—
Still sits he there, as on a throne,
Erect and calm, before them.

298

SONGS

I.
THE BOATMAN.

Our oars keep time
In merry chime,
As light we pull to the shore.
By greenwood tree
My home I see,—
So heave! for our voyage is o'er.

The golden day
Now fades away,
And red uprises the moon
The water-flake,
Along our wake,
Is lost in darkness soon.

And west, afar,
The evening star
Looks over the curling lake;
And hark! my ear—
The shore is near—
Can hear the ripples break.

The window-light
Now greets my sight,—
My wife is waiting there.
Along the strand
I see them stand,
My boys, so gentle and fair.

So pull away;—
I hear them say,
“See! yonder, father has come.
The window is bright,—
A happy night
There'll be in the boatman's home.

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II.
WINTER EVENING.

The fire is burning cheerly bright,
The room is snug and warm;
We keep afar the wintry night,
And drive away the storm;
And when without the wanderer pines,
And all is dark and chill,
We sit securely by the fire,
And sparkling glasses fill.

And ever as the hollow wind
Howls through the moaning trees,
Strange feelings on the boding heart
With sudden chillness seize:
But brightly blazes then the hearth,
And freely flows the wine;
And laugh of glee, and song of mirth,
Then wreathe their merry twine.

We think not how the dashing sleet
Beats on the crusted pane;
We care not though the drifting snow
Whirls o'er the heath amain:
But haply, while our hearts are bright,
Far struggling through the waste,
Some traveller seeks our window's light,
With long and fruitless haste.

Hark his halloo!—we leave the fire,
And hurry forth to save:
A short half-hour, and he had found,
Beneath the snow, a grave.
Pile on the wood,—feed high the flame,—
Bring forth our choicest store!
The traveller's heart grows warm again;
His spirit droops no more.

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III.
EVENING.

The evening star is sparkling bright,
And in darkness fades the rosy light:
How sweetly shines that evening star,
Bright-twinkling o'er the hills afar!
The last expiring gleam of day,
The mellow twilight, steals away;
But soon, with full and silver light,
The moon walks forth and cheers the night.

What softer feelings through my soul,
What tender, sweet emotions roll!
Though the light of day is gone, is gone,
My love still burns as brightly on:
And beneath the moon I rove along,
And low I hum my own dear song;
Away 't is floating on the air,—
O, will it reach my fair, my fair?

[IV. O the days of blooming youth are gone]

O the days of blooming youth are gone!
How swift the years are hasting on!
My eye has lost its lustre bright;
My flowing locks are thin and white.
The blissful moments would not stay;
Like dreams, they glided quick away:
But still in memory they remain;
Those happy hours are young again.

And oh! may they be ever there,
As dear to me, as sweet and fair;
And even till life's last sand is run,
O may they flow as brightly on!

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My eye grows dim; my pulse beats still;
Life's winter waxes dark and chill:
But still youth's dreams are fresh and bright;
Still burns as pure love's holy light.

[V. O, how softly sweet the song is flowing]

O, how softly sweet the song is flowing,
Softly flowing through the mellow air,
Kind refreshment on my heart bestowing,
Waking thoughts that long had slumbered there!

Then fond memory sweetly loves to bring me
Scenes that still forgotten long had lain;
Youth's emotions, bright and joyous, wing me
Lightly to the heaven of love again.

And its earliest blossoms have not faded;—
Still they fill around the sunny air;
And with bower of heavenly rose is shaded
Still the spring of joy that bubbles there.

O, when softly sweet the song is flowing,
Ever glides from me my spirit's chain!
Then I mount, with youth's first passion glowing,
Lightly to the heaven of love again.

[VI. The night is dark; the hollow wind]

The night is dark; the hollow wind
Is breathing faint and low:
Though loth to leave my love behind,
Perforce away I go.

Away o'er mountain and o'er moor,—
My guide, no friendly star;

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No window-light, to lead me o'er
The heath, that spreads afar.

Though dark the night, a darker shade
Hangs heavy round my heart.
How deep it sank, as cold she said
Those bitter words: “We part!”

“We part, and, ay, for ever too:
My love for thee has gone.”
I turned, and bade no last adieu
But wildly hurried on.

O, on, through sleet and driving rain,
Still let me ever haste!
Day breaks not on my heart again,
Life lies for ever waste.

Away o'er mountain and o'er moor,
Though cold the gusty wind:
No light to cheer me on before,—
Hope, love, all left behind!

[VII. O come, loved Spirit, come to me]

O come, loved Spirit, come to me!
My heart, my heart, invoketh thee.
Though dark and cheerless broods my night,
Thy presence fills it all with light.

O come, loved Spirit, gently come!
O make beside my heart thy home!
Look on me with endearing smile,—
That look shall all my woes beguile.

O be thou ever, ever nigh!
Bend on me thy complacent eye:
Then shall my heart swell up to thee,
My soul be large, my spirit free.

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Bear me away, through sun and star,
To worlds of softest light afar:
Then bid my wearied eyelids close,
On pillowed flowers, in blest repose.

[VIII. Wife! I am dying]

Wife! I am dying,—
Life is departing;
Soon I must leave thee,
Soon I am gone.
O, wilt thou weep me
When I have left thee?
O, wilt thou weep me
When I am gone?

If I have ever
Wronged thee or grieved thee,
O now forgive me,
Ere I am gone!
Sadly I rue it,—
Thou wilt forget it;
O then forgive me,
Ere I am gone!

Darkness is round me,—
Dimly I see thee;
Life is just closing,—
Soon I am gone.
O, thou wilt weep me,
Truly wilt weep me,—
Yes, thou wilt weep me,
When I am gone!

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IX.
EVENING.

The evening star now sparkles bright;
Full shines the rising moon;
And fleetly fades the rosy light
Around the horizon.
The bosom swells with holy joy;
The heart beats soft and low:
No longer care and pain annoy;
Unchecked the feelings flow.

The meadow brook now dances light,
Its wave shines silver-clear:
The stars are dancing strangely bright,
Along yon azure sphere.
The nightingale her melody
Trills lightly from the brake;
And trembling floats, in harmony,
The moonbeam on the lake.

The lovelorn maiden listens long,
As trills the melody:
Her tender bosom feels it strong;
Her tears are flowing free.
She fondly thinks her lover then
Is serenading nigh;
And sadly sweet in dreams again
She sees him standing by.

O, evening is the time for me!
Be thine the gairish day:
My spirit is so full and free,
As fades the light away!
My bosom swells with holy joy;
My heart beats soft and low;
And fondly then, without annoy,
My gentler feelings flow.

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X.
AWAKE, MY LYRE.

Awake, my lyre, awake!
Breathe aloud the choral strain;
From thy heavy slumber break;
Wake to life and joy again.

Hark! how on thy trembling strings
Songs of hope and love rebound!
Brushed as by an angel's wings,
How the vocal chords resound!

Now thy long, deep sleep has flown;
Spirit burns along thy wire:
How the swelling peals roll on,
Full, instinct with living fire.

O, be silent nevermore!
Soar to day's eternal blue;
Through the solemn midnight pour
Notes that fall like starry dew.

As on eagle's pinions, take
High to heaven thy sweep again;
Light and music o'er us shake,
Like a shower of golden rain.
Awake, my lyre, awake!
Breathe aloud the choral strain.

XI.
HUNTING SONG.

O, see how the red-deer boundeth,
As he hears the horn in the morning!
He leaps, as the blast resoundeth,
In his flight the hunter scorning.

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And away, away, O, away,
He fleets through the forest drear:
'T is more wild freedom's play,
Than the hurried speed of fear.
He leaps, as the blast resoundeth,
In his flight the hunter scorning;
And away, away he boundeth,
As he hears the horn in the morning.
Then oho! oho! oho!
Away to chase the deer!
Oho! oho! oho!
The free, the free are here.

And on, through the forest fleeting,
He hies to the rock-built fountain,
And hears but the echo retreating
To the dells and glens of the mountain.
He stands by the welcome spring,
And looks in the mirror below,—
When hark! through the green-wood ring
The horn and the loud oho!
He leaps, as the blast resoundeth,
In his flight the hunter scorning;
And away, away he boundeth,
As he hears the horn in the morning.
Then oho! oho! oho!
Away to chase the deer!
Oho! oho! oho!
The free, the free are here.

XII.
MEMORY.

O, when Memory brings her light,
And sweetly calls me home,
Swifter than the swallow's flight,
Bright visions to me come.

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Such fond Memory brings
On her golden wings,—
O, she brings them with her light,
And sweetly calls me home.

Visions, veiled in roseate light,
Then gently round me throng;
Softest tones of young delight,
Sweet tones, forgotten long,
Melt into my soul,
While with blest control,
Hopes and fancies, starry bright,
Mingle in the song.

Memory, be thou ever near,
To glad me on my way:
Thy light to greet, thy voice to hear,
O, I would fondly stay.
Days that knew no shade,
Ah! they never fade,—
Beams from Heaven's eternal year
Still lightly o'er them play.

XIII.
THE GERMAN EMIGRANT'S SONG.

O Deutschland, our good Fatherland!
Where grows the vine, along the Rhine;
Where far the Alpine summits stand,
And o'er the free-born Switzer shine;
Where bright thy southern summer glows,
Thy northern winter sleeps in snows:
Thy pine-clad hills, thy heaths of sand,
All linked by Union's golden band,
Thou art our fathers' Fatherland.

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O Deutschland, blue-eyed Herman's home!
Thou, earliest free, thy liberty
Hast sent where'er the Saxon roam;
Earth's new-born freedom sprang from thee.
First o'er thy woods it dawned, nor yet
Has there its pure effulgence set:
On to the west still rolls the day,
O'er ocean holds its heavenward way;
Its Fatherland, still thou for aye.

My Country! Home, where first I heard,
Full, deep, and strong, the patriot song,—
First learned to lisp the sacred word,
As pealed the bells thy vales along,—
Still with thee faith and honor dwell;
The oath we swear, we keep it well:
Nor needs our faith so strong a token;
A grasp of hand, a pledge just spoken,
Sure as our hearts, is never broken.

O Deutschland, our own Fatherland!
Though distant far, thou, like a star,
Beamest on us from the Frisian strand;
Our hearts, our loves, still centre there:
Still we behold the purpling vine,
Full clustered, crown the noble Rhine.
O, may thy sons, by valor manned,
With earnest soul, and strenuous hand,
Strike for thee, sacred Fatherland!

XIV.
THE HARPER.

The harper once in Tara's halls
Rung loud the martial strain;
Nor were those full and stirring notes
Struck by his hand in vain.

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They roused the sons of Erin, far
To drive the invading foe;
They fired the heart, they nerved the hand,
To deal the avenging blow.

In vest of green, the harper sat
Beside the royal throne;
The golden chain, that slung his harp,
In pride around him thrown.
Wide through the halls his music rang,
And warriors leaped to hear;
Drew the bright sword, and shook it high,
And tossed the beamy spear.

But Tara's halls are seen no more;
In ruin low they lie:
The green turf o'er them weaves its sod,
The weeds there mantle high;
And Erin's sons no longer leap
To hear their harp's wild tone:
The light, that o'er their country shed
Its beams from Heaven, has flown.

And sadly now the harper wends
To other realms his way:
He seeks a freer, happier land,
Where Britons bear no sway.
Then welcome here, with generous cheer,
The minstrel wandering lone;
And let us ever hold him dear,
And prize him as our own.

[XV. That strain o' music greets my ear]

That strain o' music greets my ear,
Like joys o' days departed,
When ilka mornin' dawn'd sae fair,
An' fand me lightsome-hearted:

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It tells o' loves that ance I knew,
O' een that shone sae clearly,
An' ah! it minds me o' the voice
O' her I loe'd sae dearly.

It minds me o' the welcome, when
I met her aft at gloamin;
It minds me o' the sweet fareweel,
When we had lang been roamin'.
It is her sang,—I ken it true;
Nae ither voice could breathe it;
Nane wi' sic artless melody,
Sae woodland wild, enwreath it.

Flow gently on, thou sweetest strain;
My heart is fain to hear thee;
My loves I'll never know again;
They dwell in heav'n a' near thee.
An' yet the hopes o' ither days
Dawn, as thou breathest round me;
My spirit bursts to light an' life,
Frae sorrow's chain that bound me.

Thou stealest to my inmost soul,
An' charm'st awa my sadness;
The clouds, that heavy round me roll,
Now break, an' a' is gladness.
O fly na' yet! wi' lang delay,
Still fondly linger near me;
Blest voice o' joy an' comfort, stay!
I'll never tire to hear thee.

[XVI. An' hae ye heard the bonnie birds]

An' hae ye heard the bonnie birds,
That sing sae sweet i' the birken shaw?
O ye may tell o' your nightingales,—
Thae bonnie birds outsing them a'.

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An' ye may tell o' the minstrels too,
Wha tune their harps in bower an' ha',—
I better loe the bonnie birds,
That sing sae sweet i' the birken shaw.

Nae cushat ever safter croods,
Amang the woods, her dyin' fa',
Nae lav'rock louder lilts at morn,
When mountin' high to heaven's ha'.
Nae gloamin win' aye sighs sae low
'Mang autumn leaves in birken shaw;
Nae pibroch 'mang the mountains rings
Wi' fu'er swell its gatherin' ca'.

An' wha can be the bonnie birds,
That sing sae sweet i' the birken shaw?
Twa bonnie lasses be thae birds,
An' they might sing in palace ha';
Ae bonnie lassie sings sae sweet,
Ye feel the tears unbidden fa';
But tither starts ye to your feet,
An' stirs ye high, she sings sae braw.

XVII.
THE SPIRITS' LULLABY.

When the night is still,
On the moon-lit hill
We sink in soft repose;
While the cool winds sigh,
And the rivulet nigh
In mellow music flows.
Then, as in dreams we float in light along,
Sweet round us breathes from Heaven a cradle song:
Slumber! slumber! Angels watch you nigh.
Slumber! slumber! Spirits, gathering by,
Sing their lullaby.

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Hushed to slumber deep,
Softly then we sleep,
And happy is our dream:
Forms of beauty rare
Float along the air;
Their eyes how kindly beam.
Then, as we listen, harps around us play;
Gentlest of voices bid us come away:
Hither, hither, where the heavens are bright,—
Hither, hither, to this world of light,—
Hither take your flight.

[XVIII. Softly flow, thou gentle river]

Softly flow, thou gentle river,
Through the vale where dwells my love:
Tell her, I am constant ever;
Naught from her my heart can move.
Bear this rose-leaf on thy bosom,
Image of my constancy:
Waft it safely to her cottage;
Tell her it was sent by me.

She will fondly stoop to gather
From thy wave the welcome leaf,
Press it to her lips, and smother
Lightly so her swelling grief.
Murmur faintly, as she takes it:
“Faithful lover sent it thee;
Be the treasure to thee ever
Image of his constancy.”

[XIX. Once I saw, in pride of beauty]

Once I saw, in pride of beauty,
Full unveiled, a golden flower;
Sweetest perfume flowed around it:
It was evening's winning hour.

313

I approached the splendid blossom,
Kissed its bosom, softly swelling;
But no odors breathed around it,
Though it seemed their chosen dwelling.

By this blossom bloomed unseen,
Low in shade, a milder flower;
Pale its cheek and wet its eye,
Bathed in evening's dewy shower.

O'er the lonely flower I hung,—
Thence the sweets that filled the air:
To that gentle flower I clung,—
Pale, yet seemed it more than fair.

[XX. Once, in the heart of a desert]

Once, in the heart of a desert,
Blossomed a rose-bush unseen:
Only the sands were around it;
Naught but its leaf was there green.
Ever, at evening and morning,
Trickled its flowers with dew;
And then, in light circles, round it
Fondly a nightingale flew.

Over the sands strayed a pilgrim,
Lost in the midst of the wild,
When on his faint eye, at evening,
Sweetly the rose-blossom smiled:
Sweetly the nightingale wooed him,
Under its shade to repose;
There his song charmed him to slumber,
Wet by the dew of the rose.

Freshly he rose in the morning,
Dug in the sand by the flower,

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And a bright fountain up-sparkled,
Welling with bubbling shower:
Over the sands as it murmured,
Green sprung the grass by its side;
Round it a garden soon blossomed,
Fed by its life-giving tide.

There, too, a wild vine up-started;
Under its shelter he dwelt:
Morning and evening, yet ever
Low by the rose-bush he knelt.
So in the far waste, forgotten,
Still flowed his pure life along,
Soothed by the rose-blossom's fragrance,
Charmed by the nightingale's song.

[XXI. When the violet blows]

When the violet blows,
Light the swallow plumes his wings,
Sweet the earliest robin sings;
Something dearer brings the rose.

Fairer forms are nigh,
When the rose is full and bright:
Ever shapes of softest light
Then in glancing flight go by.

From what clime are they?
From the wakened heart they rise,
Bright as hues of orient skies:—
Soon the vision flies away.

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THE SISTER SPIRITS.

A CANTATA.

FIRST VOICE.
I in the morning flutter
Over the dew-lit flowers,
Light in the morning flutter
Around the rosy bowers.
Gay as the mavis singing
Among the dew-lit flowers,
You hear my clear voice ringing
Out of the rosy bowers,
Out of the rosy bowers,
Around the rosy bowers,—
You hear my clear voice ringing
Around the rosy bowers.

SECOND VOICE.
I, when the night is still,
Over the ocean glide,
Or round the silent hill,
Upon the moonbeam ride.
When all is dark and lone,
From deep and winding dell
You hear my magic tone,
Like the distant mermaid's shell.
From winding dell
You hear it swell,
Far, then near, like the mermaid's shell.

BOTH.
We are two sister peris,
Floating in light along,
Dancing at night with the fairies,
Joining the lark in his song.

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We come and go,
Like the sea in its flow,
And soft as the snow,
As it falls on the river,
Steal to the heart,
And are gone for ever.
Sister spirits are we,
From the heaven of song descending;
Our feelings and tones agree,
In harmony ever blending.

FIRST VOICE.
When o'er the hills the dawn is stealing,
Hark to my trill of joyous feeling.

SECOND VOICE.
When the evening has faded and gone,
List to my song as it dies away.

FIRST VOICE.
Hear me, too, when the dews are falling,
Home to her bower the truant calling.

SECOND VOICE.
When the bright moon is rolling on,
Hear my deep shell on the silvered bay,
Hear my deep shell on the silvered bay.

FIRST VOICE.
Hark to my trill of joyous feeling,
Like the young lark's, in his gladness wheeling.

SECOND VOICE.
List to my song as it dies away.
List to my song as it bursts again,
Loud as the trump on the battle-plain:
Now, like the mountain horn,
Clanging through wood and dell,

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Far on the echoes borne,—
O, hark to its rolling swell!
Careering, careering afar,
It pours like a flood from the height,
Answers from crag and scar,
Then breathes like the whisper of night.

FIRST VOICE.
Merrily, merrily ringing,
My clear voice wakens the grove,
Clear as the woodman's, singing
The song of his happy love.
Like bees on the purple heather,
When summer is still and bright,
My tones, light hovering, gather
New sweets in their airy flight.

SECOND VOICE.
Mine is the spell of power.

FIRST VOICE.
Mine is the charm of feeling.

SECOND VOICE.
Night is my chosen hour.

FIRST VOICE.
Mine is the cheerful day.

BOTH.

Each to the heart appealing,
We rule with a magic sway,
And willing spirits obey
The sweet influence over them stealing.

Winningly thus our tones combine,
Like the lily and rose in perfect twine.
A moment we hover, then take our flight:
Good night to you all! Good night! Good night!

318

CLASSIC MELODIES.

1. PART I.

[_]

[I have attempted, below, a series of imitations of four of the leading classes of ancient measures; namely, the Dactylic (Elegiac), Iambic (including the Anacreontic), Anapestic, and Trochaic. The first I have adapted, after the manner of Tyrtæus, to the Patriotic Elegy; the Iambic proper (Trimeter), to a subject not unsuited to its tragic character; the Anacreontic, to its not inappropriate purpose, as a Dithyrambic. The Anapestic has the proper movement of a march; in the longer lines (Tetrameter), that of a dead march; in the shorter (Dimeter), that of an onset. The Trochaic I have adapted to the sentimental; in the longer lines (Tetrameter), to the more tender and pathetic; in the shorter (Dimeter), to the lighter and more exhilarant. Here, too, in lines of equal length, the character varies, as the measure is complete or incomplete (Acatalectic or Catalectic); in the former case, the movement being more gentle; in the latter, more spirited. I have aimed at classic imagery and sentiment in all these pieces, except the first Trochaic, the character of which is rather modern; but such is the dominant influence of the Subjective in modern poetry, that I am conscious I have not attained, as well as I could wish, to the purer Objective of the ancients.]

ELEGIAC.

O, it is great for our country to die, where ranks are contending!
Bright is the wreath of our fame; Glory awaits us for aye,—
Glory, that never is dim, shining on with a light never ending,—
Glory, that never shall fade, never, O, never away!

O, it is sweet for our country to die! How softly reposes
Warrior youth on his bier, wet by the tears of his love,
Wet by a mother's warm tears. They crown him with garlands of roses,
Weep, and then joyously turn, bright where he triumphs above.

319

Not to the shades shall the youth descend, who for country hath perished:
Hebe awaits him in heaven, welcomes him there with her smile;
There, at the banquet divine, the patriot spirit is cherished;
Gods love the young, who ascend pure from the funeral pile.

Not to Elysian fields, by the still, oblivious river;
Not to the isles of the blest, over the blue-rolling sea;
But on Olympian heights shall dwell the devoted for ever;
There shall assemble the good, there the wise, valiant, and free.

O, then, how great for our country to die, in the front rank to perish,
Firm with our breast to the foe, victory's shout in our ear!
Long they our statues shall crown, in songs our memory cherish;
We shall look forth from our heaven, pleased the sweet music to hear.

IAMBIC.

My heart is sad, my hope is gone, my light has fled;
I sit and mourn, in silent grief, the lingering day.
Ah! never more he comes, my love; among the dead,
O far, O far, his fleeting shade has flown away!
Far o'er the dark and dismal wave, whence no return,
In deepest night he wanders now, a shape of air:

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He hears me not,—hears not the sighs, with love that burn;
I see no more that form, so bright, so young and fair.

O, bright and fair, as shapes that oft from Heaven descend,
And on Parnassus stand before the setting sun!
Bright, when he moved in shining arms, home to defend;
Bright, when, a champion strong, the eager race he run:
O fair, as rose and lily fair, when they entwine,
In asphodelian meads, their wreath of virgin bloom!
His heart was kind as brave; O, he was doubly mine!
But now I only weep beside his early tomb.

Death, with inverted torch, the young and gentle death,
Weeps o'er him now, and mourns the plucked and withered flower:
All bloom must fade;—the south-wind breathes its withering breath,
And the clear-blowing north sweeps on, with blasting power.
I too must soon be gone; in grief I glide away:
The rose has left my cheek; my eye looks dim through tears.
Come, gentle death! here with the youth in silence lay
My form, ere it has felt the icy touch of years.

ANACREONTIC.

Come, crown my cup with roses
With wine now brim it over:
My heart in joy reposes;
Around it pleasures hover.

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The nectar sparkles brightly,
With light from love's full quiver:
Come, drain it, drain it lightly,
And shout: Io for ever!

With wreathen ivy crown me,
Dark-eyed Æolian maiden!
In sweet oblivion drown me,
Till deep with joy o'erladen.
I sink in blissful slumber,
And dream of love and Zoe;
Till, at some merry number,
I wake, and shout: Evoe!

I seize my lyre,—loud ringing,
It bounds beneath my fingers:
To frantic dances springing,
What heart so cold it lingers?
Toss, toss, the vine-clad thyrses!
Wine fires: extol the giver.
Shout, with a cry that pierces
The soul: Io for ever!

ANAPESTIC.

[I. In the silence of night, and in solemn array, by the glimmer of torches, is wheeling]

In the silence of night, and in solemn array, by the glimmer of torches, is wheeling,
Majestic, the funeral train, on its way, and its music is plaintively stealing,—
Is plaintively stealing, in echoes, afar, awaking emotions of sorrow;
It mourns, how the youth march to-day to the war, but return to us never to-morrow.

322

Spear and buckler reversed, slow the army moves on, its standards and banners low trailing:
Not a shout now is heard for the victory won; all is hushed, but the flute softly wailing.
Light and still glide their steps, and in unison all, attuned to their solemn emotion;
One faint, hollow murmur is heard at each fall, like the far-echoed roar of the ocean.

Home, in urns, they are bearing the dust of the dead, dark veils o'er each urn low depending:
How sacred the relics of those who have bled, for hearth and for altar contending!
Not a trophy they rear, till they lay in the tomb, the ashes that sleep there in glory,—
Till their pæans are sung, and the words that illume, transmit their proud record to story.

So on through the streets of the city they move, and the old and the young there attend them:
They meet them with greetings of sorrow and love,—fondly welcome the brave who defend them;
And they weep from their hearts, as each urn passes by, a child or a parent enclosing:
As he left them, his patriot bosom beat high; now in death he is darkly reposing.

[II. O, waken the music of battle]

O, waken the music of battle!
Let the clash of the cymbals ring loudly,
As the spears on the shields dash and rattle,
When onward the youth rushes proudly:
Let the horn and the trumpet, resounding
In long rolling echoes, inspire us,
Till our hearts like the billow are bounding,
And omens of victory fire us.

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Hark the shout!—far its echo is rolling;
Eleleu! Eleleu! swells it onward:
Sword and shield clang in time, high controlling
Each hero, quick hurrying vanward.
On the foe moves in line, firm and steady,
To the soft breath of flutes slow advancing;
Drawn each sword, poised each spear, all are ready;
Bright the sun on their plumed helms is glancing.

To the charge! like the rush of the ocean,—
Like torrents, from mountain-tops dashing
Down the gulf, where, in mingled commotion,
Crag and wood 'mid the white flood are crashing.
Hark the shock! shield on shield rings, rebounding:
As a rock firmly set, they repel it.
On again, louder Eleleus sounding;
Ours such fire, not the Spartan can quell it.

TROCHAIC.

[I. Softly sweet the song is stealing, softly through the night afar]

Softly sweet the song is stealing, softly through the night afar;
Faint and low the bell is pealing; dim, through haze, the light of star;
Hushed and still is all around me; cold and still my brooding heart:
Sure some magic spell hath bound me,—bid, O bid the spell depart!

O, that song, so softly breathing,—how it flows into my soul!
Memory then her twine unwreathing, tears of young emotion roll:
And, as far the knell is tolling, how my spirit floats away,
Over years, like billows, rolling, to the scenes where youth was gay!

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But the night, so hushed around me, and the sky, so dim above,
In a lonely trance have bound me,—trance of mingled grief and love.
Still on early fondness dwelling, faded bloom of vernal years;
All I hear, the sigh faint swelling; all I feel, my trickling tears.

[II. Maids are sitting by the fountain]

Maids are sitting by the fountain;
Bright the moon o'er yonder mountain
O'er her shepherd watching lonely,
On his sleep she looketh only.
Softly whispering by the fountain,
Oft they look unto the mountain,
Think how, through the midnight hours,
There the shepherd sleeps on flowers.

Clear the fountain wave is gleaming;
Still the happy youth is dreaming:
Chastest love is watching o'er him;
Crouched his faithful dog before him.
Now the bubbling wave is sparkling;
Now beneath a shadow darkling:
O'er the moon a cloud is stealing;
Passes now, her light revealing.

Night-winds o'er the fountain blowing,
Like Æolian music flowing,
Far their warbled breath is gliding,
Swelling, trembling, then subsiding.
Of the shepherd on the mountain
Sing the maids beside the fountain:
Each then seems in air to hover,
Watching o'er her sleeping lover.

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[III. See the bounding bark afloat]

See the bounding bark afloat!
Steady blows the willing gale!
Joy, with merry, merry note,
Hoists and spreads the purple sail.
Far away, O far away!
I must cross the dashing sea;
So, my dearest, do not stay,—
Boldly cross the wave with me.

To the far Elysian isles,
'Mid the ocean, in the west,
Where the sky for ever smiles,
All the year one halcyon rest,—
Shall we thither speed our flight?
Only cross the wave with me,
I shall find, my love and light,
All Elysian with thee.

On the dark Cimmerian strand,
Where eternal shadows reign;
Where Caucasian summits stand,
Towering o'er the untrodden plain;
Where, along the fatal shore,
Music lulls the soul to death;
Wastes, that hear the lion's roar;
Sands, where kills the dragon's breath:

Or in flowery gardens, where
Bends the lotus, passing sweet;
Vales, where roses fill the air;
Meads, where silent waters meet,
Lingering on through asphodel;—
With thee, all alike would be:
If with me thou deign to dwell,
All Elysian smiles to me.

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2. PART II.

