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

[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.

293

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,—

294

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!

295

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.

297

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.