 | Poems of Paul Hamilton Hayne |  |
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YOUTHFUL POEMS.
1850–1860.
THE WILL AND THE WING.
To have the will to soar, but not the wings,
Eyes fixed forever on a starry height,
Whence stately shapes of grand imaginings
Flash down the splendors of imperial light;
Eyes fixed forever on a starry height,
Whence stately shapes of grand imaginings
Flash down the splendors of imperial light;
And yet to lack the charm that makes them ours,
The obedient vassals of that conquering spell,
Whose omnipresent and ethereal powers,
Encircle Heaven, nor fear to enter Hell;
The obedient vassals of that conquering spell,
Whose omnipresent and ethereal powers,
Encircle Heaven, nor fear to enter Hell;
This is the doom of Tantalus—the thirst
For beauty's balmy fount to quench the fires
Of the wild passion that our souls have nurst
In hopeless promptings—unfulfilled desires.
For beauty's balmy fount to quench the fires
Of the wild passion that our souls have nurst
In hopeless promptings—unfulfilled desires.
Yet would I rather in the outward state
Of Song's immortal temple lay me down,
A beggar basking by that radiant gate
Than bend beneath the haughtiest empire's crown!
Of Song's immortal temple lay me down,
A beggar basking by that radiant gate
Than bend beneath the haughtiest empire's crown!
For sometimes, through the bars, my ravished eyes
Have caught brief glimpses of a life divine,
And seen a far, mysterious rapture rise
Beyond the veil that guards the inmost shrine.
Have caught brief glimpses of a life divine,
And seen a far, mysterious rapture rise
Beyond the veil that guards the inmost shrine.
“THE LAUGHING HOURS BEFORE HER FEET.”
The laughing Hours before her feet,
Are scattering spring-time roses,
And the voices in her soul are sweet
As music's mellowed closes;
All hopes and passions, heavenly born,
In her, have met together,
And Joy diffuses round her morn
A mist of golden weather.
Are scattering spring-time roses,
And the voices in her soul are sweet
As music's mellowed closes;
All hopes and passions, heavenly born,
In her, have met together,
And Joy diffuses round her morn
A mist of golden weather.
As o'er her cheek of delicate dyes,
The blooms of childhood hover,
So do the tranced and sinless eyes,
All childhood's heart discover;
Full of a dreamy happiness,
With rainbow fancies laden,
Whose arch of promise grows to bless
Her spirit's beauteous Adenne.
The blooms of childhood hover,
So do the tranced and sinless eyes,
All childhood's heart discover;
Full of a dreamy happiness,
With rainbow fancies laden,
Whose arch of promise grows to bless
Her spirit's beauteous Adenne.
She is a being born to raise
Those undefiled emotions,
That whisper of our sunniest days,
And most sincere devotions;
In her, we see renewed and bright,
That phase of earthly story,
Which glimmers in the morning light,
Of God's exceeding glory.
Those undefiled emotions,
That whisper of our sunniest days,
And most sincere devotions;
In her, we see renewed and bright,
That phase of earthly story,
Which glimmers in the morning light,
Of God's exceeding glory.
Why, in a life of mortal cares,
Appear these heavenly faces,
Why, on the verge of darkened years,
These clear, celestial graces?
'Tis but to cheer the soul that faints
With pure and blest evangels,
To prove, if Heaven is rich with saints,
That Earth may have her angels.
Appear these heavenly faces,
Why, on the verge of darkened years,
These clear, celestial graces?
'Tis but to cheer the soul that faints
With pure and blest evangels,
To prove, if Heaven is rich with saints,
That Earth may have her angels.
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Enough! 'tis not for me to pray
That on her life's sweet river,
The calmness of a virgin day
May rest, and rest forever;
I know a guardian Genius stands
Beside those waters lowly,
And labors with ethereal hands
To keep them pure and holy.
That on her life's sweet river,
The calmness of a virgin day
May rest, and rest forever;
I know a guardian Genius stands
Beside those waters lowly,
And labors with ethereal hands
To keep them pure and holy.
EVE OF THE BRIDAL.
Yes! it has come; the strange, o'ermastering hour,
When buoyant hopes, and tender, tremulous fears
Sway the full heart with a divided power,
The flush of sunshine, and the touch of tears!
When buoyant hopes, and tender, tremulous fears
Sway the full heart with a divided power,
The flush of sunshine, and the touch of tears!
Oh! for a spell to charm away thy care,
As I could charm, were I but near thee now
To chide coy flickerings of that half despair
Of virginal shame upon thy downcast brow;
As I could charm, were I but near thee now
To chide coy flickerings of that half despair
Of virginal shame upon thy downcast brow;
A fitful gloom 'mid blushes of bright joy,
Like those transparent clouds in summer days,
That cast their transient shadows of alloy
Across the noontide's else too dazzling blaze;
Like those transparent clouds in summer days,
That cast their transient shadows of alloy
Across the noontide's else too dazzling blaze;
Yet, from the fair hills of this foreign shore,
I waft thee benedictions on the wind,
Hopes that a peaceful bliss forevermore
May rule the gracious empire of thy mind.
I waft thee benedictions on the wind,
Hopes that a peaceful bliss forevermore
May rule the gracious empire of thy mind.
And blessing thus, the dreary distance dies.
And in a clearer than Agrippa's glass,
The enamored fancy,—what pale visions rise,
Brightening to shape and beauty ere they pass?
And in a clearer than Agrippa's glass,
The enamored fancy,—what pale visions rise,
Brightening to shape and beauty ere they pass?
A room where sunset's glory deep, though dim,
Girds thy rich chamber with luxurious grace,
Rounds the fair outline of each delicate limb,
And crowns with chastened ray thine eloquent face,
Girds thy rich chamber with luxurious grace,
Rounds the fair outline of each delicate limb,
And crowns with chastened ray thine eloquent face,
In shimmering folds thy raiments soft and rare,
Swell with the passionate heavings of thy breast,
O'er whose young loveliness, the entranced air,
Languidly breathing, seeks voluptuous rest.
Swell with the passionate heavings of thy breast,
O'er whose young loveliness, the entranced air,
Languidly breathing, seeks voluptuous rest.
Thy hand—(in two brief hours no longer thine)—
Gleams near a gossamer curtain, stirred with sighs,
And the full, star-like tears begin to shine
In the blue heaven of thy bewildering eyes.
Gleams near a gossamer curtain, stirred with sighs,
And the full, star-like tears begin to shine
In the blue heaven of thy bewildering eyes.
Tears for the girlhood, almost past away,
Its innocent life, its wealth of tender lore,
Tears for the womanhood, whose opening day,
May not reveal the untried scene before.
Its innocent life, its wealth of tender lore,
Tears for the womanhood, whose opening day,
May not reveal the untried scene before.
Not bitter tears! for him thon lov'st is true,
And all thy being quivers into flame,
A swift delicious flame that thrills thee through,
Whene'er thy memory lingers on his name.
And all thy being quivers into flame,
A swift delicious flame that thrills thee through,
Whene'er thy memory lingers on his name.
Ev'n now I see thee turn thy timid head,
Luxuriant-locked, towards a dim retreat,
Where twilight shadows veil thy bridal bed,
And golden gloom and tender silence meet.
Luxuriant-locked, towards a dim retreat,
Where twilight shadows veil thy bridal bed,
And golden gloom and tender silence meet.
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MY FATHER.
My father! in the vague, mysterious past,
My boyish thoughts have wandered o'er and o'er,
To thy lone grave upon a distant shore,
The wanderer of the waters, still at last.
My boyish thoughts have wandered o'er and o'er,
To thy lone grave upon a distant shore,
The wanderer of the waters, still at last.
Never in childhood have I blithely sprung
To catch my father's voice, or climb his knee;
He was a constant pilgrim of the sea,
And died upon it when his boy was young.
To catch my father's voice, or climb his knee;
He was a constant pilgrim of the sea,
And died upon it when his boy was young.
He perished not in conflict nor in flame,
No laurel garland rests upon his tomb,
Yet in stern duty's path he met his doom;
A life heroic, though unwed to fame!
No laurel garland rests upon his tomb,
Yet in stern duty's path he met his doom;
A life heroic, though unwed to fame!
First in vague depths of fancy, scarce-defined,
Love limned his wavering likeness on my soul,
Till through slow growths it waxed a perfect whole
Of clear conceptions, brightening heart and mind.
Love limned his wavering likeness on my soul,
Till through slow growths it waxed a perfect whole
Of clear conceptions, brightening heart and mind.
His careless bearing and his manly face,
His cordial eye; his firm-knit, stalwart form,
Fitted to breast the fight, the wreck, the storm;
The sailor's frankness and the soldier's grace.
His cordial eye; his firm-knit, stalwart form,
Fitted to breast the fight, the wreck, the storm;
The sailor's frankness and the soldier's grace.
In dreams, in dreams we've mingled, and a swell
Of feeling mightier for the eyes' eclipse,
The music of a blest Apocalypse,
Thrilled through my spirit with its mystic spell:
Of feeling mightier for the eyes' eclipse,
The music of a blest Apocalypse,
Thrilled through my spirit with its mystic spell:
Ah, then! ofttimes a sadder scene will rise,
A gallant vessel through the mist-bound day,
Lifting her spectral spars above the bay,
Gloomily swayed against gray glimmering skies.
A gallant vessel through the mist-bound day,
Lifting her spectral spars above the bay,
Gloomily swayed against gray glimmering skies.
O'er the dim billows thundering, peals a boom
Of the deep gun that bursteth as a knell,
When the brave tender to the brave farewell—
And strong arms bear a comrade to the tomb.
Of the deep gun that bursteth as a knell,
When the brave tender to the brave farewell—
And strong arms bear a comrade to the tomb.
The opened sod: a sorrowing band beside—
One rattling roll of musketry, and then,
A man no more among his fellow-men,
Darkness his chamber, and the earth his bride,
One rattling roll of musketry, and then,
A man no more among his fellow-men,
Darkness his chamber, and the earth his bride,
My father sleeps in peace; perchance more blest
Than some he left to mourn him, and to know
The bitter blight of an enduring woe,
Longing (how oft!) with him to be at rest.
Than some he left to mourn him, and to know
The bitter blight of an enduring woe,
Longing (how oft!) with him to be at rest.
SONG.
Fly, swiftly fly
Through yon fair sky,
O purple-pinioned Hours!
And bring once more the balmy night,
When from her lattice, silvery bright,
Love's beacon-star—her taper—shines
Between those dark manorial pines,
Above the myrtle-bowers.
