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177
EARLY POEMS.
178
“EVEN THIS WILL PASS AWAY.”
Yes, all will pass away—
This sad and weary day,
That lingers on my path, so dull and cold,
Will find its home at last
In the returnless Past,
And join its unregretted mates of old:
This sad and weary day,
That lingers on my path, so dull and cold,
Will find its home at last
In the returnless Past,
And join its unregretted mates of old:
And on some other morn
A brighter Babe be born—
Haply, more gentle in its task than ye,
Children of loveless Time,
All withered in your prime,
Dark Hours, that long have borne me company!
A brighter Babe be born—
Haply, more gentle in its task than ye,
Children of loveless Time,
All withered in your prime,
Dark Hours, that long have borne me company!
Hath it not erst been said,
(As I, methinks, have read
In some old chronicle with moral fraught,)
How one, in days gone by,
'Mid torments doomed to die—
Consoled him with the stern, yet trusty thought,
(As I, methinks, have read
In some old chronicle with moral fraught,)
How one, in days gone by,
'Mid torments doomed to die—
Consoled him with the stern, yet trusty thought,
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That, when of one long sun
The bitter sands had run,
Hate would have done its worst, its last on him—
Each nerve, so quick with pain,
Could never thrill again—
Nor one pang more convulse each wretched limb.
The bitter sands had run,
Hate would have done its worst, its last on him—
Each nerve, so quick with pain,
Could never thrill again—
Nor one pang more convulse each wretched limb.
We know not what there is,
Perchance akin to this,
Which nerves us to endure the Life we bear—
Borne, like the Pilgrim's load,
O'er many a weary road,
Through many a path of sorrow, sin and care.
Perchance akin to this,
Which nerves us to endure the Life we bear—
Borne, like the Pilgrim's load,
O'er many a weary road,
Through many a path of sorrow, sin and care.
And oh! like him could I,
These wanderings all past by,
Lay down the weight wherewith our footsteps err—
How little recked by me
Its resting-place would be,
Though 'twere, like his, a wayside sepulchre.
These wanderings all past by,
Lay down the weight wherewith our footsteps err—
How little recked by me
Its resting-place would be,
Though 'twere, like his, a wayside sepulchre.
December, 1844.
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PLACE DE LA REVOLUTION.
(10 Thermidor, 1794.)
“When the wicked perish, there is shouting.”
Here let us stand—windows, and roofs, and leads,
Alive with clinging thousands—what a scene!
And in the midst, above that sea of heads,
Glooms the black Guillotine.
Alive with clinging thousands—what a scene!
And in the midst, above that sea of heads,
Glooms the black Guillotine.
A scene like that in the Eternal City,
When on men's hearts the Arena feasted high—
While myriads of dark faces, void of pity,
Looked on to see them die.
When on men's hearts the Arena feasted high—
While myriads of dark faces, void of pity,
Looked on to see them die.
How the keen Gallic eyes dilate and glare!
The flexile brows and lips grimace and frown—
How the walls tremble to their shout, whene'er
That heavy steel comes down!
The flexile brows and lips grimace and frown—
How the walls tremble to their shout, whene'er
That heavy steel comes down!
'Tis nearly over—twenty heads have rolled,
One after one, upon the block—while cheers,
And yells, and curses howled by hate untold,
Rang in their dying ears.
One after one, upon the block—while cheers,
And yells, and curses howled by hate untold,
Rang in their dying ears.
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One more is left—and now, amid a storm
Of angry sound from that great human Hive,
They rear upright a dizened ghastly form,
Mangled, yet still alive.
Of angry sound from that great human Hive,
They rear upright a dizened ghastly form,
Mangled, yet still alive.
Like one emerging from a deadly swoon,
His eyes unclose upon that living plain—
Those livid, snaky eyes!—he shuts them soon,
Never to ope again.
His eyes unclose upon that living plain—
Those livid, snaky eyes!—he shuts them soon,
Never to ope again.
As that forlorn, last, wandering gaze they took,
Perhaps those cruel eyes, in hopeless mood,
Sought, in their agony, one pitying look
'Mid that vast multitude.
Perhaps those cruel eyes, in hopeless mood,
Sought, in their agony, one pitying look
'Mid that vast multitude.
Sought, but in vain—inextricably mixed
On square and street and house-top—he surveys
A hundred thousand human eyes, all fixed
In one fierce, pitiless gaze.
On square and street and house-top—he surveys
A hundred thousand human eyes, all fixed
In one fierce, pitiless gaze.
Down to the plank! the brutal headsmen tear
Those blood-glued rags—nay, spare him needless pain!
One cry! God grant that we may never hear
A cry like that again!
Those blood-glued rags—nay, spare him needless pain!
One cry! God grant that we may never hear
A cry like that again!
A pause—and the axe falls on Robespierre.
That trenchant blade hath done its office well—
Hark to the mighty roar! down, Murderer—
Down to thy native Hell!
That trenchant blade hath done its office well—
Hark to the mighty roar! down, Murderer—
Down to thy native Hell!
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Again, that terrible Shout! till suburb far
And crowded dungeon marvel what it mean—
Hurrah! and louder, louder, yet, hurrah
For the good Guillotine!
And crowded dungeon marvel what it mean—
Hurrah! and louder, louder, yet, hurrah
For the good Guillotine!
And breasts unladen heave a longer breath—
And parting footsteps echo fast and light—
Our Foe is lodged in the strong Prison of Death!
Paris shall sleep to-night.
And parting footsteps echo fast and light—
Our Foe is lodged in the strong Prison of Death!
Paris shall sleep to-night.
THE TOMB OF COLUMBUS.