[_]

[In the present section, several varieties of ancient measures are attempted, in addition to those in the preceding. In the series of Dactylics, the effect of the different degrees of Catalexis is, if I mistake not, clearly evident; that on one syllable (as in the Hexameter II. and in the Pentameter and Tetrameter here given) leading to a more subdued or sustained expression; and that on two syllables (as in the Heroic Hexameter I.), to a higher and more energetic expression, peculiarly suited to the Epic; while the Acatalectic (complete) termination on three syllables gives a fuller expression, approaching the magniloquent, or a lighter movement, verging on levity. The Hypercatalectic termination of the Hexameter (IV.), which is really a Heptameter, Catalectic on one syllable, presents a very singular measure, as happy in its expression as it is difficult of execution. The Iambic Tetrameter Catalectic (I.) is the “O Miss Baily!” measure, so much a favorite in Romaic poetry, as in the Ερωτας απολογουμενος of Christopoulos. This is strikingly different, in its light, tripping movement, from the corresponding Acatalectic verse (II.), which is always marked, more or less, by a slow and dignified or plaintive expression, similar to that of the Tragic Iambic (Part I.). The Choriambic, from the natural pause between the measures, has a bounding, but at the same time energetic movement, which may, by changing the pause to a slide, become subdued and flowing. But a continuous series of Choriambics has a monotonous effect, and doubtless for this reason they were usually accompanied with other feet, particularly as terminations. Thus the Choriambic (I.) has an Iambic (Catalectic) termination, or its equivalent; while the Choriambic Polyschematist consists of two members, each with an Iambic termination (the first complete, the second Catalectic). The Choriambic (II.) is composed of a pure series of Choriambics, but is so arranged, if I mistake not, as to give, in most instances, an easy slide from one measure to another, thus relieving the natural abruptness of the verse. The two specimens, under the head of Glyconic and Pherecratean, differ only in the distribution of the two varieties of verse combined; the latter specimen forming the verse called Priapeian by the ancients. The specimen marked Eupolidean and Cratinean, consists of a stanza of the former verse, followed by one of the latter; the two differing so little, as to be readily combined in the same series. The Epionic (Polyschematist), like the Choriambic Polyschematist, consists of two members, the last of which, as in the latter, is one syllable shorter than the first. The Asynartete verse is characterized by a change of movement in the middle of the line; the first member, in this instance, beginning with the accent (arsis); the second, with an unaccented syllable (thesis). An instance of such verse occurs in the first half of the stanza in Lay XII. (p. 269), where the lines are alternately Trochaic and

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Iambic. This verse corresponds to the succession of verses or strains in music, beginning alternately with full and broken measures, an instance of which occurs in the Barcarole in Masaniello. This alternation, both in poetry and music, produces an effect at once striking and pleasing. Several of the varieties of verse here attempted might form agreeable stanzas, even in our inflexible language, particularly if the hemistichs were written in distinct lines. This is more especially true of the Glyconic and Pherecratean, the Eupolidean and Cratinean, the Asynartete, and the two Polyschematists. All the specimens in the first part, and all thus far in the second, are rhymed, which undoubtedly relieves the ear not a little in adapting itself to measures so unusual, particularly to the longer lines, such as the Hexameters and the Dipodial Tetrameters. A few specimens of unrhymed Horatian stanzas are also given in the present section, viz. the Sapphic, Alcaic, and two Asclepiadian, corresponding respectively to those of the second, ninth, sixth, and fifth odes of the first book. In all these, I have endeavored to follow as near as possible the ancient quantity. The Sapphic consequently differs essentially in its rhythm from that of the English accentual Sapphic. The Galliambic and the Saturnian verse I have adapted not inappropriately to Roman subjects. The former is immortalized in the Atys of Catullus, while in the latter we have a genuine Latin measure, in which not improbably the old ballads of early Rome were composed. This, too, is Asynartete in its structure; a fact perhaps connected with the similar movement in some of the popular airs of the Italians, above alluded to.]

DACTYLIC HEXAMETER.

I. Heroic.

Bard of the bright Chian isle, from snow-crowned Olympus descending,
Come to my spirit at night, thy own full ecstasy lending:
Bear me away through thy world, still with youth's first energy glowing;
Still with the great and the fair in wide effusion o'erflowing.

Other creations may fade, to shapeless ruin decaying:
Over the world of thy song, youth's earliest dawn is still playing.

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Long the tall turrets of Troy have perished, by centuries riven,—
Still at thy bidding they rise, untouched and immortal, to heaven.

Still rise her sons in their might, dark plumes o'er their helmets wide waving,—
Armed for their altars and homes, the god and the warrior braving.
Hector still burns in the fight, awhile the wild torrent controlling;
Then, like the thunderer's, in wrath, the car of Achilles is rolling.

Ever new forms, at thy touch, to life and to beauty are starting;—
Helen still wins with her smile; Andromache trembles at parting;
Lone sits the hero apart, by the shore of the sea wide resounding;
Light o'er the high purple wave the fair-freighted vessel is bounding.

Still through the darkness of night the grief-stricken monarch is stealing,
Falls at the feet of his foe, and melts him to tenderest feeling.
Nature! thy power is supreme; no proud-hearted victor can sway thee;
When thy soft whisper is heard, the strong and the mighty obey thee.

[II. Deep, 'mid the shades of night, I sink in silent repose]

Deep, 'mid the shades of night, I sink in silent repose;
Pressed by the soft touch of sleep, my lids on the outer world close;

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But to the eye of my soul a fairer vision unfolds,
That, with a charm of delight, my spirit long wondering holds.

There are the bright forms of youth, creations too lovely to stay:
Ever they come in my dreams,—I wake, and they hasten away.
Over my pillow they hover, as clouds o'er the far golden west,
When, in the soft-heaving wave, Day sinks to the couch of his rest.

There rise, in beauty, the shapes that gladdened in earliest time,
Where spread the lily and rose, full-bloomed, in Ionia's clime:
Nymphs, too, of forest and grove, of fountain and blue-rolling deep,
Still, with their dark-beaming eyes, fond watch o'er the slumberer keep.

Still, from the high walls of heaven, the gods in their glory descend;
Still, to the bold-bearing youth, their power and their spirit they lend;
Still, o'er the dark-rolling clouds, triumphant they ride in their cars;
Still, from victorious death, the demigod mounts to the stars.

Eldest and highest of bards! thy song, with its music divine,
Rolls through this magical world, my spirit has raised for its shrine.
Still, as when first from thy lyre its tones in harmony stole,
Breathes, through the silence of night, its influence deep in my soul.

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[III. Still, as in youth, ever green, the laurel of Homer is flourishing]

Still, as in youth, ever green, the laurel of Homer is flourishing;
Life-giving streams bathe its roots, its wide-waving foliage nourishing:
Light, from the ever-bright throne, still over its summit is hovering,
Blossom and leaf, as they wave, still with heavenly radiance covering.

And, as I look to its sky-piercing summit, an eagle has taken me,
Bears me aloft, where the blasts from Olympus to keener life waken me.
Hail to the herald, whose cloud-cleaving pinion from earth can deliver me!
Nothing below from the high train of bards and of heroes shall sever me.

[IV. Herald of earliest dawn! at thy smile the blue waters are stirring again]

Herald of earliest dawn! at thy smile the blue waters are stirring again:
Wide the sea wakes from its sleep, as thy bright eye enkindles the sky and the main.
As the wind flutters thy locks, and plays with the folds of thy many-dyed veil,
Boldly we launch on the deep, and deck with thy purple the snow of our sail.
Earth then gives tokens of life, and again, as a giant refreshed with repose,
Youthfully starts from its dreams, and its cheeks are all flushed with the bloom of the rose.

Phosphor leads on thy bright train, and waves his clear torch, as the night steals away;
Then come the light-footed hours, and with soft hands unfold the fair portals of day:

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Forth on thy rose-wreathen car, thou rollest 'mid billows of saffron and gold;
Loves, on their thin iris wings, the red-streaming mists, as thy canopy, hold.
Gracefully ever at morn, thy car thus aloft o'er the mountain is borne;
And as thou comest, the woods ring aloud with the clang of the welcoming horn.

DACTYLIC PENTAMETER.

Spirit of hope and of joy, who, in holiest day,
Dwellest 'mid ever-bright flowers, from thy home of delight,
Come to me still as a friend, 'mid the visions of night,—
Bear me, on pinions of love, to thy heaven away.
There, where the fountains of life in the clear morning play,
Bathing the blossoms around with their freshening dew,
Waking for ever the rose, its sweet youth to renew,
Couched on the ever-green grass, I would lingering stay.

Blest with thy presence alone, I would ever remain,
Live on thy smile and thy song:—wouldst thou ever be near,
Breathing the tones of thy heart, as a lute, in my ear,
Never the cold realm of earth should possess me again.
O, shall I never be free from this heart-crushing chain?
Shall the fond dreams of my youth be around me no more?

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Shall there no bright morning dawn, to revive and restore?
Fondly I look to thy aid;—let me look not in vain!

DACTYLIC TETRAMETER.

Ever thou comest, at even and morn,—
Comest, attended with flute and with horn:
Over the mountain, and over the hill,
Lightly and brightly thou hoverest still.
All the gay rites of thy worship are gone;
All the bright train that once graced thee have flown:
Not even the fauns with their whistles would stay;
They too have fled through the forests away:
But thou, enchantress, still ever art nigh,—
Breathest, at even and dawn, from the sky.

Softly the west-wind now wafts thee along,—
Wafts over meadow and valley thy song:
Then the wild songster is hushed at thy flight;
Silent he pauses, entranced in delight.
Naiads have vanished from fountain and stream;
Nymph of the forest has fled, like a dream;
Down in the depth of the blue-rolling deep,
Pillowed for ever, the sea-maidens sleep:
Spirit of melody! still thou art nigh,—
Breathest, at even and dawn, from the sky.

IAMBIC TETRAMETER.

[I. Aurora rises o'er the hills, by graceful hours attended]

Aurora rises o'er the hills, by graceful hours attended,
And in her train a merry troop of bright-eyed loves are blended.

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Away they fly, o'er wood and wild, o'er lake and winding river;
And as they fly, the kindling sky is growing brighter ever.

The world now wakes, and silence flies to cave of lonely mountain:
The deer steal from their forest glades; the birds sing o'er the fountain:
The cottage smoke, o'er vale and plain, in many a curl, is flowing;
And guided by the tinkling bell, the herd afield is going.

The level sunbeams touch the lake,—its sheeted wave is flashing;
And brighter still, from eastward hill, the waterfall is dashing:
The plashing wheel revolves below,—a shower of light is round it;
Those orient hues, the drops diffuse, with mazy circles bound it.

O, gay the plastic dreams of old, the world their touch created!
The poet's eye, with fervent gaze, still o'er it broods unsated.
Fair forms still haunt the forest-wild, still dwell by shady river:
Their loveliness shall never fade; their bloom is fresh for ever.

[II. O, turn not, dearest, on me so!—I cannot bear that grief of thine]

O, turn not, dearest, on me so!—I cannot bear that grief of thine:
Thy sorrow stealeth to my heart,—there silently it feedeth mine.

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The grief I feel, I would subdue, and then would wipe thy tears away;
But while I see thee sorrowing so, this gloom around my heart will stay.

O, let me only catch one smile, like morning's glance from drop of dew!
O, let the soft light flow again, that once so filled thy eye of blue!
O, tell me so, thy heart hath peace!—like withered flowers revived by rain,
Gay thoughts would open in my heart, and fond emotions bloom again.

CHORIAMBIC.

[I. Bear me afar over the wave, far to the sacred islands]

Bear me afar over the wave, far to the sacred islands,
Where ever bright blossoms the plain, where no cloud hangs on the highlands:
There be my heart ever at rest, stirred by no wild emotion;
There on the earth only repose, halcyon calm on the ocean.

Lay me along, pillowed on flowers, where steals in silence for ever,
Over its sands, still as at noon, far the oblivious river.
Scarce through the grass whispers it by; deep in its wave you may number
Pebble and shell, and image of flower, folded and bent in slumber.

Spirit of life! rather aloft, where, on the crest of the mountain,
Clear blow the winds, fresh from the north, sparkles and dashes the fountain,

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Lead me along, hot in the chase, still 'mid the storm high glowing:
Only we live—only, when life, like the wild torrent, is flowing.

[II. When the blue wave sinks on the sea, and the still night hushes the deep]

When the blue wave sinks on the sea, and the still night hushes the deep,
Ever my soul hastens to thee, ever thy smile blesses my sleep.
Then a few hours, blest, thou art nigh; then, too, as once, thou art my own:
But when the dawn kindles the sky, sadly I wake,—far thou hast flown.

Canst thou not take me in thy flight, when with the dawn thou art no more?
Fairer thou seemest, spirit of heaven, though thou didst seem fairest before.
Now thou art gone, earth all is dark;—O, wilt thou ne'er bear me away?
Here only night deadens my soul,—yonder alone, yonder is day!

CHORIAMBIC POLYSCHEMATIST.

Come to the dance! awake! awake! bound with the music lightly!
Evening is falling on the lake,—flashes the mirror brightly.
Come, where the elm is arching high, bent with its purple treasure:
Bid to the toil of day good-by,—yield to the call of pleasure!

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Come to the dance, ye maidens fair! gayly the song invites you:
Joy with his golden lamp is there,—on to the ring he lights you.
Circle around the festive tree! then, as the music wakes you,
Trip to its measures, light and free,—flit, where in sport it takes you!

Haste to the dance, away, away! viol and lute attend you:
Evening winds, as with flowers they play, sweets from the rose-buds send you.
Haste to the dance! the music calls!—haste to the smile of lover!
Soon the chilly night-dew falls,—then must the dance be over.

GLYCONIC AND PHERECRATEAN.

[I. Hark! the echo of shout and song]

Hark! the echo of shout and song!
See the bacchanals troop along!
Loud the cymbals are sounding.
Then, as wildly they onward pour,
Swells the drum, with its hollow roar,
Deep from cavern rebounding.

Quick the Graces, with timid flight,
Far retire to the forest-night,
Scared, as the din is pealing.
Gentle Nymphs to the thicket fly,
Wait till the tumult has hurried by,
Racked each tenderer feeling.

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Such the tumult and din of life;
So it rushes, in storm and strife
Flies the ideal before it:
And as its discord rolls along,
Still is the gentle voice of song:
Only can peace restore it.

[II. Bright ascends the festal dawn; bright the temple is flashing]

Bright ascends the festal dawn; bright the temple is flashing:
Wide a nation is rolling on; spear and armor are clashing.
Garlands circle each helmet there, high on standard are glancing:
Shouts are filling the vernal air; gayly the youth are dancing.

So they haste to the sacred games,—wild each bosom is beating:
Victory high each soul enflames,—loud the champion's greeting.
Swiftly flies the race of car and steed,—far sweeps the dust to heaven:
Glorious shines the conqueror's meed, when by a nation given.

EUPOLIDEAN AND CRATINEAN.

When the Spring has wakened the flowers, and the day is warm and still,—
When the rose has woven its bowers,—be my haunt the sunny hill.
Then as breathes the whispering air, o'er my head the cloudless sky,
Dreams from heaven visit me there,—holy visions pass me by.

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Silently sleep the woods around; mute the sheeted river flows;
Hushed, as in death, the world of sound; voiceless, too, the zephyr blows:
But to my heart a music steals, faint at first, then full and clear;
Deep in my soul, from Heaven it peals,—borne as from some celestial sphere.

EPIONIC.

What joy at even to hear thee, sweet voice of tenderest love!
How blest, alone to be near thee, thou soft and sorrowing dove!
Thou seemest all sad and forsaken; thy song dies sobbing away:
But yet, as I hear thee, I waken; thou singest of love and of May.

And oft in summer thou sittest, concealed in shadowy pine,
Or where, in loneliest valley, the tangled cedars entwine.
Beneath their shadow reposing, in dim, mysterious light,
I hear thy song, at its closing, like voice of spirit at night.

'Tis ever pleasant to hear thee,—I always welcome thy song;
For gentle the feelings thou wakest,—the heart can indulge them long.
A strain of livelier measure may rouse and quicken its play;
But short and fleeting the pleasure,—the gentle only can stay.

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ASYNARTETE.

Merrily, merrily rings the joyous shout of harvest-home:
Merrily, merrily springs the homeward bark through dashing foam.
Gayly the villagers leap, as red and ripe the vintage flows:
Lightly and brightly they sweep, the glancing swords, as the conflict glows.

Bursts, in its fulness, the heart, in laugh and shout, in festive song;
So when the labor is done,—so when toil strives along.
Hope cheers the combatant on; in pride and joy the victor sings:
Crows, 'mid the fight, the cock,—conqueror then claps his wings.

GALLIAMBIC.

The clouds roll from the mountains; the storm sweeps o'er the plain;
And the boldest shrink in terror; the proudest shake with fear.
The scared soldiers are flying, 'mid hail and dashing rain;
And the ground thickly is covered with scattered shield and spear.

With loud burst, as of thunder, 'mid a wide whirlwind of fire,
From the high heaven, in glory, descends the god of war.

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The fearless hero, exulting, beholds his warrior sire;
And he mounts, joyous, beside him, the bright triumphal car.

Aloft sweeps it to heaven, and the white steeds, as they fly
Over clouds, rolling like surges, are dashing the lightnings around.
The eye in vain can follow their quick flight through the sky;
From mountain far to mountain, they leap at every bound.

Weep not your king, ye Romans! for he now is a god above.
Late, when alone, I saw him, and he rose like a tower of light.
Lofty and stern, he met me: he seemed like a son of Jove.
Far through the darkness glittered his armor, intensely bright.

“Go now, and tell my people!” he spake in solemn tone,
And as I heard, I trembled, and listened with holiest awe;
“I am their guardian genius; I dwell by the highest throne:
Bid them be wise and temperate, and reverent to faith and law!”

SATURNIAN.

A shout, a shout for Cocles, brave among the bravest!
For he the bridge defended, and fearless swam the river.
A wreath for noble Cocles,—a civic wreath for ever!
He saved our sacred city,—glory crown the hero!

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A shout, a shout for Cocles! Tell the gallant story,
O, tell it to your children, and they shall tell it further.
On the bridge he fronted all Porsenna's army:
Spear and arrow round him flew,—alone he braved them.

A shout, a shout for Cocles! Now the bridge is broken,
And see! he plunges headlong in the foaming river.
He stems the flood undaunted; his joyous friends embrace him;
He has saved our city:—twine the wreath around him!

SAPPHIC.

Soft he sleeps, where floweth the winding river:
Winds blow light; they dare not awake the sleeper,—
One so young and lovely, so full of beauty,
Grandeur, and glory.

Soft he sleeps, a child on his cross reposing,—
Smiles in peace, unknowing of future sorrows;
Bright and pure, as spirit of life,—as rose-bud,
Fresh in his beauty.

Yet that look reveals, in its pensive sweetness,
Deep and holy love, that will after lead him
Forth to heal and save, and to higher being
Kindly allure us.

Now that cross the couch, where he sweetly slumbers:
When his deeds of love have alarmed and maddened,
On that cross, in death, he shall yield his spirit
Back to its heaven.

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ALCAIC.

To arms! to arms! the trumpet is summoning.
What heart is cold, when glory awakens us!
When youth, for hearth and shrine contending,
Rush to the shock, and in death are happy!

A holy feeling stirs, as the signal sounds.
To die for home, how high and how glorious!
The recreant only hears and trembles.
Give me my sword,—I will haste and meet them!

Raise high the song,—the foe is discomfited!
Our sacred soil untouched and unsullied!
With laurel wreathed, by loved ones greeted,
Proudly we move, as the pæan echoes.

ASCLEPIADIAN.

[I. Not for wealth or for power, conquest or victory]

Not for wealth or for power, conquest or victory,
Not for shout and applause, honor and dignity,
Speeds my soul to the strife; higher and holier
Is the feeling that wakens me.

Duty calls me to yield life and its happiness,
Calls me to part from friend, part from a dearer one;
Duty calls, and I know honors immortal wait,
Even when earth has forgotten me.

So I rush to the strife,—rush where the bravest yield.
They only look to renown; mightier impulses
Bear me on, as with wings,—on, till, victorious,
Death I greet as the foe retires.

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[II. When the rose is in bloom, violets opening]

When the rose is in bloom, violets opening,
Fresh and dewy, their leaves, let me, in early morn,
Wake the slumbering echoes,
Till the mountains have caught the sound:

Till from loftiest height, deep to the winding dell,
Cave and forest repeat, vocal, my minstrelsy,
As if dryad were greeting
Sweetly the tones of my Alpine horn.

Or when twilight grows dim, far in the rosy west,
And o'er green wood and crag sparkles the evening star,
Let me hear, in the distance,
Faintly the voice of the vesper hymn.

Where the lake spreads its wave, clear to the rising moon,
O'er the water it steals, whispers along the shores,
As if song of Undine
Rose from her hall in the deep below.

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SONGS FOR NATIONAL AIRS.

[_]

[The following songs have been written to accompany different National Airs, and compose but a small part of an extended series. The verse has been formed in all, except those adapted to the German airs, on the rhythm of the music, not exactly note for note, but so as to give a corresponding flow and expression. In the German series, the verse of the original German songs has been followed, with a few slight deviations, in most instances, to suit more exactly the rhythm of the airs. The Norwegian airs are taken from Derwent Conway's Journey through Norway, &c. The German series is taken from an old German Convivial Song-Book (Taschenbuch fur Freunde der Freude). The airs of the first ten were composed by J. A. P. Schultz; those of the remaining eight, by J. F. Reichardt. The mottos prefixed indicate the original songs and their authors. The Russian specimens are from a small collection of Russian popular airs accompanying Götze's Collection of Russian Popular Poetry (Stimmen des Russischen Volks in Liedern): the Bohemian from an extensive series of popular airs accompanying the Collection of Bohemian Popular Poetry by Ritter von Rittersberg (Czeske Narodnj Pjsnie): the Gaelic, from a small collection of genuine Gaelic airs, in Logan's Scottish Gael: and the Welsh, except the Rising of the Lark, from a collection of old Welsh tunes in E. Jones's Bardic Museum. It is hardly necessary to remark, that the poetry is, in most instances, adapted to the national or particular character of the air or song which it was intended to accompany.]

NORWEGIAN.

I. National Air.

Ye sons of sires who fought and bled
For liberty and glory,
Whose fame shall ever wider spread
Till Time is bent and hoary,
Awake to meet the invading foe!
Rouse at the call of danger!
Beat down again his standard low,
And backward hurl the stranger!

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They knew no fear, those sires of old,—
'Mid swords and bayonets clashing,
Still high they bore their banner's fold,
Its stars, like lightnings, flashing.
Be like those sires! With freeborn might
Renew the deeds of story!
Who lives, shall win a wreath of light!
Who falls, shall sleep in glory!

II. Mountain Air.

Sons of the chase, awake!
Haste, see the morning break!
Wake to the horn!
Ere fades the morning star,
Echoes, 'round crag and scar,
Proudly its blast afar,—
Far rings the horn!

Hark to the bay of hound,
Tossed from the mountains 'round!
Hark to the horn!
Mount,—mount, and hark-away!
Bright dawns the glorious day,—
Soon we 've the stag at bay:
Loud wind the horn!

GERMAN.

I. The Flower of Liberty.

“Es giebt der Plätzchen überall.”—
Stollberg.

There is no land so fair and bright
As this, where first I drew the light:
There is no land so dear to me
As this, that bears the strong and free,
The cradle-home of liberty!

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Here blooms a sweeter flower,
Than aught in orient bower.
The flower of freedom, fair and bright,
Here spreads its leaves of roseate light.
Yes, freedom's flower here, fair and bright,
Unfolds its leaves of roseate light!

Though far around the world I roam,
My heart still lingers for its home;
And even where Spring for ever dwells
Each flower I meet but only tells
Of that for which my bosom swells.
The flower that graces free
Thy temple, Liberty!
Though far away my steps may roam,
That flower still wins me back to home.
Yes, far away my steps may roam,—
That flower still wins me back to home.

II. The Chain of Love.

“Wir trinken, kühl umschattet.”—
Voss.

O, there are links that bind us,
Of magic power,—
The links, that softly twined us
In Eden's hour.
Joy wreathes his flowers around them,
And love with silk has bound them.
O, there 's a charm, no tongue can tell;
But still the heart, with hidden swell,
Can speak it well!

That chain,—the freeman wears it
With generous pride:
That chain,—the hero bears it,
With haughty stride.

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Yes, lion hearts receive it,
As fairy fingers weave it.
Subdued by love, they still can dare
The battle-field, and fearless there
Its dangers share!

III. The Patriot.

“Dass nie ein Land zu keiner Zeit.”—
Baggesen.

Who loves his country, firm will stand
To meet the fierce invader;
Will lift his sword, with earnest hand,
To aid her.
He knows no fear, when danger calls
The patriot to his country's walls:
When danger forth the patriot calls,
Fearless he fights, and willing falls.

So stood our fathers, side by side,
In freedom's cause victorious,
When back recoiled the invading tide,
Inglorious.
And when our country calls again,
O, be her voice not heard in vain!
When loud our country calls again,
Our home shall be the tented plain!

IV. Wealth of Soul.

“Freund, ich achte nicht des Mahles.”—
Voss.

Not for gold, and not for splendor;
Not for crown or throne;—
No, never will my soul surrender
What it holds its own.

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They may dote on piles of treasure,—
They may swim in streams of pleasure,—
Poor their gain!
Poor their gain!
Poor, ah! poor beyond all measure!
Vain, O, vain!
Only slavery's chain.

Not for all that wealth can offer
Would I check my soul,—
No, not for regal bounty, suffer
Slavery's base control.
Ever in my own dominion,
I would mount on eagle's pinion,
Free as light!
Free as light!
Far above the tyrant's minion,
Wing my flight,
Nerved with strong delight.

V. The Festive Evening.

“Friert der Pol mit kaltem Schimmer.”—
Voss.

Cheerful glows the festive chamber;
In the circle pleasure smiles:
Mounts the flame, like wreaths of amber;
Bright as love its warmth beguiles.
Glad the heart with joy is lighted;
Hand with hand, in faith, is plighted,
As around the goblet flows.
Fill,—fill,—fill, and quaff the liquid rose!
Bright it glows,—
O, how bright the bosom glows!

Pure as light our social meeting:
Here no passion dares invade.
Joys we know, not light and fleeting;
Flowers we twine that never fade.

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Ours are links, not time can sever:
Brighter still they glow for ever,—
Glow in yon eternal day.
No,—no,—no, ye will not pass away
Ye will stay,—
Social joys, for ever stay!

VI. Our Country.

“Bekränzt mit Laub den lieben vollen Becher.”—
Claudius.

The vine may glow, with purple clusters bending,
Where proudly flows the Rhine,
Or, richer pomp to classic ruins lending,
Round tower and temple twine.

We need no vine our country's hills to brighten:
We need no boasted wine.
Be ours the sails, that o'er the ocean whiten,
Around the masted pine.

Be ours the nervy hands that spread and furl them,
With gallant hearts to dare,—
Ours freedom's bolts, with sinewy arms to hurl them,
When threatening comes the war.

Mild as the morn, in peace, our starry splendor
Afar shall light the main.
That flag may perish,—never shall surrender
To boastful pride again!

VII. Washington.

“Füllt an die Gläser, füllt bis oben.”—
Voss.

Fill, fill your glasses,—brim them over!
We drink a health of high renown!
No patriot brow shall glory ever
With brighter wreaths of honor crown!

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Our country's Sire!—with fond emotion,
With firm resolve, and deep devotion,
Around our Union's altar-flame,
Here we invoke his sacred name!

That name shall be our watchword ever
When danger threats, or foe is nigh.
Cursed be the hand that dare dissever
The holy bond we prize so high.
Do thou, blest shade! this Union cherish;
Thy memory here shall never perish.
Long as thy deeds shall here remain.
O, bind us in thy golden chain!

VIII. Liberty.

“Im Hut der Freyheit stimmet an—”

Beneath our country's flag we stand,
And give our hearts to thee,
Bright power, who steel'st and nerv'st our hand,
Thou first born, Liberty!
Here, on our swords, we swear to give
Our willing lives, that thou mayst live!

For thee, the Spartan youth of old,
To death devoted, fell;
Thy spirit made the Roman bold,
And fired the patriot Tell.
Our sires, on Bunker, fought for thee,—
Undaunted fought, and we are free!

Run up our starry flag on high!
No storm shall rend its folds;
On, like a meteor, through the sky,
Its steady course it holds.
Thus high in heaven our flag unfurled,
Go, bear it, Freedom, round the world!

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IX. The Banquet.

“Dem Kindlein, das gebohren ward.”—
Stollberg.

Loud rings the golden cup of joy,
Amid the banquet halls,
And manhood, light as sportful boy,
For mirth and music calls.
Give loose to pleasure! send it free,—
O, send it free,
To roam in wildest liberty!

CHORUS.

Our hearts are free!
They mount in wildest liberty!

As bird on pinion swift and strong,
In airy flight we play,
And as a bird's, our festive song,
Full echoing, floats away.
Joy crowns the banquet! We are free!
O, we are free!
But pure and high our liberty!

CHORUS.

Yes, we are free;
But pure and high our liberty!

X. Spring.

“Der Frühling ist gekommen.”—
Stollberg.

The Spring, the Spring is coming;
The birds are merrily singing:
The Spring, the Spring is coming;
We hear the nightingale,—
In shade of rose, at evening,
We hear the nightingale.

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The yellow buds are breaking;
The flowers in meadow are blowing;
And gentle winds are playing
Along the grassy vale,
Around the airy mountain,
And down the grassy vale.

The Spring, the Spring is with us,
And light the swallow is flitting;
The Spring, the Spring is with us,—
It brings the nightingale,—
In cool of shady evening,
It brings the nightingale.

XI. The Seasons.

“Der Herbst beginnt.”—
Schulz.

The Spring is gone,
And, one by one,
The blossoms are withered and faded:
The Summer, too,
Is almost through,
And thinner the fountain is shaded.
Come, Autumn, come!
Thou lead'st me home:
The birds of the Summer are flying.
Thou wilt not stay,
But steal'st away,
And Winter behind thee is sighing.

The stars are bright,
This winter night:
The lake is merrily ringing.
The skater there,
To the frosty air,
His open bosom is flinging.

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But Spring again
Shall wake the plain,
And showers the blossoms sprinkle.
As through the vale
Light blows the gale,
The lake shall curl and crinkle.

And Summer, thou,
With dripping brow,
Shalt plunge in the shady river,
When golden day
Is on his way,
And field and meadow quiver.
But, Autumn, come!
I welcome home
Fallen leaves and faded flowers.
Thy sky is blue,
And soft as dew
Thy still and gentle hours.

XII. The Boatmen of the Rhine.

“Ein Leben, wie im Paradies.”—
Hölty.

A joyous life, like Paradise,
We lead along the Rhine,
From where it springs 'mid glacier ice,
To where it meets the brine.
By mountain farm, and moated tower,
By ancient town, we glide:
By vine-clad hill, and fabled bower,
By castled rock, we ride.

'Mid Alpine song we float along;
Through field and meadow stray:
Where grows the vine, in purple twine,
We win our easy way.

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We left the free, brave Tell, with thee,
Their earliest rights to keep:
Now through a realm, that once was free,
We hasten to the deep.

XIII. Festivity.

“Fröhlich tönt der Becherklang.”—
Stollberg.

Joyous rings the goblet's chime,
In our merry meeting;
And our cheerful hearts keep time,
As the hours are fleeting.
Wake the echoes round us!
Friendship's chain has bound us!
Only love can wound us!
Fill your glasses,—fill them o'er!
Drink, and care shall vex no more!

Joy ascends on purple wings,
Golden clouds around him:
Lightly to the wind he flings
Every chain that bound him.
From his heaven descending,
See him o'er us bending,
Brightest influence lending!
Fill your glasses,—fill them high!
Quick as light, the minutes fly.

XIV. Youth.

“Rosen auf den Weg gestreut.”—
Hölty.

Roses strewed along my way,
Round me songs of gladness,
On I speed in youthful play;
Mine nor care nor sadness.

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By me pleasure trips along,
Maid with eye bright glancing;
Round the woods repeat her song,
As their leaves are dancing.