Through yon fair sky,
O purple-pinioned Hours!
And bring once more the balmy night,
When from her lattice, silvery bright,
Love's beacon-star—her taper—shines
Between those dark manorial pines,
Above the myrtle-bowers.
Fly, breezes, fly,
And waft my sigh
With love's warm fondness fraught,
'Twill stir my lady's languid mood,
Where, in her verdurous solitude,
She sits and thinks, a moonlight grace
Cast o'er her beauteous brow and face,
Touched by a passionate thought!
And waft my sigh
With love's warm fondness fraught,
'Twill stir my lady's languid mood,
Where, in her verdurous solitude,
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Cast o'er her beauteous brow and face,
Touched by a passionate thought!
Glide, rivulet, glide
With whispering tide,
Through coverts low and deep,
To woo her with the airy call,
The music faint, the far-off fall,
Of fairy streams in fairy climes,
Or pleasant lapse of fairy rhymes,
Soft as her breath in sleep.
With whispering tide,
Through coverts low and deep,
To woo her with the airy call,
The music faint, the far-off fall,
Of fairy streams in fairy climes,
Or pleasant lapse of fairy rhymes,
Soft as her breath in sleep.
Fly, swiftly fly
Through you calm sky,
O gentle-hearted dove!
And pausing on her favorite tree,
Murmur your plaint so tenderly,
That, born of that sweet tone, a charm
Her very heart of hearts may warm
With rosy bliss of love.
Through you calm sky,
O gentle-hearted dove!
And pausing on her favorite tree,
Murmur your plaint so tenderly,
That, born of that sweet tone, a charm
Her very heart of hearts may warm
With rosy bliss of love.
Fly, swiftly fly
Through yon fair sky,
O purple-pinioned Hours!
And bring once more the balmy night,
When from her lattice, silvery bright,
Love's beacon-star—her taper—shines
Between those dark manorial pines
Above the myrtle-bowers!
Through yon fair sky,
O purple-pinioned Hours!
And bring once more the balmy night,
When from her lattice, silvery bright,
Love's beacon-star—her taper—shines
Between those dark manorial pines
Above the myrtle-bowers!
SONG.
Ho! fetch me the winecup! fill up to the brim!For my heart has grown cold, and my vision is dim,
And I fain would bring back for a moment the glow,
The swift passion that age has long chilled with its snow;
Ho! fetch me the winecup! the red liquor gleams,
With a promise to waken youth's rapture of dreams,
And I'll drain the bright draught for that promise divine,
Though Death, Death the spectre, should hand me the wine.
'Tis not life that I live, for the blood-currents glide
Through my wan shrunken veins in so sluggish a tide,
That my heart droops and withers; what! life call you this?
O! rather, consumed by one keen thrill of bliss,
Would I die with youth's glory revivified round me,
The deep eyes that blessed, and the white arms that bound me;
O! rather than brood in this dusk of desire,
Sink down, like yon marvellous sunset, all fire,
The soul clad with wings, and the brain steeped in light;
Then come, potent wizard! I call on thy might,
Breathe a magical mist o'er the ravage of Time,
Roll back the sad years to the flush of my prime,
And I'll drain thy bright draught for that vision divine,
Though Death, Death the Spectre, should hand me the wine!
BY THE GRAVE.
[Extract from an unfinished narrative poem.]
This is the place—I pray thee, friend,
Leave me alone with that dread grief,
Whose raven wings o'erarch the grave,
Closed on a life how sad and brief!
Leave me alone with that dread grief,
Whose raven wings o'erarch the grave,
Closed on a life how sad and brief!
Already the young violets bloom
On the light sod that shrouds her form,
And Summer's awful sunshine strikes
Incongruous on the spirit's storm.
On the light sod that shrouds her form,
And Summer's awful sunshine strikes
Incongruous on the spirit's storm.
She died, and did not know that I,
Whose heart is breaking in this gloom,
Had shrined her love, as pilgrims shrine
A blossom from some saintly tomb.
Whose heart is breaking in this gloom,
Had shrined her love, as pilgrims shrine
A blossom from some saintly tomb.
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And, ah! indeed, it was a tomb,
The tomb of Hope, so ghastly-gray,
Whence sprung that flower of love that grew
Serenely on the Hope's decay.
The tomb of Hope, so ghastly-gray,
Whence sprung that flower of love that grew
Serenely on the Hope's decay.
A pallid flower that bloomed alone,
With no warm light to keep it fair,
But nurtured by the tears that fell,
Even from the clouds of our despair.
With no warm light to keep it fair,
But nurtured by the tears that fell,
Even from the clouds of our despair.
She perished, and her patient soul
Passed to God's rest, nor did she know
I kept the faith we could not plight
In honor, or in peace below.
Passed to God's rest, nor did she know
I kept the faith we could not plight
In honor, or in peace below.
But, Love! at last, all, all is clear.
You see the flame of that fierce fate,
Which blazed between my life, and yours,
And left them both—how desolate!
You see the flame of that fierce fate,
Which blazed between my life, and yours,
And left them both—how desolate!
And well you comprehend that now
My heart is breaking where I stand,
But 'mid the ruin, shrines its faith,
A relic from love's Holy Land.
My heart is breaking where I stand,
But 'mid the ruin, shrines its faith,
A relic from love's Holy Land.
SONG OF THE NAIADS.
Gay is our crystal floor,
beneath the wave,
With strange gems flaming o'er
The Genii gave;
Sweet is the purple light
That haunts our happy sight,
And low and sweet the lulling strains that sigh
While the tides pause, and the faint zephyrs die.
beneath the wave,
With strange gems flaming o'er
The Genii gave;
Sweet is the purple light
That haunts our happy sight,
And low and sweet the lulling strains that sigh
While the tides pause, and the faint zephyrs die.
Come! come! and seek us here,
In these cool deeps,
Where all is calmly fair,
And sorrow sleeps:
Thy burning brow shall rest,
Couched on a tender breast,
And, charmed to bliss, thy soul shall catch the gleams
Of mystic glories in Elysian dreams.
In these cool deeps,
Where all is calmly fair,
And sorrow sleeps:
Thy burning brow shall rest,
Couched on a tender breast,
And, charmed to bliss, thy soul shall catch the gleams
Of mystic glories in Elysian dreams.
Come! ere the earth grows drear,
The tempests rave,
And the fast-failing year
Is nigh its grave:
Thy summer, too, is past,
Wouldst thou have peace at last?
O! here she dwells serenely in still caves,
And waits to woo thee underneath the waves.
The tempests rave,
And the fast-failing year
Is nigh its grave:
Thy summer, too, is past,
Wouldst thou have peace at last?
O! here she dwells serenely in still caves,
And waits to woo thee underneath the waves.
LETHE.
A dumb, dark region through whose desolate heart
Creeps a dull river with a stagnant flood;
Its skies are sombre-hued, and dreary clouds,
No wind hath ever stirred, hang low and dim
Above the barren woodlands; all things droop
In slumber; the little willow stoops to kiss
The waves, but not a ripple murmurs back
Its salutation, and wan starlike flowers
Yield a white radiance to the failing sense,
And odors pregnant with the charms of rest,
And glamour of Oblivion; all things droop
In slumber; for whate'er hath passed the bounds
Of this miraculous kingdom, bird or beast,
Men lured from action, or soul-sick of life,
Weary and heartsore, maids in love's despair,
Or mothers stricken by their first-born's crime—
All sink without a struggle to deep peace.
Prone in the gleam the river casts abroad,
A gleam more pallid than the light of Hades,
Lie those who sought this region ages since;
Their upturned brows are smooth, and tranced with calm.
Creeps a dull river with a stagnant flood;
Its skies are sombre-hued, and dreary clouds,
No wind hath ever stirred, hang low and dim
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In slumber; the little willow stoops to kiss
The waves, but not a ripple murmurs back
Its salutation, and wan starlike flowers
Yield a white radiance to the failing sense,
And odors pregnant with the charms of rest,
And glamour of Oblivion; all things droop
In slumber; for whate'er hath passed the bounds
Of this miraculous kingdom, bird or beast,
Men lured from action, or soul-sick of life,
Weary and heartsore, maids in love's despair,
Or mothers stricken by their first-born's crime—
All sink without a struggle to deep peace.
Prone in the gleam the river casts abroad,
A gleam more pallid than the light of Hades,
Lie those who sought this region ages since;
Their upturned brows are smooth, and tranced with calm.
And on their shadowy lips a waning smile
Fitfully glimmers; round them rest the forms
Of savage beasts; the lion all unnerved,
Drowsy and passionless, his huge limbs relaxed,
And curved to lines of languor: the fierce pard
Tamed to a breathless quiet, whilst afar,
Gloom the gaunt shapes of mighty brutes of eld,
The world's primeval tenants; all things droop
In slumber; even the sluggish river's flow
Sounds like the dying surges of the sea
To ears far inland, or the feeblest sigh
Of winds that faint on lofty mountain-tops.
This is the realm—“Oblivion”—this the stream
Which mortals have called—“Lethe!”
Fitfully glimmers; round them rest the forms
Of savage beasts; the lion all unnerved,
Drowsy and passionless, his huge limbs relaxed,
And curved to lines of languor: the fierce pard
Tamed to a breathless quiet, whilst afar,
Gloom the gaunt shapes of mighty brutes of eld,
The world's primeval tenants; all things droop
In slumber; even the sluggish river's flow
Sounds like the dying surges of the sea
To ears far inland, or the feeblest sigh
Of winds that faint on lofty mountain-tops.
This is the realm—“Oblivion”—this the stream
Which mortals have called—“Lethe!”
THE REALM OF REST.
In the realm that Nature boundeth
Are there balmy shores of peace,
Where no passion-torrent soundeth,
And no storm-wind seeks release?
Rest they 'mid the waters golden,
Of some strange untravelled sea,
Where low, halcyon airs have stolen,
Lingering round them slumbrously?
Are there balmy shores of peace,
Where no passion-torrent soundeth,
And no storm-wind seeks release?
Rest they 'mid the waters golden,
Of some strange untravelled sea,
Where low, halcyon airs have stolen,
Lingering round them slumbrously?
Shores begirt with purple hazes.
Mellowed by gray twilight's beams,
Whose weird curtains shroud the mazes,
Wandering through a realm of dreams;
Shores, where Silence wooes Devotion,
Action faints, and echo dies,
And each peace-entranced emotion
Feeds on quiet mysteries.