“But thee, Columbus, how can I but remember? but loue?
but admire? Sweetly may those bones rest, sometimes the
Pillars of that Temple where so diuine a spirit resided; which
neyther want of former example, nor publike discouragements
of domesticall or forren states, nor priuate insultations of
prowd Spaniards, nor length of time (which usually deuoureth
the best resolutions) nor the vnequal Plaines of huge
vnknowne Seas, nor grassie fields in Neptune's lap, nor importunate
whisperings, murmurings, threatenings of enraged
companions, could daunt: O name Colon, worthy to be
named vnto the world's end, which to the world's end hast
conducted Colonies: or may I call thee Colombo for thy Douelike
simplicitie and patience? the true Colonna or Pillar,
whereon our knowledge of this new world is founded, the
true Christopher which, with more than Giant-like force and
fortitude hast carried Christ his name and religion, through
vnknowne Seas, to vnknowne Lands.”
—Purchas his Pilgrimage.
“But thee, Columbus, how can I but remember? but loue? but admire? Sweetly may those bones rest, sometimes the Pillars of that Temple where so diuine a spirit resided; which neyther want of former example, nor publike discouragements of domesticall or forren states, nor priuate insultations of prowd Spaniards, nor length of time (which usually deuoureth the best resolutions) nor the vnequal Plaines of huge vnknowne Seas, nor grassie fields in Neptune's lap, nor importunate whisperings, murmurings, threatenings of enraged companions, could daunt: O name Colon, worthy to be named vnto the world's end, which to the world's end hast conducted Colonies: or may I call thee Colombo for thy Douelike simplicitie and patience? the true Colonna or Pillar, whereon our knowledge of this new world is founded, the true Christopher which, with more than Giant-like force and fortitude hast carried Christ his name and religion, through vnknowne Seas, to vnknowne Lands.”
—Purchas his Pilgrimage.
An old cathedral, with its columned roof,
And shrines, and pictured saints.
The sun yet lingered
On Cuzco's mountains, and the fragrant breath
Of unknown tropic flowers came o'er my path,
Wafted—how pleasantly! for I had been
Long on the seas, and their salt waveless glare
Had made green fields a longing. At the port
I left our bark, with her tired mariners;
And loitered on, amid gay-colored houses,
Through the great square, and through the narrow streets,
Till this old fane, inviting, stayed my steps.
While all alone, in the religious silence
And pensive spirit of the place, I stood
By the High Altar—near it, on the wall,
A tablet of plain marble met my view,
Modestly wrought—whereon an Effigy,
And a few simple words in a strange tongue,
Telling “Here lies Columbus.”
And that niche,
That narrow space held all now left of Him
For whom the Ancient World was once too little!
And shrines, and pictured saints.
The sun yet lingered
On Cuzco's mountains, and the fragrant breath
Of unknown tropic flowers came o'er my path,
Wafted—how pleasantly! for I had been
Long on the seas, and their salt waveless glare
Had made green fields a longing. At the port
I left our bark, with her tired mariners;
And loitered on, amid gay-colored houses,
Through the great square, and through the narrow streets,
Till this old fane, inviting, stayed my steps.
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And pensive spirit of the place, I stood
By the High Altar—near it, on the wall,
A tablet of plain marble met my view,
Modestly wrought—whereon an Effigy,
And a few simple words in a strange tongue,
Telling “Here lies Columbus.”
And that niche,
That narrow space held all now left of Him
For whom the Ancient World was once too little!
Here, those illustrious Relics, doomed to wander
Like their great Tenant,—(from the holy Crypt
Of Valladolid to Moresque Seville—
Thence, voyaging West once more, to his beloved
Hispaniola—thence, for refuge, hither,)—
Had found at last their final resting-place.
Like their great Tenant,—(from the holy Crypt
Of Valladolid to Moresque Seville—
Thence, voyaging West once more, to his beloved
Hispaniola—thence, for refuge, hither,)—
Had found at last their final resting-place.
But where were they—the fetters that had bound
Those patient, manly limbs? the gift of Spain
To him who gave a world? (in the king's name
'Twas written thus )—he kept them to the last,
And charged they should lie with him in the grave.
Those patient, manly limbs? the gift of Spain
To him who gave a world? (in the king's name
'Twas written thus )—he kept them to the last,
And charged they should lie with him in the grave.
No loftier tomb? methought he should have lain
Enshrined in some vast pile—some gorgeous dome—
Reared by Castile to him who made her name
Great in the nations. But he needs them not.
And haply, it is meeter for him thus
To rest surrounded by his own high Deeds—
Like the great builder laid beneath the Temple
He reared. “If thou wouldst view his monument,
Look round thee.”
No severe majestic column,
No mountain-piled, eternal pyramid,
Such as a World might raise to its Discoverer,
Marks his repose.
But the keel-crowded port,
And the green island, and the waving palms,
And the deep murmur of a peopled city,
And the great ocean whitened with new sails,
And the wide continent stretching beyond—
All, in a voice more eloquent than words—
Inscriptions—told the story of his life.
Enshrined in some vast pile—some gorgeous dome—
Reared by Castile to him who made her name
Great in the nations. But he needs them not.
And haply, it is meeter for him thus
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Like the great builder laid beneath the Temple
He reared. “If thou wouldst view his monument,
Look round thee.”
No severe majestic column,
No mountain-piled, eternal pyramid,
Such as a World might raise to its Discoverer,
Marks his repose.
But the keel-crowded port,
And the green island, and the waving palms,
And the deep murmur of a peopled city,
And the great ocean whitened with new sails,
And the wide continent stretching beyond—
All, in a voice more eloquent than words—
Inscriptions—told the story of his life.
And mine own being—
Haply, but for thee,
(If, in the tangled chain of crossed events
We shudder now to dwell upon, this soul
Had 'scaped the fatal blank of non-existence,)
Even now, I might have slaved in some old sea-port,
Bowed to the oar—or delved in Hunnish mines,
A serf—or toiled a reaper in the fields
Of “merry England”—none too merry now!
