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

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!

University of Virginia Library

POSTHUMOUS POEMS.

INVOCATION.

THE STARLET.

FROM THE DANISH OF STAFFELDT.

NATURE'S LYRE.

MASONIC SONGS.

I. MASTER'S SONG.

BY A BROTHER.

II. ROYAL ARCH SONG.

BY A COMPANION.

III. SELECT MASTER'S SONG.

BY A COMPANION.

SONG.

MIDNIGHT MUSIC.

I.
MASTER'S SONG.

II.
ROYAL ARCH SONG.

III.
SELECT MASTER'S SONG.