Gayly thus we trip it on,
Frolic youth and pleasure,
Gayly, as the moments run
By, in lightest measure.
While the spring of life is new,
Fresh its roses blowing,
So its early joys pursue,—
Quick the stream is flowing.

XV. The Vintage.

“Bekränzet die Tonnen.”—
Hölty.

The vines are deeply blushing;
The vintage is nigh;
And plenty is gushing,
In showers, from the sky.
Bright spirits are fleeting,
On white clouds, along;
And glad hearts are greeting
Their presence with song.

The youth and the maiden
Now haste to the vine;
The choicest of clusters
They gracefully twine:
With music and dances,
They bear them away;
Their toil is but pastime,
Their labor is play.

O'er hill, and o'er valley,
Is calm and repose;

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The voice of the fountain
Is hushed as it flows;
The lake, too, is sleeping,
Unruffled its breast:
All nature is keeping
A Sabbath of rest.

The vintage is gathered;
The harvest is in;
The fruitage of autumn
Is piled in its bin:
The swallows are flitting
To sunnier shore;
We care not for Winter,—
We 've plenty in store.

XVI. Spring.

“Freude jubelt; Liebe waltet.”—
Matthisson.

Mirth is shouting, joy is singing,
Far o'er hill, o'er vale and plain!
Love his merry flight is winging
Through the flowery groves again.
Even the secret forest feeleth,
Trembling deep, his magic power.
Round the hill, at evening, stealeth
Music, gentle as the hour.

Spring is with us,—flowers are blowing;
Round their leaves the west-wind plays:
As afar their breath is flowing,
To their couch he hastes, and stays.
Every sound, that nature utters,
Blends in harmony with all,—
Bee that hums, and leaf that flutters,
Whispering wind, and waterfall.

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XVII. Evening.

“Phöbus eilet, nach der Reise.”—
Köpken.

Evening o'er the vales descending,
Fresh the wind from mountain blows;
And the stars, their influence lending,
Win the laborer to repose.
Night resumes her silent reign,—
Shadowy coolness soothes again!

CHORUS.

Blessings on her gentle reign!
Coolness soothes our hearts again.

Dimly o'er the mountain fading,
Sunset glories die away.
Night, each hue of beauty shading,
Robes the earth in dun array.
But she brings us still repose,—
Soft our wearied eyelids close!

CHORUS.

Grateful is her still repose,—
Pressed by sleep, our eyelids close!

XVIII. Hope.

“Hoffnung, Hoffnung, immer grün.”—
Herder.

Hope! thou art my only friend.
When the light that shone around me
All has fled, and grief has bound me,
Though not love his influence lend,
Thou, O Hope! art still my friend.

All the flowers of life may wither,
Friend and lover, glory, gold,—
All may fly, we know not whither,
But thy arms shall still enfold.

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Hope! thou ever art my friend.
Though my dearest joys should leave me,
Fate of all I loved bereave me,
Thou a cheering light wilt send,
Still, O Hope! my only friend.

All that wins the heart is fleeting;
Ere 't is known, it flits away,
Ever from our grasp retreating:
Thou, O Hope! alone wilt stay.

RUSSIAN.

I. The Battle Call.

“Ach ty pole, moe pole czistoe—”
“Ah! thou plain, my open plain!”

Loud rings the battle trumpet,
Far resounding, far swelling!
Rouse, heroes, rouse to the conflict!
See, yonder the dark foe
Sweeps, like a winter storm!

On speeds the fierce invader,
Wild as ocean high-heaving!
Strong nerve ye, boldly to meet him!
Back hurl him, as dashed wave
Rolls from the rock-bound shore!

Earth far has shook beneath him,
All-invading, all-subduing!
Yet fear not,—country is sacred!
Who arms for his loved home,
Fights with the sword of Heaven!

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[II. Think, O think, how much thou lov'dst me]

“Wspomni, wspomni, moy liubeznoy,
Moiu prez'niuju liubov—”

“Think, O think, beloved,
Of my early love!”

Think, O think, how much thou lov'dst me,
When my cheek was fresh and fair!
Do not coldly now forget me,
Though its bloom has gone!

Think how oft we sat together!
Happy were our moments then.
Then my eye was bright with pleasure,—
Now 't is dimmed with tears.

Like a rose was then my beauty,
Rose that opens first in spring.
Then my charms could more allure thee,—
I could love not more.

Leave, O, leave me not forsaken!
I will love thee ever true.
Pale my cheek, and sorrow-stricken,—
Love still lights my soul.

III. The Willow.

“Iwuszka, iwuszka, zelenaia moia—”
“Willow, my green willow!”

Bright flows the meadow stream, and o'er it bends the willow;—
There sat the maid I love, and wove her flowers in garlands:

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There sits no gentle maid;—O, canst thou tell me, willow,
Where I can find the maid that sat at evening by thee?

Light on the meadow stream there floats a rosy garland;—
Fair maiden wove the flowers, and dropped them in the water.
“Go, garland,” thus she said, “and whisper to my lover:
True ever is thy love,—her heart will ne'er forget thee.”

Low droops the willow-tree,—its leaf is pale and yellow:
There flows no meadow stream,—the summer sun has dried it.
Brown all the grass below,—no maiden gathers flowers;
Sits there no more at eve, to weave her flowers in garlands.

See! on the pebbles lies a soiled and withered garland;—
Such is my withered heart, and so my hope has faded.
False maiden wove the flowers, and cast them in the water;—
Soon dried the stream away, and withered lay the garland.

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BOHEMIAN.

I. Bird of the Mountain.

“Lasstowiczka ljta, ljta,
Powjda z'e swjta—”
“The swallow is flying, is flying;
He tells me it dawns.”

Bird of the mountain, sweetly thou singest,—
O, sweet thy song!
Over the fountain, high in the branches,
Thou sitt'st alone.
There oft, at evening, I linger to hear thee:
Bird of the mountain, sweetly thou singest,—
O, sweet thy song!

Bird of the mountain, why art thou ever
So sad and lone?
Only I hear thee breaking the silence
So deep around.
Art thou the spirit of heart-broken maiden?
Bird of the mountain, why art thou ever
So sad and lone?

II. The Bird that has lost its Young.

“Wy panenky sedlsky, ge was tu gen dwanact—”

Why so sadly sing'st thou?
Hast thou lost thy loved one?
Why art thou so lonely,
'Mid the woods afar?
“They have stolen all my young ones,—
That is why so sad my song!”

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Cease thy song of sorrow!
Spring is all around thee,—
Other loves may bless thee,—
Break not so thy heart!
“They have stolen all my loved ones,—
Other loves I cannot know!”

III. Dushka.

“Prawda a z'adna lez'—”

I.

Dushka, fairest of maidens!
Long have I sought for thy love.
Long have I courted thee;
Long have I lingered;
Yet not a smile have I won.
Still thou art dear to me,—
Ever art dear to me;
Ever till death I am thine.
Dushka, fairest of maidens!
Give me, O, give me thy love!

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Dushka, fairest of maidens!
Turn not so coldly away.
Thou wilt remember me,
When they have left thee,
When all the faithless are gone.
Then thou wilt think of me,
Fondly wilt think of me,
Know I am faithful and true.
Dushka, fairest of maidens!
Yield me, O, yield me thy heart!

II.

Dushka, fairest [dearest] maiden!
Thou art still my only love.
When the early blossom
Of thy beauty fades,
Thou wilt find me ever true.
Other youths may leave thee
When thy roses wither;
Still my heart is ever thine.
Dushka, fairest [dearest] maiden!
Thou art still my only love.

Dushka, fairest [dearest] maiden!
Thou wilt ever be my love.
Not, like bird of summer,
Do I flit away;
Even in winter I remain.
I will never leave thee,
Though the storm be rising;
Then I'll press thee to my heart.
Dushka, fairest [dearest] maiden!
Thou wilt ever be my love.

The two songs under this head were written to accompany the same air as differently modified in its time. The original time of the air is triple (3–4), with a syncopated note (a pointed fourth) in the middle of the first measure. The second song, not including the words in brackets, it is adapted to this time including the words in brackets, it is adapted to a triple time, in which the first measure is resolved into a uniform series of eights. This last modification has a much slower movement than the preceding, the absolute time of which is determined by the syncopated note in the first measure. The movement of the verse is determined, the other lines remaining the same, by the varying length of the first line: quicker when that is shorter, and slower when that is longer, that an equilibrium of time may be preserved throughout. The first song is adapted to the same air, in 6–8 time; moving by triplets, as the second by couplets of syllables.

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GAELIC.

I. Homeward Bound.

Air: “An Iorram Fhir a Bhata.”—(The Song of the Boatmen.)

O'er the foaming sea,
Far the ship hastens,
To the green island
Where my love dwells.
There we meet, love;
Never part more,
Till our eyes close
In their last sleep.

Bear me swiftly on,
Fresh and fair breezes,
O'er the blue ocean;—
Fill my white sail!
For my heart longs
For its dear home,—
Longs to meet her
Whom my youth loved.

Yonder rises dim,
O'er the dark waters,
Far, the green island
I have sought long.
Speed thee, swift bark,
As a dart flies!
Soon my loved shore
I shall greet again.

II. The Tryst.

Air: “Righil Thulaichean.”—(Tulloch Reel.)

O come, lassie, come and meet me!
Come, lassie, to the hazel!

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There, lassie, thou hast trysted,
At the gloamin' hour to meet me.
We will sit beneath its shadow,
As the gloamin' light is fading,
And the mist, along the meadow,
All its dewy flowers is shading.
We will sit and talk together,—
Tell how much we love each other;
As the lambs among the heather,
Gentle aye to one another;—
With a kiss of love and kindness,
Then we'll part, to meet again.
O, come, lassie, come and meet me!
Come, lassie, to the hazel!
There, lassie, thou hast trysted,
At the gloamin' hour to meet me.

O come, lassie, come and meet me!
Come, when the lambs are faulding,—
Come to the hazel, lassie!
I'll be early there to meet thee.
Thou wilt na' distrust thy laddie,—
Truthful aye he 's been unto thee:
He has ever loe'd thee, lassie,—
He will ever dearly loe thee.
Now the heather bells are swinging,
And the gowany turf is glowing,
Bright the saugh, and gay the rowan,
Red the rose, and green the rashes,
Meet me, lassie, by the hazel,—
Meet me by the mountain burn!
O, come, lassie, come and meet me!
Come, when the lambs are faulding,—
Come to the hazel, lassie!
I'll be early there to meet thee.

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III. The Lover's Lament.

Air: “Cuilfhionn.”—(The Holly.)

O, closed the eye that beamed so kindly,
Mild as the morn, when it first uncloses!
O, pale the lip, that smiled so fondly,
Pure, in its hue, as the dewy rose!
O, like the rose, that lip has faded!
Cold in the grave thy form reposes;
Dark, dark as night, my soul is shaded;
Full as the fountain, my heart now flows.

Long shall I think of the hours when I sat with thee.
Under the shade of the trysting tree, at silent gloaming;
Long shall I dwell on the scenes I have viewed with thee;
But I shall see thee no more again.
Yet shall I never forget how I strayed with thee,
Over the hills, in the sunny noon of April, roaming;
Never forget how in childhood I played with thee,
Hours, that, like thee, were without a stain.

IV. Clan Donnal's Gathering.

A Pibroch.

Air: “Cogadh na Sith.”—(War or Peace.)

Up, Clan Donnal!
Wild rings the pibroch through glen and through valley;
Loud peals the slogan, that calls you to war!
Haste! Donnal's bold warriors on yonder hill rally;
High blaze the bale-fires o'er heath and o'er mountain;
And broad waves the standard, and streams afar.

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Up, Clan Donnal!
Gird on the broadsword, and on with the tartan!
Haste, where the pipes shrilly waken the echoes,
For there is the gathering of Donnal to-day!
Up, Clan Donnal!
Haste ye from lake, and from glen, and from mountain,
From forest and heath, from the well and the fountain,
And rush ye, like eagles who sweep to their quarry,
Or sons of the mountain, abroad on their foray,
Nor think of aught else, but the loved ones behind you,
Who faithful defenders, in battle, shall find you.
So up, and away!

Up, Clan Donnal!
Haste to the gathering, as hounds in the morning
Speed where the horn rings o'er heath and o'er hill!
Haste! Clansmen should spring as the pipes give their warning,—
Dash from their heights, like a flood from its fountain,
When swelled by the burst of a cloud to its fill.
Up, Clan Donnal!
Trusty and faithful we ever have known you;—
Fearless and true were your fathers before you;—
Long may their pride and their glory remain!
Up, Clan Donnal!
On through the torrent, and on through the river,
And on up the steep where the mountain-sides shiver,
For spirits of heroes are hovering o'er you,
And yonder the Saxon invader before you;—
On, from your soil with your good claymores sweep them,
And high at the foot of your Grampians heap them.
So up, and away!

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WELSH.

[I. Of Hoel, high and glorious, raise the pæan ]

Air: “Blodau yr Gogledd.”—(The Flower of the North.)

I. The Song of Heroes.

Of Hoel, high and glorious, raise the pæan,
Bards, with hoary hair, like streaming meteor!
Strike the harp, in martial symphony!
Close the strain in sadness!
The deeds of other days, worthy heroes,
Bright as holy Heaven, fair as vernal flowers,
Strong as mountain wolves, lions too in fight,
Mild as April showers, in their peaceful days,
Ruling righteously, conquering nobly,—
Such, alas! are seen no more.
No more shall hero's arm wield the falchion
High-born Hoel bore to victory.
Rust has dimmed it; time has tarnished it:—
Breathe us tones of sorrow!

II.

Aloft resounds Llewellyn's horn;
Sharp rings its blast, like note of scorn;
From Snowdon's peaks it rolls at morn,
O'er Gwynedd proudly swelling.

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Its echoes bound from crag and scar,
And, borne by mountain winds afar,
They call the Cambrian youth to war,—
The Saxon's death-peal knelling.

Like lightning's flash on lake or stream,
The sword of Rhydderch darts its gleam.
None, but its own unconquered lord,
Can bear in fight that magic sword.
Who else dares draw it from its sheath,
Finds in its wasting flame his death.
In Rhydderch's strong right-hand, it waves,
A meteor, o'er yon Saxon slaves.
Such Rhydderch's sword, Llewellyn's horn,
Far-flashing, proudly swelling.

The air in this instance is in quadruple time (4–4). The first of the songs accompanying it is written with a syllable to each note of the music. The second is written in the regular metrical rhythm of the air, with only one syllable to each eighth of time, but with a repeat of the first four lines. By reading in the second line of the first piece, “like meteor, streaming wide,”—in the fifth line, “the deeds of days departed,”—and in the eleventh line, “No more shall arm of hero,”—the rhythm of the verse becomes that of declamation.

II. The Bard's Song.

Air: “Y Bardd yn ei Awen.”—(The Bard in his Inspiration.)

Hark! yonder swells a music,
Full, yet distant; as from Heaven,
Flows it through the air.
Bards! wake ye, and in chorus
Tune your harps, and raise your voices,—
Welcome here the song!

Hail, heroes, bards and sages,
Princely Hoel, high Cadwallon!
Night veils us, but around us
Heaven is opened, and its music
Lifts us to its halls!

370

III. The Song of Victory.

Air: “Tôn Alarch.”—(The Swan's Note.)

Shout, shout for victory!
Raise high the pæan!
Strong arms have conquered,—
Strong hearts impelled them.
Bright hymns shall welcome us,
Loved arms embrace us,
Fond blessings follow us
Home to our halls.

Full is our triumph;
Home now is rescued:
Sun-bright our victory;
Stain cannot dim it.
But for the fallen
Breathe now the requiem!
Glad songs should bear them
High to their heaven.

Shout, shout for victory!
Low lies the invader:
Heaven still protects us,
Shields hearth and altar.
Bards, tune your symphonies!
Swell full your chorus!
Bright deeds to other days
Flow on your songs.

Loud rings the pæan,—
Youth fondly listens;
Hearts so inspirited
Pant high for glory.
Soft tones of sorrow
Breathe for the fallen,—
Welcome as incense,
Rise to the stars.

371

IV. The Rising of the Lark.

See! Morning breaks,
And pours its light
O'er yonder height,
And, dewy bright,
Young Day awakes.
I mount and sing,
On quivering wing,
And bear to heaven
My joyous song.
In midway air,
As flitting star,
'Mid golden beams
I float along;
While far below
In dawn's first glow,
The woods attune
Their vocal throng.

Thus lost in light,
With sudden fall,
From Heaven's high hall,
At love's sweet call,
I drop my flight;
Then mount again.
The eye in vain
Can trace me,
As I sweep on high;
But still the ear
Can ever hear
My clear notes
Falling from the sky,
As if in bush,
At evening's hush,
The nightingale
Close warbled by.

372

Sing, joyous lark!
My heart with thee
Mounts light and free,
High liberty
Its shining mark.
Still heavenward fly!
With thee, on high,
My spirit speeds
From earth afar;—
On airy wings,
Aloft it springs,
To dwell 'mid light
Of sun and star;—
Full-voiced and strong,
It pours its song,
Like hymn that greets
The victor's car.

THE NORNS.

[_]

[The three Norns (Nornir) were the three Fates or Destinies of the Scandinavian Mythology. They were really only personifications of the three periods of time: the Past (Urd), the Present (Verandi), and the Future (Skuld).]

Urd.
Far in the depths of ages gone I dwell,—
Around me forms of earliest splendor rise;
Temple and heaven-like dome, with graceful swell,
Blend, in their brightness, with the orient skies.
On pyramid and column, glorious, shine
High myths of heroes, carved in mystic line;
Mysterious light o'er all, from Heaven, is thrown:
And songs of glory fill the vocal air,
Aloft the deeds of fame sublimely bear;
Deep as the thunder, but how sweet, their tone!

373

Verandi.
On the rushing stream I sweep along;
Sun-bright o'er me swells the cloudless blue;
Joys around, a gay, triumphant throng,
Lead me on, with high and cheerful song,
Give me ever greetings, bright and new.
Onward still the stream, in golden glow,
Heaves and tosses, as if life were there:
Warm and kindling, breathes the inspiring air;
Wakened by its touch, in bounding flow,
Thought and feeling in the joyance share.

Urd.
Calm, on my high-piled trophies, I repose,—
On polished bronze I grave the immortal lay.
A stream, from unseen fountain, by me flows,
And hurrying bears my scattered leaves away.
That is the rushing stream that leads thee on:
Catch from its wave the leaves that, in the sun,
Quick flash, like ice-gems in the dawn's first light.
These from the holy past to thee are borne:
Look reverent back, nor, in thy joyance, scorn
The gifts from me that make thy present bright.

Verandi.
In my heart a living spirit burns,
Nerved to earnest act and daring deed.
Never, as it hastens, back it turns;
All the past holds buried in its urns
Win it not to check its onward speed.
Who would give this glorious world around,
Sun-bright stream, and fair and flowery shore,
Hopes, like visions, leading on before,
On, in light, to time's remotest bound,—
Give, for all the great thou hast in store!

Urd.
Then speed thee reckless on,—but I remain,
Where ancient glories still unfading tower:
Deeds such as mine shall ne'er be done again,—
The fruits of godlike thought and Titan power.

374

Where, in the mystic light of orient skies,
Vast pyramid and massive temple rise,
In shade of sacred laurel I recline.
The golden sun of morning meets me there;
The first-born world, around me, fresh and fair,—
Its life, its love, its music, all divine!

Verandi.
On the rushing stream, away! away!
While the moments win us, speed along!
As the favoring winds around us play,
We have, too, a heart-inspiring lay;
Only joy and hope awake our song.
Or should tempest meet me on my path,
Fearlessly my track I still pursue;
Strength and skill is mine, to bear me through;
Soon the wasting storm shall spend its wrath,—
Joyous day again its light renew.

Skuld.

Far on the boundless deep I hold my throne,
Where clouds and darkness rear their wondrous wall:
Deep in their solemn shades I dwell alone;
No stranger's foot has ever touched my hall.
The stream of time still rushes to the main;
Its golden waves attract the eye in vain:
Amid the clouds that round me rise afar,
One faint light draws it, like a magic star.

That light is from my shrine;—in fuller glow
It burns, than all your brightest years have known:
Still burns it on, in one eternal flow,
When past and present fame is ever gone.
Speed on, then, o'er the deep! though, dim and dark,
High heave the clouds, be that your beacon mark!
Through the dun shades ye pass; then holiest day
Sweeps, in illimitable bliss, away!

END OF “THE DREAM OF A DAY,” ETC.

375

POSTHUMOUS POEMS.

377

INVOCATION.

1844.

Once thou wast ever nigh me: now so long
We have been parted, that I seek thee far,
And find thee not. Once ever to my song
Thou hastedst; in thy flight, as lambent star
Shot from the highest sphere:
And with thee, to my ear
Came heartening tones, that kindly drew me on,
Until, as self-evolved, my lay was done.

Yet I would win thee still
To dwell beside me, as in earlier days.
That time of flowers is gone; its memory stays,
And often will its dreams my spirit fill
With youth's full joy. Where shall I seek thee now?
Is it upon the sky-crowned mountain's brow?
Or sit'st thou rather by the sounding shore,—
Fit music for thee in its rush and roar,—
Or roamest free the desert's boundless plain?
O, lead me even so far, to find thee once again!

A storm rose 'mid the gloom of yesternight;
And as it just o'ertopped the distant hill,
Forked lightnings played in jets of starry light,
And yet the hushed and slumbrous air was still:
But as the cloud rolled, billowy, up the sky,
The flash soon heralded the bursting peal;
'Mid the wild conflict, then I felt me high
Uplifted to thee, for I well could feel,
Thou with the winds and thunders hadst thy flight.

378

To-day the sky is clear; serenely blue
It swells above me, and a freshening gale
Tosses the sparkling sea, full in my view,
Crested with many a bright and bellying sail.
Thou too art hovering, in the sunny air,
Over this fair spring-time of budding groves:
Thou listen'st to the voice of happy loves;
Smilest,—and answering smiles await thee there.

But I would rather seek thee, where alone
Thou find'st thy home, in the Ideal;—there
Thou sittest, as a conqueror on his throne;
Around thee stand the great, the good, the fair,
Perfect as highest thought,—no dim decay
Can ever waste them,—free from spot or stain,
They live, unchanged, one long, eternal day;—
Thither I haste, for there I cannot seek in vain.

In that high home, O, pour thy sacred light
Around my soul, that I may feel and know
How godlike man, when, on his utmost height,
He looks, as Washington, on all below,
Mild, yet unbending; stern to keep the right,
Yet filled with love of country's warmest glow,
And holier love of all! Inspired by thee,
O, be my theme alone the perfect and the free!

THE STARLET.

FROM THE DANISH OF STAFFELDT.

There stood a star in the heaven's blue,
And it sparkled so sweetly bright,
A milder glance I never knew,
And it filled me with delight.

379

Methought all beauty and loveliness met
In its softly-twinkling beam;
I watched the bright star till I saw it set,
In a still and happy dream.

Each night 'mid the dew of the flowers I lay,
And intently gazed on the star,
Till the misty veil of the morning gray
Hung over the hills afar.

But since I have met thee, charmer dear,
The star has no longer my love;
I seek not the bliss that invites me here,
In the blue of the heaven above.

NATURE'S LYRE.

“Is there no hand to wake my ancient lyre?”
So, through the solemn hush of midnight, came
Late to my soul a tone, that seemed, like fire,
Within my heart to light its early flame.
Far from on high it flowed, and to my ear
Bore through the dark profound the song of holiest sphere.

“Is there no hand to tune my harp again,
As once it rung on Zion's sacred hills,
Whence borne by airs from heaven o'er vale and plain,
The desert smiled, the sea was smooth and still?
Is there no voice to swell that lofty lay
Up to the golden gates of never-ending day?

“Will none awake again the heroic string,
Such as Olympus heard 'mid sky-crowned snows?
The bounding accents leap; responsive ring
Struck swords on brazen shield that burnished glows.

380

Will no proud youth take up the epic song,
And 'mid triumphal halls its wondrous charm prolong?

“Is there no lip can fill the pastoral flute,
And pour its sweetness on the vernal air;
To the blest time of loves and blossoms suit
The strain that breathes alone the soft and fair?
Is there no joyous heart to give once more
The festal hymn, that rose by myrtle-tufted shore?

“When shall the lyric trumpet, from its sleep
Start to new life, as when of old it blew
Summons to patriot souls, and stirred them deep,
That to the joy of fight, like heroes, they flew,
Whether on Ilium's glory-lighted coast,
Or where the Baltic rolls 'mid Valhall's realms of frost?

“And who is there can lead the fairy dance,
To ever-changeful notes, from citherns borne
Through the wild, tangled shadows of Romance,
Oft startled by the clang of elfin horn?
Is there a voice can render, full and free,
That song of tenderest love, and gayest revelry?

“And dare one touch the lyre of many tones,
That spake the all-meaning language of a world,
So clear and true, the song each passion owns,—
Hope's swelling lip, and pride's in anger curled?
Will none that fullest harmony display,
And lead it with strong hand careering on its way?

“Have ye, then, all forgot my ancient lyre,
To Nature's pure and simple music strung?
Have poor conceits subdued its native fire,
And a false art cold fetters round it flung?
True art is perfect nature:—wake and give
New motion to its chords, and know, thy song shall live!”

381

MASONIC SONGS.

I.
MASTER'S SONG.

BY A BROTHER.

In harmony the social band
Are met around the fount of light,
To spend beneath the Master's hand,
In decent joy, the festive night;
Let each, in truth and honor bright,
Be present at the secret hall,
And on his heart in silence write
The sacred word that binds us all.

Beneath the blue and starry zone
Whose arch, high-swelling, girds the pole,
The Master, on his orient throne,
Unfolds to view the mystic roll;
At once the pure, fraternal soul
Bends to the sign, with sacred awe,
And reads upon the lettered scroll,
In words of light, the unuttered law.

Let us our hearts and hands entwine,
And form one perfect wreath of love;
Then, kneeling at the voice divine
That spake to mortals from above,
Put on the meekness of the dove,
And the white robes of charity,
And, in unerring wisdom, prove
Our brethren with the single eye.

Be there no darkling scowl of hate
Upon the calm, unruffled brow;
But each, in innocence elate,
To virtue's brightness only bow:

382

Blest guardian of all pleasures! thou
Be ever at our Master's side,
And mark, with radiant finger, how
Thy words can be our only guide.

By thee conducted, we ascend
The steps that lead above to Heaven;
And where the mounting arches end,
To each the sign of worth is given;
Then, mantled by the shades of even,
We meet beneath the unclouded sky,
And bind the links no power hath riven,
In which we swear to live and die.

Let us these favored hours employ,
These moments of the social night,
To sing the silver song of joy,
And make the chain of union bright;
So may we ever here unite
To spend the hours in mercy given,
Led by the tokens which invite
Alone to happiness and Heaven.

II.
ROYAL ARCH SONG.

BY A COMPANION.

Joy! the sacred law is found,
Now the temple stands complete;
Gladly let us gather round
Where the Pontiff holds his seat.
Now he spreads the volume wide,
Opening forth its leaves to-day,—
And the Monarch by his side
Gazes on the bright display.

383

Joy! the secret vault is found;
Full the sunbeam falls within,
Pointing, darkly underground,
To the treasure we would win:
They have brought it forth to light,
And again it cheers the earth;
All its leaves are purely bright,
Shining in their newest worth.

This shall be the sacred mark
Which shall guide us to the skies,
Bearing, like a holy ark,
All the hearts who love to rise;
This shall be the corner-stone,
Which the builders threw away,
But was found the only one
Fitted for the arch's stay.

This shall be the gavel true,
At whose sound the crowd shall bend,
Giving to the law its due;
This shall be the faithful friend;
This the token which shall bring
Kindness to the sick and poor,
Hastening on an angel's wing
To the lone and darksome door.

This shall crown the mighty arch,
When the temple springs on high,
And the brethren bend their march,
Wafting incense to the sky;
Then the solemn strain shall swell
From the bosom and the tongue,
And the Master's glory tell
In the harmony of song.

Here the exile, o'er the waste
Trudging homeward, shall repose;
All his toils and dangers past,
Here his long sojourning close;

384

Entering through the sacred veils,
To the holy arch he bends;
Then, as sinking nature fails,
Hope in glad fruition ends.

III.
SELECT MASTER'S SONG.

BY A COMPANION.

The vault arches o'er us, and night broods around;
Not a whisper is heard through the depth of the cave;
All hearts, in the silence of secrecy bound,
Are reading the words the Great Architect gave:
United they listen the voice of the law,
The guide to our reason, the spur of the soul,
And they feel in the sounds a sweet mystery draw
Their hearts to the Spirit who uttered the whole.

Now the work is completed, and all are combined,
To close in the secret and deep-hidden cell
The words which are treasured as light to the mind,
Like the waters of truth in their close-covered well;
Here safely secured, they shall live in the rock,
When the storm rages o'er it and levels the wall,
And still, in the rage of the conqueror's shock,
The arches shall neither be shaken nor fall.

We have laid in its secret and silent retreat
The treasure that kings shall exult to behold;
And the pilgrim shall hasten with ardor to meet
This gift, valued higher than jewels or gold:
Ages roll on their way, and no foot shall be heard
In search of this scroll to enlighten the world;
But a hand shall be found to recover the word,
And then shall the standard of truth be unfurled.

385

We are seated in silence, and nothing can find
Its way to our distant and mystical cave;
And the watchman who guards not, our mandate shall bind
In the deeper concealment of death and the grave:
Be faithful and true, ever firm to your trust,
Is the lesson we give in the council of light,
And the herald shall summon you forth from the dust,
Above in the meeting of souls to unite.

SONG.

SEPTEMBER, 1852.

[_]

[Written for the dedication of a monument in Milford, Connecticut, over the graves of a number of American soldiers, who died of fever contracted while prisoners in New York.]

Honor, for ever honor due
Be paid the patriot brave,—
The men, to home and country true,
Who died our rights to save.

They planted on this fertile soil,
And wet with blood, the tree;
Ours is the fruit of all their toil,
They bled—and we are free.

They bound the chain of union strong,
And bade it ever hold;
That we, their sons, may gather long
Within its happy fold.

That chain of union let us keep
Bright as when first it shone;
The love they cherished fixed and deep,
That love be all our own.

386

Let years roll on, and far and wide
Still spread our free domain,
The dead who rest here side by side
Will not have died in vain.

MIDNIGHT MUSIC.