Haply, but for thee,
(If, in the tangled chain of crossed events
We shudder now to dwell upon, this soul
Had 'scaped the fatal blank of non-existence,)
Even now, I might have slaved in some old sea-port,
Bowed to the oar—or delved in Hunnish mines,
A serf—or toiled a reaper in the fields
Of “merry England”—none too merry now!
How quiet and how peaceful seemed his rest
From those long labors?—all was calm repose.
Within, such holy stillness—but, alas!
Without, (sole stain on that great honored Name,)
A dismal sound of fetters! the chain-gang
Passing just then, with its accurséd clank.
From those long labors?—all was calm repose.
Within, such holy stillness—but, alas!
Without, (sole stain on that great honored Name,)
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Passing just then, with its accurséd clank.
Long by that simple tomb I lingered—long
Gazed with an awe more reverent than the pile
Heaped over King or Kaiser, could inspire.
On those calm, resolute features, ye might read,
As in a book, his strange, eventful story.
There was the Faith; the long-enduring Hope,
More than Ulyssean; the Courage high,
That fought the Infidel—and with stout heart
Clung to the shattered oar, which bore a greater
Than Cæsar and his fortunes—and when all
Cried out “we sail to death!” held firmly on
Through storm and sunshine.
Gazed with an awe more reverent than the pile
Heaped over King or Kaiser, could inspire.
On those calm, resolute features, ye might read,
As in a book, his strange, eventful story.
There was the Faith; the long-enduring Hope,
More than Ulyssean; the Courage high,
That fought the Infidel—and with stout heart
Clung to the shattered oar, which bore a greater
Than Cæsar and his fortunes—and when all
Cried out “we sail to death!” held firmly on
Through storm and sunshine.
In those furrowed lines,
As on some faithful chart, might still be traced
The weary voyaging of many years:
That restless spirit pent in narrow bounds,
Yet ever looking with unquiet eye
Beyond old land-marks—with unwearied soul
Still searching, prying into the Unknown,
And hoarding richer sea-lore—till at last
Possessed and haunted of one grand Belief—
One mighty Thought no wretchedness could lay.
As on some faithful chart, might still be traced
The weary voyaging of many years:
That restless spirit pent in narrow bounds,
Yet ever looking with unquiet eye
Beyond old land-marks—with unwearied soul
Still searching, prying into the Unknown,
And hoarding richer sea-lore—till at last
Possessed and haunted of one grand Belief—
One mighty Thought no wretchedness could lay.
The weary interval—eighteen long years,
Wandering from court to court—his Wondrous Tale
Lost in half-heeding, dull, incredulous ears;
The patient toil—the honorable want
Endured so nobly—in his threadbare coat,
Mocked by the rabble—the half-uttered jeer—
And the pert finger tapping on the head.
May Heaven accord us patience—as to him.
Wandering from court to court—his Wondrous Tale
Lost in half-heeding, dull, incredulous ears;
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Endured so nobly—in his threadbare coat,
Mocked by the rabble—the half-uttered jeer—
And the pert finger tapping on the head.
May Heaven accord us patience—as to him.
And now, a way-worn traveller, where, Rabida,
Thy lonely convent overlooks the sea,
(Soon to be furrowed by ten thousand keels,)
He waits, preferring no immodest suit—
A little bread and water for his boy,
O'ertasked with travel? then the welcome in,
And the good friar—saints receive his soul!
Thy lonely convent overlooks the sea,
(Soon to be furrowed by ten thousand keels,)
He waits, preferring no immodest suit—
A little bread and water for his boy,
O'ertasked with travel? then the welcome in,
And the good friar—saints receive his soul!
And now, (the audience gained,) at Salamanca,
Before them all, a simple mariner,
He stands, unawed by the solemnity
Of gowns and caps—with courteous, grave demeanor,
And in plain words, unfolding his high purpose.
Before them all, a simple mariner,
He stands, unawed by the solemnity
Of gowns and caps—with courteous, grave demeanor,
And in plain words, unfolding his high purpose.
Embarked, and on the seas—at last! at last!
The toil of a long life—a Deathless Name—
The undetermined fates of all to come—
Staked on his prow—it is no little thing
Will turn aside that soul, long resolute,
(Though every heart grow faint, and every tongue
Murmur in mutiny,) to hold its course
Onward, still onward, through the pathless void,
The lone untravelled wilderness of waves—
Onward! still onward! we shall find it yet!
The toil of a long life—a Deathless Name—
The undetermined fates of all to come—
Staked on his prow—it is no little thing
Will turn aside that soul, long resolute,
(Though every heart grow faint, and every tongue
Murmur in mutiny,) to hold its course
Onward, still onward, through the pathless void,
The lone untravelled wilderness of waves—
Onward! still onward! we shall find it yet!
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And next, (O sad and shameful sight!) exposed
On the high deck of a returning bark,
(Returning from that land so lately found!)
A spectacle! those aged honored limbs
Gyved like a felon's, while the hooting crowd
Sent curses in her wake.
But when arrived,
Again exalted, favored of the crown,
And courted by the noblest—who forgets,
With his gray hairs uncovered, how he knelt
Before his royal mistress, (that great heart,
Nor insult, nor disgrace, nor chains could move,
O'ercome with kindness,) weeping like a child?
On the high deck of a returning bark,
(Returning from that land so lately found!)
A spectacle! those aged honored limbs
Gyved like a felon's, while the hooting crowd
Sent curses in her wake.
But when arrived,
Again exalted, favored of the crown,
And courted by the noblest—who forgets,
With his gray hairs uncovered, how he knelt
Before his royal mistress, (that great heart,
Nor insult, nor disgrace, nor chains could move,
O'ercome with kindness,) weeping like a child?
Lastly, his most resignéd Christian end;
When, now aware of the last hour approaching,
He laid the world, so long pursued, aside;
Forgave his foes, and setting decently
His house in order, with his latest breath
Commended that great soul to Him who gave it;
Who rarely hath given or received a greater.