Mellowed by gray twilight's beams,
Whose weird curtains shroud the mazes,
Wandering through a realm of dreams;
Shores, where Silence wooes Devotion,
Action faints, and echo dies,
And each peace-entranced emotion
Feeds on quiet mysteries.
If there be, O guardian Master,
Genius of my life and fate,
Bear me from the world's disaster,
Through that kingdom's shadowy gate;
Let me lie beneath its willows,
On the fragrant, flowering strand,
Lulled to rest by breezeless billows,
Thrilled with airs of Elfin-land.
Genius of my life and fate,
Bear me from the world's disaster,
Through that kingdom's shadowy gate;
Let me lie beneath its willows,
On the fragrant, flowering strand,
Lulled to rest by breezeless billows,
Thrilled with airs of Elfin-land.
Slumber, flushed with faintest dreamings;
Deep that knows no answering deep,
Unprofaned by phantom-seemings,
—Mockeries of Protéan sleep;—
Noiseless, timeless, half forgetting,
May that sleep Elysian be,
While serener tides are setting,
Inward, from the roseate sea.
Deep that knows no answering deep,
Unprofaned by phantom-seemings,
—Mockeries of Protéan sleep;—
Noiseless, timeless, half forgetting,
May that sleep Elysian be,
While serener tides are setting,
Inward, from the roseate sea.
Hark! to mine a voice is calling,
Sweet as tropic winds at night,
Gently dying, faintly falling
From some marvellous mystic height,
Troubled Thought's unhallowed riot
By its wandering glamour kissed,
Feels a charm of sacred quiet
Fold it, like enchanted mist.
Sweet as tropic winds at night,
Gently dying, faintly falling
From some marvellous mystic height,
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By its wandering glamour kissed,
Feels a charm of sacred quiet
Fold it, like enchanted mist.
“There's a realm, thy footsteps nearing,”
[Thus the voice to mine replies,]
“Where the heavy heart despairing,
Breathes no more its life in sighs;
'Tis a realm, imperial, stately,
Refuge of dethronèd Years,
Calm as midnight, towering greatly,
Through a moonlit veil of tears.
[Thus the voice to mine replies,]
“Where the heavy heart despairing,
Breathes no more its life in sighs;
'Tis a realm, imperial, stately,
Refuge of dethronèd Years,
Calm as midnight, towering greatly,
Through a moonlit veil of tears.
“Though an empire, freedom reigneth,
Kingly brow, and subject knee,
Each with what to each pertaineth,
Slumbering in equality;
'Tis a sleep, divorced from dreamings,
Deep that knows no answering deep,
Unprofaned by phantom-seemings—
Noiseless, wondrous, timeless sleep.
Kingly brow, and subject knee,
Each with what to each pertaineth,
Slumbering in equality;
'Tis a sleep, divorced from dreamings,
Deep that knows no answering deep,
Unprofaned by phantom-seemings—
Noiseless, wondrous, timeless sleep.
“On its shores are weeping willows,
Action faints, and Echo dies,
And the languid dirge of billows,
Lulls with opiate symphonies;
But beside that murmurous ocean
All who rest, repose in sooth,
And no more the stilled emotion
Stirs to joy, or wakens ruth.
Action faints, and Echo dies,
And the languid dirge of billows,
Lulls with opiate symphonies;
But beside that murmurous ocean
All who rest, repose in sooth,
And no more the stilled emotion
Stirs to joy, or wakens ruth.
“Thou shalt gain these blest dominions,
Thou shalt find this peaceful ground,
Shaded by Oblivion's pinions,
Startled by no mortal sound;
Noiseless, timeless, ALL forgetting,
Shall thy sleep Elysian be,
While eternal tides are setting
Inward from that mystic sea.”
Thou shalt find this peaceful ground,
Shaded by Oblivion's pinions,
Startled by no mortal sound;
Noiseless, timeless, ALL forgetting,
Shall thy sleep Elysian be,
While eternal tides are setting
Inward from that mystic sea.”
THE ISLAND IN THE SOUTH.
The ship went down at noonday in a calm,When not a zephyr broke the crystal sea.
We two escaped alone: we reached an isle
Whereon the water settled languidly
In a long swell of music; luminous skies
O'erarched the place, and lazy, broad lagoons
Swept inland, with the boughs of plantain trees
Trailing cool shadows through the dense repose;
All round about us floated gentle airs,
And odors that crept upward to the sense
Like delicate pressures of voluptuous thought.
I, with a long bound, leapt upon the shore
Shouting, but she, pavilioned in dark locks,
Sobbed out thanksgiving; 'twixt the world and us,
Distance that seemed Eternity outrolled
Its terrible barriers; on the waste a Fate
Stood up, and stretching its blank hands abroad
Muttered of desolation. Did we weep,
And groaning cast our foreheads in the dust?
So it had been, but in each other's eyes
Smiled a new world, dearer than that which rose
Beneath the lost stars of the faded West.
That very morn the white-stoled priest of God
Had blessed us with the church's choicest prayers,
And these did gird us like a sapphire wall
When the floods threatened, and the ghastly doom
Moaned itself impotent; free we were to love
To the full scope of passion; a few suns,
And in the deep recesses of the woods
We built ourselves a cabin; the dim spot
Was fortressed by the tropic's giant growths,
Luxuriant Titans of a hundred years;
And the vines, laced and interlaced between,
Drooped with a flowery largess many-hued.
8
That glimmered in and out among the leaves,
Like magical dreams embodied, wooed the winds
To gentlest motion of benignant wings;
And the sun veiled his radiance, and the stars
Peered through the shadowy stillness with a light
So spiritual, the forest seemed to wane
In tremulous lines waved down the silvery aisles.
There lived, there loved we, as none else have lived
And loved, I think, since the primeval blight
Rained down its discords, and death clinched the curse.
No shallow mockeries of a worn-out age,
Effete and helpless, bound young passion round
With the cold fetters of detested forms:
Civilization was not there to set
Its specious seal of custom on our hearts,
Prisoning the bolder virtues; we might dare
To act, speak, think, as the true nature moved,
Untutored and majestic; our souls grew
To the stature of the spirit, that looks down
From the unpolluted regnancy of heavens
That hold no curses; the glad universe
Showered rare benedictions on our path;
Matter was merged in poesy: the winds
From the serene Pacific, the quick gales
From mountainous ridges in the uppermost air,
The eternal chorus of far seas serene,
The harmony of forests, the small voice
That trembles from the happy rivulet's breast,
All touched us with that sweet philosophy,
Which, if we woo the visible world aright,
Blesses experience with new gates of sense
Where through we gain Elysium.
So the years
Were winged and odorous with a thousand joys,
Of which the poor slave to the hollow law
We term society, hath had no dream;
Our love was comprehensive, full, divine,
Rounding the perfect orbit wherein life
Should gravitate to God, even as the spheres
Roll to the central fire; love mastered life
As maelstroms suck still waters, love the one
Electric current through act, reason, will,
Throbbing like inspiration; no vain touch
Of weak, fantastic passion, no thin glow
Of morbid longing, fluttering feebly up
From shallow brains, stirred to a dubious flame,
And tortured with false throes of sentiment—
(That bastard whimperer to the deity, Love—
As a changeling to the Titans)—no red heat
Of base desire, fusing the delicate thought
To chaos; but a steadfast, genial sun,
A luminous glory, gentle as intense,
Making our fate a heaven of warmth, light, rest,
Whose very clouds were halos, and whose storms
Were tempered into music. Thus time stole
On muffled wings through the still air of bliss,
Gathering our ripened hopes, and sowing seeds
Of joy to come. My innocent bud had flowered
To beauty—oh! such beauty as these lips,
Touched though they were with fire, might not profane
With shackles of mean utterance. Oh, God! God!
9
The passionate presence in my shielding arms
To this poor phantom of a broken brain,
Mocking my woe with shadows? On a night
When the still sea was calmest, the bright stars
Most bright, and a warm breathing on the wind
Spoke of perpetual summer, a strange voice
I scarce could hear, said: “It is evening time,”
And a wan hand my eyes were blind to note
Beckoned her far away.
The awful grief
Closed round me like an ocean. I was mad,
And raved my memory from me. When again
The world dawned, as a dreary landscape dawns
Grotesquely through the sluggish mists of March,
I walked once more in a great capital's streets,
A savage 'midst the civilized, a man—
Shattered and wrecked, I grant you,—still a man
Amongst the puppets that usurp the name
And act the fraud so basely, that the Fiend
Wearies to death the echoes of his hell
In laughter at them. I am with you still,
Emasculate denizens of the stifling mart,
Where heaven's free winds are throttled in the fumes
Of furnaces, and the insulted sun
Glooms through the crowding vapors at midday,
Like a God, re-collecting to himself
His immortality; where nerveless limbs
Bear nerveless bodies to their separate dens
Of torture, and lean, wide-eyed revellers
Foster the hungering worm that never dies,
And fan the lurid fire unquenchable;
Where stealthy avarice lurks in wait to sack
The widow's house; and license of low minds,
Loaded with prurient knowledge, and no hearts
(Self-worship having killed them), make the world
A Pandemonium. I am with you still;
But the hours creep on to a more fortunate time;
A vessel swells her broad sails in the bay,
And the breeze bloweth seaward; I will seek
My island in the southern waves again;
A thousand memories urge me, tones that slept
Waken to invitation; I can feel
The Hesperian beauty of that realm of peace
Flushing my brain and fancy; but through all
The ruddy vision glides a tender shade,
And pauses with mute meaning by a grave.
ODE.
Delivered on the First Anniversary of the Carolina Art Association, Feb. 10, 1856.
There are two worlds wherein our souls may dwell,
With discord, or ethereal music fraught
One the loud mart wherein men buy and sell
(Too oft the haunt of grovelling moods of Hell),
The other, that immaculate realm of thought,
In whose bright calm the master-workmen wrought,
Where genius lives on light,
And faith is lost in sight,
Where crystal tides of perfect harmony swell
Up to the heavens that never held a cloud,
And round great altars reverent hosts are bowed,
Altars upreared to love that cannot die,
To beauty that forever keeps its youth,
To kingly grandeur, and to virginal truth,
To all things wise and pure,
Whereof our God hath said, “Endure! endure!
Ye are but parts of me,
The hath been, and the evermore to be,
Of my supremest Immortality!”