[_]

[The following is an imitation of Goethe's Night Song (Nachtgesang), in measure, number of stanzas, and order of repetition, but not in language. I give it as a specimen of versification, rather than of poetry.]

What sound of midnight music
Comes stealing on my ear?
How sweet, and oh! how holy,
The solemn strain I hear!

How sweet, and oh! how holy,
It echoes far and near,
As if an angel warbled
The solemn strain I hear.

As if an angel warbled
From out the highest sphere:
Sure mortal could not utter
The solemn strain I hear.

Sure mortal could not utter
A song so soft and clear:
O, might it ever linger,
The solemn strain I hear!

O, might it ever linger,
Thus breathing in my ear,
That sound of midnight music,
The solemn strain I hear!

387

JUVENILE POEMS.

The following pieces were printed in the author's first volume, which appeared in 1821. The motto on the title-page of the original book was this verse from Southey:

“Go, little book, from this my solitude:
I cast thee on the waters,—go thy ways,
And if, as I believe, thy vein be good,
The world may find thee after certain days.”

389

AN ODE TO MELANCHOLY.

“The joy of grief.”—
Ossian.

Melancholy! blue-eyed maid,
Clad in simple russet stole,
Thou who lov'st the silent shade,
And weep'st where murmuring rivulets roll,
Calmer of the troubled breast,
Heaving wild with passion's throe,
Thou who lay'st the heart at rest,
And cool'st distraction's fevered glow!
When thou leanest o'er the rill,
And minglest with its wave thy tear,
O, what sounds the woodland fill,
And softly whisper in my ear!
Come then, enchanting Melancholy,
Thou sweetest mistress of my heart!
Come, let us leave the haunts of folly,
And taste the joys that ne'er depart.

Melancholy! maid of Heaven!
Thine are pleasures known by few,—
Joys to favorites only given,—
Joys that soothe like summer dew;
Thine the harp, whose golden wire
Bids Heaven's sweetest music roll,
Kindling with a seraph's fire,
And calmly stealing to the soul.
When thou pour'st the dying strain,
Naiads smile along the wave,
Shepherds listen on the plain,
And hermits in the mountain cave.
Come then, &c.

390

Melancholy! Pity's child!
Turn on me thine eye of blue,
Soft as when affection smiled,
Or wept compassion's purest dew;
Wake thy voice that charms the grove,
Breathe thy calmest, sweetest lay,—
Strike thy silver chord of love,
And drive the cruel fiend away;
For thou sooth'st the tortured heart
To a holy, heavenly calm,
And gently heal'st affliction's smart
With thy music's softening balm.
Come then, &c.

Angel of the green-wood shade!
Let me lie on moss reclined,
When the hues of evening fade,
And calmly blows the fragrant wind,—
Let me lie beside thy rill,
And view the stream that ripples by,
Till my soul shall drink its fill
Of thy delightful melody.
O, how soft, how sweet, how mild,
All the sounds that kiss thy string!
How they echo from the wild,
And in the flowery valleys ring!
Come then, &c.

Melancholy! dearest maid,
Bending low thine eyes of blue!
Roam the gently opening glade,
And thickets gemmed with morning dew;
Seek the cool, sequestered cave,
When the noon is glowing bright;
Rest where forests slowly wave,
And floats a faintly trembling light.
Where'er thou rov'st at early dawn,
Or sit'st, when glows the noontide sky,

391

Dearer at night the quiet lawn
And winding rill that ripples by.
Come then, enchanting Melancholy,
Thou sweetest mistress of my heart;
Come, let us leave the haunts of folly,
And taste the joys that ne'er depart.

FRAGMENT OF AN ODE TO FANCY.

Let us in the early dawn,
Seek the mountain's awful brow,
When the shades of night are gone,
And calmly smiles the scene below;—
Let us wander carelessly
Through the silence-breathing wood,
And gaze where swiftly rushes by,
Whitened with foam, the troubled flood;—
Let us steal along the vale,
Where the bee is humming round,
And the velvet-pinioned gale
Whispers o'er the flowery ground.
Nymph of most enchanting power,
Let us roam the wild-wood through,
When at morn or evening's hour
Droop the leaves with pearly dew.

NAPOLEON.

His glance was fixed on power alone,
His breast was steeled to woe;
He cared not for the dying groan,
His tears could never flow:
Hard as the rock, his flinty soul
Sported with life and blood;
Impatient of the least control,
Above the world, he stood.

392

O'er Europe's plains he marched to slay;
He spoke—and empires fell;
Destruction's gory path his way;
His voice—a nation's knell:
Kings bent their necks beneath his rod,
And owned his iron sway;
On crowns and thrones he proudly trod,
Or threw the toys away.

“Be free,” the lying despot said,—
“Be free,”—and they were slaves;
Before him every virtue fled,—
He dug their dreary graves:
Madly he hoped to be obeyed
By realms in ruin hurled,
And 'neath his banner's awful shade
To gather in the world.

ODE ON DEATH.

Toll for the brave!
He whom we saw afar,
First in the ranks of war,
Sleeps in the grave;
No flags or pennons o'er the hero wave;
Ne'er shall the cannon's roar, the trumpet's breath
The drum's loud tumult, wake the sleep of death,
No shout of triumph animate the brave;
No burnished eagle glitters o'er his head,—
High from his tomb the bird has ta'en her flight,
While sable yews o'ershadow Honor's bed,
And coldly fall the chilling dews of night,
Steeping the wintry turf that hides the mighty dead.

Toll for the just!
That eye of tempered fire,
Which shunned each wrong desire,
Fades in the dust;

393

Hushed is that eloquence so nobly bold;
The heart that felt for suffering is cold;
Affliction mourns above his honored bust,—
Her tears, slow-stealing o'er its marble cheek,
Tell of his soul of majesty and love,
His eye, that ever glanced on things above,
At once in justice firm, in kind compassion meek:
Goodness must fade;—the equal hand of death
Quenches the villain's and the just man's breath.

Toll for the fair!
Go, seek the lonely tomb,
Go, wander through its gloom,
She slumbers there:
Her angel look, that melted every soul,
Her eye, that rolled its glance of tenderness,
Her form encircled round with every grace,
Now moulder 'neath corruption's sable stole;
The worm is cradled on her forehead fair,
And wantons 'mid the ringlets of her hair,—
Each tint of faded beauty charms no more;
The fragrance of her lip, its living rose,
No more in Heaven's own purest crimson glows,—
'Tis livid as the stream that laves th' Avernian shore.

A fleeting day
The cheek of beauty glows,
The voice of music flows,
Then melts away;
Fluttering amid the summer's transient ray,
The gaudy fop expands his shining wing;
In bounding step the merry dancers spring,
Like insects sportive, like the rainbow gay:
Soon o'er this smiling scene the wintry storm
Of dark affliction sheds its lurid gloom,
Wafting upon its blast Destruction's form,
Who calls, with voice of thunder, to the tomb;
Like lightning flashing o'er the sleeper's head,
He wakes them from their dream, then hides them with the dead.

394

We all must die!
Each form, that proudly soars
Where war's confusion roars,
Must lowly lie;
The bard must hush his voice, and close his eye;
His clay-cold hand must rest upon his lyre,
No more to wake its hallowed soul of fire,
No more to swell the heart or steal the sigh:
Low in the humid dust, the noisome grave,
We rest our wearied limbs, we end our toils;
There fade the short-lived laurels of the brave,
There melt away the statesman's causeless broils,
There wastes the corpse to dust,—'t is all we know
Of man, the tenant of a world of woe.

How dark the tomb!
Doubt shades that dreary cave,
And curtains round the grave
With formless gloom.
O, what a spectre issues from its womb!
How dark his swarthy eye, its lurid glare
Like flames that in the dreary midnight flare!
With what a hollow voice he speaks our doom!
Impervious darkness on its raven wing
Hangs o'er the bed of death; the sceptic eye
Sees no fair realm beyond this being lie,
While wan despair and ghastly terror fling
Their horrors o'er the couch, where helpless mortals die.

Is there a ray
Whose brightness can illume
The grave, and bid the gloom
Disperse away?
Is there a twinkling star amid this storm,
Where all is cold and cheerless, all despair?
Reveals it to the sight an angel form,
Whose pinions, floating on the murky air,

395

Scatter the tempest-clouds, and o'er the sky
Unveil a morning tint of rosy hue,
And clothe the noontide vault with lovely blue,
While through the vale light airs and balmy zephyrs fly?

There is a form,
Whose brightly beaming eye
Disperses from the sky
Life's gloomy storm:
Around her brow celestial radiance plays,
Her candid vestments shine with dazzling light,
A thousand twinkling gems, like stars of night,
In virtue's ægis, on her bosom blaze;
She speaks,—and tones of heavenly harmony
Flow through the air and tremble on the gale;
The mourner raises her desponding eye,
And the heart-broken maid remits her wail;—
'T is Hope, who, bending from her native skies,
Bids through Death's dreary vale delicious beauties rise.

ODE TO RELIGION.

Daughter of Heaven! whose tender eye
Bends from thy throne of light above,
And in the wounds of misery
Distils the healing tears of love;
Clad in the spotless robes of day,
Thou clear'st the moral night away,
And at thy touch dispersive roll
The dark, impervious clouds, that shroud the guilty soul.

Along the vale of death and pain,
In sable weeds, a band appears;
Around them fly a horrent train
Of sharp regrets and boding fears;

396

O'er flinty paths their way they wind,
And leave their track in blood behind;
Remembrance has no light to cheer,
And dim, through lowering clouds, the beams of hope appear.

They backward look on early flowers,
On buds of bliss and dews of joy:
How few, how fleeting, were those hours!
They flattered only to destroy:
Amid the woven blossoms rose
The gloomy forms of real woes,
And Disappointment backward threw,
With cold, repulsive hand, the eager-hastening crew.

With bounding heart and burning soul
With look elate, and eye of fire,
Youth hurried from the lifted goal,
Impelled by glory, love, desire:
Before him shone the dazzling prize,—
Hope flashed exulting from his eyes;
He stretched his hand,—Despair, with thrilling scream,
Repelled his grasp, and broke his gilded dream.

Celestial maid! thy mellow light
Can pierce the clouds that round us lower,
And pour upon the drooping sight
From Heaven the soul-enkindling shower;
And as the soft-distilling rain
Enlivens all the thirsty plain,
Thy drops of love awake the heart,
And heal the festering wounds of sorrow's venomed dart.

O come! and on me kindly lay
The mantle of thy loveliness,
And all my errors wash away
In the pure fountain of thy grace;

397

And when I weep o'er joys gone by,
And view the past with wishful eye,
Be thine to lift my sinking soul,
And guide my wearied steps to Heaven's eternal goal.

When our eyes are dimmed with tears,
This can light them up again,
Sweet as music to our ears
Faintly warbling o'er the plain.
Never shines a ray so bright
From the purest earthly gem;
O, there is no soothing light
Like the Star of Bethlehem!

Grief's dark clouds may round us roll,
Every heart may sink in woe,
Gloomy conscience rack the soul,
And sorrow's tears in torrents flow;
Still through all these clouds and storms
Shines this purest heavenly gem,
With a ray that kindly warms,—
The Star that rose in Bethlehem.

When we cross the roaring wave
That rolls on life's remotest shore,

398

When we look into the grave
And wander through this world no more,
This the lamp, whose genial ray,
Like some brightly glowing gem,
Points to man his darkling way,—
The Star that rose in Bethlehem.

Let the world be sunk in sorrow,
Not an eye be charmed or blest;
We can see a fair to-morrow
Shining in the rosy west;
For this beacon Hope displays,
For in Mercy's diadem
Shines with Faith's serenest rays
The Star that rose in Bethlehem.

When this gloomy life is o'er,
When we smile in bliss above,
When on that delightful shore
We enjoy the heaven of love;
O, what dazzling light shall shine
Round salvation's purest gem!
O, what rays of love divine
Gild the Star of Bethlehem!

TRUMPET OF LIBERTY.

Trumpet of Liberty!
Trumpet of Freedom!
Call on thy sons,
And to victory lead them:
Youth whose bright tresses wave,
Age with locks hoary,
All who are good and brave,
Summon to glory.

399

Trumpet of Liberty!
Rend thou asunder
Slavery's chains
With a war-note of thunder.
Slaves, from your slumbers start,
Wake ye from slavery!
O, let the warrior's heart
Kindle in bravery!

Trumpet of Liberty!
Europe shall hear thee.
Blow Freedom's blast,
Every tyrant shall fear thee.
Call on the brave,
And to victory lead them,—
Tyrants to death,
And the slave to his freedom.

Nations arise!
In the might of your bravery;
Banish your kings,—
Live no longer in slavery;
Rise in your strength,—
They shall tremble and fear you;
Call for your rights,—
Every tyrant shall hear you.

Nations, be free!
'T is your good and your glory;
Then shall your deeds
Live and brighten in story.
Trumpet of Liberty!
On to fame lead them.
O, they shall conquer,
For sacred is freedom!

400

ODE

ON THE EMANCIPATION OF SPAIN.

From her slumber the Genius of Freedom is waking,
Where her flag through long ages of darkness lay furled;
From slavery's cloud all her bright beams are breaking,
Like the sun from a tempest that saddened the world.
At her touch, see her banner exultingly wave;
At her call, see the Spaniard to liberty springing,
Hear each voice the wild hymn of deliverance singing,
While the funeral knell of the tyrant is ringing,
That calls him to death and the gloom of the grave.

O'er those hills rich with vines, o'er those plains gay with roses,
Where Bigotry glared like a meteor of night,
Now the sunbeam of Liberty sweetly reposes,
And gently re-echoes the song of delight;
The fetters that clanked round the form of the slave
Melt away like the transient dew of the morning;
While bright as yon rainbow, the blue heavens adorning,
Of his doom of destruction base Tyranny warning,
Shines Freedom's starred wreath on the brow of the brave.

O, long have ye slept in the dungeon of woe,
And mourned o'er your fetters through lingering years,
Where the dirges of sorrow unceasingly flow,
And the eye of the mourner is melted in tears!
No sound but the death-knell was poured in your ear,

401

No sight, but Despair in his agony starting,
Distraction his glance like the thunderbolt darting,
The wretch 'neath the red scourge of Bigotry smarting,
The wild glare of madness, the shivering of fear.

But the lightning of Freedom has roused every soul
From the chill, icy slumber, the sleep of the grave;
With radiant fingers she points to the goal,
Where glitters the crown that encircles the brave:
Then burst into life like the beast from his lair,
When he stalks through the desert with hunger wild roaring,
Rush on like the flood through the mountain glen pouring,
Rise, rise like the hawk on his pinions high-soaring,
And show to the tyrant what freemen can dare.

[Day-star of Liberty! dawn on our sky]

Day-star of Liberty! dawn on our sky;
Day-star of Liberty! kindle thy light;
Dawn on the plains where the Polanders lie
Slumbering in slavery, buried in night.

Day-star of Liberty! bright are thy rays;
Day-star of Liberty! clear is thy beam:
Dawn on our hills with thy ruddiest blaze,
Shine through the forest and brighten the stream.

Wake from his slumber the high-hearted Pole,
Point him to freedom, and summon him on;
Spirit him up in his vengeance to roll
Backward the Russ and the Cossack of Don.

Shine on the tombs where our heroes are laid,—
Heroes, who died for their country, and hurled

402

Solyman's legions in crowds to the dead,—
Heroes, who rescued from Mahmoud the world.

Hark! Sobieski has called from his tomb:
“Think of our glory,—no longer be slaves;
Summon the merciless Russ to their doom,—
O let the fields they have robbed be their graves!”

Poles, will you sleep when your demigod calls?
Poles, will you bend to the yoke of the Czar?
Think of Suwarrow,—of Prague's mouldering walls;
Raise freedom's flag, sound the trumpet of war.

Vengeance! to arms! Sobieski! the word;
Vengeance! to arms! on, ye Polanders, on!
Hurl from your plains, with the might of your sword,
Backward the Russ and the Cossack of Don.

ODE

ON THE EMANCIPATION OF SOUTH AMERICA.

Star of the Southern pole,
That from the Atlantic deep
Rose, and on Andes' steep
Shone with a beacon-light,
And woke from moral night
The Spaniard's haughty soul!
They started from their sleep, and tore
The chains that bound them to their tyrant's throne:
Uncheered, unaided, they alone
Their banner reared on Plata's shore,
And in the dawning light of Liberty
Swore they would live and die united, firm, and free.

403

Where, rising o'er the silver tide,
That rolls its host of waters wide,
Resistless as a sea,
Fair shine their city's happy walls,
Convened within the sacred halls
Of infant Liberty,
They banded round their flag, and gave
Redemption to the fettered slave,
And o'er those plains like ocean spread,
And o'er their mountains' icy head,
And o'er their full, majestic river,
And through their halls, their fanes, their towers,
They lit a flame, shall burn for ever;
Nor Tyranny with all her powers,
Though battled in her holy league, shall dare
The statue they have reared from its high column tear.

Sister in freedom! o'er the main
We send our hearts to thee;
O, ne'er may kings and priests again
Stain with their steps thy flowery plain,
Nor vex the brave and free.
When earth beside was wrapped in night,
Here Freedom lit her quenchless light,
And hence its rays shall always beam,
And Europe yet shall hear the voice,
And wake from her inglorious dream,
And in her new-found strength rejoice.
In one fraternal band, let all
The nations, who would spurn the chains
That tyrants forge, would burst their thrall,
And wash away their servile stains,
And, proud of independent worth,
In honest dignity go forth,—
Let all who will not bow the knee,
Nor humbly kiss the trampling heel,
Who swear to perish or be free,
Unite, and draw their flashing steel,

404

And proud and daring in their second birth
Purge from its crowns and thrones the renovated earth.

ODE

ON THE EMANCIPATION OF GREECE.

Δευτε παιδες των Ελληνων.—
Greek War Song.

O'er Greece a dawn is rising;
The clouds that shroud her break away:
Again, behold! the immortal day,
When Persia's hosts chastising,
In Marathon's unequal fight,
The demigods of old arose,
And, mantled in the patriot's might,
Drove back in shame their myriad foes,
And crowned their brows with civic wreaths of light.

That day shall never perish!
The grass grows green above their graves;
But Liberty will cherish
The turf for ages trod by slaves.
She sounds her trumpet: “Greeks, arise!
Be men once more! O, let the hallowed stream
That flows to you from Lacedæmon, glow
With new-waked ardor; let the beam
Of independence purge your eyes,
And, waking from your long, long dream
Of prostrate thraldom, front the skies,
And bear, with onward breast, against your tyrant foe.”

She stands on mangled Parthenon,
And in her raised, commanding hand

405

She waves aloft her thirsty brand,
And points to fields your hardy parents won,
When not a foe dared touch their land,
Who fled not, clothed with blood and shame:
O, what a pure, unmingled flame
Of high, enduring, jealous freedom shone
In hearts of stern, but fine-wrought mould,—
Hearts that spurned at power and gold,
And scorned the proudest monarch on his throne!

Though few, they shrunk not when the prowlers came
In countless swarms, like locusts, to devour
Their harvests and destroy their name,
And o'er their much-loved country shower
Blood and havoc, tears and flame:
Yes, in that dark and awful hour,
When Xerxes, with his ravening host,
Hung, threatening vengeance, on their coast,
No eye was dim, no cheek was pale;
Their blood was up, their hearts were glowing,
And, like a storm-fed torrent flowing
With foam and fury through the echoing vale,
From their rude battlements of rocks they rushed,
And with their giant tread the awe-struck Persian crushed.

Greeks! arise, be free!
Arm for liberty!
Men of Sparta! hear the call,
Who could never bear the thrall
Of coward Frank or savage Turk!
From those mountains where you lurk,
Send the voice of Freedom forth,
Spread it through the fettered North,
And from Morea tear her funeral pall.
Now the nations are waking
From slavery's night;
Their manacles breaking,
They haste to the fight,

406

Where tyrants shall make their last stand for their thrones:
O, by your stripes, your tears, your groans,
Now gird your loins with vengeance! let the fire
Of high achievement heart and soul inspire;
Be nerved to die or conquer, fixed to fall,
Like Sparta's sacred band before the wall,
Which stood a bulwark to the invading swarm!
O, be your hearts thus bold, thus warm,
Devoted to your country's cause!
Be there no stay, no rest, no pause!
Once more the sun of Liberty shall pour
Its brightest glories on the Ægean shore.

SONNET TO ITALY.

FROM THE ITALIAN OF VINCENZO DA FILICAIA.

Italia! O Italia! whom the hand
Of Heaven arrayed in beauty,—fatal dower,
For which unnumbered wrongs afflict thy land
And on thy furrowed brow the wasting power
Has stamped his burning characters of shame;
Less sweet and fair, but more robust and brave,
Thou hadst not been of lords the lovely slave,
Who seek thee with an all-devouring flame,
Pouring their blood in strife, and wasting thine.

407

O, wert thou braver and less fair, no more
Should I behold the armed torrents roar
Down those tall Alps, where snows eternal shine;
Nor see again those tireless hounds of war,
The French, their limbs with battle heated, lave
In Po or Lodi's gore-impurpled wave;
Nor see thee, chained to some proud nation's car,
And girt with foreign armor, idly brave,
Beneath the Gaul or Gothic despot's star,
For ever, conqueror or conquered, slave.

I acknowledge I have not given the fine image expressed in the seventh and eighth lines of the original. I have given them another turn. I refer to those struggles in which Italy has been the prize of contending nations. Since the downfall of the Roman Empire, she has never made an energetic resistance to her invaders. Her bloodiest wars have been those in which she has torn her own vitals, or in which other nations have fought together for her possession. In these conflicts she has stood like Virgil's heifer, and she has truly found the passion of her lovers selfish and inhuman. The work is not yet ended, and never will be, till the spirit of Brutus shall awake and enkindle her now degraded population.

AN ODE

SUPPOSED TO HAVE BEEN SUNG AT NIAGARA FALLS, ON AN ANNIVERSARY OF OUR INDEPENDENCE.

O'er the blue, swelling sky, with a heavenly ray,
The sun shines serene on this glorious day;
And the flag of Columbia waves o'er the steep,
Where Niagara pours all its floods in the deep.

Let the roar of the cannon, the blast of the horn,
Usher in with their wild notes this glorious morn:
Let the toast of warm hearts be drank round to the brave,
Who defended our flag on Ontario's wave.

Let England exult in the fire of her tars:
We can boast braver souls 'neath the blaze of our stars,—
Hearts that glow when the cannon, resounding afar,
Gives the signal of battle, the larum of war.

On the billow of ocean to glory they sail,
While the stars proudly float on the wild-blowing gale;

408

And a halo encircles the brow of the brave,
When to triumph they march on Ontario's wave.

Let the cannon resound, let the trumpet be blown;
For the demon of War o'er the ocean has flown,
And Peace with her olive-leaf honors the brave,
Who fought for their homes on Ontario's wave.

Let the banner of blood on the wind be unfurled,
And the tempest of discord o'ershadow the world;
Let Peace, with her angel of Mercy, be fled,
And Murder exult in the groans of the dead:

When the trumpet and drum give the signal of war,
The Spirit of Freedom shall kindle her star,—
Shall clothe with her mantle of glory the brave,
Or rock them to rest on Ontario's wave.

They shall march to her foes by her beacon's red light,
And conquer or die in the glorious fight;
And Honor shall dig for the sailor a grave,
Or light him to fame, on Ontario's wave.

Then exult in the day when our nation was born:
Raise the shout of delight,—wind the blast of the horn,—
Peal the roll of the drum,—let the cannon's loud roar
Resound with the torrent that lashes the shore.

Should Britain insult us, our eagle shall fly,
Encircled with stars, on our flag through the sky;
From the mouth of the cannon, the free and the brave
Shall reply to our foes on Ontario's wave.

409

THE DEATH OF LAWRENCE.

Evening has closed o'er the wave of the ocean,
Peace has returned to the sailor again,
Hushed is the din of the battle's commotion,
Nothing is heard but the roar of the main:
Far as the eager eye through the dark shade can spy,
Nothing is seen but the foam of the wave;
While the loud tempests sweep wild o'er the heaving deep,
Ploughing the breast of bold Lawrence's grave.

What is that steals on my listening ear?
O, 't is the accent of mourning and woe!
Grief, for the loss of a leader so dear,—
Grief, for the death of a generous foe.
Now bleeds each sailor's heart,—wounded by sorrow's dart,
Tears flow in torrents for Lawrence the bold;
O, we shall ne'er, they cry, see his fire-flashing eye,
When on his country's foes fiercely it rolled!

O, what a sight, on that glorious morning,
Glanced our bold ship o'er the billowy wave!
Freedom and valor its banner adorning,
Victory cheering the hearts of the brave.
Glittered the sailor's eye, throbbed his rough bosom high,
While the starred flag floated wide on the wind;
Bright glowed the hero's soul,—proudly his glance did roll,—
Fixed were his features, and nobly resigned.

See, on the distant main swiftly advancing,
Albion's sons spread their banner afar;
Light on the crest of the foamy wave dancing,
See, they unfurl the red ensign of war.

410

Marked you the hero's eye,—bright as the noontide sky,
Stern as the frown that the roused lion wears,
When, like the whirlwind's rage, fiercely the foes engaged,—
Mingling in battle, the cross and the stars.

Loud swelled the cannon's roar o'er the wide ocean,
Lashed by the prow, heaved the crimson-dyed foam;
Wild was the din of the battle's commotion,
While many a soul sought its long, latest home;
Bright glared the fatal flame,—death-winged the bullet came,
Full on our leader it darted its blow;
Then each tar heaved a sigh,—tears gushed from every eye,—
Lawrence is wounded, our hero is low.

Mark, from his breast how his life-blood is streaming;
Mark, how his eyeballs in agony roll;
Still through that mist valor's spirit is beaming,
Still his last words speak the fire of his soul:
“Rear up the Eagle high! point it unto the sky,—
There let it soar while the bloody fight raves,
There let its wings outspread,—flap o'er the mighty dead,
Till it shall plunge in the fathomless waves.”

Long shall his spirit illumine our stars,
Long as our flag on the tempest shall fly;
Long as our Eagle the thunderbolt bears,
It shall soar on its pinions and flash in its eye:
When on the stormy main venture our ships again,
Then shall his valor our bosoms inspire;
When we the broadsides pour, and war's dread thunders roar,
Lawrence shall lead like a pillar of fire.

411

PERRY'S VICTORY ON LAKE ERIE.

Bright was the morn,—the waveless bay
Shone like a mirror to the sun;
'Mid greenwood shades and meadows gay,
The matin birds their lays begun:
While swelling o'er the gloomy wood
Was heard the faintly-echoed roar,—
The dashing of the foamy flood,
That beat on Erie's distant shore.

The tawny wanderer of the wild
Paddled his painted birch canoe,
And, where the wave serenely smiled,
Swift as the darting falcon, flew;
He rowed along that peaceful bay,
And glanced its polished surface o'er,
Listening the billow far away,
That rolled on Erie's lonely shore.

What sounds awake my slumbering ear?
What echoes o'er the waters come?
It is the morning gun I hear,
The rolling of the distant drum.
Far o'er the bright illumined wave
I mark the flash,—I hear the roar,
That calls from sleep the slumbering brave,
To fight on Erie's lonely shore.

See how the starry banner floats,
And sparkles in the morning ray:
While sweetly swell the fife's gay notes
In echoes o'er the gleaming bay:
Flash follows flash, as through yon fleet
Columbia's cannons loudly roar,

412

And valiant tars the battle greet,
That storms on Erie's echoing shore.

O, who can tell what deeds were done,
When Britain's cross, on yonder wave,
Sunk 'neath Columbia's dazzling sun,
And met in Erie's flood its grave?
Who tell the triumphs of that day,
When, smiling at the cannon's roar,
Our hero, 'mid the bloody fray,
Conquered on Erie's echoing shore?

Though many a wounded bosom bleeds
For sire, for son, for lover dear,
Yet Sorrow smiles amid her weeds,—
Affliction dries her tender tear;
Oh! she exclaims, with glowing pride,
With ardent thoughts that wildly soar,
My sire, my son, my lover died,
Conquering on Erie's bloody shore!

Long shall my country bless that day,
When soared our Eagle to the skies;
Long, long in triumph's bright array,
That victory shall proudly rise:
And when our country's lights are gone,
And all its proudest days are o'er,
How will her fading courage dawn,
To think on Erie's bloody shore!

[By the spirits of the dead]

By the spirits of the dead,
Who sunk to death in Erie's wave,—
By the hearts that nobly bled,—
By the free, unconquered brave,—

413

We will draw the freeman's sword,
When the Briton threats our shore;
Mingle freedom's battle-word
Proudly with the cannon's roar.

We have faced, will face again,
Death and slaughter;—shall we fly?
Shall we leave the tented plain,—
Leave it, when the foe is nigh?

Come, invader! here we stand,
On the border of the wave;
Ere thou touch our native land,
Thou shalt lay us in the grave.

Here we stand, and here we die;
Bring thy ships, thy rockets bring;
Here our nation's flag shall fly,
Here shall wave our Eagle's wing.

Range in battle-line thy fleet,—
Ravage—burn—destroy; but know,
Though we perish, thou shalt meet—
Meet in every form a foe.

Sons of freedom! seize the gun,
Level well the marksman's eye,
Tell them how the deed is done,
Tell how sure our bullets fly.

Draw a sword, the brave may wield,
Draw it, when the Britons come,
“Hurry, hurry to the field,”
With the fife and rolling drum.

Point thy cannons on the foe,
Bid their lightnings flash afar,
Far and wide his thousands strow
With thy thunder-bolts of war.

414

Mingle boldly in the fray,
Shrink not at the sight of blood,
Think how, on his fatal day,
Firm, undaunted, Lawrence stood.

See! his spirit strides the wave,
Calls you where he nobly fell,—
Victory's summons to the brave,
To the foe his funeral knell.

By that soul of ardent flame,
By that soul that could not yield,
Hurry to the field of fame,—
Hurry to the battle-field.

ODE

TO THE MEMORY OF PERRY.

With brow serene a form advanced,
His lofty eye was fixed on heaven,
To him the strength of soul was given,
A frown on vice he sternly glanced;
His purpose firm, his bosom clear,
He could not stoop, he could not fear;
With giant step he trod the ground,
The living waves rolled back, and gave
An honorable space around;
Such soul-subduing power attends the virtuous brave.
Amid the deafening roar of War,
Or mad Sedition's thundering shock,
The senate's brawl, the forum's jar,
He stands, an intellectual rock:
In vain the storms of party rage
Against his moveless form engage,
In vain the torrent rushes by,—
He views the chafing flood with firm, undaunted eye.