When, now aware of the last hour approaching,
He laid the world, so long pursued, aside;
Forgave his foes, and setting decently
His house in order, with his latest breath
Commended that great soul to Him who gave it;
Who rarely hath given or received a greater.
Thus loitering in the many-peopled Past,
And haunted by old thoughts, the twilight shadows
O'ertook me, still beside that resting-place
Entranced in pleasant gloom, and loth to leave.
And haunted by old thoughts, the twilight shadows
O'ertook me, still beside that resting-place
Entranced in pleasant gloom, and loth to leave.
Anon a train of dark-stoled priests swept in,
And chaunted forth old hymns.
Was it profane
To deem their holy strain a requiem
O'er him, whose mighty ashes lay enshrined
So near his Maker? but for whom, perchance,
The sound of anthem and of chaunt sublime,
And old Te Deum's solemn majesty,
Had never echoed in the Western World.
And chaunted forth old hymns.
Was it profane
To deem their holy strain a requiem
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So near his Maker? but for whom, perchance,
The sound of anthem and of chaunt sublime,
And old Te Deum's solemn majesty,
Had never echoed in the Western World.
Along each vaulted aisle the sacred tones
Floated, and swelled, and sank, and died away.
So all departed—and among the rest,
That spell upon my soul yet lingering,
I went my way—and passing to our ship,
Culled a few flowers, yet springing on the spot,
Where, wearied with long travail o'er the deep,
He landed, (so they tell,) and said the mass,
Beneath a tall and goodly Ceiba-tree,
But that is gone—and all will soon be gone.
Floated, and swelled, and sank, and died away.
So all departed—and among the rest,
That spell upon my soul yet lingering,
I went my way—and passing to our ship,
Culled a few flowers, yet springing on the spot,
Where, wearied with long travail o'er the deep,
He landed, (so they tell,) and said the mass,
Beneath a tall and goodly Ceiba-tree,
But that is gone—and all will soon be gone.
THE SPHINX.
They glare—those stony eyes!
That in the fierce sun-rays
Showered from these burning skies,
Through untold centuries
Have kept their sleepless and unwinking gaze.
That in the fierce sun-rays
Showered from these burning skies,
Through untold centuries
Have kept their sleepless and unwinking gaze.
Since what unnumbered year
Hast thou kept watch and ward,
And o'er the buried Land of Fear
So grimly held thy guard?
No faithless slumber snatching—
Still couched in silence brave—
Like some fierce hound long watching
Above her master's grave.
Hast thou kept watch and ward,
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So grimly held thy guard?
No faithless slumber snatching—
Still couched in silence brave—
Like some fierce hound long watching
Above her master's grave.
No fabled Shape art thou!
On that thought-freighted brow
And in those smooth weird lineaments we find,
Though traced all darkly, even now,
The relics of a Mind:
And gather dimly thence
A vague, half-human sense—
The strange and sad Intelligence
That sorrow leaves behind.
On that thought-freighted brow
And in those smooth weird lineaments we find,
Though traced all darkly, even now,
The relics of a Mind:
And gather dimly thence
A vague, half-human sense—
The strange and sad Intelligence
That sorrow leaves behind.
Dost thou in anguish thus
Still brood o'er Œdipus?
And weave enigmas to mislead anew,
And stultify the blind
Dull heads of human kind,
And inly make thy moan
That, 'mid the hated crew,
Whom thou so long couldst vex,
Bewilder, and perplex—
Thou yet couldst find a subtler than thine own?
Still brood o'er Œdipus?
And weave enigmas to mislead anew,
And stultify the blind
Dull heads of human kind,
And inly make thy moan
That, 'mid the hated crew,
Whom thou so long couldst vex,
Bewilder, and perplex—
Thou yet couldst find a subtler than thine own?
Even now, methinks that those
Dark, heavy lips, which close
In such a stern repose,
Seem burdened with some Thought unsaid,
And hoard within their portals dread
Some fearful Secret there—
Which to the listening earth
She may not whisper forth—
Not even to the air!
Dark, heavy lips, which close
In such a stern repose,
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And hoard within their portals dread
Some fearful Secret there—
Which to the listening earth
She may not whisper forth—
Not even to the air!
Of awful wonders hid
In yon dread pyramid,
The home of magic Fears;
Of chambers vast and lonely,
Watched by the Genii only,
Who tend their Masters' long-forgotten biers;
And treasures that have shone
On cavern walls alone
For thousand, thousand years.
In yon dread pyramid,
The home of magic Fears;
Of chambers vast and lonely,
Watched by the Genii only,
Who tend their Masters' long-forgotten biers;
And treasures that have shone
On cavern walls alone
For thousand, thousand years.
Those sullen orbs wouldst thou eclipse,
And ope those massy, tomb-like lips,
Many a riddle thou couldst solve
Which all blindly men revolve.
And ope those massy, tomb-like lips,
Many a riddle thou couldst solve
Which all blindly men revolve.
Would She but tell! She knows
Of the old Pharaohs,
Could count the Ptolemies' long line;
Each mighty Myth's original hath seen,
Apis, Anubis—Ghosts that haunt between
The Bestial and Divine—
(Such, He that sleeps in Philœ—He that stands
In gloom, unworshipped, 'neath his rock-hewn fane—
Of the old Pharaohs,
Could count the Ptolemies' long line;
Each mighty Myth's original hath seen,
Apis, Anubis—Ghosts that haunt between
The Bestial and Divine—
(Such, He that sleeps in Philœ—He that stands
In gloom, unworshipped, 'neath his rock-hewn fane—
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And They who, sitting on Memnonian sands,
Cast their long shadows o'er the desert plain:)
Hath marked Nitocris pass,
And Ozymandias
Deep-versed in many a dark Egyptian wile;
The Hebrew Boy hath eyed
Cold to the master's bride;
And that Medusan stare hath frozen the smile
Of Her all love and guile,
For whom the Cæsar sighed,
And the World-Loser died—
The Darling of the Nile.