With discord, or ethereal music fraught
One the loud mart wherein men buy and sell
(Too oft the haunt of grovelling moods of Hell),
The other, that immaculate realm of thought,
In whose bright calm the master-workmen wrought,
Where genius lives on light,
And faith is lost in sight,
Where crystal tides of perfect harmony swell
10
And round great altars reverent hosts are bowed,
Altars upreared to love that cannot die,
To beauty that forever keeps its youth,
To kingly grandeur, and to virginal truth,
To all things wise and pure,
Whereof our God hath said, “Endure! endure!
Ye are but parts of me,
The hath been, and the evermore to be,
Of my supremest Immortality!”
We falter in the darkness and the dearth
Which sordid passions and untamed desires
Create about us; universal earth
Groans with the burden of our sensual woes;
The heart heaven gave for homage is consumed
By the wild rages of unhallowed fires;
The blush of that fine glory which illumed
The earlier ages, hath gone out in gloom;
There is no joy within us, no repose,
One creed our beacon, and one god our hold,
The creed, the god, of gold;
The heavenward wingèd Instinct that aspires,
Like a lost seraph with dishevelled plume,
Pants humbled in the “slough of deep Despond;”
The present binds us, there is no Beyond,
No glorious Future to the soul content
With the poor husks and garbage of this world;
And are indeed the wings of worship furled
Forevermore? Is no evangel blent,
No sweet evangel, with the hiss and hum
Of the century's wheels of progress? Science delves
Down to the earth's hot vitals, and explores
Realms arctic and antarctic, the strange shores
Of remote seas, or with raised vision stands,
All undismayed, amidst the starry lands:
Man too, material man, our baser selves,
She hath unmasked even to the source of being;
Almost she seems a god,
Deep-searching and far-seeing;
And yet how oft like some wild funeral wail
Which goes before the burial of our hopes,
Emerging from the starry-blazoned copes
Of highest firmaments, or darkest vale
Of the nether earth, or from the burdened air
Of chambers where this mortal frame lies bare,
Probed to the core, her saddening accents come;
“What! call'st thou man a seraph? nay, a clod,
The veriest clod when his frail breath is spent,
Man shows to us who know him; what is he?
A speck! the merest dew-globe 'midst the sea
Of life's infinity;”
Or, “we have probed, dissected all we can,
But never yet, in any mortal man,
Found we the spirit! thing of time and clay,
Eat, drink, enjoy thy transient insectday!”
Thus Science; but while still her mocking voice
Rings with a cold sharp clearness in our ears,
Her beauteous sister, on whose brow the years
Have left no cankering vestige of decay,
Eternal Art, she of the fathomless eyes
Brimming with light, half worship, half surprise,
In whose right hand a branch of fadeless palms,
Plucked from the depths of golden shadowed calms,
Points upward to the skies,
She answers in a minor, sweet and strange
The while, all graces in her aspect meet,
And Doubt and Fear shrink shuddering at her feet,
“I bring a nobler message! Soul, rejoice!
Rise with me from thy troublous toils of sense,
Thy bootless struggles, born of impotence,
Rise to a subtler view, a broader range
Of thought and aim;
Mine is a sway ideal,
But still the works I prompt, alone, are real;
Mine is a realm from immemorial time
Begirt by deeds and purposes sublime,
Whose consecration is faith's quenchless flame,
Whose voices are the songs of poetsages,
Whose strong foundations resting on the ages,
The throes and crash of empires have not shaken,
Nor any futile force of human rages.
Which sordid passions and untamed desires
Create about us; universal earth
Groans with the burden of our sensual woes;
The heart heaven gave for homage is consumed
By the wild rages of unhallowed fires;
The blush of that fine glory which illumed
The earlier ages, hath gone out in gloom;
There is no joy within us, no repose,
One creed our beacon, and one god our hold,
The creed, the god, of gold;
The heavenward wingèd Instinct that aspires,
Like a lost seraph with dishevelled plume,
Pants humbled in the “slough of deep Despond;”
The present binds us, there is no Beyond,
No glorious Future to the soul content
With the poor husks and garbage of this world;
And are indeed the wings of worship furled
Forevermore? Is no evangel blent,
No sweet evangel, with the hiss and hum
Of the century's wheels of progress? Science delves
Down to the earth's hot vitals, and explores
Realms arctic and antarctic, the strange shores
Of remote seas, or with raised vision stands,
All undismayed, amidst the starry lands:
Man too, material man, our baser selves,
She hath unmasked even to the source of being;
Almost she seems a god,
Deep-searching and far-seeing;
And yet how oft like some wild funeral wail
Which goes before the burial of our hopes,
Emerging from the starry-blazoned copes
Of highest firmaments, or darkest vale
Of the nether earth, or from the burdened air
Of chambers where this mortal frame lies bare,
Probed to the core, her saddening accents come;
“What! call'st thou man a seraph? nay, a clod,
The veriest clod when his frail breath is spent,
Man shows to us who know him; what is he?
A speck! the merest dew-globe 'midst the sea
Of life's infinity;”
Or, “we have probed, dissected all we can,
But never yet, in any mortal man,
Found we the spirit! thing of time and clay,
Eat, drink, enjoy thy transient insectday!”
Thus Science; but while still her mocking voice
Rings with a cold sharp clearness in our ears,
Her beauteous sister, on whose brow the years
Have left no cankering vestige of decay,
11
Brimming with light, half worship, half surprise,
In whose right hand a branch of fadeless palms,
Plucked from the depths of golden shadowed calms,
Points upward to the skies,
She answers in a minor, sweet and strange
The while, all graces in her aspect meet,
And Doubt and Fear shrink shuddering at her feet,
“I bring a nobler message! Soul, rejoice!
Rise with me from thy troublous toils of sense,
Thy bootless struggles, born of impotence,
Rise to a subtler view, a broader range
Of thought and aim;
Mine is a sway ideal,
But still the works I prompt, alone, are real;
Mine is a realm from immemorial time
Begirt by deeds and purposes sublime,
Whose consecration is faith's quenchless flame,
Whose voices are the songs of poetsages,
Whose strong foundations resting on the ages,
The throes and crash of empires have not shaken,
Nor any futile force of human rages.
“Come! let us enter in!
Behold, the portal gates stand open wide!
Only, from off thy spirit shake the dust
Of any thought of sin,
Or sordid pride,
For sacred is the kingdom of my trust,
By mind, and strength, and beauty sanctified.”
Behold, the portal gates stand open wide!
Only, from off thy spirit shake the dust
Of any thought of sin,
Or sordid pride,
For sacred is the kingdom of my trust,
By mind, and strength, and beauty sanctified.”
She spake! and o'er the threshold of a sphere,
A marvellous sphere, they passed;
From the deep bosom of the purpling air
A lambent glory broke along the vast
Horizon line, whence clouds, like incense, rolled
Athwart a firmamental arc of gold
And sapphire; clouds not vapor-born,
But clasping each the radiant seeds of morn,
Which suddenly, clear zenith heights attained,
Burst into light, unfolding like a flower,
From out whose quivering heart a mystic shower
Of splendor rained:
A spell was hers to conquer time and space,
For from the desert grandeur of that place
A hundred temples rise,
The marble poems of the bards of old,
Whereon 'twere well to look with reverent eyes,
Because they body noblest aspirations,
Ethereal hopes, and winged imaginations,
Whether to fabled Jove their walls were raised,
Or on their inner altar offerings blazed
To wise Athèna, or, in Christian Rome
Beneath St. Peter's mighty circling dome,
A second Heaven, the golden censers swing,
The clear-toned choirs those hymns of rapture sing,
Which, on harmonious waves of gratulation,
The outburst of the sense of deep salvation,
Uplift the spirit where the Incarnate Word
Amid the praise no ear of man hath heard,
The peace no mind of man can comprehend,
Awaits to welcome Time's worn wanderers home!
“But look again!” Art's eager Genius cried:
“Thou hast not seen the end,
Scarce the beginning!” As she spake, a tide
Of all the mighty masters, loved, adored,
From out the shining distant spaces poured,
All those who fashioned, through an inward dower,
The concrete forms of beauty and of power;
Whether from white Pentelic quarries brought,
The voiceless stone uprose, a breathing thought,
Or, from the mystic rays of rainbows drawn,
And colors of the sunset and the dawn,
The painter's pencil his ideal fine,
Had clothed in hues divine;
Or, skilled in living words
Melodious as the natural voice of birds
(But each a sentient thing, a meaning grand,
It is not given to all to understand),
The poet from the shade of breezy woods,
From barren seaside solitudes,
And from the pregnant quiet of his soul
Outbreathed the numbers that forever roll
Perennial, as the fountains of the sea,
And deep almost as deep eternity!
A marvellous sphere, they passed;
From the deep bosom of the purpling air
A lambent glory broke along the vast
Horizon line, whence clouds, like incense, rolled
Athwart a firmamental arc of gold
And sapphire; clouds not vapor-born,
But clasping each the radiant seeds of morn,
Which suddenly, clear zenith heights attained,
Burst into light, unfolding like a flower,
From out whose quivering heart a mystic shower
Of splendor rained:
A spell was hers to conquer time and space,
For from the desert grandeur of that place
A hundred temples rise,
The marble poems of the bards of old,
Whereon 'twere well to look with reverent eyes,
Because they body noblest aspirations,
Ethereal hopes, and winged imaginations,
Whether to fabled Jove their walls were raised,
Or on their inner altar offerings blazed
To wise Athèna, or, in Christian Rome
Beneath St. Peter's mighty circling dome,
A second Heaven, the golden censers swing,
The clear-toned choirs those hymns of rapture sing,
Which, on harmonious waves of gratulation,
The outburst of the sense of deep salvation,
Uplift the spirit where the Incarnate Word
Amid the praise no ear of man hath heard,
The peace no mind of man can comprehend,
Awaits to welcome Time's worn wanderers home!
12
“Thou hast not seen the end,
Scarce the beginning!” As she spake, a tide
Of all the mighty masters, loved, adored,
From out the shining distant spaces poured,
All those who fashioned, through an inward dower,
The concrete forms of beauty and of power;
Whether from white Pentelic quarries brought,
The voiceless stone uprose, a breathing thought,
Or, from the mystic rays of rainbows drawn,
And colors of the sunset and the dawn,
The painter's pencil his ideal fine,
Had clothed in hues divine;
Or, skilled in living words
Melodious as the natural voice of birds
(But each a sentient thing, a meaning grand,
It is not given to all to understand),
The poet from the shade of breezy woods,
From barren seaside solitudes,
And from the pregnant quiet of his soul
Outbreathed the numbers that forever roll
Perennial, as the fountains of the sea,
And deep almost as deep eternity!