415

At once he rose in dazzling light,—
No deed of arms had graced his shield,
Nor proudly bore its argent field
The story of victorious fight:
He burst, a sun, upon the world.
He stood his country's brazen wall,
Her bolt with conquering arm he hurled,
And, springing at her sacred call,
Through death and danger fearless rushed:
His hand was nerved, his heart inspired,
By valor's fire his soul was flushed;
Nor stopped he till his foe retired,
Their rage subdued, their thunders hushed;—
Then in a youthful victor's might he trod,
And owned no sovereign but his land and God.

A nation's dawning light has fled:
Beyond the ocean's purple wave,
He coldly sleeps among the dead,
Without a stone to deck his grave:
Cut off in honor's early bloom,
When life was young and spirits high,
He sank in silence to the tomb,
Forbid in valor's field to die.
Pale sickness o'er him spread her gloom;
And he who, in the mortal strife,
Where nations toil for death or life,
Had better winged his heavenward flight,
Who should have slept on glory's bed,
In sorrow quenched his new-dawned light,
And feebly mingled with the dead.
O, had he met on Erie's wave
The glorious death he nobly sought,
That death by matchless valor bought,—
A hero generous as brave,—
We then had borne him to his tomb
With all the tenderness of grief,
And wept with honest pride his doom,
And hailed him as our darling chief.

416

The sailor asks no sweeter grave
Than ocean's gore-impurpled wave;
His life is in his country's hand,
And where she calls he loves to fly,
In battle's shock unmoved to stand,
In battle's carnage fearless die:
He sees the light of fame aspire
And kindle, as the dun clouds roll,
Its quenchless pyramid of fire,—
He sees, and hurries to the goal;
And while the voice of conflict roars,
His ardent spirit springs and soars;
By glory's breath his soul is driven,
He walks on earth, but lives in heaven;
And, as the mounting arrow flew
Along the lofty fields of blue,
Ascending still, he onward flies,
And dies in flame amid the skies.
How few attain that envied height,
Where all is cloudless, pure, and bright!
How few the souls that never stoop,
How few the hearts that never droop,
Who always fix their eye on fame,
Their only wealth their mighty name,
Their only boast, to do the deed
That all may love, but none decry,—
In freedom's holy cause to bleed,
Where Glory calls, to rush and die!
Glory is not the blasting flame
That burns around a Cæsar's head;
Beneath the golden wreath of fame
None but the wise and good may tread:
The hand must toil, the foot must strive,
No selfish feeling stain the breast,
No passion wild-careering drive
The soul, that longs for Glory's rest.
Sweet after labor comes repose,
And he who toils through life can die,
His long career of honor close,
With brow unruffled, tearless eye:

417

He knows, though envy blot his name,
When time has swept those clouds away
That o'er the purest light will stray,
No shade can dim his sun of fame.
How sweet the calm that fills his breast,
When after years of generous strife,
He sinks, by every bosom blest,
And bursts from pain to light and life!
Around his brow the beams of glory play,
And o'er him settles Heaven's eternal day.

DITHYRAMBIC.

I.

Balmy juice of rich Madeira,
How thy amber bubbles shine!
How thy fragrance charms the weary,
Soothing like a song divine!

When thy nectar gayly flushes,
And thy hues the goblet stain,
How the mounting spirit rushes
Lightly through the dancing brain!

Every scene of sadness brightens,
All is robed in vestment fair;
How the cloud of sorrow lightens,
As we sip, and banish care!

Now the patriot bosom throbbing
Swells to deeds of high renown;
And the lover ceases sobbing,
Though beneath his mistress' frown.

418

Now, his eye with frenzy rolling,
How the poet sweeps his lyre,
While, no hand his fire controlling,
Madness thunders o'er his wire!

Fired by thee, he grasps the lightning,
Hurls it fiercely through the air;
And a wreath of glory bright'ning
Flames around his waving hair.

When my fancy, faintly drooping,
Loses all its fire divine,
Let me, o'er thy fountain stooping,
Quaff the richly mantling wine.

II.

They may tell me, the sages who soberly think,
That water was all that sire Adam would drink;
They may tell of the calm, philosophical brain
In those who from all that is kindling refrain,—
What serene, energetic, and straight-forward thought,
By living as Nature would have us, is bought;—
They may keep their cool reason who like it,—be mine
A fancy that glows in a bumper of wine.

Our life was not made to flow out like a stream
In the low lands of Holland; the soul's brightest beam
Will die without feeding, as lamps without oil,
And something reviving must water the soil.
The dew may enliven the flowers of the spring,
And a sprinkling of rain make the nightingale sing;
But the heart cannot glow, and the eye cannot shine,
Nor the tongue roll, unless in a bumper of wine.

419

Bright nectar that foamed in the goblet of Jove!
Thou quickener of fancy and kindler of love!
By thee heroes rush without dread to the fight,
And cheer the long watch through a cold, frosty night:
When the orator seeks inspiration from thee,
His words how commanding, expressive, and free!
And ev'n the poor poet seems doubly divine,
When he fills from Castalia a bumper of wine.

Thy ruby-cheeked face is the idol for me;
But the tenderer vessels hold nothing but tea,
And that warm, cloudy spirit so weakens their prattle,
Their nonchalant flippancy flows tittle-tattle:
Though Hyson can call forth such lightness of heart,
Where the voluble tongue plays unshackled by art,
Yet their wit and their fancy are wondrously fine,
When by chance they have sipped a bumper of wine.

Then be mine in the storms and the winter of life,
And fill up the place of friends, children, and wife;
Be thou born on the orange-clad mountains of Spain,
Or nursed in the green, sparkling fields of Champagne,
In sea-girt Madeira, or sunny Tokay,
Or where Italy laughs, all enlivened and gay,—
May my last smile at parting complacently shine,
Like the sun on the waves, in a bumper of wine.

LOCH MAREE.

Wouldst thou a scene of quiet view,
When all is gemmed in evening dew,—
When the fair planet's silver blaze
On some lone water sweetly plays,—
When every twinkling star of night
Shines in the sky serenely bright,
And on the rock, the wave, the tower,
And on the lover's secret bower,

420

Peace furls her pinions on her breast,
And calls the weary world to rest,—
When not a breath of wind is waking,
And not an aspen-leaf is shaking,—
When not a ripple beats the shore,
And faintly swells the torrent's roar
In yonder mountain vale,—
When on the cliff the wild duck broods,
And slumbers o'er the marble floods,
Rocked by the dying gale,—
When far around, in dewy bush
And quiet grove, the minstrel thrush
Reposes silently,—
Go, at the hour of evening pale,
Go, wander through the lonely vale,
And view by moonlight Loch Maree.

The western wind is gently blowing,
The rising tide is softly flowing,
Its billow heaves along the shore
With rippling dash and solemn roar;
The screaming gull has gone to rest,
The puffin seeks her caverned nest,
On curving wing the ospray soars,
Where on the rocks the breaker pours,
And, dashing 'mid the foamy brine,
His plumes with dewy lustre shine.
Descending on the ocean blue,
Trickles from melting clouds the dew;
The sun, that late with crimson vest
Glowed on the billow's golden breast,
No longer meets the gazing eye,
Nor stains the ruddy evening sky;
For sunk in Thetis' saffron bed,
Each gleam of parting day has fled.

The abbey bell is slowly ringing,
The nun her vesper hymn is singing,
The notes, resounding o'er the bay,
Now sweetly swell, now die away:

421

Seems, as the winding shores prolong
The melody of sacred song,
An angel's harp had caught the strain,
And gave it to the distant main;
Such sounds in mellow echoes roll,
And wind their way into the soul.

'T is night, but o'er the peaceful bay
The rising moon's unsullied ray
Shines on its pure, unruffled breast,
Where every wave is smoothed to rest.
Beneath her light, the billows flow
With quiet dash and mellow glow,
And far around, the waveless main
Seems spreading like a glassy plain;
On distant rocks the mermaid weeps,
While round her form the sturgeon leaps,
And long she listens on the shore
The ocean's faintly echoed roar;
The sea-dogs, dashing through the foam,
In sportive gambols wildly roam,
And, rising lightly o'er the brine,
Their skins like polished marble shine.

Now up the brook, that gently flows,
The moon in beam of silver glows,
And through the vale, from lake to bay,
Winds like a stream of light away;
And where the brook, with ceaseless brawl,
Tumbles along the sloping fall,
With light all trembling and uneven
It twinkles like the stars of heaven:
But as you scale the mountain high,
What scene of beauty meets the eye!
Stretched through the vale a sheet of light,
It bursts upon the startling sight,
And back reflects the queen of night,
Whose silver image, far below,
Seems like a gliding orb of snow,

422

So pure, so lovely o'er the billow—
It sleeps as on a watery pillow:
Around, above, below, in streams
Of mellow radiance flow the beams,
That silver o'er the sky, and shed
Their rays on ocean's sandy bed;
They shine on wood and lofty hall,
They glitter on the castle wall,
And tremble waveringly,
Where, sitting in her lonely bower,
In sorrow spends the moonlight hour
The maid of Loch Maree.

The glassy wave, the sandy shore,
The rock with lichen covered o'er,
The cliff that frowns, the wave that smiles,
The gloomy firs, the willowy isles,
The castle on the dizzy steep,
Whose lamps their lonely vigils keep,
In such repose are sunk, they seem
The fancy of a poet's dream,—
So fair, so peaceful, one might say
It was a paradise that lay
So far and deep below,—
Some sweet Utopian scene of pleasure,
Where angels dance in lightest measure,
And seraph-warblings flow,—
Or fairy-land, where sylphs might lave
Their forms of beauty in the wave,
And sport upon the balmy wind,
To love and happiness resigned.
Go, range the world from pole to pole,
Go where Arcadia's streamlets roll,
And Tempe's waters play,—
Go, scale Parnassus' flowery steep,
Go where Castalia's muses weep
The mournful hours away,—
Go, view each scene of loveliness,
And tell, if thou canst ever grace
A scene so fair and gay.

423

[Adieu, my love, my Mary dear!]

“Perhaps there is scarcely a man who has once experienced the genuine delight of virtuous love, however great his intellectual pleasures may have been, that does not look back to the period as the sunny spot in his whole life, where his imagination loves most to bask, which he recollects and contemplates with the fondest regret, and which he would most wish to live over again.”—

Malthus.

Adieu, my love, my Mary dear!
Fair rose of innocence, adieu!
The stifled sob, the burning tear,
The trembling voice, are all for you;
For I must cross the stormy main,—
Already comes the parting day;
But when on Plata's distant plain,
I'll think of thee, though far away.

Each scene of youthful joys gone by,
That now in memory's chamber sleep,
Shall often rise before my eye,
And bid me think of thee and weep:
And while reclining 'neath the palm,
That rocks before the breeze's sway,
O, to my spirit what a balm,
To think of thee, though far away.

The lonely vale, the quiet tower,
The maple waving on the hill,
Where oft at evening's balmy hour
We listened to the murmuring rill,—
Where oft we saw the glowing west,
Rich with the hues of parting day,—
Shall waken in my throbbing breast
Sweet thoughts of thee, though far away.

The pomp of wealth, the blaze of war,
Shall ever seem a trifling dream,
When, smiling o'er the main afar,
I mark thy star's benignant beam;

424

When sickness sinks my drooping head,
This star shall shed a soothing ray,
And cheer the lonely dying-bed
With thoughts of thee, though far away.

Adieu, my love, my Mary dear!
Charm of my heart, a fond adieu!
Forgive me if I shed a tear,
Forgive me if I weep for you:
The streamer wantons in the wind,
The sailor shouts with spirits gay:
O, bear my image in thy mind,
I'll think of thee, though far away.

HENRY AND MARY.

The sun was sinking in the west,
When Mary sought the birken grove;
In snowy lawen simply drest,
She came to meet her own true love.

To meet her own true love she came,
Just at the hour of gloamin' gray,
To light anew her virgin-flame,
And blend with his her softer ray.

The dewy breath of evening blew,
And rustled through the spangled brake;
On wings of down the west-wind flew,
And lightly curled the placid lake;

Around on ilka brier and bush,
The throstles sung their evening lay,
And hoarsely swelled the torrent's rush,
As down the glen it swept away.

425

Through trembling boughs, that met the gale,
And danced in wanton sportiveness,
Light-waving streaks of lustre pale
Shone on her maiden loveliness.

As o'er her glowing cheek they played,
They tinged it with a heavenly hue,
And made the tear that down it strayed
Smile like a pearl of Eden's dew.

She rested on the mossy bank,
And leaned upon a birken tree,
Whose roots the crystal water drank,
And swept its pure translucency.

Why steals the tear along her cheek?
Why seeks her eye the parting ray?
She came her own true love to meet,
But ah! her love was far away.

The hand of death has closed his eye,
And laid him in the soldier's grave;
On honor's bed I saw him lie,
And sleep the slumber of the brave.

And ne'er shall Mary meet her love,
And press him to her heaving breast;
The dart of grief has pierced that dove,
And death has hushed her woes to rest.

She leant upon that birken tree,
And saw the sun's departing beam,
She saw the latest twilight flee,
That silvered o'er that mountain stream.

Her tears she mingled with the wave,
And “Henry” trembled on her tongue;
A voice cried, “Henry's in the grave,
His corpse is cold, his knell has rung.”

426

She started from her sorrowing trance,
'T was Henry's spirit caught her eye;
He cast on her one pitying glance,
Then melted in the evening sky.

She shrieked,—an ashy hue o'erspread
Her cheek,—she plunged beneath the wave,
The waters circled o'er her head,
And gave her broken heart a grave.

How sweet to wander up the dell,
And trace the wildly-roving stream,
And, bending o'er the crystal well,
To read the moon's reflected beam,
The dancing light, the checkered glow,
That o'er the bubbling fountain play!
But sweeter are the beams that flow
From thy pure loveliness, though glimmering far away.

How sweet at sunset on the hill
To look upon the purple ocean,
When all that moves on earth is still,
But that for-ever heaving motion!
What hues of heaven around the throne
Of day's departing monarch glow!

427

O, sweeter still to view alone
From thy blue melting eye love's hallowed lustre flow!

Than moonlight sleeping on the spring,
Than sunset purpling o'er the main,
Than morning's rosy welcoming,
Than night-dew sparkling on the plain,
More sweet thy beams in memory shine:
My last, last thoughts to thee are given;
My heart, my soul, my all are thine;
To think of thee is hope, to live with thee is heaven.

[Star of my heart! thy light has gone]

Star of my heart! thy light has gone,
A cloud has hid it from my view,
A night has come that has no dawn,
A storm I cannot struggle through;
For, like a boatman on the deep
Without a compass, or an oar,
Where wild winds howl, and tempests sweep,
My life must still drift on, and find no port, no shore.

Well,—I have toiled to reach a haven,
Where joy at length in peace might dwell,
And many a mountain billow braven,
Still drawn by thy bewitching spell:
It led me on through all that life
Had dark and cold and hard for me,
For still I hoped to end this strife,
And that my last, bright days might sweetly flow with thee.

Thou smil'dst, a beacon on that shore
Where Fancy builds her airy bowers,
And gems her grots with sparkling ore,
And weaves her shady arch of flowers;

428

And I did hope thy light would shine
And charm with beam more warm and bright,
And still I hoped its rays were mine:—
A sullen cloud came o'er, and all was wrapped in night.

But though my course is lone and wild,
Through booming waves, and wreck and sorrow,
I would be firm as when day smiled;
Beyond the grave—there shines a morrow.
Awhile chilled, harassed, dashed, and tost,
Through raging seas I plough my way
To some dark, undiscovered coast,
Where hope holds out no flag, and mercy lights no ray.

[I thought I loved,—no form of earth]

I thought I loved,—no form of earth,
A soul, a visioned shape of air,
The teeming heart and fancy's birth,
The image of all good and fair;
It had a life, a place, a home,
Had smile and glance and voice and tone;
Like green fields in the ocean's foam,
'T was with me still when all alone.

There was a Heaven upon its brow,
An Eden in its happy eye;
It charmed,—the sage may tell me how;
It still has lived, it will not die,—
In pain and pleasure, weal and woe,
Has always been my heart's fond goal,
The centre where my feelings flow,
The point where all my wishes roll;

The harmony of heart and thought,
The smile that always answers smile,

429

The peace that man disturbeth not,
The pure, free spirit's happy isle;
The words that glow, the eyes that sparkle,
The hand that melts and clings to mine,
The lips that smile when sorrows darkle,
As, when storms revel, beacons shine;

The flow, the mingled flow of mind,
Through science, fancy, art, and lore,
A feeling taste alike refined,
A blending of each other's store;
The perfect confidence, the thrill
When kindred spirits join their whole,
The joys unthought, untold, that fill,
When heart loves heart, and soul loves soul.

[Is there a tear that scalds the cheek?]

Is there a tear that scalds the cheek?
Is there a sigh the bosom rends?
Is there a grief we cannot speak?
'T is at the last adieu of friends.

The hearts that long have blent their cares
Are by a thousand fibres twined,
And cruel is the pang that tears
The links that fasten mind to mind.

But friends must part with those most dear,
The severing pang their hearts must swell;
Misfortune will extract the tear
That trickles when we bid farewell.

[To see a dear one close her eyes]

To see a dear one close her eyes,
With whom fond years have rolled away,

430

When, mounting to her kindred skies,
Her dying features sweetly play,

This is no light nor transient woe;
But there is hope to meet again,
And those warm drops, that streaming flow,
Are tears of joy as well as pain.

Yes, hope will cheer the widowed heart,
When weeping o'er the dear one's urn;
But who can hope or joy impart
To him whose love has no return?

[There is an hour, a heavenly hour]

There is an hour, a heavenly hour,
When rapture swells my throbbing breast,
When joy exerts her siren power
To lull my cares and woes to rest:
It is the hour of evening pale,
Beside the maiden of my heart;
'T is when within the quiet vale
We meet and hope no more to part.

Let proud ambition boast his fame,
And point where burns his glory-star;
I envy not the hero's name,
I care not for the blaze of war:
Give me, when evening draws around
The silent dell its rosy veil,
To hear her harp's wild-warbling sound,
And listen to her soothing tale.

This is the star that charms my sight,
The mildly beaming star of love;
There is no star of purer light,
That sparkles in the heavens above.

431

Lay me beneath the willow's shade,
Where softly sighs the evening gale,
Love's paradise can never fade
With Mary in the quiet vale.

['T is night,—but yet the moon is high]

'T is night,—but yet the moon is high,
And floating round her shadowy throne
The fleecy clouds in slumber lie,
And gird her with a golden zone.

The air is hushed, the leaves are still;
The lake its glassy mirror spreads;
The moonlight settles on the hill
And silvers o'er the mountain-heads.

There is a spirit in the wind,—
It whispers peace into the soul;
A balm that stills the ruffled mind,
The heaving bosom's sweet control.

Though passion sleeps, yet memory wakes,
And fancy calls her airy train;
A thousand blended hues she takes,
And lost enjoyments live again.

She summons up the raptured hour
When life was pure, and thought was free,
And, swayed alone by Nature's power,
I roamed in careless liberty.

My being's dawn, my days of feeling,
The sunny spring-time of my soul,
When the warm tide of life is swelling,
And all our pulses wildly roll,—

432

The days of health and joy and love,
And glowing hopes and prospects high,—
I see them—and my heart's fond dove,
Her beck'ning smile, her speaking eye.

Ah, thou art here!—I feel thy breath;
It fans my pale and withered cheek,
It starts me from my dream of death;—
O, it is heaven to hear thee speak!

And then to hang upon thee so,
Those lips how sweet, how warm that kiss!
What words of honey o'er them flow!
Those liquid tones, how full of bliss!

And how our meeting bosoms beat,
And how our mutual feelings blend!
I call thee love and life and sweet,
And oh! thou say'st, my heart's sole friend.

Our thoughts, our hopes, our joys are one,
In one full tide our being rolls;
This is the bosom's unison,
The harmony of kindred souls.

Our spirits burst the bands of earth,
By love's o'erpowering influence driven;
This is indeed a second birth,
O, this it is to live in heaven!

Begone, fond dream! I stand alone,—
By night's chill dews my locks are wet,
Love's paradise for ever flown,
My sun in utter darkness set.

Slow through my veins the ice-drops creep,
My fancy's cherished vision fled,
My feelings wrapt in endless sleep;—
I live, but oh! my heart is dead.

433

THE LAMP OF LOVE.

Light the lamp of love,—
Light it with a fire
Falling from above,
Sparkling with desire.
When the flame is bright,
Place it in the bower
Where true hearts delight
To pass the evening hour:
It will softly shine
Through the mantling leaves,
Which the Graces twine,
And affection weaves,—
Weaves into a chain,
With the smile of bliss,
Melting looks that banish pain,
And pure enjoyment's honeyed kiss.

See! how bright it gleams,
Like the evening star,—
How its mellow beams
Scatter wide and far,
Lighting on his way,
To the lonely bower,
Him who loves to stray
Round affection's modest flower,
Him who loves the blush that glows
On the cheek of innocence,
Brightening like the dewy rose,
And breathing like it to the sense.

But there is a ray
More delightful still,
Beams that softlier play,
Looks that sweetlier thrill;
'T is the eye whose light,
Sparkling from the heart,

434

Pours upon the night
Joys that ne'er depart;
'T is the look that tells
Love is living there,
And, like the fairy's witching spells,
Bids every scene enchantment wear.

Ah! the light has faded
In the darkened bower,
Jealousy has shaded
Every leaf and smiling flower.
Can the dying beams
Shine again as bright as ever?
No! the demon's inky streams,
When once they quench them, quench for ever.

THE GALLEY SLAVE.

How dark is the night! no planet is gleaming,
To light the lost mariner over the wave;
How dark is my fortune! no sunshine is beaming
From Hope, on the poor galley slave.
The mariner waits till the morning is breaking,
When daylight shall point him his path to the shore;
By night and by day the poor galley slave, waking,
Must sigh as he tugs at the oar.

Though cold be the storm on the wand'rer descending,
And chill be the tempests that over him blow,
Still Hope on this storm some few bright rays is blending,
And smiles on the dark cloud of woe.
But never shall Hope, to the poor galley slave,
His friends or the love of his bosom restore;
No, never, the wretch, till he sleeps in the grave,
Must sigh as he tugs at the oar.

435

And oft, as around him the billows were roaring,
He struggled to sweep his broad oar through the wave,
I've marked him in tears his lost freedom deploring,
I've marked the poor heart-broken slave.
“Ah! ne'er shall I meet my lost friends,” he was crying;
“O, ne'er shall my woes and my sorrows be o'er!”
Then faintly his voice on his pallid lips dying,
He sighed as he tugged at the oar.

When nature has sunk, and the poor galley slave,
In short broken slumbers, is resting from pain,
He dreams that he crosses the far distant wave,
And meets with his Mary again.
But soon from his slumber in anguish awaking,
His fond dream of love and pleasure is o'er,
And leaves him with naught, while his full heart is breaking,
But to sigh as he tugs at the oar.

ON THE DEATH OF MISS ---,

WHO WAS DROWNED WHILE BATHING AT ---.

The sun from his soft-swelling palace of blue
Looked down on the waves of the ocean:
O'er the breast of the billow the razor-bill flew,
All hushed was its stormy commotion.

The halcyon rocked on his wave-cradled bed,
And slept on the surge as a pillow;
The gulls flapped their wings o'er the mariner's head,
As his bark ploughed the foam of the billow.

436

Like the goddess of beauty, arrayed in her charms,
When from Ida in triumph descending,
Maria, unmindful of future alarms,
O'er the breaker that rippled was bending.

She saw in the wave, as it rolled on the shore,
Her charms, with triumphant emotion,
And little she thought, 'mid the billows' loud roar,
How soon she should sleep in the ocean.

Her maids stood around her, and scarce at her feet
Ascended the soft-kissing billow;
Ah! little they thought that an angel so sweet
Should repose on a watery pillow.

While securely they dipped in the scarce-heaving wave,
That softly around them was swelling,
The sea-nymphs were decking her coralline grave,
And her parting bell slowly was knelling.

A breaker arose, like the wave of the storm,
It foamed with a wild, heaving motion,
And dashed o'er the strand,—overwhelmed her fair form,
And buried her deep in the ocean.

A faint shriek was heard, and 't was silent again;
She has gone,—she has vanished for ever:
Long, long shall they seek for her corse in the main,
But when shall they find it?—ah! never.

On sea-weeds and corallines softly reclined,
Maria is calmly reposing:
Round her wave-polished bones the sea-mosses shall wind,
Till time o'er the ocean is closing.

437

And long shall the sea-boy, while wrapped in his dream,
At midnight awake from his pillow,
And wondering view, in the moon's silver beam,
Her fair spirit glide o'er the billow.

[Give me a lonely seat]

Give me a lonely seat,
Where she reposes,
Where the rude billows beat,
As the day closes,
Where the waves on the shore,
White with commotion,
Raise the loud-pealing roar
Over the ocean.

There I would sadly rest
On my cold pillow,
There seek to soothe my breast
Under the willow;
But, O my Mary dear!
Parted for ever,
Comfort I cannot hear,
Never, O, never!

Oft when the silver beam
Kisses the billow,
Oft shall my sorrow stream
Under the willow;
And though the midnight storm
Howls o'er the ocean,
Still I shall view thy form,
Rapt in emotion.

Billows are roaring,
And ocean is swelling,

438

I am deploring,
My death-bell is knelling.
O, in the stormy main,
Loving for ever,
When can we part again?
Never, O, never!

Oft shall the mariner,
Ploughing the billow,
Start from his slumber
Of peace on his pillow;
Then, while the moonbeam
Is silvering the ocean,
And the wave tosses him
With its light motion,—

Then shall he view us glide,
Like a bright vision,
Over the heaving tide,
Sweetly Elysian.
O, can the stormy main
Hearts so fond sever?
O, can we part again?
Never, O, never!

THE VIOLET.

Among all the sweet-blooming flowers of the spring,
That deck every meadow, and scent every gale,
There is none to my heart such a transport can bring
As the violet that blossoms unseen in the vale.

The rose may delight with its odors and blushes,
We may hang on the lily's leaves tender and pale,
Hues of beauty may glow on the laurel's gay bushes,
But lovelier the violet that blooms in the vale.

439

Though the earliest dawn of the morning should find me
Inhaling the fragrance that breathes in the gale,
I would leave all the flowers of the garden behind me,
To view the sweet violet that blooms in the vale.

When the fields are one flower-bed, all blooming and gay,
And far-floating clouds of aroma exhale;
Still, no hues in the sunbeams so pleasingly play
As those on the violet that blooms in the vale.

I have seen many beauties in woman's soft form,—
In the cheek gay with hope, or with sorrow all pale;
But none could my heart so delightfully charm
As the maiden that bloomed in obscurity's vale.

At the accent of joy, O how bright was her eye!
How she wept when she listened to pity's soft tale!
From every gay beauty of fashion I'd fly,
To the maiden who bloomed in obscurity's vale.

[How sweet is the turf on the grave of my friend]

How sweet is the turf on the grave of my friend,
Where the joy of my heart, wrapt in slumber, reposes!
On the dew-spangled sod how the morning rays blend,
Like the bright, airy colors that evening discloses!

And bright be the rays,—for a soul that was bright
As the star of the morning here peacefully slumbers:
O where is the mortal so dear to my sight!
O what sounds are so sweet as his harp's lively numbers!

He tuned all the chords of his harp to a strain—
It seemed as if angels were waking their lyres:
There seemed every wild-warbling bird on the plain,
When his fingers swept gracefully over the wires.

440

But there always was heard in his liveliest notes
A slight strain of sorrow, that breathed in my ear,
As when on the west-wind the dirge sweetly floats,
And from the eye gently elicits the tear.

I have heard him, when sorrowful, pour on the gale
Such soft notes of sadness, I wept at the sound;
It seemed that the turtle-dove's heart-breathing wail
Was filling the pines that waved gloomily round.

He would sweep o'er the chords all the power of his arm,
And wake such a strain,—'t was alive to my soul,—
So sweet, 't would each pang of my bosom disarm,
And bid all my feelings in ecstasy roll.

But, minstrel of Nature! thy soul breathes no more,
Thine eye darts no longer enlivening fire;
O, ne'er shall thy harp its wild witchery pour,—
No descant of sorrow e'er flow from thy lyre.

Life's sea was too stormy for bosoms like thine,—
As well might the child front the tempest's loud wave;
But I'll often retire to weep over thy shrine,
And the turf shall for ever grow green on thy grave.

[Rest, O my lyre! till the winter of sorrow]

Rest, O my lyre! till the winter of sorrow
Is gone, and the spring-tide of pleasure return:
It may kindle its smile ere the dawn of to-morrow,
And shake the sweet dews of delight from its urn.
Then let thy strings, brushed by fancy's light wings,
Breathe the music of joy in the listener's ear:
Then let thy note, like the nightingale's, float,
Lighting rapture's gay smile, stealing pity's soft tear.

441

Though I should tune to the key-note of gladness
Thy chords, yet the blast of the winter's chill wind
Would wake them to naught but the moaning of sadness,
To an air that would sink, not enliven the mind.
Rest then, my lyre, awhile!—rest till with vernal smile
Spring decks the mead and enkindles the grove;
Then let the zephyr's wings brush gently o'er thy strings,
Waking them all to the music of love.

Now I am sorrowful,—tears give me pleasure:
Hush then thy music,—be silent my lyre!
For thy strings, tuned to grief's mournfullest measure,
Wake in my heart an enlivening fire;
When pleasure wreathes my head, and sorrow's tear has fled,
Then let the wind kiss thy chords as it flies,
Wafting a strain along, sweet as the robin's song,
Bidding joy sparkle in beauty's blue eyes.

Lyre of my soul! sorrow's dark clouds are breaking;
Smiles through their gloom the clear azure of bliss,
Every sweet warbler of rapture is waking,
Every vale listens to love's fondest kiss.
Now to the passing wind be all thy chords resigned,
Let each gay pinion, that shines in its wing,
Wake all thy melody, swell all thy wild notes high,
Till rock and wood with thy ecstasy ring.

[She's gone, the idol of my heart]

She's gone, the idol of my heart,—
She's gone, alas! for ever.
Could Heaven such tender lovers part,
Such links of fondness sever?

442

So strong we twined the chain of love,
We thought no force could break it;
Such flowers within its links we wove,
'T was sweet as bliss could make it.