Cast their long shadows o'er the desert plain:)
Hath marked Nitocris pass,
And Ozymandias
Deep-versed in many a dark Egyptian wile;
The Hebrew Boy hath eyed
Cold to the master's bride;
And that Medusan stare hath frozen the smile
Of Her all love and guile,
For whom the Cæsar sighed,
And the World-Loser died—
The Darling of the Nile.
THE BOOK.
A written book before me lies.
Therein I keep a record strange,
An ever-darkening chronicle
Of human Fate and Change.
Therein I keep a record strange,
An ever-darkening chronicle
Of human Fate and Change.
The list—not idly numbered o'er—
Of those who, borne the threshold forth,
Shall leave their footsteps never more
Upon the sunny earth.
Of those who, borne the threshold forth,
Shall leave their footsteps never more
Upon the sunny earth.
Strange fellowship is witnessed there,
Strange names are mingled, side by side—
Traced coldly, or with reverent care,
As, one by one, they died.
Strange names are mingled, side by side—
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As, one by one, they died.
The gentle ones, whose angel feet
With mine, Life's dewy pathway trod—
And they who, in the hurrying street,
Returned a careless nod.
With mine, Life's dewy pathway trod—
And they who, in the hurrying street,
Returned a careless nod.
The friend, whose trusty heart would cling
To mine, alike in weal or woe—
And next, the poor forgiven thing,
That once they called my foe.
To mine, alike in weal or woe—
And next, the poor forgiven thing,
That once they called my foe.
And here is one, whose sunny head
In auburn tresses oft I curled,
And there, a Name that filled with dread
The wonder-stricken world.
In auburn tresses oft I curled,
And there, a Name that filled with dread
The wonder-stricken world.
Yet lighter than to number all
Whom I have marked around me fade—
To count the withered leaves that fall
In autumn's forest shade.
Whom I have marked around me fade—
To count the withered leaves that fall
In autumn's forest shade.
Still, ever to my thoughtful eyes
Some long-forgotten form will rise.
Still I recall some buried face,
That long hath lost each human trace.
Some long-forgotten form will rise.
Still I recall some buried face,
That long hath lost each human trace.
And one, who o'er each name did glance,
(A pious, godly priest is he,)
Saith “burn thy book—full soon, perchance,
Thine own may added be!”
(A pious, godly priest is he,)
Saith “burn thy book—full soon, perchance,
Thine own may added be!”
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And if it be, mine honest friend!
Or now, or in life-weary age,
Think'st thou no lesson I have gained—
No moral from its page?
Or now, or in life-weary age,
Think'st thou no lesson I have gained—
No moral from its page?
The Lovely—'mid the haunts of mirth
How soon their gentle reign was o'er!
The Great—how quickly from the earth
They passed, and were no more!
How soon their gentle reign was o'er!
The Great—how quickly from the earth
They passed, and were no more!
And gazing here I think, since Life,
E'en at the longest, fades so soon,
Why should we waste in care or strife
The frail yet precious boon?
E'en at the longest, fades so soon,
Why should we waste in care or strife
The frail yet precious boon?
No sermon thou didst ever preach,
(And goodly homilies are thine!)
Hath half the power my soul to reach,
That dwells in each poor line.
(And goodly homilies are thine!)
Hath half the power my soul to reach,
That dwells in each poor line.
And thus, dear ghostly friend, the book,
E'en at thy word, I will not burn—
But more thereof will rather look,
Some gentler text to learn.
E'en at thy word, I will not burn—
But more thereof will rather look,
Some gentler text to learn.
Some sad, yet far from gloomy thought—
Some truthful lesson, pure and high—
To help us live as live we ought,
And teach us—how to die.
Some truthful lesson, pure and high—
To help us live as live we ought,
And teach us—how to die.
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PHILIP THE FREED-MAN.
It was a barren beach on Egypt's strand,
And near the waves, where he had breathed his last,
The form of one slain there by treachery
Lay stripped and mangled. On each manly limb
Somewhat of strength and beauty yet remained,
Though war, and toil, and travel, and the lapse
Of sixty years save one, had left their marks
Traced visibly.
But the imperial head,
The close-curled locks, and grizzled beard were gone!
Soon to be laid before the feet of one
Who should receive with anguish, horror-struck,
Giver and gift!—and, weeping, turn away.
And near the waves, where he had breathed his last,
The form of one slain there by treachery
Lay stripped and mangled. On each manly limb
Somewhat of strength and beauty yet remained,
Though war, and toil, and travel, and the lapse
Of sixty years save one, had left their marks
Traced visibly.
But the imperial head,
The close-curled locks, and grizzled beard were gone!
Soon to be laid before the feet of one
Who should receive with anguish, horror-struck,
Giver and gift!—and, weeping, turn away.
The ruffian task was ended—the base crowd
Had stared its vulgar fill—and they were gone,
The murderers and the parasites—all gone.
But one yet lingered, and beside the dead,
As the last footstep died away, he knelt,
And laved its clotted wounds in the salt-sea—
Composed with care the violated frame—
Doffed his own garment, and with reverent hands
Covered the nakedness of those brave limbs.
But for a pile—a few dry boughs of wood
For him, before whose step forests had fallen,
And cities blazed!—yet looking, sore perplexed,
He spies the wreck of an old fishing-boat,
Wasted by sun and rain—yet still enough
For a poor body, naked, unentire.
Had stared its vulgar fill—and they were gone,
The murderers and the parasites—all gone.
But one yet lingered, and beside the dead,
As the last footstep died away, he knelt,
And laved its clotted wounds in the salt-sea—
Composed with care the violated frame—
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Covered the nakedness of those brave limbs.