Near and yet nearer the bright concourse came,
Their faces all aflame,
As when of yore the quick creative thrill
Did smite them into utterance, and the throng,
Awed by the fiery burden of the song,
Grew reverent pale and still;
O! solemn and sublime Apocalypse
That wresteth, from the dreary death-eclipse,
The sacred presence of these marvellous men!
Yonder the visible Homer moves again,
Moves as he moved below,
Save that his smitten vision
Rekindled at the fount of fire Elysian,
Burns with a subtler, grander, deeper glow;
And yonder Æschylus, with “thunderous brow,”
Scarred by the lightning of his own creations,
Wrapped in a cloud of sombre meditations,
Hath seized the tragic muse, as if to her
He scorned to bend an humble worshipper,
But would extort her gifts;
Then Shakespeare mild,
Blessed with the innocent credence of a child,
With a child's thoughts and fancies undefiled,
And yet a Magian strong
To whom the springs of terrible fears belong,
Of majesty, and beauty, and delight,
To the weird charm of whose infallible sight,
The heart's emotions,
Though turbid as the tides of darkest oceans,
Shone clear as water of the woodland brooks—
He passed with wisdom thronèd in his looks
Attempered by the genial heats of wit;
While close beside him, his grand countenance lit
By thoughts like those which wrought his Judgment Day,
Grave Michel Angelo
His massive forehead lifts,
In a strange Titan fashion, unto Heaven;
Next Raphael comes, with calm and star-like mien,
Fresh from the beatific ecstasy,
His face how beautiful, and how serene!
Since God for him the awful veil had riven
That shrouds Divinity,
And rolled before his wondering mind and eye
Visions that we should gaze on but—to die!
Their faces all aflame,
As when of yore the quick creative thrill
Did smite them into utterance, and the throng,
Awed by the fiery burden of the song,
Grew reverent pale and still;
O! solemn and sublime Apocalypse
That wresteth, from the dreary death-eclipse,
The sacred presence of these marvellous men!
Yonder the visible Homer moves again,
Moves as he moved below,
Save that his smitten vision
Rekindled at the fount of fire Elysian,
Burns with a subtler, grander, deeper glow;
And yonder Æschylus, with “thunderous brow,”
Scarred by the lightning of his own creations,
Wrapped in a cloud of sombre meditations,
Hath seized the tragic muse, as if to her
He scorned to bend an humble worshipper,
But would extort her gifts;
Then Shakespeare mild,
Blessed with the innocent credence of a child,
With a child's thoughts and fancies undefiled,
And yet a Magian strong
To whom the springs of terrible fears belong,
Of majesty, and beauty, and delight,
To the weird charm of whose infallible sight,
The heart's emotions,
Though turbid as the tides of darkest oceans,
Shone clear as water of the woodland brooks—
He passed with wisdom thronèd in his looks
Attempered by the genial heats of wit;
While close beside him, his grand countenance lit
By thoughts like those which wrought his Judgment Day,
Grave Michel Angelo
His massive forehead lifts,
In a strange Titan fashion, unto Heaven;
Next Raphael comes, with calm and star-like mien,
Fresh from the beatific ecstasy,
His face how beautiful, and how serene!
Since God for him the awful veil had riven
13
And rolled before his wondering mind and eye
Visions that we should gaze on but—to die!
They passed, and thousands more passed by with them;
Again Art's Genius spake: “Lo! these are they
Who, through stern tribulations,
Have raised to right and truth the subject nations;
Lo! these are they,
Who, were the whole bright concourse swept away,
Their fame's last barrier, built the surge to stem
Of chaos and oblivion, whelmed beneath
The pitiless torrent of eternal death,
Would yet bequeath to races unbegot
The precepts of a faith which faileth not;
Pointing, from troublous toils of time and sense,
From bootless struggles born of impotence,
To that fair realm of thought,
In whose bright calm these master-workmen wrought,
Where crystal tides of perfect music swell
Up to the heavens that never held a cloud,
And round great altars worshipping hosts are bowed—
Altars upreared to love that cannot die,
To beauty that forever keeps its youth,
To kingly grandeur, and to virginal truth,
To all things wise and pure,
Whereof our God hath said: ‘Endure! endure!
Ye are but parts of me,
The HATH BEEN, and the evermore TO BE,
Of my supremest Immortality!’”
Again Art's Genius spake: “Lo! these are they
Who, through stern tribulations,
Have raised to right and truth the subject nations;
Lo! these are they,
Who, were the whole bright concourse swept away,
Their fame's last barrier, built the surge to stem
Of chaos and oblivion, whelmed beneath
The pitiless torrent of eternal death,
Would yet bequeath to races unbegot
The precepts of a faith which faileth not;
Pointing, from troublous toils of time and sense,
From bootless struggles born of impotence,
To that fair realm of thought,
In whose bright calm these master-workmen wrought,
Where crystal tides of perfect music swell
Up to the heavens that never held a cloud,
And round great altars worshipping hosts are bowed—
Altars upreared to love that cannot die,
To beauty that forever keeps its youth,
To kingly grandeur, and to virginal truth,
To all things wise and pure,
Whereof our God hath said: ‘Endure! endure!
Ye are but parts of me,
The HATH BEEN, and the evermore TO BE,
Of my supremest Immortality!’”
QUEEN GALENA, OR THE SULTANA BETRAYED.
Hold! let the heartless perjurer go!
Speak not! strike not! he is my foe,
From me, me only, comes the blow—
I will repay him woe for woe;
Look in my eyes! my eyes are dry,
I breathe no plaint, I heave no sigh,
But—will avenge me ere I die.
Speak not! strike not! he is my foe,
From me, me only, comes the blow—
I will repay him woe for woe;
Look in my eyes! my eyes are dry,
I breathe no plaint, I heave no sigh,
But—will avenge me ere I die.
Think you that I shall basely rest,
And know the bosom mine hath prest,
Is couched upon a colder breast?
Think you that I shall yield the West,
The Orient soul my nature nurst,
Till the black seed of treachery burst
And blossomed to this deed accurst?
And know the bosom mine hath prest,
Is couched upon a colder breast?
Think you that I shall yield the West,
The Orient soul my nature nurst,
Till the black seed of treachery burst
And blossomed to this deed accurst?
My rival! O! her glance is meek,
Her faltering presence wan, and weak
As the faint flush that tints her cheek.
'Tis not on her that I would wreak
My vengeance—sooner would I wring
Life from an insect-birth of spring
Than palter with so poor a thing.
Her faltering presence wan, and weak
As the faint flush that tints her cheek.
'Tis not on her that I would wreak
My vengeance—sooner would I wring
Life from an insect-birth of spring
Than palter with so poor a thing.
But he—I tell you if he flew,
As it was once his wont to do,
Repentant—pleading—quick to woo,
With all his wild heart flaming through
The glance of passion—it were sweet,
Yea, more! 'twere righteous, just, and meet,
To slay him kneeling at my feet!
As it was once his wont to do,
Repentant—pleading—quick to woo,
With all his wild heart flaming through
The glance of passion—it were sweet,
Yea, more! 'twere righteous, just, and meet,
To slay him kneeling at my feet!
He shall not wed her; by Heaven's light
He shall not; o'er my lurid sight
Throbs a thick fire; the ancient might
Of a stern race is stirred to-night;
My sovereign claim annul—disown!
I will repay him groan for groan,
Or—stab him at the altar-stone!
He shall not; o'er my lurid sight
Throbs a thick fire; the ancient might
Of a stern race is stirred to-night;
My sovereign claim annul—disown!
I will repay him groan for groan,
Or—stab him at the altar-stone!
THE POET'S TRUST IN HIS SORROW.
O God! how sad a doom is mine,
To human seeming:
Thou hast called on me to resign
So much—much!—all—but the divine
Delights of dreaming.
To human seeming:
Thou hast called on me to resign
So much—much!—all—but the divine
Delights of dreaming.
14
I set my dreams to music wild,
A wealth of measures;
My lays, thank Heaven! are undefiled,
I sport with Fancy as a child
With golden leisures.
A wealth of measures;
My lays, thank Heaven! are undefiled,
I sport with Fancy as a child
With golden leisures.
And long as fate, not wholly stern,
But this shall grant me,
Still with perennial faith to turn
Where Song's unsullied altars burn
Nought, nought shall daunt me!
But this shall grant me,
Still with perennial faith to turn
Where Song's unsullied altars burn
Nought, nought shall daunt me!
What though my worldly state be low
Beyond redressing;
I own an inner flame whose glow
Makes radiant all the outward show;
My last great blessing!
Beyond redressing;
I own an inner flame whose glow
Makes radiant all the outward show;
My last great blessing!
THE BROOK.
But yesterday this brook was bright,
And tranquil as the clear moonlight,
That wooes the palms on Orient shores,
But now, a hoarse, dark stream, it pours
Impetuous o'er its bed of rock,
And almost with a thunder-shock
Boils into eddies, fierce and fleet,
That dash the white foam round our feet,
A raging whirl of waters, rent
As if with angry discontent!
And tranquil as the clear moonlight,
That wooes the palms on Orient shores,
But now, a hoarse, dark stream, it pours
Impetuous o'er its bed of rock,
And almost with a thunder-shock
Boils into eddies, fierce and fleet,
That dash the white foam round our feet,
A raging whirl of waters, rent
As if with angry discontent!
A tempest in the night swept by,
Born of a murk and fiery sky,
And while the solid woodlands shook,
It wreaked its fury on the brook.
The evil genius of the blast
Within its quiet bosom passed,
And therefore this transfigured tide,
Which used as lovingly to glide
As thought through spirits sanctified,
Rolls now a whirl of waters, rent
As if with angry discontent.
Born of a murk and fiery sky,
And while the solid woodlands shook,
It wreaked its fury on the brook.
The evil genius of the blast
Within its quiet bosom passed,
And therefore this transfigured tide,
Which used as lovingly to glide
As thought through spirits sanctified,
Rolls now a whirl of waters, rent
As if with angry discontent.
I knew, of late, a creature, bright
And gentle as the clear moonlight,
The tenderest and the kindest heart
That ever played Love's selfless part,
Across whose unperturbèd life,
A sudden passion swept, in strife,
With wild, unhallowed forces rife.
It stirred her nature's inmost deep,
That nevermore shall rest or sleep,
Remorse, its rugged bed of rock,
O'er which for aye, with thunder-shock,
The tides of feeling, fierce and fleet,
Are dashed to foam or icy sleet,
A raging whirl of waters, rent
By something worse than discontent!