It was a silken, flowery chain,
And soft as downy pinions;
So bright its links, night shows in vain
Heaven's glittering “starred dominions.”
And oh! I thought no power so strong,
This chain of love to sever;
But ah! her vows were but a song,—
She's gone, alas! for ever.

There is an angel in her eye,
So modest, sweet, and charming;
And when her sudden glances fly,
The bosom's peace alarming,
Reason cannot withstand her power,
Its light by passion shaded:
So falls the blooming April flower,
'T is plucked, rejected, faded.

O save me from a woman's eye!
There is a fiend within it.
O, guard me from a woman's sigh,
For death is breathing in it.
She smiles, enchants us, then betrays;
Her charms are man's undoing,
And in her flowery paths there strays
The harbinger of ruin.

You cannot tell when woman loves,
For all she does is smiling;
And when those charming lips she moves,
'T is all for man's beguiling;
And though her face like heaven is fair,
Each dart of Cupid wielding,
Her heart is still like gossamer,
As fluttering and as yielding.

443

Each idle glance can make her sigh
A moment, and 't is over.
There 's nothing like a woman's eye,
So wild, so light a rover.
She loves the coxcomb when he smiles,
And poets when they praise her;
But gold alone has those dear wiles
That can to rapture raise her.

Then go, thou false unmeaning thing,—
Go, and begone for ever!
Shalt thou again my bosom wring,
And steal my tears?—No, never!

[When the winter of sorrow's keen tempests are blowing]

When the winter of sorrow's keen tempests are blowing,
There is naught can the gloom of affliction beguile,
O, there 's nothing can set all my spirits a-flowing,
Like the playfulness sporting in woman's soft smile!
To me, 't is the sweet-beaming star of the morning,
When it shines o'er the fields all bespangled with dew;
Or the rose in its full bloom the valley adorning,
When the Spring spreads its flowers, and the sky is all blue.

You may lay my lorn head on the pillow of anguish,
You may draw round my couch the dark curtain of woe,
By night and by day I may painfully languish,
While the big drops of sorrow unceasingly flow:
But the sweet smile that breathes on the lips that are dear,
All my anguish can soothe, all my sorrow remove;

444

When woman looks kindly, I dry every tear;
O, there's nothing can charm like the smile of my love!

When the Spring blooms delightfully, clothing the scene
With sweet-breathing festoons of lilacs and roses,
And veils every meadow in Nature's pure green,
Where the eye as on pillows of softness reposes,—
Though this scene every thorn of affliction beguiles,
And smooths every passion to quiet repose,
There is nothing like beauty all beaming with smiles,
Like the play of her lips, and her cheek's blooming rose.

[When I roam o'er the fields at the opening of dawn]

When I roam o'er the fields at the opening of dawn,
On the flowers that bloom round how enchanted I dwell!
But sweeter the dew-drops that spangle the lawn,
And dearer the gem in the gay blossom's bell:
So when beauty is beaming and blooming around,
Though her bloom and her smile to my bosom are dear,
Yet dearer the eye that is bent on the ground,
And sweeter the ray of affliction's soft tear.

When the blossoms of Nature are spangled with dew,
Or wet with the drops of the Spring's gentle shower,
O, there's naught in creation more sweet to my view,
And that which droops most is the loveliest flower:

445

So when beauty is weeping, her charms are more dear,
Those tears all her blushes, like rainbows, illume;
And oh! the most charming and heavenly tear
A fair sister sheds on a loved brother's tomb.

[I was once happy and blest]

I was once happy and blest;
But pleasure has flown from me long.
I was once love and caressed;
But my loves only live now in song.

I was once cheerful and gay,
The rose on my cheek spread its bloom;
But the roses have faded away,
And left but the hue of the tomb.

Pleasure once beamed in my eye,—
O how blithely I laughed and I sung!
But those moments of bliss are gone by,
And my bower all with mourning is hung.

They called me an angel, and smiled,
And I smiled, and believed they spoke true;
O, how my weak heart was beguiled!
I was ruined,—then bidden adieu.

Ye who exult in your youth
And your beauty, be taught by my tear;
O, listen to nothing but truth,
And close on the flatterer your ear.

[Arabia may boast of its coffee-clad mountains]

Arabia may boast of its coffee-clad mountains,
And frankincense thickets that sweeten its gales;

446

I love my green meadows, and clear-flowing fountains,
My hills gently swelling, and soft-winding vales.

When morning is glowing, or evening is fading,
These scenes all the beauties that soften us wear;
For reclined on the seat, which the vine-leaves are shading,
I listen the music of Mary, my fair.

The blossoms that grow in Peruvian bowers
May sparkle with colors more vivid and bright;
But still the soft charms of our dew-breathing flowers
Are sweeter to sense and more dear to the sight:

So the maiden—whose smiles, like the ray of the morning,
Can soften the bosom and free it from care,
Whom roses and lilies and diamonds adorning
Have fashioned an angel—is Mary my fair.

[Dear little angel of my heart]

Dear little angel of my heart,
How full of life thy cheek is flushing!
But when I tell thee we must part,
How softly pure thy tears are gushing!

Though thou art but the opening bloom,
The promise of a richer treasure;
Thy breath is still love's sweet perfume,
Thy smile, the dearest smile of pleasure.

But love with thee is heavenly love,
And pleasure—O how pure, how holy!
The fondness of a cooing dove,
That toys and sports, nor dreams of folly.

447

Sweet innocent, O, I could dream
Of thy pure angel-charms for ever,
Could sun me in thine eye's warm beam,
And when thou smil'st, be sad—O, never!

I love thee as I love the child,
When on its mother's bosom smiling,
And low she sings her murmur wild,
The startled cherub's fears beguiling.

Thy flaxen locks, thine eyes of blue,
Thy ruby lips all sweetly blooming,
Thy smile, like roses wet with dew,
The murmuring breath of morn perfuming,—

Thy glance, that smiles when joy is nigh,
Now through the tear of pity stealing,
When faintly bursts the stifled sigh,
And sweetly breathes the voice of feeling,—

O, when I gaze on charms so bright,
So heavenly fair, so richly glowing,
I feel a thrilling, pure delight
Through every vein and fibre flowing:

As if my eyes beheld a form
Of cherub-light from Heaven descending,
With looks that speak affection warm,
O'er sorrow's couch in pity bending.

O, dearest! thou art happy now,
No pang thy bosom's peace alarming;
Contentment smiles upon thy brow,
And virtue—O how pure, how charming!

And let it not disturb thy rest,
That soon thou meet'st a world of sorrow;
But from the heaven within thy breast,
The aid to bear its evils borrow.

448

And O, my dear,—my only dear,—
Should fate the bands that twine us sever,
I still would shed the bitter tear,
And think of Mary—O, for ever!

[Come, come away, unto the silent grove]

Come, come away, unto the silent grove,
And in this solitude
Indulge thy melancholy mood,
And weep for fruitless love:
Come, come and seek the cedar's shade;
Beneath its gloomy shadow laid,
List to the turtle's mournful lay,
That fills the solemn hush around,
Broke by this soft-lamenting sound,
Until it dies away.

There lie and let thy tears unceasing flow;
Indulge thy swelling grief,
Until thou find'st a sweet relief,
A balm for all thy woe;
For tears can soothe the anxious breast,
Compose affliction's throb to rest,
Instil a holy calm of peace,
A calm that lights a placid smile
Upon our lips, and bids awhile
Our melancholy cease.

Then rise and seek the brightly flowering field.
And, as you careless stray,
Hear the brisk songsters warbling gay,
And taste the joy they yield:
Then think no more of cruel love;
But let thy thoughts unfettered rove,
And o'er the landscape wander free;
And while thou feel'st relief from pain,
O, never, never think again
That Mary 's deaf to thee.

449

[One evening, when the sky was blue]

One evening, when the sky was blue,
When Spring was clad in greenest hue,
When gently fell the cooling dew,
I saw sweet Mary.

The roses bloomed upon her cheek,
Her sparkling eye, though bright, was meek,
'T was music, when I heard her speak.
Ah! dearest Mary.

Her forehead, white as drifted snow,
Was soft as downy plumes, that flow
Wide o'er the fields, when zephyrs blow.
Ah! dearest Mary.

Her look, the picture of her mind,
By every charm and grace refined,
To calmest musing seemed resigned.
Ah! dearest Mary.

She sung,—her sweetly soothing strain
Floated along the flowery plain,
So sweet, the robin sings in vain.
Ah! dearest Mary.

Her voice was still,—her hand she threw
Around her robe, and lightly flew,
Brushing the faintly glistening dew.
Ah! dearest Mary.

Entranced in bliss, I saw her fly,
Fair as the moon that gilds the sky,
Sailing enrobed in silver dye.
Ah! dearest Mary.

And when I laid me down to rest,
I saw her smile, in beauty drest,
And clasped her vision to my breast.
Ah! dearest Mary.

450

We roamed through cool and shady groves,
We told our pure, unsullied loves,
We kissed with hearts as true as doves'.
Ah! dearest Mary.

O may this vision ne'er depart,
But dwell for ever round my heart,
Untouched by disappointment's dart!
Ah! dearest Mary.

Then I, a cheerful, happy swain,
With her, a nymph, might rove the plain,
Nor ever, ever leave again
My dearest Mary.

[I love the ruddy cheek, that glows]

I love the ruddy cheek, that glows
Bright as the crimson-flowering rose,
That in the Spring most sweetly blows;
But yet I love to see,
More than this cheek that brightly glows,
The eye that sparkles brilliantly.

I love the arm of fairest snow,
Round as the tapering trees that grow,
Where streams in purest currents flow;
But yet I love to see,
More than this arm of fairest snow,
The eye that sparkles brilliantly.

I love the jetty, curling hair,
That floats around the bosom fair,
And waves in tresses on the air;
But yet I love to see,
More than this jetty, curling hair,
The eye that sparkles brilliantly.

451

I love the gently heaving breast,
In robe of milky softness drest,
By love and all the graces prest;
But yet I love to see,
More than this gently heaving breast,
The eye that sparkles brilliantly.

I love the lips like ruby flowers,
That blow amid the sweetest bowers,
Smiling as wet with dewy showers;
But yet I love to see,
More than these lips like ruby flowers,
The eye that sparkles brilliantly.

I love the tender hand, whose white
Seems melting to the enamored sight,
And calls to bowers of pure delight;
But yet I love to see,
More than this hand of melting white,
The eye that sparkles brilliantly.

I love the artless, winning form,
Whose easy gracefulness can charm
And fill the heart with soft alarm;
But yet I love to see,
More than this artless, winning form,
The eye that sparkles brilliantly.

The mind imbued with wisdom's lore,
And rich in learning's fairest store,
Than sparkling eye delights me more,—
Yes, I had rather see
The mind imbued with wisdom's lore,
Than eye that sparkles brilliantly.

The breast that feels another's woes,
With charity intensely glows,
And the kind heart of feeling shows,—

452

Yes, I had rather see
The breast that feels another's woes,
Than eye that sparkles brilliantly.

The life that flows in gentle love,
That would each passing hour improve,
And tread the path to worlds above,—
Yes, I had rather see
The life that flows in gentle love,
Than eye that sparkles brilliantly.

May all these charms and graces blend,
And beauty, love, and wit attend
The feeling heart, the tender friend;
Oh! I would love to see
The form, the heart, the spirit, blend
With eye that sparkles brilliantly.

[Who is that mourner bending o'er yon grave]

Who is that mourner bending o'er yon grave,
Whose glistening tears flow down her pallid cheek,
Whose voice, like cooing dove's,
Is full of plaintive woe?

A mother, weeping for her infant dear,—
A smiling babe, who, like the early flower,
Just blossomed for a day,
And then was seen no more.

See how her tears bedew that verdant grave,
And on that slowly-waving blade of grass,
Mark how that crystal drop
Shines in the moon's pale beam.

Ah! listen to her softly uttered tale,
Which, touching all the chords of sympathy,
Bids the unsullied tear
Stand in the stranger's eye.

453

“Ah! lovely babe, sweet image of thy sire,
Who in the stormy bosom of the deep,
Ere thou hadst seen the light,
Found his cold, watery grave:

“I fondly hoped to rear thy angel form,
To make thee first and fairest of the fair,
In every virtuous grace,
In every mental charm.

“This cheering thought enlivened all my toil,
This sweetened all my anxious, watchful hours,
When through the wintry night
I hushed thy cries to rest.

“Oft I would look upon thy sleeping form,
And the calm smile that played upon thy lips,
And when I saw thee move,
Would sing my lullaby.

“But cruel death thy opening blossom nipped,
And laid thee low within the silent tomb,
And robbed me of my sole,
My sole surviving joy.

“Ah! can I tell the agony I feel,
The cruel pang that wrung my bleeding heart,
When hollow-sounding clods
Fell in thy narrow grave?

“How pleasing—to behold thy early bloom,
Like morning flowers; but ah! how mournful too—
So sweet to taste of bliss,
So soon to lose its balm!

“Soon I shall leave this tenement of clay,
Soon I shall meet thee and thy much-loved sire,
Above yon starry sky,
In one eternal Heaven.

454

“For o'er my cheek the lily's hue is spread,
And scarce the pulses beat within my heart,
While death, with awful voice,
Rings loudly in my ear.

“But I can leave this mournful world with joy,
Can view the last recess of parting life,
And feel the icy chill
Creep through my withered veins.”

[See, how the clear, unsullied streamlet strays]

See, how the clear, unsullied streamlet strays
Along the windings of the blossomed vale,
And o'er the gentle slope
Dashes its crystal flood:

With soothing sweetness slowly tinkles on,
Rippling around the verdant, mossy stone,
Or in the unruffled pool
A pearly mirror shows:

Now murmurs softly o'er its gravelly bed,
Now silent curls along a sandy shoal,
And now beneath a root
Its lucid current hides.

Emerging thence, it scarcely steals along,
Where bubbles tinged with rainbows lightly glide,
And, dancing on the wave,
Are broken by the gale.

Now, standing in a pool, the whispering breeze
Uprears the water, pure as new-fallen snow,
And throws it wildly round
In every lovely form.

455

It flows thus sweetly through the silent vale,
In youthful gentleness, until, increased
By rills and cool, clear springs,
It swells into a brook.

Louder the murmur rises on the gale,
And dashed along the rudely broken steep,
O'ertopped with whitest foam,
The billows tumble on.

Now sunk to peace, the unambitious stream
Floats in broad current o'er the smiling mead,
Reflecting as a glass
The lily's snowy bloom.

Again it darts with loud increasing roar
Along the rapid, pouring o'er the rocks,
And swelling on the breeze,
That waves the boughs above.

At last it plunges in a dark abyss,
And throws amid the cliffs, that rise around,
The gayly colored spray,
As sets the evening sun.

'T is lost,—for in a hoarse-resounding cave,
Retiring from the ken of mortal eye,
It hides its manly flood
Within the mountain's womb.

Thus the bright youth, whom genius raises high
Above the ignoble throng that grovel round,
Passes his boyish days
In playful innocence.

To him, the mellow flute's melodious lay,
The fair one's sweetly uttered song of love,
Are charming as the strains
That heavenly angels sing.

456

To him the cool, retired grotto's still
And gloomy solitude is sweeter far
Than all the pomp of wealth,
Than all the glare of pride.

Unnoticed and unknown he tunes his lyre,
And weaves the lovely hymn of melody,
Unheard but by the grove,
That shields him from the sun.

But when his genius forms the manly song,
And from his lips the patriot accents breathe,
He seeks the mountain's brow,
And dwells amid the storm.

Thus fair he rises, like the towering pine
That on Monadnock courts the cloudless sky,
And fondly hopes to gain
The highest seat of fame.

But stranger to the baser arts of life,
By disappointment sunk into the grave,
And crushed by power and pride,
He slumbers in the dust.

TO THE ROSE.

I.

Tender rose-bud! sweetly blooming,—
Drooping with the dews of morn,
Every sighing breeze perfuming,
As it flutters round thy thorn;—

Tender rose-bud! soon thy blossom,
Nursed by dews, and fed by light,
Will unfold its velvet bosom,
Spreading beauty to the sight.

457

Then, sweet bud, I'll softly pluck thee,
Drooping low with early dew;
Then to Mary will I give thee,
She whose cheek is thine own hue.

When the dew-drops, sweetly shining,
Gently to my lips are prest,
In the woodbine bower reclining,
I will lay thee on her breast.

Could I, like thee, flower of feeling,
Rest upon her bosom fair,
Like the bee its sweetness stealing,
I would dwell for ever there.

II.

Fairest Nymph of lovely Flora,
Brightest beauty of the Spring,
See, around thy kindling glory,
How the zephyr sports his wing.

When Aurora gayly flashes,
Rising from her saffron bed,
O, what richly crimson blushes
Wanton round thy drooping head!

When the morning-glory closes
In the sultry noontide air,
O, how soft the bee reposes,
Humming on thy bosom fair!

When the zephyrs, gently blowing,
All the sweets of nature bring,
Round thy virgin beauties glowing,
See, the hummer spreads his wing.

458

When the breezy breath of morning
Calls him to his airy flight,
How his hues, thy bloom adorning,
Glitter in the dawning light!

When the evening shades are blending
In the gay enamelled west,
See, the dews of night, descending,
Softly slumber on thy breast.

Blooming Nature's sweetest blossom!
Let me pluck, in morning's hour,
To adorn Maria's bosom,
Thy enchanting, dewy flower.

III.

See, the rose is freshly glowing
Through its veil of morning dew;
Round it perfumed gales are blowing,
Sweeter ne'er in Eden blew.

May has clad the tangled bower
In a robe of softest green,
Blended every early flower,—
But the rose is Flora's queen.

Showers of bloomy snow, descending
From the pear-tree, deck the mead;
Honeysuckles richly blending
Weave their many-tinctured brede.

When the first spring cloud is flying,
What the flower that freshest glows?
Sweet when blooming, sweet when dying,
O, the fair Idalian rose!

459

See the sylph on emerald pinions
Lightly woo the floweret's smile,
Ranging Flora's bright dominions,
Sip at each and stay awhile:

When the rose's breathing blossom
By his ruby throat is prest,
Lights he on its yielding bosom,
Furls his wings and sinks to rest.

Though, the exotic bower adorning,
India's richest blossom glows,
Give me, wet with dews of morning,
Give, O, give the breathing rose!

[I saw a flower of softest hue]

I saw a flower of softest hue
Within a lonely vale,
Around its head serenely blew
The evening's dewy gale;
The gem was sparkling in its bell,
'T was like the mourner's tear,
And like the dirge of sorrow fell
The zephyr on my ear.

The scene that bloomed around was calm,
The sky was softly blue,
The zephyr breathed its sweetest balm,
And gently fell the dew;
At that mild hour, when lovers lie
Beneath the maple shade,
This modest floweret met my eye,
This beauty of the glade.

With careful, trembling hand, I raised
The floweret from its bed,

460

And on its weeping beauties gazed,
And kissed its balmy head;
Then laid it gently on my heart,
And pressed the treasure there,
And whispered, “We will never part,
Thou fairest of the fair!

“Though pale the tints, that deck thy leaf
Upon its ground of snow,
Thy dew-drops like the tear of grief,
That gems the eye of woe,—
Though thou recall'st the dying bed,
Where mourners weep sincere,
The chamber where the pall is spread,
And dirges soothe the ear,—

“For this, sweet flower, I love thee more
Within the lonely vale,
When bending o'er the riv'let's shore,
I list the turtle's wail:
For round thy unobtrusive form
Soft-breathing odors dwell,
Beauties that like enchantment warm,
And calm the bosom's swell.”

TO THE GENTIANA CRINITA,

THE LAST FLOWER OF AUTUMN.

Sweet floweret of the waning year,
Last blossom of the fading plains,
The leaves are falling wan and sere,
And the lone, widowed bird complains:

Still thou art dearer to my heart,
Than all the sweets the Spring unveils;
Thy blooms a softer mood impart,
Than violets breathing in the vales.

461

There is a melancholy grace,
That spreads thy lonely petals o'er;
They tell that winter comes apace,
That soon will rise the tempest's roar.

The flowers decay, the fields are bare,
The humble violet fears to blow,
The woods no more their honors wear,
Light rustling fall the leaves below.

Still thou unfold'st thy lovely leaf,
And smil'st amid the fields alone,
Thou seem'st some weeping child of grief,
That mourns her every comfort flown,

Had I not roved the desert plain,
Where 'neath the hedge you sweetly blew,
Your petals had been spread in vain,
Your only guest the evening dew.

Or when amid the leafless wood
The blue-bird chirped with drooping wing,
He might have o'er thy beauty stood,
And sung his lay, and thought it Spring.

How richly purple is thy hue,
Thy fringe like beauty's ebon rays,
Where the eye's lustre glances through,
And meeker shines its living blaze.

In vain the pencil would essay
To give thy form its native grace;
How weaker still the feeble lay,
That would thy mellow features trace!

Where'er I meet thee on the plains,
Thy beauties to my soul how dear!
How worthy thou of higher strains,
Sweet floweret of the waning year!

462

[Can I touch my harp again?]

Can I touch my harp again?
Can I wake its mellow strain?
In the damp it long has hung,
Long its chords have been unstrung,
Moss around its frame has twined,
It has only felt the wind,
All its soothing tones have slept
In the shade where dews have wept,
Scarce a sigh the wind has breathed
Through its strings, by grasses wreathed:
Though it long unused has lain,
I will touch my harp again.

I will touch my harp again,
Wake it to a cheerful strain;
Like the whispering breeze, that flings
Sweetness from its waving wings,
It shall shed on all around
Notes that softly, sweetly sound.
Come, my harp, and let me try,
If my fingers now can fly
As they could when youth was high.
Age has numbed them,—cankering care
Chilled my heart, and planted there
('Stead of love and joy and pleasure,
Mirth that wakes the frolic measure)
Sorrow for a world of woe,
And grief, whose tears for ever flow:
Spite of this, a cheerful strain
Shall my harp awake again.

Autumn smiles, the sky is blue:
Let me for an hour or two
Draw thee from thy rest of years,
Brush away thy dewy tears,
Brighten up thy chords again,
And wake them to a cheerful strain.

463

They will bid my sorrows fly,
They will light my fading eye;
Only for a fleeting hour
Let me feel their soothing power;
Let me, while they breathe of love,
All my griefs, my woes remove;
Though the joy is short, 't is dear:—
Cease to flow, thou falling tear,
For I wake my harp again
To a sweetly soothing strain.

[Give me the lyre of harmony]

Give me the lyre of harmony
To calm the passions of my soul,
O, wake its choral symphony,
And bid it with my griefs condole.

Sweet are the echoes of its strings,
Sweet as the sylvan choir of May,
When on the rose the robin sings,
And hails with song the rising day.

And though the storm, that gathers round,
Be cold as winter's blasting wind,
Still can this lyre's bewitching sound
Beguile my lorn and widowed mind.

Though love is fled, and friends are gone,
This lyre, my solace, lingers nigh:—
O, leave me not to droop alone,
But be thy music whispering by!

And what shall ease my troubled heart?
Shall Roslin's voice of sorrow flow,
Or shall thy trembling chords impart
A deeper, darker strain of woe?

464

I hear it swell,—the death-march rings,
The muffled drum is rolling by,
The burning tear of sorrow springs
And trickles from the melting eye.

The bier, with slow and solemn tread,
Attired in sables, steals along,
And o'er the grave's cold, earthy bed
The minstrel pours his broken song.

The notes ascend,—the shriek and scream
Alternate mingle in the lay;
They fall,—like night's unreal dream,
The wail of anguish melts away.

Again it strikes the watchful ear,
Convulsed with sobs and choked with sighs;
What bursts of agony I hear,—
A groan as when a sinner dies!

How sweet, when sorrow clouds the soul,
To hear thy strains funereal flow,
To hear the burst of anguish roll,
And listen to the wail of woe!

And when my heart is flowing o'er,
Come, weave thy choral symphony,
Come, bid my bosom ache no more,
Thou witching lyre of harmony.

[My heart is sad, my harp is still]

My heart is sad, my harp is still,
It hangs upon the willow-tree;
No hand shall wake its lively trill,
No strain shall e'er enliven me.

The serpent care has stung my heart,
And left his venom in my soul;

465

No balm can heal the cruel smart,
No hand my bosom's pangs control.

No,—I must sit me down and die:
Far better, far—to die, than live;
For death is but a pang and sigh,
And what can life beside them give?

Far better, far—to close our eyes,
And slumber in the dust below;
In peace the toil-worn sufferer lies,
In death he found his kindest foe.

Then let me dry my tears, and wake
My harp to some funereal strain,
Then all its chords of sweetness break,
And seek the silent grave again.

BOAT SONG.

We rest at Peter's Point to-night,—
Blow light, ye winds! flow smooth, ye billows!
The promised headland heaves in sight,
Where we shall stay, till morning light,
And bind our bark beneath the willows.
Heave, boatmen! heave, and sweep the oar;
Soon we shall drown all care and sorrow.
Bend to the willow-bordered shore,
And there repose till early morrow.

We rest at Peter's Point to-night,—
And now we hear its billows breaking;
The golden sun is setting bright,
The wild swans take their homeward flight,
The owl her lonely hoot is waking.

466

Heave, boatman! heave, and sweep the oar,
And dash the white foam from the billows;
Bend to the soft and sandy shore,
And bind the bark beneath the willows.

And now the boat draws nigh to land,
The winds blow light and kiss the billows;
The boatmen leap upon the strand,
And draw their bark upon the sand,
And bind it fast beneath the willows.
Now, boatmen! rest upon the oar,—
The sun has set, your toils are over.
Eat, drink, and dream of care no more,
And sing, “How gay the Western rover!

[They say, that esteem is a diamond so bright]

They say, that esteem is a diamond so bright,
It enkindles the eye that by sorrow is shaded;
But glory to me is the sun's dazzling light,
That illumines a world, which in darkness had faded.

You may dwell on esteem's twinkling diamond who will,
And love the faint gleam of its scarce-living fire:
I gaze on the sun's dazzling brilliancy still,
And ask no esteem if the world but admire.

Esteem is the dew-drop that freshens the flower;
Admiration, the arched hues that splendidly shine.
The one is a sprinkle, the other a shower,—
Let mine be the rainbow, the dew may be thine.

Esteem is a maiden, whose blue, melting eye,
When she smiles or she weeps, all in languishment moves;
Admiration, a beauty, whose love-arrows fly,
Like the falcon-glance, killing wherever she roves.

467

One's cheek is a rose, that is shaded with dew;
The other's a russet, with vermeil tints brightening.
One's eye is an orb, softly, tearfully blue;
The other's jet-black, but it flashes like lightning.

One's air is so melting, so mournfully sweet,
You love, and you pity, but cannot admire;
In the other, such soul-killing blandishments meet,
That she wakes in the breast every wild-raging fire.

Then talk as they will of esteem's gentle form,
Of those eyes, that so tenderly, meltingly roll:
Let mine be the sun-burst, the bolt of the storm,
That dazzles, astounds, and subdues every soul.

['T is morning, and all is gay around]

'T is morning, and all is gay around;—
The sunbeam flames on the billow,
And sparkles along the dewy ground,
While I'm dreaming on my pillow;
The music that breathes cannot bid me wake,
Though like siren melody closing,
While slumber's soft wings all their opiates shake
O'er the couch, where I'm reposing.
But Nature wears her loveliest smile,
The smile of her maiden beauty,
And while she invites by the softest wile,
I hear the loud call of duty:
Then I'll sleep not beneath the morning's beam,
That smiles like affection upon me,
Nor longer lie wrapt in slumber's dream,
Though she shower all her roses on me.

It is sweeter to breathe the balmy breeze
Than to dream of the brightest vision;
And dearer to view the wide-waving trees
Than fancy's scenes Elysian:

468

Though the one every hue of loveliness wears,
Though like bloomy Eden charming,
Yet she leaves us too soon to think of our cares,
While her softness the heart is disarming:
O, who would be happy in fancy alone,
When reality's self can delight us,
Or be charmed with a smile, that is instantly flown,
When long-living beauties invite us?
Then I'll sleep not, &c.

How oft in my childhood's lovely days,
When I woke with the lark from my slumbers,
I loved the sun's first-brightening rays,
And the warbler's waking numbers;
And while each dewy bush and brake
Was vocal with sounds of gladness,
And while the sun glowed on the lake,
How could I be sunk in sadness!
O, in morning's earliest, brightest dawn,
There are charms more sweetly smiling,
Than in dearest scenes by Fancy drawn,
Though like beauty's self, beguiling!
Then I'll sleep not, &c.

Now the birds are singing their amorous notes
Amid the boughs wide-waving;
And the whispered sigh of the zephyr floats
Where the brooks their banks are laving;
And now is the time, when all is bright,
And in softest peace reposing,
To kindle affection's purest light,
Where the sprays of the bower are closing;
Then love will burn with a brighter ray,
And smile with a glance more tender,
And dearer charms on his features play,
While our hearts to his sway we render.
Then I'll sleep not beneath the morning's beam,
That smiles like affection upon me,
Nor longer lie wrapt in slumber's dream,
Though she shower all her roses on me.

469

[Why slumbers thy lyre, which so often resounded]

“Why slumbers thy lyre, which so often resounded
With the trill of delight and the warble of love,
By whose lively numbers the heart featly bounded,
Which so often the sweet wreath of melody wove?

“Why sleeps it so silently? Is there no lover
That asks for its strain with his heart to condole?
Are there no light pinions, that carelessly hover,
To wake all its sweetness, and kindle its soul?

“Why hangs on the willow thy harp of delight?
Why loves it the gloom of those low-drooping boughs?
Why hides it so deeply in shadows of night,
And asks for no hand its wild sweetness to rouse?

“Has the hand of the bard lost its magical skill?
Is it palsied with sickness, or nerveless with woe?
Are its fingers benumbed by cold poverty's chill,
That they bid not its wild notes enchantingly flow?”

“'T is not sickness or sorrow that palsies my arm;
'T is not poverty's winter that weakens its powers;
'T is what can the hero's bold spirit disarm,
And start the salt tear in love's amaranth-bowers.

“'T is because no sweet pæans are swelling my fame,
No halo of glory encircles my brow:
'T is because no dear maid fondly dwells on my name,
Kindly smiles when we meet, and repeats the warm vow.

“When my spirits are sunk, when despondency reigns,
I hang up my harp on the low-drooping willow.
How can I then waken its soft-breathing strains?
How can pleasure look smiling on grief's thorny pillow?