But for a pile—a few dry boughs of wood
For him, before whose step forests had fallen,
And cities blazed!—yet looking, sore perplexed,
He spies the wreck of an old fishing-boat,
Wasted by sun and rain—yet still enough
For a poor body, naked, unentire.
While yet he laid the ribs and pitchy planks
In such array as might be, decently,
For him, whose giant funeral pyramid
All Rome had raised—(could he have died at Rome)—
An old man came beside him—
“Who art thou,
That all alone dost tend with this last service
Pompey the Great?”—He said, “I am his freed-man.”
“Thou shalt not make this honor all thine own!
Since fate affords it, suffer me to share
Thy pious task—though I have undergone
These many years of exile and misfortune,
'Twill be one solace to have aided thee
In offering all that now remains to him,
My old commander—and the greatest, noblest,
That Rome hath ever borne!”
They raised the body,
And tenderly, as we move one in pain,
Laid it upon the pile, in tears and silence.
And one, his friend—full soon to follow him—
(Late shipped from Cyprus with Etesian gales,)
Coasting along that desolate shore, beheld
The smoke slow rising, and the funeral pyre
Watched by a single form.
“Who then has ended
His days, and leaves his bones upon this beach?”
He said, and added, with a sigh, “Ah, Pompey!
It may be thee!”
In such array as might be, decently,
For him, whose giant funeral pyramid
All Rome had raised—(could he have died at Rome)—
An old man came beside him—
“Who art thou,
That all alone dost tend with this last service
Pompey the Great?”—He said, “I am his freed-man.”
“Thou shalt not make this honor all thine own!
Since fate affords it, suffer me to share
Thy pious task—though I have undergone
These many years of exile and misfortune,
'Twill be one solace to have aided thee
In offering all that now remains to him,
My old commander—and the greatest, noblest,
That Rome hath ever borne!”
They raised the body,
And tenderly, as we move one in pain,
Laid it upon the pile, in tears and silence.
197
(Late shipped from Cyprus with Etesian gales,)
Coasting along that desolate shore, beheld
The smoke slow rising, and the funeral pyre
Watched by a single form.
“Who then has ended
His days, and leaves his bones upon this beach?”
He said, and added, with a sigh, “Ah, Pompey!
It may be thee!”
THE NURSE OF NERO.
When he, whose name for thousand years hath been
But one word more for Crime and Cruelty,
Beheld his life and power, both long abused,
Draw near their end together—on each side
Armies, and provinces, and kings revolting,
A world against him—and the bitter draught,
Which he to other lips so oft had held,
Commended, with all justice, to his own—
When, through the streets of million-peopled Rome,
From door to door he went, from house to house,
And none would shelter him —his aged nurse,
(For Nero's self was suckled, those fierce lips
Had drained sweet fountains—not from Agrippina,)
She, who had lulled those ominous slumbers, strove
To give him comfort—all might yet be well—
Others had been in greater straits than he.
But one word more for Crime and Cruelty,
Beheld his life and power, both long abused,
Draw near their end together—on each side
Armies, and provinces, and kings revolting,
A world against him—and the bitter draught,
Which he to other lips so oft had held,
Commended, with all justice, to his own—
When, through the streets of million-peopled Rome,
From door to door he went, from house to house,
And none would shelter him —his aged nurse,
(For Nero's self was suckled, those fierce lips
Had drained sweet fountains—not from Agrippina,)
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To give him comfort—all might yet be well—
Others had been in greater straits than he.
And when at last Death clutched him—meeter prey
Those lank jaws never closed on—and dislodged
From that polluted frame the hellish sprite
That long had harbored there—when, scorpion-like,
Ringed round with foes and hate, he sought his end
With slow, unwilling hand
—and grieving sore—
Less for his kingdom than his fiddlestick —
Expired, (two daggers planted in his throat,
And his eyes starting from his head—a terror!)
And the foul corpse was hurried under-ground—
Hers may have been the hand, the withered hand,
That all unknown “long after decked his grave
With spring and summer flowers.”
Those lank jaws never closed on—and dislodged
From that polluted frame the hellish sprite
That long had harbored there—when, scorpion-like,
Ringed round with foes and hate, he sought his end
With slow, unwilling hand
Comparisons are proverbially odious! (would that Plutarch had thought so!) but we cannot refrain from remarking some singular coincidences in the lives of two of the worst of men. “Quam vellem nescire literas!”—said the grandson of the high-souled Germanicus, when the first death-warrant was presented to him. (Cortes said the same.) Robespierre, the virtuous, the incorruptible, forsakes the chair of office rather than be accessary to the shedding of blood. In their last hours the resemblance becomes yet closer. Each, when all was over, attempted suicide, but so clumsily and unskilfully, that others were compelled to finish what their trembling hands had failed to accomplish.
Less for his kingdom than his fiddlestick —
Expired, (two daggers planted in his throat,
And his eyes starting from his head—a terror!)
And the foul corpse was hurried under-ground—
Hers may have been the hand, the withered hand,
That all unknown “long after decked his grave
With spring and summer flowers.”
THE PORTRAIT.
Those calm and sorrowful eyes!
What mournful meaning lies
Within their silent depths, O broken-hearted!
Some cold and cruel care
Still seems to linger there—
Some trace of grief and anguish long departed.
What mournful meaning lies
Within their silent depths, O broken-hearted!
Some cold and cruel care
Still seems to linger there—
Some trace of grief and anguish long departed.
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Of tears unseen they tell,
Of trials brooked full well,
A spirit that might break, yet could not bend—
Of silent suffering borne
'Mid unrequited scorn—
And wrongs endured in patience to the end.
Of trials brooked full well,
A spirit that might break, yet could not bend—
Of silent suffering borne
'Mid unrequited scorn—
And wrongs endured in patience to the end.