And gentle as the clear moonlight,
The tenderest and the kindest heart
That ever played Love's selfless part,
Across whose unperturbèd life,
A sudden passion swept, in strife,
With wild, unhallowed forces rife.
It stirred her nature's inmost deep,
That nevermore shall rest or sleep,
Remorse, its rugged bed of rock,
O'er which for aye, with thunder-shock,
The tides of feeling, fierce and fleet,
Are dashed to foam or icy sleet,
A raging whirl of waters, rent
By something worse than discontent!
NATURE THE CONSOLER.
Gladly I hail these solitudes, and breathe
The inspiring breath of the fresh woodland air,
Most gladly to the past alone bequeath Doubt, grief, and care;
I feel a new-born freedom of the mind,
Nursed at the breast of Nature, with the dew
Of glorious dawns; I hear the mountain wind,
Clear as if elfin trumpets loudly blew,
Peal through the dells, and scale the lonely height,
Rousing the echoes to a quick delight,
Bending the forest monarchs to its will,
'Till all their pond'rous branches shake and thrill
In the wide-wakening tumult; far above
The heavens stretch calm and blessing; far below
The mellowing fields are touched with evening's glow,
And many a pleasant sight and sound I love
Would gently woo me from all thoughts of woe:
Sunlighted meadows, music in the grove,
From happy bird-throats, and the fairy rills
That lapse in silvery murmurs through the hills;
Great circles of rich foliage, rainbow-crowned
By autumn's liberal largess, whilst around
Grave sheep lie musing on the pastoral ground,
Or sending a mild bleat
To other flocks afar,
The fleecy comrades they are wont to meet
Homeward returning 'neath the vesper star!
The inspiring breath of the fresh woodland air,
Most gladly to the past alone bequeath Doubt, grief, and care;
I feel a new-born freedom of the mind,
Nursed at the breast of Nature, with the dew
Of glorious dawns; I hear the mountain wind,
Clear as if elfin trumpets loudly blew,
Peal through the dells, and scale the lonely height,
Rousing the echoes to a quick delight,
Bending the forest monarchs to its will,
'Till all their pond'rous branches shake and thrill
In the wide-wakening tumult; far above
The heavens stretch calm and blessing; far below
The mellowing fields are touched with evening's glow,
And many a pleasant sight and sound I love
Would gently woo me from all thoughts of woe:
Sunlighted meadows, music in the grove,
From happy bird-throats, and the fairy rills
That lapse in silvery murmurs through the hills;
15
By autumn's liberal largess, whilst around
Grave sheep lie musing on the pastoral ground,
Or sending a mild bleat
To other flocks afar,
The fleecy comrades they are wont to meet
Homeward returning 'neath the vesper star!
Oh, genial peace of Nature! divine calm
That fallest on the spirit, like the rain
Of Eden, bearing melody and balm
To soothe the troubled heart and heal its pain,
Thy influence lifts me to a realm of joy,
A moonlight happiness, intense but mild,
Unvisited by shadow of alloy,
And flushed with tender dreams and fancies undefiled.
That fallest on the spirit, like the rain
Of Eden, bearing melody and balm
To soothe the troubled heart and heal its pain,
Thy influence lifts me to a realm of joy,
A moonlight happiness, intense but mild,
Unvisited by shadow of alloy,
And flushed with tender dreams and fancies undefiled.
The universe of God is still, not dumb,
For many voices in sweet undertone
To reverent listeners come;
And many thoughts, with truth's own honey laden,
Into the watcher's wakeful brain have flown,
Charming the inner ear
With harmonies so low, and yet so clear,
So undefined, yet pregnant with a feeling,
An inspiration of sublime revealing,
That they whose being the strong spell shall hold,
Do look on earthly things
Through atmospheres of rich imaginings,
And find, in all they see,
A meaning manifold;
The forces of divine vitality
Break through the sensual gloom
About them furled,
All instinct with the radiant grace and bloom
Caught from the glories of a lovelier world.
A lovelier world! in the thronged space on high,
Dwells there indeed a fairer star than ours,
Circled by sunsets of more gorgeous dye,
And gifted with an ampler wealth of flowers?
Can heavenly bounty lavish richer stores
Of color, fragrance, beauty, and delight
On mortal or immortal sight,
In any sphere that rolls around the sun?
See what a splendor from the dying day
Through the grand forest pours!
Now, lighting up its veteran-crests with glory,
Now, slanting down the shadows dim and hoary,
Till, in the long-drawn gloom of leafy glades,
At the far close of their impervious shades,
The purple splendor softly melts away!
For many voices in sweet undertone
To reverent listeners come;
And many thoughts, with truth's own honey laden,
Into the watcher's wakeful brain have flown,
Charming the inner ear
With harmonies so low, and yet so clear,
So undefined, yet pregnant with a feeling,
An inspiration of sublime revealing,
That they whose being the strong spell shall hold,
Do look on earthly things
Through atmospheres of rich imaginings,
And find, in all they see,
A meaning manifold;
The forces of divine vitality
Break through the sensual gloom
About them furled,
All instinct with the radiant grace and bloom
Caught from the glories of a lovelier world.
A lovelier world! in the thronged space on high,
Dwells there indeed a fairer star than ours,
Circled by sunsets of more gorgeous dye,
And gifted with an ampler wealth of flowers?
Can heavenly bounty lavish richer stores
Of color, fragrance, beauty, and delight
On mortal or immortal sight,
In any sphere that rolls around the sun?
See what a splendor from the dying day
Through the grand forest pours!
Now, lighting up its veteran-crests with glory,
Now, slanting down the shadows dim and hoary,
Till, in the long-drawn gloom of leafy glades,
At the far close of their impervious shades,
The purple splendor softly melts away!
Now, overarched by dewy canopies,
And awed by dimness that is hardly gloom,
We stand amidst the silence with hushed lips,
Watching the dubious glimmer of the skies
Paled by the foliage to a half-eclipse,
And struggling for full room,
With intermittent gleams, that quickly die
In throbs and tremors, waning suddenly
To the mere ghosts of flame, to apparitions
Impalpable as star-beams in deep seas,
Lost in the dark below the surface-ruffling breeze.
And awed by dimness that is hardly gloom,
We stand amidst the silence with hushed lips,
Watching the dubious glimmer of the skies
Paled by the foliage to a half-eclipse,
And struggling for full room,
With intermittent gleams, that quickly die
In throbs and tremors, waning suddenly
To the mere ghosts of flame, to apparitions
Impalpable as star-beams in deep seas,
Lost in the dark below the surface-ruffling breeze.
Latest of all these marvellous transitions,
And crowning all with their ineffable grace,
The eyes of the night's empress, witching sweet,
Scatter the shadows in each secret place,
So that, where'er her beamy glances fleet,
Shot through and through, as if with arrowy might,
The dusky gloaming falls before her shafts of light.
And crowning all with their ineffable grace,
The eyes of the night's empress, witching sweet,
Scatter the shadows in each secret place,
So that, where'er her beamy glances fleet,
16
The dusky gloaming falls before her shafts of light.
THE SOUL-CONFLICT.
Defeated! but never disheartened!
Repulsed! but unconquered in will,
Upon dreary discomfitures building
Her virtue's strong battlements still,
The soul, through the siege of temptations,
Yields not unto fraud, nor to might,
Unquelled by the rush of the passions,
Serene 'mid the tumults of fight.
Repulsed! but unconquered in will,
Upon dreary discomfitures building
Her virtue's strong battlements still,
The soul, through the siege of temptations,
Yields not unto fraud, nor to might,
Unquelled by the rush of the passions,
Serene 'mid the tumults of fight.
She sees a grand prize in the distance,
She hears a glad sound of acclaims,
The crown wrought of blooms amaranthine,
The music far sweeter than Fame's.
And so, 'gainst the rush of the passions
She lifts the broad buckler of right,
And so, through the glooms of temptation,
She walks in a splendor of light.
She hears a glad sound of acclaims,
The crown wrought of blooms amaranthine,
The music far sweeter than Fame's.
And so, 'gainst the rush of the passions
She lifts the broad buckler of right,
And so, through the glooms of temptation,
She walks in a splendor of light.
THE PRESENTIMENT.
Over her face, so tender and meek,
The light of a prophecy lies,
That has silvered the red of the rose on her cheek,
And chastened the thought in her eyes!
The light of a prophecy lies,
That has silvered the red of the rose on her cheek,
And chastened the thought in her eyes!
Beautiful eyes, with an inward glance,
To the spirit's mystical deep;
Lost in the languid gleam of a trance,
More solemn and saintly than sleep.
To the spirit's mystical deep;
Lost in the languid gleam of a trance,
More solemn and saintly than sleep.
And, forever and ever, she seems to hear
The voice of a spirit implore,
“Come! enter the life that is noble and clear;
Come! grow to my heart once more.”
The voice of a spirit implore,
“Come! enter the life that is noble and clear;
Come! grow to my heart once more.”
And, forever and ever, she mutely turns
From a mortal lover's sighs;
And fainter the red of the rose-flush burns,
And deeper the thought in her eyes.
From a mortal lover's sighs;
And fainter the red of the rose-flush burns,
And deeper the thought in her eyes.
The seeds are warm of the churchyard flowers,
That will blossom above her rest,
And a bird that shall sing by the old church towers,
Is already fledged in its nest!
That will blossom above her rest,
And a bird that shall sing by the old church towers,
Is already fledged in its nest!
And so, when a blander summer shall smile,
On some night of soft July,
We will lend to the dust her beauty awhile,
In the hush of a moonless sky.
On some night of soft July,
We will lend to the dust her beauty awhile,
In the hush of a moonless sky.
And later still, shall the churchyard flowers,
Gleam nigh with a white increase;
And a bird outpour, by the old church towers,
A plaintive poem of peace.
Gleam nigh with a white increase;
And a bird outpour, by the old church towers,
A plaintive poem of peace.
THE TWO SUMMERS.
There is a golden season in our year,
Between October's hale and lusty cheer,
And the hoar frost of winter's empire drear;
Between October's hale and lusty cheer,
And the hoar frost of winter's empire drear;
Which, like a fairy flood of mystic tides,
Whereon divine tranquillity abides,
The kingdom of the sovereign months divides;
Whereon divine tranquillity abides,
The kingdom of the sovereign months divides;
The wailing autumn winds their requiems cease,
Ere winter's studier storms have gained release,
And heaven and earth alike are bright with peace.
Ere winter's studier storms have gained release,
And heaven and earth alike are bright with peace.
O soul! thou hast thy golden season too!