470

“Should I tune my sweet harp, how discordant would sound
All its chords, when the demon is wringing my soul!
The strain would depress even mirth's lightest bound,
And sadden the eyes that in ecstasy roll.

“When you hear no light strain from my grot gently flow,
When you scarce hear a breath in the willow's dark grove,
Then know, that my bosom is bursting with woe,
For fruitless ambition, and fond, hopeless love.

“When scarce a faint warble is heard on the wire,
And sounds o'er the chords slowly, dyingly move,
O, there's nothing can kindle anew my lost fire,
But the meteor of fame and the soft light of love!”

AN IMPRECATION.

Ismir! fare thee well for ever!
From they walls with joy I go,
Every tie I freely sever,
Flying from thy den of woe.

Thou my swelling heart hast riven,
Torn my every hope away;
May, for this, the arm of Heaven
Mark thee for its destined prey.

May the knell of ruin tolling,
Wake thee from thy feverish dream,
While the awful bolt is rolling,
And the hags of vengeance scream.

471

May the bird of desolation,
On its wings of ebon hue,
Shrieking death and devastation,
Rest and hover over you.

May the owl, at midnight screaming,
Lighting on yon lofty tower,
Tell each soul, in horror dreaming,
How the clouds of ruin lower.

May an awful bolt of thunder
From those clouds of blackness burst,
Rending all thy walls asunder,
Scatter them in formless dust.

When thy walls and turrets, riven
By that bolt, to earth are hurled,
Ruin's share, in fury driven,
Blot thy memory from the world.

May a foe, like Gaul's dark legions,
Or the swarthy fiends of Hell,
Issuing from the infernal regions,
Through thy streets at midnight yell.

May thy bell, its curfew ringing,
Sound as by a demon strook,
And each wretch, from slumber springing,
Start as if an earthquake shook.

Wrapped in gory sheets of lightning,
While cursed night-hags ring thy knell,
May the arm of vengeance bright'ning
O'er thee wave the sword of Hell.

May a sudden inundation
Rise in many a roaring wave,
And with hurried devastation
Whelm thy thousands in the grave.

472

When the flood, in fury swelling,
Heaves their corpses on the shore,
May fell hyæns, madly yelling,
Tear their limbs and drink their gore.

While starved hounds the moon are baying,
Foxes yell, and gaunt wolves howl,
May the nighted wanderer straying
Startle at the tiger's growl.

When the moon, in crimson gleaming,
Rises in the gloomy east,
Through thy vaults may spectres streaming
Seek in yawning graves their feast.

Through thy ruined mansions prowling,
Where foul spirits love to tread,
May lean wolves, and tigers growling,
Gnash their teeth and tear the dead.

Ismir! land of cursed deceivers,
Where the sons of darkness dwell,
Hope, the cherub's base bereavers,—
Hateful city! fare thee well.

DESPONDENCY.

I.

It is not mirth can ease my heavy woes,
Or calm the throbbing tumults of my breast;
O, there is naught that can my eyelids close,
Or rock my spirits to a peaceful rest!
No,—life appears in ebon colors drest,
Where'er I turn my woe-worn, aching sight;
The morning dawns by every grief opprest,
And sombre twilight fades to cheerless night,
Bereft of every joy, and void of each delight.

473

If pleasure meet my ever-weeping eye,
I see a demon lurking 'neath its flowers;
The smile of joy but wakes the heavy sigh,
And seems as sad as when the tempest lowers:
O, there is nothing in love's rosy bowers
Can charm my heart, or blunt grief's poisoned stings!
Despair each cup of bliss with misery sours,
And o'er the scene a shade of sorrow flings,
While ever in my ear the knell of ruin rings.

O, how I love to ponder o'er the tomb,
And view the clay that wraps my Ellen's form!
Sweet to my soul the yew's funereal gloom,
And lovely to my sight the coming storm;
The smiling flower would but her grave deform,
Its gayest charms would give me no delight,
No warbling sound my frozen heart could warm;
But O how dear the owlet's silent flight,
The lonely turtle's wail, the deepest shade of night!

Cease, comforter! to pour thy honeyed strain,
But whisper sorrow's accents in my ear;
O, let me hear the mournful lute complain,
And breathe the sound that starts the sudden tear!
Can aught that 's gay or cheerful now be dear?
Think you, this world will ever please me more?
No,—let me rest upon my Ellen's bier:
O, let me hasten to that peaceful shore,
Where hushed is every storm, and still the tempest's roar!

II.

O, I could hide me in the darkest cave,
And weep till grief my heavy eyelids close;
My only solace is the gloomy grave,
'T is there alone my heart can find repose:

474

Life is a dreary wilderness of woes,—
No flower of friendship blossoms on the wild,
Despair's dark wave in freezing current flows,
Where mercy ne'er the orphan heart beguiled,
Where pity never wept, and friendship never smiled.

What is a friend? A hollow-hearted thing,
That smiles and smiles when fortune's look is fair;
But when the knell of ruin 'gins to ring,
Those lying lips no smiles nor simpers wear.
Can I this cruel coldness longer bear?
Ah! shall I bend, and scarcely dare complain?
No,—for the horrors of the grave I dare;
I long that dreary, still abode to gain,
Where friends shall ne'er deceive, nor flatterers mock again.

To play upon a soul that feels like mine,
To raise its hopes, then brush them all away,
To charm it with a transient rainbow's shine,—
It is a devil's sport, a demon's play.
Sport with the soul that's never sad nor gay,
But always plods in life's dull, joyless road,
That never smiled in pleasure's shining ray,
That ne'er was chilled with grief, with passion glowed,—
But leave the feeling mind to its own thoughts and God.

[Methought 'twas in the desert, at the hour]

Methought 'twas in the desert, at the hour
Of universal stillness,—the repose
Of living nature. With a dead'ning power,
The hand of ruin pressed me, and the throes
Of parting life seemed passing by;—the grave

475

Had half enthralled me,—o'er my sinking head
The dust of everlasting death was thrown.
A moment's consciousness,—then being fled,
The last weak thought evanished, and the groan
Of dying nature ceased. I stood alone,

And seemed, how long I know not, in the tomb
Of nothing,—thought and consciousness and life
Stirred not the deadness of my soul: the womb
Of endless night received me, and the strife,
Of leaving all we know for ---,was still;
The feeling of the present and the past
Alike had fled before me, and the will
To do what sense refused to do, the vast,
O'erwhelming view of ceaseless darkness, all
The hopes of better. Then oblivion's pall

Seemed drawn around me, and the sullen shroud
Of dim forgetfulness, and from the sight
Of man I was withdrawn for ever; proud
Of standing on an eminence, the height
Of genius, I had sunk, and in the night
Of gloom interminable my memory lay.
How all those golden blossoms, by the blight
Of a cold, cankering wind, had passed away!
And now not even one form shall come and tell,
This was the fatal spot where I arose and fell.

THE SUICIDE'S GRAVE.

'T was at the dark, the solemn hour,
When midnight throws its gloom around,
When the deep-frowning tempests lower,
And the shrill-whistling winds resound
Along the forest drear, and o'er the lonely grave;
When even the courage of the brave

476

Sinks 'neath the pressure of the sullen shade;
When the heart's deceitful visions fade,—
Visions of bliss by mortals never known,
Since virtue from the earth had flown,
And anger bared his blood-distilling blade.

Lone I wandered by the tomb,
Where a wretch, who with his keen-edged knife
Loosed the bands that bind the soul to life,
And plunged himself in misery's deepest gloom,
Slumbered in sleep of death profound,—
Which shall ne'er awake,
Till the earth's foundations shake,
And the last trumpet cleaves the solid ground.

A grisly spectre met my staring sight,
Dim as the purple meteor of the night,
In robe of gory crimson clad;
His clotted hands were smeared with red,
His eyeballs rolled in frenzy mad,
His hollow voice seemed issuing from the dead.

“Shun the gloomy thought, that loves to prey
On the heart, and eats the soul away,
If you dread a living hell,
Nor with misery love to dwell.”

He said,—and from the tomb
Three yells, like hyæns rushing on their prey,
Burst their rapid way.
It seemed as if the womb
Of those eternal realms of woe and pain,
Where agonizing demons reign,
Had cleaved its iron walls again.
Soon he vanished from my eye,
In a shower of blood that stained the sky.
Dreadful was the sight
Of that lonely night,

477

Now in ebon darkness veiled,
Now with crimson overspread;
So dreadful, that the stoutest heart had quailed,
And even the undaunted brave in breathless terror fled.

ON MY FATHER'S TOMB.

No splendid stone adorns this honored dust,
Or points me where my father's relics lie;
No beauteous urn, or nicely sculptured bust,
Recalls his once-loved image to my eye.

But memory still his features can impart,
When by his evening fire he sweetly smiled,
Or when, with serious look and swelling heart,
He kindly checked the wanderings of his child.

Ah! there are those, who gratefully can tell
How oft his skill detained the parting breath,
Composed the tortured bosom's throbbing swell,
And smoothed to soft repose the bed of death,—

Can tell how oft he eased the racking pain,
How oft he cooled the fever's burning glow,
And bade fair health revisit once again
The hapless child of sickness and of woe.

All these can speak,—although no splendid tomb
Recount his virtues or adorn his grave,
No yew-trees weave their dark, funereal gloom
Nor bending willows o'er his relics wave.

478

[See how the floweret blushes in the morn]

See how the floweret blushes in the morn,—
A thousand colors o'er its bosom play;
But soon these hues, that Nature's robe adorn,
Rent by the winds, are scattered far away.

'T is thus with beauty, lovely, transient flower,—
How soon, alas! its maiden sweetness flies!
How soon it fades in life's declining hour,
And in the dust a withering rose-bud lies!

THE MOURNER.

Low sinks the sun beneath the western wave,
And twilight deepens in the eastern sky;
Pale is the gloom that shades yon lonely grave,
Where, twined in death, two lovely sisters lie.

Slow wave the boughs above their clay-cold bed,
And sighing zephyrs breathe a mournful sound;
Hushed is each song,—each beam of day is fled,
And chilly dew-drops softly fall around.

As fades the gleam of day, the cypress-gloom
Weaves its dark curtain o'er the lonely grave;
Pale moonbeams sadly glisten on the tomb,
As evening mists the weeping marble lave.

There bending o'er the turf, where violets shed
Their sweetest fragrance on the passing gale,
A pensive maiden droops her downcast head,
And breathes in angel strains a mourner's wail.

Her cheek is white,—no rose is blushing there;
The tear of grief has dimmed her sparkling eye;
Loose o'er her shoulders falls her flowing hair;
Faint from her lips is heard the feeble sigh.

479

Sweet mourner! thou hast lost thy joy,—thy all;
No sister now shall meet thee with her smile,—
Ne'er shalt thou run at Mary's gentle call,
No more shall Laura's voice thy heart beguile.

Cold is that lip, where played the smile of love,—
Pale is that cheek, which vied the rose of May,—
Quenched is that eye, once meekly raised above,—
Hushed is that voice,—that soul has flown away.

How calm they sleep!—the storm is heard no more;
This world shall never bid them weep again;
This scene of toil and weariness is o'er,
Soothed into Heaven's own peace is every pain.

Then let thy tears, dear maid! no longer flow:
Wouldst thou confine a soul that seeks the sky?
Wouldst thou recall it to a world of woe,
And dim with grief that now exulting eye?

Nay, dry thy tears,—for see, they bend in love,
And drop the dew of pity on thy head;
Their love the tenderness that smiles above,—
Their tears the crystal drops that angels shed.

How sweetly sleep their forms, in death enshrined!
And as they loved in this dark vale of woe,
So 'neath the heaving clod, in death entwined,
And locked in love's embrace, they rest below.

They could not part: Heaven saw, with pitying eye,
How fond they loved, and joined their souls in death,
And kindly bade the sad survivor's sigh
Become the dying Christian's parting breath.

Slow on the breeze the bending willows wave;
That marble monument how coldly fair!
Still is that tomb, and dark that lonely grave;
But meek Religion smiles serenely there.

480

Still flow thy tears, a brother bids them flow:
He, who was once so dear, is now no more;
Safe he is rescued from this world of woe,
And let us hope has found a happier shore.

Far, far from thee he closed his dying eye:
No sister's hand was there to give relief;
But still Affection o'er him breathed her sigh,
And weeping Fondness shed the tears of grief.

Friends, who could calm his heart and dry his tear,
Around his dying couch in sorrow stood;
O'er him that form his bosom held most dear,
Low bending, wept affection's purest flood.

Soft was the pillow where his parting breath
Hung faintly trembling on his lips of snow;
Bereft of half its stings, the dart of death
Deep in his bosom gave the fatal blow.

His eye is dim,—his cheek has lost its glow;
Cold is his stiffened hand, and mute his tongue;
White as the waving drift of mountain snow,
Those lips where sounds of love and sweetness hung.

His soul—here darkness spreads her gloomy veil,
But Hope, the cherub, points to worlds on high:
He may be happy,—cease thy plaintive wail,
And wipe the tear of anguish from thy eye.

[Slow, through the twilight gloom, Valerio's knell]

Slow, through the twilight gloom, Valerio's knell
Swells in heart-rending peals along the gale:
It summons me to take my last farewell,
And with the mourners blend my feeling wail.

481

Gone is my only friend, my dearest mate,
With whom, a child, I prattled o'er the plain,
Or 'neath the village shade attentive sat,
And lisping conned, well pleased, the rural strain;

With whom I turned the classic volumes o'er,
And drew from Maro's verse a noble flame;
With whom in Alma's walls the palm I bore,
And keenly struggled for collegiate fame.

Dear were the days in mutual kindness spent,—
How fair they rise to retrospective view!—
When each to each our aid we kindly lent,
Unconscious of the hours that o'er us flew.

How oft we wept at Orpheus' plaintive tale,
How oft, for hapless Dido's slighted love!
How often knew the moral muse prevail,
And felt our kindling spirits mount above!

How often loved the Teian's mellow strain,
And Flaccus' happy elegance admired;
Or drove with Homer o'er the embattled plain,
Our souls ennobled and our bosoms fired!

On Ovid's mournful strain we fondly hung,
When, banished to Euxina's dreary shore,
He swept his careless hand o'er chords ill-strung,
And bade his harp his hopeless fate deplore.

Warm was that heart which soon is wrapped in clay;
For want he always had a boon to give;
He took with freest choice fair Virtue's way,
And listened to the words that bid us live.

Whenever Nature's wonders met his view,
With eye effulgent as the star of even,
His pious glance serene he upward threw,
And traced the chain of causes back to Heaven.

482

Forgive, dear shade! this lisping of thy praise:
Thou little need'st the plaudits of thy friend;
But deign, when clothed in glory's cloudless blaze,
A guardian angel o'er my form to bend.

[Hard is the Poet's fate,—but more severe]

Hard is the Poet's fate,—but more severe
To luckless bard, who muses here, the doom;
Long he may shed the ineffectual tear,
Then starve, and sink unnoticed to the tomb.

What though his genius burned with dazzling light,
And vied with those who graced imperial Rome?
Wealth he neglected, and the heedless wight
Must seek in bridewell or the grave his home.

But if we spurn the living, shall the dead
Ne'er claim from us the tribute of a sigh?
Taste by exotic streams alone is fed,—
Each tongue is mute, and every cheek is dry.

We might, when years have rolled around his tomb,
Should foreign critics deign to crown his bust,
Or should their praise his withering bays illume,
Drop one scant tear upon the Poet's dust.

Some son of wealth, who thinks he loves the Muse,
May yield a stinted tribute to his fame,
And, 'neath the shelter of low-bending yews,
Erect a wooden altar to his name.

Shame on my country!—shall ignoble gain
Be all that charms or wakes the voice of praise?
O, wilt thou never hear the Poet's strain,
And weave for him Columbia's native bays?

483

[The last blue hill is fading in the sky]

The last blue hill is fading in the sky,
The shores are melting in the distant wave;
'T is there thy lovely woods and meadows lie,
Land of my birth, my home, my father's grave

But fate commands me, and I now must go,
And leave my friends and parent all behind;
Beneath my feet the waves of ocean flow,
And o'er them bounds the ship before the wind.

Land of my boyish days! and must we part?
Must all thy fond endearments charm no more?
Must I forego that ecstasy of heart
I felt with friends so often on thy shore?

The ocean foams before me,—there I go.
Who knows I ever shall return again?
Who knows what gloomy scenes of deepest woe
Await me far—far distant o'er the main?

But I must go,—my land has bid me fly,
The sword of justice drives me o'er the wave.
Yes, I must go, in foreign lands to die,
And find, with strangers cold, a tearless grave.

How gush my tears,—how throbs my fevered brain,
To think my folly drove me from that shore!
O, I shall never sleep in peace again!
Pleasure shall dawn and mercy smile no more.

My prospects—O how fair! the morning sun
Ne'er shone more lovely on a world in bloom;
But ere I left the goal my race was done,
My scenes of pleasure changed to scenes of gloom.

Justice pursues me,—I must leave that shore,
And trust my hopeless fortune to the wave;
O how I long, when life shall all be o'er—
O how I long to rest me in the grave!

484

SONNETS.

I.
THE ROSE-BUSH.

I would not rob that rose-bush of a flower,—
No! not for all the charms of Mary's smile,
Although she begged the blooming gift the while
With all a lovely woman's softening power:
No! for that glowing shrub at morning's hour,
While bending o'er the bank of yonder isle,
Can with its spangled gems my soul beguile,
Such soothing influence hath a dewy flower.
And, Mary, when I see thee gently bending
O'er yonder monument, where Laura lies,
Where marble-snow and crimson blooms are blending,
Methinks I see an angel in thine eyes,
While heavenly tears, in crystal drops descending,
Tell of our anguish when a sister dies.

II.
THE BOWER.

Retreat of Innocence! receive my form,—
The form of one who wishes for repose,
And asks a pillow, where his eyes may close,—
Where he may slumber safe from earthly harm:
And oh! within thy shade, where every charm
Of Nature wantons on the dewy rose,
Where sweetest music on the zephyr flows,
E'en now I feel my chilly heart grow warm:

485

Sure angels might repose in such a bower,
No stain of earth might dim their purity;
Here slumbering at the even's quiet hour,
The dew of innocence might o'er them lie,
While heavenly harps a seraph strain might pour,
And raise the listener's soul to ecstasy.

III.
THE EYELID.

Soft, velvet lid, that shades the living spring
Whence flows the stream of sensibility,—
Where meek-eyed loves in gentle ambush lie,
And graces flutter round on glittering wing!
Why o'er that sparkling fount thy curtain fling?
Why hide the lustre of that ebon eye,
Where Sylphs, on filmy pinions, hover nigh,
And Fairies trip around in frolic ring?
Like morning dew-drops on a bed of roses,
Serenely shines my loved Maria's tear,
When on that orb of light the drop reposes,
Or slowly steals along the sable bier,
And as her strain of sorrow sweetly closes,
There seems an angel breathing in my ear.

[IV. Soft heaving wave, whose pure translucency]

Soft heaving wave, whose pure translucency
Swells on the bosom of the placid lake,
And as it slowly swells, the watery flake
Plays on the snowy pebble gracefully,
While breathes around fair Nature's minstrelsy,
And morning zephyrs in the willows wake,
And from the boughs the showery moisture shake,
And winding riv'lets murmur tunefully:
How sweet upon the mossy bank to lie,
And view the shining trout that darts below,

486

While drowsy slumber hovers o'er my eye,
And all its poppy dews around me flow,
While through the quivering leaves the breezes sigh,
And round my pillow whisper mournfully!

V.
SPRING.

Winter has gone, and Spring returns again:
The lonely thrush is singing by the rill,
The lively robin warbles on the hill,
And blue-birds flutter o'er the flowery plain,
And, as they flutter, breathe a cheerful strain;
While homelier sounds the budding scenery fill,—
The tinkling shepherd-bell, the rattling mill,
And the faint rolling of the distant wain;
And lovely is the lay the milkmaid sings,
As 'neath the elm she fills her snowy pail,
And sweet the tolling bell, that slowly rings,
The softly breathing flute within the vale,
While zephyrs hover round on downy wings,
And the rapt Poet strikes his quivering strings.

VI.
TO SLEEP.

Hail, universal friend! whose gentle hand
Showers o'er our heavy eyes thy cooling dew,
And closes for a time the anxious view
Of past existence. Thou, with mighty wand,
Above the tortured couch art seen to stand,
And lay the brain's delirious rage at rest,
And ease the heart by sorrow's weight opprest.
All-conquering power! to whose supreme command

487

All living nature bows,—whose deep control
O'ermasters mightiest monarchs,—calm and still
Thou stealest on the sage's unfleshed soul,
And bendest pride and glory to thy will:
Thy whispered voices harmonize the whole,
And all beneath thy sway in peaceful current roll.

VII.
TO THE GRAVE.

There is a couch, whereon we all must lie;
There is a pillow, where the burning thought
Will find the oblivious ease it long has sought,
And memory will close her wakeful eye,
And conscience spread her vulture wings, and fly
To find on Caucasus another prey,
Where she may pounce and pounce, from day to day,
The heart that longs for death, but will not die;
And there forgetfulness has drawn around
Her raven curtain, and her hand has sealed
The inflamed eye of sorrow, and has bound
The venomed gash of early wrong, and healed
The spirit's every malady; for deep
We fall in dreamless, unawakening sleep.

[VIII. 'T is not the future dread that makes me shun]

'T is not the future dread that makes me shun
The end of all the living,—not the fear
Of that which thunders in the coward's ear,
And drives him to his fancied hell,—not one
Of those the hypocrite can work upon,
Who plays with childish, female weakness:—No,
There is no darker world where I can go,
And all that justice can inflict is done:
But life will linger even when hope has flown,
And we will cling to all that once had power

488

To charm us, soothe us, bless us, and the hour
Of early, unstained passion—that alone
Comes like a flash of light across the heart,
From whose imagined heaven we cannot, will not part.

[IX. We think of what we might have been: the stream]

We think of what we might have been: the stream
Was crystal at its fountain,—though it flowed
Without that strong, deep current, still it glowed
Beneath a brighter sky, and gay the beam
Played on its dancing waters, as we dream
In sunny climes of fairy-land, where blows
In never-fading hues the living rose,
Where myrtles shed their fragrance, and we seem,
Such is the luxury of feeling there,
The kindling energy our souls inhale,
Ourselves a portion of the balmy air,—
So flowed the stream of life, as through the vale
It threw its unstained waters from the spring,
And with its freshness wet the zephyr's silent wing.

But while the scanty rill stole through the glen
In peaceful playfulness, it chanced to meet
The turbid torrent of the wide world; beat
By rushing floods, its shores re-echoed; then
In its devouring vortex sucked, again
To be no more the pure, unmingled stream,
We hurried down the steep, which most men deem
The only path to pleasure, but the den
Lies at the bottom, where Remorse has built
Her iron walls, wherein the boiling surge,
Whirled round and round with all the rage of guilt,
The ever-rushing past will madly urge;
For in the heart where sense and passion dwell,
Erelong will heave the flood of such a restless hell.

489

But there are some more silent, calm, and slow;
Through temperate climes they take their steady way;
Their wave scarce ruffled by the ripple's play,
Enlarging through the wide, rich plain they flow,
While brooks on brooks uniting swell it so,
At length it rolls a river broad and deep;
In calmest light the tranquil waters sleep,
And there in gallant trim proud vessels go,
And moving like a swan along the tide,
With cleaving prow, and wide-extended wing,
And oary arms, the bounding wave they ride,
And as their canvas to the gale they fling,
In stately march they walk the liquid plain,
And down the widening stream plough to the deep blue main,

The boundless hall of ocean:—Life the shore,
The only shore, it spreads and spreads for ever,
And though the bark sail onward, it can never
Traverse the unlimited expanse,—its floor
Inlaid with blue and green and gold, as rise
Its lifted waves, its canopy the skies,
The ever-glowing sun its lamp, the roar
Of seas its music, and the sun-lit sparkle
Of curling foam, the phosphorescent glow
That flashes when at night the waters darkle,
The pearls and gems and sands and ores that strow
Its pavement,—'t is the home of majesty,
The palace and the shrine, where dwells eternity.

[X. I too have seen thy ever-pouring flood]

I too have seen thy ever-pouring flood,
Mightiest of cataracts, Niagara!
Have seen thy restless waters rush away,
And on thy beetling rock alone have stood,

490

And seen the morning sunbeams paint thy spray,
And countless rainbows on thy light mist play;
And I have walked along thy field of blood,
Whereon the free invaders stood at bay,
And, mantled in the shadow of the night,
Infuriate warriors wrestled in the fight,
The pale moon weeping o'er the mortal fray;
And I have gazed, from Queenston's hallowed height,
On river, lake, and plain, in sunset bright,
Gilt streams, dark woods, blue waves in sweet array:
And hither, as the years shall roll away,
The pilgrim of our land shall fondly hie,
And here the tribute of his heart shall pay,
And kneel before the shrine of God and liberty.

[XI. My hand is clasped upon my burning brow]

Myhand is clasped upon my burning brow,
And pressed to ease the tortures of my brain;
I seek to cool my parched thirst, but in vain,
The unpitying fiend no respite will allow,—
My life consumes within me with a slow,
Delirious fever,—in a heavy chain
Depression fetters all my hopes,—again
No days in love and innocence shall flow.
We might have been,—that is the maddening thought
Which gnaws my heart untiring,—I have thrown
The jewel of my life away:—I sought
Bliss high and perfect; but the prize has flown,
And I must grope in darkness, till I fall,
And slumber in the grave that shrouds my being's all.

491

XII.
TO THE PIANO.

Sweet instrument, whose mellow voice is flowing,
From yonder silken canopy, in waves
Canorous, like the hidden stream that laves
Its grassy banks, where eglantines are blowing,
And, arching o'er the waters, deeply glowing;
And as the music murmurs in my ear,
The days of long-lost happiness appear,
When, early life its dearest gifts bestowing,
I glided smoothly down the sunny stream,
And dreaming eyed the oft-reflected beam,
That o'er the crisping waters gayly sparkled,
And breathed the scent of blossoms from the bank,
Where bloomy shrubs the flowing crystal drank;
And where beneath the plane its bosom darkled,
I rested on my oar, and heard a sound,
Tender and sweetly modulate, that filled
The thicket with its echoes, far around
Unnumbered voices whispered from the wild,
The zephyr drooped his wings, the clear wave smiled,
And nature seemed as by enchantment thrilled.
There was a form, who breathed that melting tone;
She sat beneath the branches, and she threw
Her fairy fingers o'er her keys, and drew
The essence of their melody;—alone
She sat, and seemed enamored of her strain,
And now she eyed her notes, and then again
Lifted her brow to heaven;—and O what pure,
Exalted harmony breathed from that face,
The living seat of symmetry and grace!
I gazed, and from that kindling fountain bore
A draught of love admiring, which no more
Can fail, but in perennial flow endure.
I hear thy voice, sweet instrument! and then
This fairy vision comes, and o'er me throws
The mantle of its magic, and again
I hear the mellow tone, that from her sweet lip flows.

492

THE INTERLUDES OF TASSO'S AMINTA.

I.

Yes, I am he, who, on the sounding shore
Of that lone island, to the wondrous man
Who o'er the sea his fated exile ran,
So many varying forms and features wore;
By me was found the art to change the scene
Of the life-mocking theatre, when night
Holds such a kindling mirror to the sight,
That things seem gay and bright, which else were mean:
And then how many images are seen,
All pure and sweet and beautiful, light shades
Of raptured youths, and coy, retiring maids!
And when the night is silent and serene,
And throws her star-lit canopy around,
I show the scenic pomp, the elastic bound
Of merry revellers, while no rude throng
Disturbs the harmony of heart and song

II.

Ye sacred laws of love, by Nature given,—
Ye holy chains, where purest constancy
And warm desire are blent, like hues of heaven
Dissolving in Aurora's brilliancy,
Whose links, of kindred thoughts and feelings woven,
No other hand but death's can rend away,
By all the tender cares of marriage proven,
Grow easier and dearer day by day,—
Sweet yoke, delightful burden! O how sweet
And how delightful on the unequal way,
Where thorns and roses meet, thy gentle sway,
O Love! by whom two hearts together beat,

493

Two souls are kindled in one mutual flame,
And every thought, wish, feeling, is the same,
And till the last and bitter parting come
Time flows on in one bright, unruffled stream.
Thou art the kindling and consoling beam
Of life for ever hastening to the tomb,
Tired nature's sweet, restoring anodyne;—
What other power, like thee, can make our souls divine?

III.

Yes, we are gods, and in the blue serene
Of ever-during heaven, among the gems
That deck the night, the crystal diadems
Of sainted souls, on a celestial scene,
We sport in mingled dances, where the green
Of Spring of ever flourishes, her flowers
Are always bright and balmy, and her showers
Of dropping nectar light their pearly sheen.
Such high adventure, such immortal grace,
We in this mimic school of life display,
And here the world's best imagery we trace,
And sport in playful dance the hours away,—
And here, at night, along the lighted hall,
Where burning cressets emulate the day,
And harmony's soft flutes and citterns play,
Shepherds and nymphs, in youth and beauty gay,
In blended choirs lead round the flying ball.

IV.

Farewell! 't is now the hour of soft repose,
Ye pensive lovers and ye ladies fair!
Now to your silent couch of sleep repair;
Now night with showering hand her poppies strows,
And rains her violets;—now the dew-steeped rose
Hangs faintly drooping, for the day is done,

494

And mountain peaks with the departing sun
Are gayly glowing. Now your eyelids close;
But if your thoughts will wake, and fancy paint
Her airy hues of ecstasy, may love,
Wakeful or dreaming, all your cares remove,
Nor night nor morning hear your sad complaint.
Our pastoral is ended, now adieu!
And may the young God still be kind to you.

ANACREONTIC.

Το ροδον το των ερωτων.
Anac. Od. E.

Now blend the breathing roses
Of love with Dionusos;
Now bind the fair-leafed roses
Around your dripping temples,
And, laughing, drain the goblet
That foams with brimming nectar.

O rose! the sweetest blossom,
Of spring the fairest flower,
O rose! the joy of heaven.
The god of love, with roses
His yellow locks adorning,
Dances with the hours and graces.
Then crown my head with roses,
For, by thy festive temple,
I tune my harp, Lyæus!
And wreathed with rosy garlands
I dance among the maidens.

495

[O for a mantling bower hung by the loaded vine]

“Quis multa gracilis te puer in rosa.”—
Hor. L. I. 5.

O for a mantling bower hung by the loaded vine,
Through whose quivering leaves shines the moon's mellow light,
Sunk on pillowy roses,
Silent to muse all the night away!