Oft at the silent hour,
When the Unseen hath power,
And forms of other worlds seem hovering near us—
When flickering shades that fall
Upon the darkened wall,
Advance, and then retreat as though they fear us—
When the Unseen hath power,
And forms of other worlds seem hovering near us—
When flickering shades that fall
Upon the darkened wall,
Advance, and then retreat as though they fear us—
When, even as now, I seem
Half in the Land of Dream,
Its mournful dwellers dimly gliding round—
Methinks I can, almost,
Discern thy hapless ghost,
And hear its timid footstep press the ground.
Half in the Land of Dream,
Its mournful dwellers dimly gliding round—
Methinks I can, almost,
Discern thy hapless ghost,
And hear its timid footstep press the ground.
And thou, poor spirit, thou
Perchance art near me now,
And seekest, not in vain, some human kindness.
Oh, if thou read'st my thought,
Canst thou discover aught
Save love for thee—pity for mortal blindness?
Perchance art near me now,
And seekest, not in vain, some human kindness.
Oh, if thou read'st my thought,
Canst thou discover aught
Save love for thee—pity for mortal blindness?
May'st thou be far from here,
And in some happier sphere
Have long forgotten all thy gloomy part;
The love, the gentle mirth,
Thou never knew'st on earth,
Have fallen like sunshine on that wearied heart.
And in some happier sphere
Have long forgotten all thy gloomy part;
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Thou never knew'st on earth,
Have fallen like sunshine on that wearied heart.
Oh Love! what lovest thou?
The wan and careworn brow—
The faded cheek—the dark, despairing mind?
Oh! these are not of Thee,
Yet such would seem to be
The traces thy sweet footsteps leave behind.
The wan and careworn brow—
The faded cheek—the dark, despairing mind?
Oh! these are not of Thee,
Yet such would seem to be
The traces thy sweet footsteps leave behind.
DEPARTED.
A voice that is hushed forever—
A heart in the dull, deep clay;
Once wildly stirred at every word
Thy cruel lips could say.
A heart in the dull, deep clay;
Once wildly stirred at every word
Thy cruel lips could say.
And canst thou bury the Past,
Like the dead, in its funeral pall?
The cold, dark sneer, and the look severe—
Hast thou forgotten them all?
Like the dead, in its funeral pall?
The cold, dark sneer, and the look severe—
Hast thou forgotten them all?
All the departed one
So sadly, sweetly bore—
And how tears did rise in the gentle eyes
That now can weep no more?
So sadly, sweetly bore—
And how tears did rise in the gentle eyes
That now can weep no more?
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TO JOHN.
“Speak, Ancient House, oh, think'st thou yet thereon?”
German Student-Song.
German Student-Song.
Once more, old friend!—'tis many a day
Since thus beside me thou didst stand—
For I have been a weary way
Since last I took thy hand;
And journeyed far, yet never known
A face more friendly than thine own.
Since thus beside me thou didst stand—
For I have been a weary way
Since last I took thy hand;
And journeyed far, yet never known
A face more friendly than thine own.
By the tombstone of Memory
We'll sit, as we were wont to do,
And trace, like Old Mortality,
Each fading line anew.
We'll sit, as we were wont to do,
And trace, like Old Mortality,
Each fading line anew.
Canst thou remember all our merry ways,
That now are dead and gone?
Methinks it was right pleasant in those days,
My dear old crony, John!
That now are dead and gone?
Methinks it was right pleasant in those days,
My dear old crony, John!
Once more together we will drink
In mournful jollity,
To vanished gladness,—yet, I think,
Thy glass with mine did ever clink
Right merrily!
In mournful jollity,
To vanished gladness,—yet, I think,
Thy glass with mine did ever clink
Right merrily!
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Aye, many a night, our vigil keeping far,
We two did revel, answering cup for cup,
Meanwhile the Meerschaum, or mild-wreathed cigar
Curled sweetest incense up.
We two did revel, answering cup for cup,
Meanwhile the Meerschaum, or mild-wreathed cigar
Curled sweetest incense up.
Through the long night together how we read
Old famous books—and pledged those wondrous men,
Whose words yet thrill, like Voices from the Dead
Come down to earth agen.
Old famous books—and pledged those wondrous men,
Whose words yet thrill, like Voices from the Dead
Come down to earth agen.
Or pored upon the quaint and marvellous scrolls
Of dreamy alchemist—or read the tales
Of ancient travellers, and those brave souls,
That spread their venturous sails
Of dreamy alchemist—or read the tales
Of ancient travellers, and those brave souls,
That spread their venturous sails
For unknown lands—and sought some deep recess,
Some old primeval forest, dark and green,
Or waved farewell across the wilderness—
And never more were seen.
Some old primeval forest, dark and green,
Or waved farewell across the wilderness—
And never more were seen.
What simple fare, what modest, cheap libation
Could then content us—Ah! what merry quips—
What genial thought—what apt, inspired quotation
Sprang freely to our lips.
Could then content us—Ah! what merry quips—
What genial thought—what apt, inspired quotation
Sprang freely to our lips.
At such high tide we pondered, argued deep
Of Life, of Destiny, of Thought profound—
Until like drowsy Wanderers, half asleep
On the Enchanted Ground.
Of Life, of Destiny, of Thought profound—
Until like drowsy Wanderers, half asleep
On the Enchanted Ground.
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And when I read thee once a marvellous
Old tale in verse, (it was thyself that bid,)
Yet somewhat of the longest—Morpheus,
Foul fall him—closed each lid.
Old tale in verse, (it was thyself that bid,)
Yet somewhat of the longest—Morpheus,
Foul fall him—closed each lid.
Thy lubbard head upon its shoulder fell—
But I forgive thee—those were pleasant nights,
Noctes, Cœnæque! ours, thou knowest well,
No rude or Scythian rites.
But I forgive thee—those were pleasant nights,
Noctes, Cœnæque! ours, thou knowest well,
No rude or Scythian rites.
But the wine had a perfume that is gone,
A sparkle bright it will not have again—
Methinks thine eye was all the brighter, John,
Yet not more friendly, then.