A blissful interlude of birds and dew,
Of balmy gales, and skies of deepest blue!
A blissful interlude of birds and dew,
Of balmy gales, and skies of deepest blue!
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That second summer, when thy work is done,
The harvest hoarded, and the mellow sun
Gleams on the fruitful fields thy toil has won;
The harvest hoarded, and the mellow sun
Gleams on the fruitful fields thy toil has won;
Which, also, like a fair mysterious tide,
Whereon calm thoughts like ships at anchor ride,
Doth the broad empire of thy years divide.
Whereon calm thoughts like ships at anchor ride,
Doth the broad empire of thy years divide.
This passed, what more of life's brief path remains,
Winds through unlighted vales, and dismal plains,
The haunt of chilling blight, or fevered pains.
Winds through unlighted vales, and dismal plains,
The haunt of chilling blight, or fevered pains.
Pray, then, ye happy few, along whose way
Life's Indian summer pours its purpling ray,
That ye may die ere dawns the evil day.
Life's Indian summer pours its purpling ray,
That ye may die ere dawns the evil day.
Sink on that season's kind and genial breast,
While peace and sunshine rule the cloudless west,
The elect of God, whom life and death have blessed!
While peace and sunshine rule the cloudless west,
The elect of God, whom life and death have blessed!
LINES.
“Though dowered with instincts keen and high.”
“I weep
My youth, and its brave hopes, all dead and gone,
In tears which burn.”—
Paracelsus.
“I weep
My youth, and its brave hopes, all dead and gone,
In tears which burn.”—
Paracelsus.
Though dowered with instincts keen and high,
With burning thoughts that wooed the light,
The scornful world hath passed him by,
And left him lonelier than the night.
With burning thoughts that wooed the light,
The scornful world hath passed him by,
And left him lonelier than the night.
Yes! cold and hopeless, one by one
The stars of faith have quenched their flame,
And like a waning polar sun,
Declines the latest hope of fame.
The stars of faith have quenched their flame,
And like a waning polar sun,
Declines the latest hope of fame.
He longed to sing one noble song,
To thrill, with passion's living breath,
The fools whose scorn had worked him wrong,
And baffle fate, and conquer death.
To thrill, with passion's living breath,
The fools whose scorn had worked him wrong,
And baffle fate, and conquer death.
Dear God! dost thou endow with powers,
Whose aspirations mock the bars
Of time and sense, whose vision towers
Irradiate 'mid thy sovereign stars,
Whose aspirations mock the bars
Of time and sense, whose vision towers
Irradiate 'mid thy sovereign stars,
Only to furnish some faint gleams
Of loftier beauty, quick withdrawn,
Leaving a frenzied hell of dreams,
And wailings for the vanished dawn?
Of loftier beauty, quick withdrawn,
Leaving a frenzied hell of dreams,
And wailings for the vanished dawn?
The oracles of fancy mute,
Ambition's priests dethroned and fled,
He wanders with a tuneless lute,
Through dreary regions of the dead.
Ambition's priests dethroned and fled,
He wanders with a tuneless lute,
Through dreary regions of the dead.
But from that place of bale uploom
The phantoms of unburied years,
The haunting care, the grief, the gloom,
The treacherous hopes, the pale-eyed fears
The phantoms of unburied years,
The haunting care, the grief, the gloom,
The treacherous hopes, the pale-eyed fears
That stormed his spirit's brave design,
That clogged its wings, betrayed its trust,
Defaced its creed, and dashed the wine
In song's bright chalice, to the dust.
That clogged its wings, betrayed its trust,
Defaced its creed, and dashed the wine
In song's bright chalice, to the dust.
Ah, Heaven! could he retrace his life
From out this realm of doubt and dearth,
He would not court thought's eagle strife,
But clasp the calm that clings to earth.
From out this realm of doubt and dearth,
He would not court thought's eagle strife,
But clasp the calm that clings to earth.
Above, the threatening thunders wait
For dauntless souls that dare aspire,
But lowly lives are safe from hate,
And peace is wed to meek desire.
For dauntless souls that dare aspire,
But lowly lives are safe from hate,
And peace is wed to meek desire.
Yet, birds that breast the turbulent air
Are worthier than the things that creep,
And nobler is a high despair
Than weak content, or sluggish sleep.
Are worthier than the things that creep,
And nobler is a high despair
Than weak content, or sluggish sleep.
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SONG.
O! your eyes are deep and tender,
O! your charmèd voice is low,
But I've found your beauty's splendor
All a mockery and a show;
Slighted heart and broken promise
Follow wheresoe'er you go.
O! your charmèd voice is low,
But I've found your beauty's splendor
All a mockery and a show;
Slighted heart and broken promise
Follow wheresoe'er you go.
All your words are fair and golden,
All your actions false and wrong,
Not the noblest soul's beholden
To your weak affections long;
Only true in—lover's fancy,
Only constant in—his song.
All your actions false and wrong,
Not the noblest soul's beholden
To your weak affections long;
Only true in—lover's fancy,
Only constant in—his song.
ON A PORTRAIT.
A widower muses over the likeness of his dead wife.
The face, the beautiful face,
In its living flush and glow,
The perfect face in its peerless grace
That I worshipped long ago;
That I worshipped when youth was strong and bold,
That I worship now,
Though the pulse of youth grows faint and low,
And the ashes of hope are cold.
In its living flush and glow,
The perfect face in its peerless grace
That I worshipped long ago;
That I worshipped when youth was strong and bold,
That I worship now,
Though the pulse of youth grows faint and low,
And the ashes of hope are cold.
The face, the beautiful face,
Ever haunting my heart and brain,
Bringing ofttimes a dream of heaven,
Ofttimes the pang of a pain
Which darteth down like a lightning flash
To the dreadful deeps,
Where the gems of a shipwrecked life are cast,
And its dead cold promise sleeps.
Ever haunting my heart and brain,
Bringing ofttimes a dream of heaven,
Ofttimes the pang of a pain
Which darteth down like a lightning flash
To the dreadful deeps,
Where the gems of a shipwrecked life are cast,
And its dead cold promise sleeps.
Sweet face! shall I meet thee again,
In the passionless land of palms,
By the verge of Heaven's enchanted streams
In the hush of its perfect calms;
Or, forever and ever, and evermore,
While the years depart,
While the ages roll,
Walk the glooms of a ghostly shore,
Made wild by a phantom-haunted brain,
And a cloud-encircled soul;
By a haunted brain and a cheerless heart,
While the years and the ages roll?
In the passionless land of palms,
By the verge of Heaven's enchanted streams
In the hush of its perfect calms;
Or, forever and ever, and evermore,
While the years depart,
While the ages roll,
Walk the glooms of a ghostly shore,
Made wild by a phantom-haunted brain,
And a cloud-encircled soul;
By a haunted brain and a cheerless heart,
While the years and the ages roll?
No answer comes to my cry,
Though out of the depths I call:
Not the faintest gleam of a hopeful beam
Shines over the shroud and pall.
My soul is clothed with sackcloth and dust,
And I look from my widowed hearth
With a vacant eye on the tumult and stir
Of this weary, dreary earth;
For my soul is dead and its hopes are dust,
And the joy of passion, the strength of trust,
These passed from the world with her.
Though out of the depths I call:
Not the faintest gleam of a hopeful beam
Shines over the shroud and pall.
My soul is clothed with sackcloth and dust,
And I look from my widowed hearth
With a vacant eye on the tumult and stir
Of this weary, dreary earth;
For my soul is dead and its hopes are dust,
And the joy of passion, the strength of trust,
These passed from the world with her.
THE SHADOW.
The pathway of his mournful life hath wound
Beneath a shadow; just beyond it play
The genial breezes, and the cool brooks stray
Into melodious gushings of sweet sound,
Whilst ample floods of mellow sunshine fall
Like a mute rain of rapture over all.
Beneath a shadow; just beyond it play
The genial breezes, and the cool brooks stray
Into melodious gushings of sweet sound,
Whilst ample floods of mellow sunshine fall
Like a mute rain of rapture over all.
Oft hath he deemed the spell of darkness lost,
And shouted to the dayspring; a full glow
Hath rushed to clasp him; but the subtle woe,
Unvanquished ever, with the might of frost,
Regains its sad realm, and with voice malign
Saith to the dawning joy: “This life is mine!”
And shouted to the dayspring; a full glow
Hath rushed to clasp him; but the subtle woe,
Unvanquished ever, with the might of frost,
Regains its sad realm, and with voice malign
Saith to the dawning joy: “This life is mine!”
19
Still smiles the brave soul, undivorced from hope!
And, with unwavering eye and warrior mien,
Walks in the shadow, dauntless and serene,
To test, through hostile years, the utmost scope
Of man's endurance—constant to essay
All heights of patience free to feet of clay.
And, with unwavering eye and warrior mien,
Walks in the shadow, dauntless and serene,
To test, through hostile years, the utmost scope
Of man's endurance—constant to essay
All heights of patience free to feet of clay.
Still smiles the brave soul, undivorced from hope!
But now, methinks, the pale hope gathers strength;
Glad winds invade the silence; streams, at length,
Flash through the desert; 'neath the sapphire cope
Of deepening heavens he hails a happier day,
And the spent shadow mutely wanes away.
But now, methinks, the pale hope gathers strength;
Glad winds invade the silence; streams, at length,
Flash through the desert; 'neath the sapphire cope
Of deepening heavens he hails a happier day,
And the spent shadow mutely wanes away.
THE WINTER WINDS MAY WILDLY RAVE.
The winter winds may wildly rave,
How wildly o'er thy place of rest!
But, love! thou hast a holier grave,
Deep in a faithful human breast.
How wildly o'er thy place of rest!
But, love! thou hast a holier grave,
Deep in a faithful human breast.
There, the embalmer, Memory, bends,
Watching, with softly-breathed sighs,
The mystic light her genius lends
To fadeless cheeks and tender eyes.
Watching, with softly-breathed sighs,
The mystic light her genius lends
To fadeless cheeks and tender eyes.
There in a fathomless calm, serene,
Thy beauty keeps its saintly trace,
The radiance of an angel mien,
The rapture of a heavenly grace.
Thy beauty keeps its saintly trace,
The radiance of an angel mien,
The rapture of a heavenly grace.
And there, O gentlest love! remain
(No stormy passion round thee raves),
Till, soul to soul, we meet again,
Beyond this ghostly realm of graves.
(No stormy passion round thee raves),
Till, soul to soul, we meet again,
Beyond this ghostly realm of graves.