O for a soft hour at eve, with her my heart adores!
O for that union of souls, where thought to thought responds,
And our harmonized feelings
Blended may rise on the winds to heaven.

O for that language of looks, where eye to eye speaks love,
Where smile answers to smile, and tear is shed for tear,
Where our kindling glances
Tell all the wishes that burn within!

O for those days that are gone, when one heart beat with mine,
When she smiled as we met, wept her soul's tribute at leaving me,
And with seeming devotion
Hung on the lessons I loved to give.

Days! ye were lovely to me, brightest I ever knew;
Brighter ye still might have been, had not a cloud from hell,
Over my ill-fated fortunes
Hung, till the light of my soul was gone.

Backward I look on a dream checkered with bright and dark;
Youth swelled with hope, fame-enthralled, health, peace, and innocence,

496

And thy Elysian bowers,
Love, life's dearest and sweetest charm.

Such were the lights; but the shades—fear and despondency,
Hopes blighted, health lost, neglect, folly, and indolence,
Till despair wrapped her raven pall
Round my torn heart to eternity.

Fairest and purest and best,—fair as the world in bloom,
Pure as the clear mountain spring, bright as the souls in heaven,—
Such my fancy believes thee,
Such—but no efforts can make thee mine.

Life without thee is a waste, with thee a paradise;
Never on earth can we meet,—O, can we meet in heaven?
We have parted for ever,—
Thine be the joy, mine the wretchedness.

Tossed like a ship on the sea, mast broke and rudder gone,
Sorrow and madness behind, darkness and death before,
Live a few moments in agony,
Then be as though I had never been.

[High they raised the mast, and spread the white sail to the zephyr]

Ιστον δ' ειλατινον κοιλης εντοσθε μεσοδμες
Στησαν αειραντες.
Homer, Odyss. II. 424.

High they raised the mast, and spread the white sail to the zephyr,
Wide before the wind the bellying canvas yielded,

497

Round the gliding keel roared loud the purple billow,
Over the foaming waves the swift-flying vessel bounded,
She flew, like a hawk, through the sea, and the shores drew nearer and nearer,
The foam curled round the prow as the wind impelled her onward,
Through the silent night she sailed, till morning lit the mountains.

[The thirsty fields a robe of sadness wear]

“Aret ager, vitio moriens sitit aeris herba.”—
Virgil, Ecl. VII. 57.

The thirsty fields a robe of sadness wear,
And the grass withers in the sultry air;
On the fair hillocks, where the swains recline,
The yellow leaf drops from the parched vine:
Let Phyllis come, the groves are green again,
And the dark clouds pour down reviving rain;
Smiles every meadow, blooms each lovely flower,
And the pleased songsters hail the genial shower.
The dark-green poplar whispers o'er the rills,
And the vine blushes on the sunny hills;
The beauteous myrtle trembles o'er the wave,
The laurel shades the cool, sequestered cave:
But while my Phyllis loves the hazel grove
The lowly hazel I shall ever love.
The lofty ash is fairest in the woods,
The trembling aspen o'er the crystal floods,
In flowery gardens waves the whispering pine,
The fir looks fair where towering hills decline;
But when, my Lycidas, you once return,
When for your absence I shall cease to mourn,
The ash shall yield to you among the woods,
And aspen trembling o'er the crystal floods.

498

[Here mossy fountains pour their cooling wave]

“Hic gelidi fontes.”—
Ecl. X. 42.

Here mossy fountains pour their cooling wave,
And quiet streams their pebbly borders lave,
Here thickest shades inweave a lovely gloom
And blushing flowerets shed a sweet perfume,
Here, dear Nerine, we can spend each day,
And here can wear our cheerful lives away.

Happy old man! here, 'mid your well-known streams

“Fortunate senex, hic inter flumina nota.”—
Ecl. I. 52.

Happy old man! here, 'mid your well-known streams
And sacred fountains, you may long enjoy
The quiet coolness of the solemn shade.
There o'er the hedge, that bounds your narrow field,
The bees, that wanton on the willow's bloom,
Shall, by their hum, invite you to repose:
There, 'neath the brow of yonder lofty cliff,
The pruner's voice shall sing aloud to heaven:
Meanwhile, amid the still and gloomy grove,
The hoarse wood-pigeons, thy delight, shall coo,
And high amid the elm's aerial boughs
The lonely turtle pour her ceaseless moan.

499

[I. Thou, who erst on Ætna's top]

[_]

[The following were written in imitation of the irregular Greek poems of Simmias, the Rhodian. They can only be considered as trifles, whose sole merit must rest in their poetical language and rhythm. I have not chosen to give them in printing their original form, but merely to arrange them in an irregular blank measure.]

Thou, who erst on Ætna's top,
In dreaming fancy, sat,
And looked on wide Sicania's plains,
Adorned with fruits and flocks and golden grain,
Where Ceres, Flora, Pan, in mingled dance combined,
Led on the jocund hours to music's sweetest breath:
And as the sun at height of noon,
From heaven's blue canopy, effused
His living radiance o'er the earth,
Shining on mountains capped with snow and ice,
Or blackened with a waving wilderness
Of forests, that for ages long had braved
The shock of tempests and the war of winds,
When rushing from the dark Liparian caves they fly,
And sweep o'er land and sea,
Upturning from its lowest bed,
In curling foam, old Ocean's rolling waves;
Glittering on sunny rocks and hills,
Where purple vineyards teem with nectared juice, the fount of joy,
On hillocks sweet with thyme and dittany,
Where Hybla's murmuring bees, from laughing flowers,
Ambrosia cull, like molten gold in hue,
Translucent as the crystal wave,
That, in Ortygia's sea-surrounded isle,
From Arethusa wells;

500

Glowing on plains perfumed with roses, where the shepherd's flute
An amorous descant warbled, while the bleat of flocks
And low of herds came floating on the wind;
And pouring all its kindling power
On meadows, where the reed
Shook and snowy lilies bloomed.

[II. The cypress, in its dark funereal dress]

The cypress, in its dark funereal dress,
Hangs o'er the sacred tomb where Virgil lies,
And as the evening breeze begins to curl
The golden waves that lave the Baian shores,
And heave in gurgling tides their crest of foam,
Kissing the polished shells and snowy sands,
A strain of sorrow seems to breathe
From those low-bending boughs, the whispering wind
Wakes every leaf to music, and the tree becomes a harmony
Of myriad voices, as if Heaven's whole choir,
Cherub and Seraph, on their harps of gold,
Should pour a dirge for man's unhappy fall,
And weep that powers, which took in Heaven
The kindling spark of life,
Should lose that light and die.
The mind is bound to sense,
And if the reins of sense
Are loosed in youth's impetuous hour,
Without a skilful hand to check or guide,
Like full-fed, fiery coursers bursting from the goal
They rush, and with them hurry on the mind, the charioteer:
Then Reason's voice is heard in vain,
Wild as the tempest-winds they fly,
Obscured by dust, and bathed in foam,

501

They burst away, they know not whither. Death
Sits on his storm-cloud, draws his dart, and bends his bow;
The arrow flies with awful twang,—
It leaves the body spent, but kills the mind;
And souls, that might have soared aloft and sung,
Like him who sleeps within this hallowed cave,
Lose all their fire, and sink to earth, in dust and darkness lost.

[III. The clouds are black in heaven, the roar of winds]

The clouds are black in heaven, the roar of winds
Is heard among the tall, aspiring tops
Of hoary oaks, that wave on Gargarus,
And proudly heave their giant arms.
These oaks have stood unhurt, unmoved,
The storms of ages as they rolled:
No tempest broke their boughs,
No lightning scathed their trunks.
They stand in mockery against the winds,
And laugh the fury of the storm to scorn;
But man, poor feeble man, can lay
Their honors in the dust;
By constant toil he rules.
But man, to rule, must rule himself,
Or all his toil is vain.
In life's first dawn he needs
The watchful care of friends.
The flower that early blooms,
Must from the chilly winds
Be shielded, or it droops and dies;
The tender plant of childhood needs that care,—
It takes each form you give; the parent's hand
Can, if the task with life begin,
Train it as easily
To virtue as to vice;

502

But if you let it shoot luxuriant, wild,
Or train it up to vice in life's weak dawn,
It wastes its early strength for naught,
And when the time of fruit arrives, you come
And find its branches withered, scorched, and bare.

THE GOBLET.

Where gay Falernum lifts its sunny brow
O'er wide Campania's sea of bending corn,
I rose and shook my tendrils to the gale,
And glowed with living purple and gold.
How rich, to see the teeming clusters
Droop beneath their nectared load,
To inhale the airs of fragrance,
As the wanton wind
Loaded his wings with dewy sweetness, culled
The choicest perfumes that I shed,
And, whispering o'er the banks
Of blossoms, gave them richer sweets!
Fluttering zephyrs hovered round me,
Kissed my purple, frosted coat,
And tinged their lips with honey. Dews
Wet my clusters, till themselves
Imbibed my sweets, and then exhaled
In fragrant mist away.
Pressed, and refined by time, I stand
Within the crystal goblet, while a light
Of purest amber floats around and sheds a mellow beam,
As if a cloud of clustering roses
Crossed the sun and crimsoned all the earth.

503

[Expand your snowy wings, ye swans of Helicon]

Expand your snowy wings, ye swans of Helicon!
And bear me to some paradise
On India's verdant mountains, or on Iran's plains:
Lay me beneath the spreading palm,
That heaves its polished shaft aloft, and waves
Its capital of verdure; flowers that glow
Like morning's gay effulgence, fruits that hang
Their purple clusters, in communion blent,
Mingle their beauty and their sweetness;—gales
Breathe from the lovely union, fragrance-laden,
And cheer for many a league the desert round,
As budding, blooming, ripening, and mature,
In soft accordance pensilely they droop:—
The camel scents the wind,—he knows the spring
Of living coolness bubbles where it loads
Its wings with odors, and at once he starts
And scours the dazzling plain:—O, lay me there,
And, hovering over, pour your dying notes,
The dirge of one who sang and shone, a child,
And sunk at manhood in the dust, despised.

[How happy is the pure, good man, whose life]

How happy is the pure, good man, whose life
Was always good, who in the tender years
Of childhood, and the trying time of youth,
Was shielded by a kind parental hand!
No stain deforms the brightness of his soul,
Only those specks of frail humanity,
Which almost need the microscopic eye
To trace their being. As the river rolls
Pure and unsullied o'er its sandy bed
In gentle agitation, that its waves
Sink not in silent stagnancy, his life
Passes in peaceful industry its round.
He rises with the lark, and like that bird,

504

Who sings her morning melody aloft
Amid the blue of heaven, he pours his voice
To God in secret prayer:
“Father in Heaven!
Omnipotent, eternal! ere the world
Rose, at thy bidding, from the formless void,
Blest in thy own essential good, thou liv'dst,
With space thy home, eternity thy day.
Before the Sun of Being rose, when night
And chaos brooded o'er the seeds of things,
Thy spirit wandered through the black abyss,
And o'er the boundless waste of waters moved.
The word went forth,—Confusion's voice was still.
At once from darkness, light and form and life,
And harmony and beauty, love and joy,
And melody and sweetness rose and filled
Creation with the wonders of thy power.
How sprang the infant sun from ocean's bed,
And glowed and glittered o'er its tossing waves!
How all the effulgent company of stars,
Blent in a choir of perfect harmony,
Lifted their voices in the arch of heaven,
And sang the birth of Being! how the moon,
Mantled in paler lustre, filled her orb
With borrowed beams, and thro' the dark-blue sky,
Dispensing love, her nightly journey ran!
How from its calm, the yet untainted air,
Waked by the morning, swept the teeming earth
In gentle gales and zephyrs bland, and shook
The vocal forest, and the glassy plain
Of ocean curled with billows! Then no storm,
Pregnant with the munitions of thy wrath,
Hung frowning on the mountains, black as night,
And grim as terror, waiting for thy voice
To unfold its lurid skirts, and onward move
To do thy vengeance. Then the sky was clear,
No fleecy vapor dimmed its purity,
Gay laughed the sun amid its fields of blue,
And peace and health and pleasure cheered the world.

505

No stagnant marsh nor festering swamp sent up
Its venomed mists and baleful fogs, the dews,
Drawn by the sun from living plants, dropped free
From all infection,—then no pestilence
Lifted its hydra-head, and through the streets
Of cities, conscience-struck, replete with vice,
And misery and filth, its fruit, stalked on
Exhaling death,—no battle squared its front,
To feed its ravening maw with human blood,—
No prison spread its gates, to swallow up
And bury in its hidden gloom the wretch
Who dared to violate thy holy law,
And lift against society his hand;
Nor had the grave its all-devouring jaws
Disclosed, the couch where man must lay his head,
And sleep with rank corruption and the worm.

“All then was pure; the blue sky overhead
Transparent opened to the farthest ken
Of human vision, like a hollow sphere
Of crystal, closing all creation in.
The star of day, a radiant jewel set
In that unblemished azure, to the eye
Insufferably brilliant, from the east
Impurpled, as the dewy morning rose
And wrung the tears, that night wept, from her hair,
To the midway throne, whereon he sits at noon
And pours his most effulgent effluence down,
And thence descending to the western wave,
Or forest ridge, that tosses like a sea
Its living billows, as a conqueror, marched,—
Thy purest spark, vicegerent of thy love.
That orb has dipped his brightness in the stream
Of ocean, and his last rays on the clouds
Have painted evening's tapestry, wherewith
She curtains round her canopy with gold
And purple, ruby and emerald and blue:
Then night ascends her car,—her plumy steeds,
Like birds nocturnal, through the drowsy air,

506

Fly silently and slow; she waves her wand,
And evening's many-colored veil is gone;
The sky puts off its soft cerulean robe,
And decks itself in sable livery,
Whereon innumerous gems of starry gold
Shine, with their bright eyes twinkling, as a train,
Encircling yon fair light, that charms the west,
Following the set of sun, or in the east,
Gay Phosphor, bringing on his orient beams.
Thus one unvaried mantle hid the face
Of earth from every eye, and blended all
The charms of hill and valley, bush and tree,
River and fountain, in one common shade:
Until the queen of heaven, from the deep,
Emerged, and blushing through the fiery zone
Of the low-hanging vapor, by her light
Enkindled, slowly onward held her way,
Walking in regal majesty, until
She reached the clear meridian,—there she hung,
An orb of purest silver, with the shades
Of sea and mountain checkered, as with pearls
Laid glittering on a snowy satin ground;
Ascending there, she hung a milder sun,
And poured her borrowed brightness o'er the face
Of this round earth, that rolls self-poised thro' space,
And takes its annual journey round the sun,
For ever balanced in its orbit. Night,
By this illumined, silvered o'er her brow;
And straightway, rising from a formless waste,
Smiled hill and forest, meadow, vale, and stream,
And many a white tent, where the shepherd lies
Enwrapped in downy slumber, many a fold,
Where flocks and herds concoct the feed of day,
And many a loaded bower with purple hung,
And many a harvest field, that called the swain
To put his sickle forth and reap its gold.

“The unseeded earth was bare,—its towering rocks
And sparkling sands, its snowy chalks and clays

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Imbrowned, were void of vegetation, when
The word went forth, ‘Let herb and tree appear.’
As by the touch of some magician's wand,
Fair palaces, bright domes, and gardens gay
With all the wealth of art and nature, rise,
And occupy the cheerless desert,—Life,
In all its countless forms of plant, arose,
And in its mantle robed the barren earth.
The Cedar sprang on Lebanon, the Fir
Waved on the rocks of Norway, whispering Pines,
Towering on Alpine summits, widely spread
Their feathered umbrage, dancing to the gale
And murmuring with the zephyr; o'er the plains
Of sterile sand, along the southern shores
Of tideless Baltic, or the long-drawn coast,
By which the ocean torrent rushes, plains
Beneath a tropic sun, like Zara, bare,
The home of desolation,—here by dews,
From sea and lake and neighboring mountain, clad
With dark, perennial foliage, like the shade
Funereal, that enwraps the sepulchre
Of Turk and Persian in an awful gloom,—
There o'er the dry, unwatered ridge, that swells
Round as the ocean wave that erst involved
The forest in its waters, and the sand,
Now filled with shells and corals, made its bed,—
The pitch-tree lifts her spiry head, with cones
In russet mantled, when the north-wind blows,
Black at a distance, as the mourning pall,
When all the world is gay with new-born life,
And mantled in a sea-blue covering at
The coming on of winter, taking on
Her young leaves, when deciduous foliage drops
And strows the ground it shaded, in the day
Of general mourning to the field and grove,
Smiling in tears to see herself renewed,
When Death is riding round her. Where the streams
And fountains send their tribute, in the vale
Scooped out among the hillocks, like a bowl,

508

And o'er the boundless plain, low-lying, drenched
By torrent rains, the cypress weaves its dusk,
Dank canopy, that in its mantle shrouds
The stagnant flood teeming with life below.
Ah! who would venture through those boundless fens,
O'er which the tree of ages frowns, bowed down
With mossy tresses, spangled o'er with flowers,
Like gay Anacreon in his rosy wreath?
There grenadillas ramble o'er the boughs,
Laden with blue and crimson blossoms, hung
With tempting fruits, like golden apples, which
Stole on the virgin's heart and conquered her:
Above 't is beauty, and below green sedge
And spiry reeds and purpled flags conceal
The hideous forms that batten there, the snake,
Who twines his jetty folds of giant length,
And throws around his fascinating eye
Of living glow, to draw the heedless prey
Within his crushing coils. The wanderer's foot
Disturbs a reedy tuft; the rustling grass
Awakes the serpent, who, with tooth of fire,
Lurks in the thicket,—hark! the warning sound,
The death-announcing rattle sings and bids
The invader fly his danger,—adders hiss,
And lizards roar, unseen destroyers wait
To instil their poison, with a living wall
Of separation cutting from the world
These sweltering holds, wherein is found the home
Of reptiles, plagues, and pestilence and death:
But from their watery stores the sun draws up
Dews, mists, and clouds, that quench the thirsty sands
And clothe what else had been one sparkling waste
In a wide sea of never-dying green.”

Thus pass the moments by, till night draws on;
At rest with all the world, calm in himself,
Conscious of rectitude and purity,
He lays him down upon his homely couch;
Peace, on her dove-wings, hovers o'er his head

509

And fans his pillow; through the slumbrous night
Fair dreams of calm oblivion soothe his soul;
No muttered groan, no sudden shriek, nor start,
Disturb his quiet, but his sleep is sweet,
And gives him kind refreshment till the morn.

[We have a body,—and its clamorous calls]

We have a body,—and its clamorous calls
And appetites importunate demand
The service of our nobler part, the soul.
O, how I long to throw this garment off,
Which burdens me with flesh, which dims the light
That else had shone so brilliantly, and moved
With such a lofty grandeur through the fields
Of intellect and fancy! Had not sense
Inthralled me in my childhood, ere the bud
Had opened to the influence of Heaven
And hope and love and beauty, had no worm
Crept to the core, and nested and consumed
The heart within, while all without was fair,
Until it slowly withered, and the bloom
Of youth was changed to paleness, where the hand
Of death had set its seal, and ruin traced
Its mark indelible, I now had walked
With front erect beneath the argent shield
Of conscious rectitude, despising wealth
And pomp and power and pride, and trampling down
Vice, though she came in all the outward charms
Of paradisal houris, or in folds
Alluring twined herself around, and fawned
With leering eye, and called with flattering tongue.

[Youth sees the world before him, and the path]

Youth sees the world before him, and the path
Of sin how fair, hedged in by every sweet
That flowers can breathe, or melting fruits distil;
For ever winding in its blossomed maze,

510

It meets the eye with pleasures ever new;
It leads to luscious gardens, snowy beds
Of lilies, heaps of roses, citron shades,
That breathe alluring fragrance, cool retreats
Beneath o'erarching vines, and lonely grots,
Where nectared fountains bubble, amber streams
Of kindling waters murmur, on whose banks
Couches of matted grass and scented bloom
Invite to slumber; music flows around,
The flute soft-warbling, and the violin,
That calls the dance, and wakes the revelry
Of jolly hearts, who float like bubbles down
The wave of being; myrtle thickets hide
The haunts of lawless love, where whispered sighs
And tittering voices through the night are heard,
And every deed of dallying wantonness
Conceived and done; fair women, like the forms
Who spread their arms to meet the warm embrace
Of saints, who dwell beneath the golden groves
Of Paradise, as Eastern fables tell,
Call to illusive pleasures. How the form
Mantled in gauzy drapery, which shows
Each fair-turned limb and rounded muscle, steeps
The soul in dreams voluptuous! how the face,
Whereon a thousand seeming graces sit,
Where the eye shines in ebon brightness, dark,
Insufferably dark, and with its lure
In fascination chains the gazer, till
She come and clasp her prey, or, dyed in blue
Of liquid softness, rolls its languid look,
And often throwing round the artful leer,
Turns from the meeting eye and sinks abashed!
The cheek for ever dimpling with the play
Of life's red current, now the crimson stream
Departing leaves it just incarnardined,
And melting into milky softness, then
The blush calls all the living lustre forth,
And like a full-blown rose it kindling swells.
Such is her path of roses; but its end
Is sickness, sorrow, shame, despair, and death.

511

[The stream of life that flowed on Calvary]

The stream of life that flowed on Calvary
May yet have power to wash away my stains,
And leave my suffering spirit pure in Heaven.
She must be there, such innocence and grace,
Such cherub mildness, must find there its home.
O, had I never wandered in my youth,
Had but the living wave flowed onward pure,
As when it left its fountain, I might now
Mingle my hopes and happiness with hers.
But this can never be: the ills of life
Have thrown a separating gulf between,
Impassable, till I shall launch my bark
Upon the sea of dark futurity,
And steer my course for Heaven, those happy shores,
That bloom with love eternal; there our souls
May mingling meet, and never part again.

THE DRAMA.

Where is the light that shed its holy beam
And fired the bard by Avon's silver stream,
When Nature threw her mantle o'er her child
And woke his infant voice to wood-notes wild,
Bathed in her kindling flood his ardent soul,
And bade his heavenward eye in frenzy roll,—
That falcon eye which looked creation through,
From earth to heaven in quick conception flew,
Left all the fainter pinions far behind,
And read at one wide glance th' expanded mind,
Knew every spring and passion of the heart,
And rivalled Greece in all the pride of art?

Where is that daring, strong, gigantic age,
The glorious morning of the English stage,
When Genius took a bold and lofty flight,
And burst, all dazzling, from her Gothic night?

512

O, where are now those souls, that seemed on fire
And burning with a poet's wild desire,
Who saw and keenly loved the grand and fair,
And bodied forth their forms of viewless air?
O, where are now those thoughts and words of flame,
That shine most brightly on the roll of fame,
Those passion-speaking sounds, which fire and thrill,
And bind, as with a magic chain, the will,
Those streams of native eloquence, that flow
Like torrents rushing to the vales below,
Pouring their white floods down the mountain's height,
And sparkling in the blaze of solar light?

Is Genius dead? shall fancy wake no more?
Are all the triumphs of our drama o'er?
Is there no infant Shakespeare, who would spring,
And soar, with upward breast and daring wing,—
Who gnaws with restless tooth his galling chain,
And toils for freedom, toils and strives in vain,—
Who looks on glory with untiring eyes,
Who would be great, but cannot, dare not rise?
Awake, ye sons of poesy! awake,
And, with determined grasp, your fetters break;
Against the painted swarms of fashion dare,
And from their locks her perfumed garlands tear,
Indignant sweep her cobweb strains away,
And hush the love-sick warblers of the day:
Dare with a frown to front this downward age,
And drive melodious weakness from the stage,
And once more seating Nature on her throne,
There bid her reign for ever and alone,
And from her full, exhaustless fountain roll
The words that kindle and exalt the soul.

Where, throned on Alps, eternal winter reigns,
And Freedom wanders through her rude domains,
A race of demigods she loves to breed,
And with the bitter bread of hunger feed;

513

Till, hardy as the rocks that round them rise,
And stainless as their own unclouded skies,
Her strong-nerved sons, by want and labor nursed,
Like giants from those hard-bound mountains burst,
Fierce as the tiger, when he stands at bay,
And wild as gaunt wolves rushing on their prey;
Cruel as hyæns, when they rend the grave,
And on the red field tear the slaughtered brave:
Thus, in their new-waked might, they rush amain,
And crush the puny driv'lers of the plain,
Then, sheathing in a myrtle wreath their swords,
Walk with the port and majesty of lords.
So wake, ye true and native sons of song!
Pour all your unbought wealth of soul along,
And every energy to Nature give:—
Then once more Hamlet, Richard, Lear, shall live.

[There is a world of mind, which few can know]

There is a world of mind, which few can know,
High raised above the sensual crowd below,
Where thought is pure and free, and fancy fires
In rapture, where the mounting soul aspires,
And sails on wings untiring,—heaven is there,
And all is grand and beautiful, and fair.
How the heart swells beneath the living tide,
That rolls in kindling effluence, deep and wide!
How man drinks in the clear, untainted ray,
And dwells delighted in meridian day!
The mists that dimmed him, and the crimes that sunk,
When blind with folly and with pleasure drunk,
Are all dispersed, and o'er his august head
Heaven's purest light in streams of love is shed:
As when an eagle, from the mountain's height,
Lifts to the god of day his towering flight,
Spurns with strong wing the fields of nether air,
And soars where ether girds him, pure and rare,

514

With keen eye fixed upon the burning ball,
He feels no more this cold and earthly thrall,
But, ever mounting with intense desire,
Seeks with untiring flight the fount of fire.
O that my soul had always been thus high,
Had found no joy, no home beneath the sky!
O had perfection been my only aim,
My spirit kindled with a purest flame,
Its energies all active, all awake,
A thirst that heaven, and heaven alone, could slake,—
O had this boundless, quenchless fire been mine,
My soul might still in all its brightness shine:
But sense has poured around its inky streams,
And in its Stygian current quenched the beams;
It cannot rise, it will not sink, it must
Waste with this mortal body into dust;
It has one wish, one only,—in the grave
To find for all its sorrows Lethe's wave,
And there in deep forgetfulness to lie,
And know that body, feeling, thought, must die,
That all the glories of our heaven will fade,
And hell be but a formless phantom's shade.

[He spake, and, springing from th' embattled ground]

He spake, and, springing from th' embattled ground,
Soared from the wond'ring hosts that gazed around:
Transformed to spirit, through the yielding air
His wavy wings aloft their burden bear;
His shield hangs o'er his shoulder, like the moon,
When pale she glitters in her highest noon;
His spear is tipt with lightning, and his crest
Waves with majestic sweep, and round his breast
His gold-bossed corselet flashes, like the gem
That glitters in a Cæsar's diadem;
His flight is as a meteor, when it sails
O'er the blue sky, and far behind it trails

515

A stream of liquid silver;—now more dim,
His airy form in ether seems to swim,
Lessens and lessens to the admiring sight,
Then disappears amid the solemn night:
So fled the prodigy, and, wrapped in awe,
The kneeling hosts the heavenly herald saw.

[Malvacea calls her tribes around her throne]

Malvacea calls her tribes around her throne,
Decked in her crimson robe and golden zone;
Around her flowing locks she binds a wreath
Of brightest blossoms, while her curls beneath,
Of softest auburn, wanton in the wind,
And her argentine veil floats loose behind.
Her nymphs attend, from meadow and from stream,
From plain and hillock,—gay as morning's beam.
The tropic Naiad, Carolinea, moves
Resplendent through Guiana's giant groves;
O'er the blue wave she bends, and round her binds
Loose floating robes, that wanton in the winds;
A gaudy chaplet decks her flowing hair,
Such as the the festal maids of Chio wear,
Bright crimson sprigs on yellow beds repose,
And morning's radiance mingles with the rose.
Where Niger grandly rolls his mystic wave,
And Afric's jetty nymphs in freedom lave,
Majestic Adansonia rears her form,
And braves, through countless years, the flood and storm;
The gathered tribes beneath her boughs enjoy
Kind Nature's simple gifts without alloy,
Indulge in slumbers, which no cares invade,
Secure beneath this wilderness of shade,
Or, dancing, lead the happy moments by,
When evening suns go down the golden sky;
And as the ceaseless generations roll,
From life's first dawn, to death's unerring goal,

516

Amid the wreck, her head she firmly rears,
And bears the wasting of a thousand years.
In silken fleece more white than Zemla's snow,
Whose spotless folds in loose disorder flow,
Through India's forests soft Bombacia moves,
And lightly wanders in the woods she loves;
Above her tower the Gauts, their sable walls,
Down which the rain-stream, thund'ring, foaming, falls,
Shed coolness o'er her, and the plains below,
Through which those streams in soft meanders flow,
Their flower-starred thickets and their rice-clad vales,
Their groves that load with balm the passing gales,
Their tapering pagods and their spiry walls,
Their vine-clad cots, their bamboo-pillared halls,
All lie before her, like a fairy dream,
That glows and glitters in the evening beam.

[In endless contrariety has fled]

In endless contrariety has fled
My feverish being; love and fame have fed
My better thoughts, and been my life. My frame
Was ill adapted to my spirit's flame,
And blasted with the cold and heavy curse
Of fear and weakness, Heaven can send no worse;
And they were both perverted in the hour
When unfledged reason had but feeble power,
And they did war together, till the clay
Gained mastery o'er the mind's immortal ray;
Immortal in its longings, for it felt
The beauty of perfection, and it dwelt
On images of light and love, and drew
Those pictured pleasures that are known by few,
And it would fix the deep glance of its eye
Upon the brightness of an evening sky,
And it would fashion on the arch of blue,
And on the rainbow-clouds of gayest hue,

517

A world of happiness, and there would trace
The ideal form of loveliness and grace,
And then I was entranced, and I would seem
Ascending to my Eden on the beam
That fell so bright upon me, and my flight
Was as the twinkling of a ray of light,
And I would dream for hours, until my soul
In unmixed feeling, soft and pure, would roll.

SONNET.

Farewell! ye visions of my wayward brain,
Farewell! I send you from this lonely bower;
But I shall ne'er forget your soothing power,
Although perhaps we never meet again;
Yet I have not communed with you in vain,
If but some portion of that hallowed fire,
Which roused the ancient bard to pour his strain,
Has warmed my lips and raised my spirit higher.
Ye go abroad upon a stormy sea,
But there are some, perchance, may not despise
Such trifles, though they were composed by me,
And they may view them with approving eyes
While I, as I have ever been, shall be,
Lone reader of the woods, the waters, and the skies.

THE END.