UNDER SENTENCE.
Place—Scotland. Time—Thirteenth Century.
Off! off! No treacherous priest for me!
What's Heaven? what's Hell? Eternity!
It hath no meaning to mine ear,
Unless—Stay, father! Canst thou swear
By holy Rood, that I shall meet
Him there, whose crime made murder sweet?
Him whose black soul I've hurled before?
He's gone! How cold my dungeon floor!
And the rack wrenches still! This hand,
Which stiffened to a fire-hot band
Of steel, crushing his base breath out,
They've foully mangled! See that gout
Of blood there—there, too! What care I?
It did its work well: let it lie!
What's Heaven? what's Hell? Eternity!
It hath no meaning to mine ear,
Unless—Stay, father! Canst thou swear
By holy Rood, that I shall meet
Him there, whose crime made murder sweet?
Him whose black soul I've hurled before?
He's gone! How cold my dungeon floor!
And the rack wrenches still! This hand,
Which stiffened to a fire-hot band
Of steel, crushing his base breath out,
They've foully mangled! See that gout
Of blood there—there, too! What care I?
It did its work well: let it lie!
I'd give ten mortal lives, I trow,
As full of sweets as mine of woe,
To feel that quivering throat once more;
To view the blue-tinged, strangling gore
Spout from his lips! To watch the dim
Film o'er those cruel eyeballs swim,
And the black anguish of his stare,
Dashed blind with horror! Lords! beware
Much trifling! We are dogs, ye ken,
Who yet may rise, and smite like men.
As full of sweets as mine of woe,
To feel that quivering throat once more;
To view the blue-tinged, strangling gore
Spout from his lips! To watch the dim
Film o'er those cruel eyeballs swim,
And the black anguish of his stare,
Dashed blind with horror! Lords! beware
Much trifling! We are dogs, ye ken,
Who yet may rise, and smite like men.
What's this? Ah, yes! the flower I took
From her! I think her dying look
Baptized it, for it keeps so fair.
I wonder if they decked her hair
With other flowers like this, ere yet
They lowered her beauty to the wet,
Dark mould? If maiden dust to flowers
(Some say so) turns, not all the bowers
This spring shall warm will equal those
To blossom from her pure repose!
From her! I think her dying look
Baptized it, for it keeps so fair.
I wonder if they decked her hair
With other flowers like this, ere yet
They lowered her beauty to the wet,
Dark mould? If maiden dust to flowers
(Some say so) turns, not all the bowers
This spring shall warm will equal those
To blossom from her pure repose!
My nuptial night! God's blood! what right
Had I to nuptials? To the bright
Keen joy that burns on wedded lips?
My life-star could not break the eclipse
Wherein 'twas born! So that dark doom
Which hounds me to a shameful tomb,
Ordained that the fiend's trick they used
Should trap me! Faith, love, peace abused,
I woke to find my heart bereft
Of its one treasure! What was left?
What, but that mandate Vengeance, hissed
With hot tongue thro' a seething mist
Of passion; the fierce mandate, “Kill?”
Aye! but she, too, lay blanched and still.
Had I to nuptials? To the bright
20
My life-star could not break the eclipse
Wherein 'twas born! So that dark doom
Which hounds me to a shameful tomb,
Ordained that the fiend's trick they used
Should trap me! Faith, love, peace abused,
I woke to find my heart bereft
Of its one treasure! What was left?
What, but that mandate Vengeance, hissed
With hot tongue thro' a seething mist
Of passion; the fierce mandate, “Kill?”
Aye! but she, too, lay blanched and still.
Blanched on the couch I dreamed would be
My wedding couch! Oh, infamy!
His outrage smote her to the heart;
It crashed the gates of life apart,
Where through her shuddering soul took flight!
But ere the death-dew dimmed her sight,
She gave me, as I said, this flower,
And—one long smile! To my last hour
I've shrined her smile! If, if somewhere
There be a heaven, benign and fair,
Its saints, I feel, must smile so there!
My wedding couch! Oh, infamy!
His outrage smote her to the heart;
It crashed the gates of life apart,
Where through her shuddering soul took flight!
But ere the death-dew dimmed her sight,
She gave me, as I said, this flower,
And—one long smile! To my last hour
I've shrined her smile! If, if somewhere
There be a heaven, benign and fair,
Its saints, I feel, must smile so there!
Dread God! couldst thou have marked my wrong,
Yet sheathed thy lightning? I was strong
And lusty as the hillside roe;
Could wield the brand and bend the bow
So deftly, that his lordship deigned
To show me favor! Was it feigned?
I know not! His last kindness took
A strange shape truly; for it shook
My hopes to atoms! Yet he fell
Prone with them! Shall we meet in hell?
Yet sheathed thy lightning? I was strong
And lusty as the hillside roe;
Could wield the brand and bend the bow
So deftly, that his lordship deigned
To show me favor! Was it feigned?
I know not! His last kindness took
A strange shape truly; for it shook
My hopes to atoms! Yet he fell
Prone with them! Shall we meet in hell?
I ask again. Ha! if we do
And there 's a single nerve, or thew,
Or muscle left to naked soul,
I'll strangle him once more; enroll
My ruthless arms round breast and throat,
And wring from out his gorge that note
Of palsied fear! I'll do 't, tho' all
The devils should pull me back, and call
Fresh torments on my anguished head:
Doubtless they'll take his part instead.
And there 's a single nerve, or thew,
Or muscle left to naked soul,
I'll strangle him once more; enroll
My ruthless arms round breast and throat,
And wring from out his gorge that note
Of palsied fear! I'll do 't, tho' all
The devils should pull me back, and call
Fresh torments on my anguished head:
Doubtless they'll take his part instead.
Of mine, being devils, and he the worst;
A prince amongst their tribes accurst
By this time; for a month has sped,
Beshrew me, since he joined the dead,
The damned dead! Full time I trow,
For all the bounds of hell to know
That Satan's rivalled! Hark without!
The gathering tramp, the approaching shout
Of thousands! Well, their scaffold's high;
Fair chance for all to see me die!
A prince amongst their tribes accurst
By this time; for a month has sped,
Beshrew me, since he joined the dead,
The damned dead! Full time I trow,
For all the bounds of hell to know
That Satan's rivalled! Hark without!
The gathering tramp, the approaching shout
Of thousands! Well, their scaffold's high;
Fair chance for all to see me die!
THE VILLAGE BEAUTY.
The glowing tints of a tropic eve,
Burn on her radiant cheek,
And we know that her voice is rich and low,
Though we never have heard her speak;
So full are those gracious eyes of light,
That the blissful flood runs o'er,
And wherever her tranquil pathway tends
A glory flits on before!
Burn on her radiant cheek,
And we know that her voice is rich and low,
Though we never have heard her speak;
So full are those gracious eyes of light,
That the blissful flood runs o'er,
And wherever her tranquil pathway tends
A glory flits on before!
O! very grand are the city belles,
Of a brilliant and stately mien,
As they walk the steps of the languid dance,
And flirt in the pauses between;
But beneath the boughs of the hoary oak,
When the minstrel fountains play,
I think that the artless village girl
Is sweeter by far than they.
Of a brilliant and stately mien,
As they walk the steps of the languid dance,
And flirt in the pauses between;
But beneath the boughs of the hoary oak,
When the minstrel fountains play,
I think that the artless village girl
Is sweeter by far than they.
21
O! very grand are the city belles,
But their hearts are worn away
By the keen-edged world, and their lives have lost
The beauty and mirth of May;
They move where the sun and the starry dews
Reign not; they are haughty and bold,
And they do not shrink from the cursed mart,
Where faith is the slave of gold.
But their hearts are worn away
By the keen-edged world, and their lives have lost
The beauty and mirth of May;
They move where the sun and the starry dews
Reign not; they are haughty and bold,
And they do not shrink from the cursed mart,
Where faith is the slave of gold.
But the starry dews and the genial sun
Have gladdened her guileless youth;
And her brow is bright with the flush of hope,
Her soul with the seal of truth;
Her steps are beautiful on the hills
As the steps of an Orient morn,
And Ruth was never more fair to see
In the midst of the autumn corn.
Have gladdened her guileless youth;
And her brow is bright with the flush of hope,
Her soul with the seal of truth;
Her steps are beautiful on the hills
As the steps of an Orient morn,
And Ruth was never more fair to see
In the midst of the autumn corn.
AFTER DEATH.
The passionate sobs of the dear friends that came
To look their last upon my living frame,
And catch the fainting accents of my breath,
That fluttered in the atmosphere of death,
Were hushed to silence, and the uncertain light,
That flickered o'er the arras to my sight,
Grew paler and more tremulous, as life
Sunk 'neath the power of that unequal strife,
Which pits humanity against the spell
Of one all flesh hath found invincible!
To look their last upon my living frame,
And catch the fainting accents of my breath,
That fluttered in the atmosphere of death,
Were hushed to silence, and the uncertain light,
That flickered o'er the arras to my sight,
Grew paler and more tremulous, as life
Sunk 'neath the power of that unequal strife,
Which pits humanity against the spell
Of one all flesh hath found invincible!
I could not see my foe: but the whole space
Was redolent of pestilence, and grace
Of all things beautiful, and grand and free,
Seemed lost in darkness evermore to me:
I struggled with the invisible arm that wound
So sternly round me, but could give no sound
To the great agony that whelmed my soul
In surges wilder than the eternal roll
Of a world's waters, thundering round the Pole.
Was redolent of pestilence, and grace
Of all things beautiful, and grand and free,
Seemed lost in darkness evermore to me:
I struggled with the invisible arm that wound
So sternly round me, but could give no sound
To the great agony that whelmed my soul
In surges wilder than the eternal roll
Of a world's waters, thundering round the Pole.
Downward, still downward, the relentless hand
Pressed on my being, and the iron wand
Of his malign enchantment struck my heart
With a dull force that made the life-blood start
Forever from its courses; then a sense
Of coming rest, more dreamless and intense
Than ever wrapped mortality in still
And throbless freedom from all thoughts of ill,
Stole o'er the vanquished form and glimmering sight,
Till silence ruled, with nothingness and night!
Pressed on my being, and the iron wand
Of his malign enchantment struck my heart
With a dull force that made the life-blood start
Forever from its courses; then a sense
Of coming rest, more dreamless and intense
Than ever wrapped mortality in still
And throbless freedom from all thoughts of ill,
Stole o'er the vanquished form and glimmering sight,
Till silence ruled, with nothingness and night!
| Poems of Paul Hamilton Hayne | |