A sparkle bright it will not have again—
Methinks thine eye was all the brighter, John,
Yet not more friendly, then.
Still let us mingle, with a mournful pleasure,
Hearts that not yet are touched by worldly frost,
And brood, like misers, o'er our buried treasure—
Deep buried, yet not lost.
Hearts that not yet are touched by worldly frost,
And brood, like misers, o'er our buried treasure—
Deep buried, yet not lost.
In cheerful sadness—yet, when we remember
How they are gone, who sat beside each hearth,
Two ghosts, carousing in some ruined chamber,
Could share no drearier mirth.
How they are gone, who sat beside each hearth,
Two ghosts, carousing in some ruined chamber,
Could share no drearier mirth.
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THE PASSING-BELL.
Mark how the bell doth toll,
One—two—and three—
Like thee, a bodiless soul,
Soon all shall be.
One—two—and three—
Like thee, a bodiless soul,
Soon all shall be.
And wherefore should we mourn,
That this dull frame
Will to the dust return,
From whence it came?
That this dull frame
Will to the dust return,
From whence it came?
Oft, though weary and old,
It would not rest—
But struggles hard to hold
The eternal guest.
It would not rest—
But struggles hard to hold
The eternal guest.
It loves the pleasant earth,
From which 'twas made;
Still clings to care and mirth,
Sunshine and shade.
From which 'twas made;
Still clings to care and mirth,
Sunshine and shade.
Yet in a little while,
(Full well I wis,)
How calmly we shall smile
Upon all this!
(Full well I wis,)
How calmly we shall smile
Upon all this!
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And looking down, perchance,
May, half in mirth
Yet half in pity, glance
On this poor earth—
May, half in mirth
Yet half in pity, glance
On this poor earth—
When Sorrows, one by one,
Have all descended—
When the last task is done,
The last pang ended.
Have all descended—
When the last task is done,
The last pang ended.
And all these wondrous joys,
These woful fears,
Shall seem like children's toys,
Like children's tears.
These woful fears,
Shall seem like children's toys,
Like children's tears.
OBED THE SKIPPER.
Can ye remember, ye trusty two,
Mates of my boyhood, so tried and true!
That sweet spring morn when we hoisted sail
To catch the breath of the southern gale—
And steered away in our slender bark,
A hundred leagues o'er the ocean dark?
Mates of my boyhood, so tried and true!
That sweet spring morn when we hoisted sail
To catch the breath of the southern gale—
And steered away in our slender bark,
A hundred leagues o'er the ocean dark?
For toil or for peril what cared we?
The flask was full, and the gale blew free.
When seas were striving hard to o'erwhelm,
Well she minded her cunning helm.
A steady eye on the flaw was cast,
A steady hand held the tiller fast.
The winds might whistle and rave their fill—
The song and the tale were never still.
The flask was full, and the gale blew free.
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Well she minded her cunning helm.
A steady eye on the flaw was cast,
A steady hand held the tiller fast.
The winds might whistle and rave their fill—
The song and the tale were never still.
The porpoise tumbled beneath our bow,
Fin and tail the shark did show,
And the gull and the petrel fluttered nigh,
Through a stormy sea and a stormy sky.
And, but for these, o'er the wide-spread sea,
No living thing save the lonely three.
Fin and tail the shark did show,
And the gull and the petrel fluttered nigh,
Through a stormy sea and a stormy sky.
And, but for these, o'er the wide-spread sea,
No living thing save the lonely three.
And when night came down o'er the waters wide,
We were lulled to sleep by the rocking tide.
No bell we sounded—no watch we kept,
But the lantern that lazily swung while we slept.
Though the plank was hard, and the deck came nigh
As the narrow couch where we all shall lie—
Never, I ween, on a downy bed,
With curtains folded, and soft sheets spread,
Could the midnight calm on our eyelids stream
A sounder sleep or a sweeter dream.
We were lulled to sleep by the rocking tide.
No bell we sounded—no watch we kept,
But the lantern that lazily swung while we slept.
Though the plank was hard, and the deck came nigh
As the narrow couch where we all shall lie—
Never, I ween, on a downy bed,
With curtains folded, and soft sheets spread,
Could the midnight calm on our eyelids stream
A sounder sleep or a sweeter dream.
But now, all scattered far away,
Each in a distant land, we stray.
Hardly I know if in grief or mirth
Ye are yet on the face of the sunny earth.
Many a bright spring sun hath shone,
Many a wintry blast hath blown—
But the brave old bark wherein we tost
Has left her bones on a far-off coast—
And, since that dear mad cruise, have we
Over land and over sea
Voyaged far and wearily.
Each in a distant land, we stray.
Hardly I know if in grief or mirth
Ye are yet on the face of the sunny earth.
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Many a wintry blast hath blown—
But the brave old bark wherein we tost
Has left her bones on a far-off coast—
And, since that dear mad cruise, have we
Over land and over sea
Voyaged far and wearily.
Yet still, when the voice of the East is high,
And the line-storm lowers in a troubled sky,
When the forest moans, till its heavy roar
Sounds like the tide on a wild lee-shore—
My thoughts rove wandering far away
To the breaking surf and the salt sea spray—
A sail's hoarse flap in the wind I hear,
And the roar of waves is loud in mine ear.
And the line-storm lowers in a troubled sky,
When the forest moans, till its heavy roar
Sounds like the tide on a wild lee-shore—
My thoughts rove wandering far away
To the breaking surf and the salt sea spray—
A sail's hoarse flap in the wind I hear,
And the roar of waves is loud in mine ear.
Come around me now, companions dear,
Who love old tales by the hearth to hear—
For the night is gusty, and dark, and drear,
And the moon hath told that a storm is near.
Let the blast without raise its angriest shout,
And howl in the chimney with sullen rout—
While I tell, as fairly as tell I may,
A tale of the seas, and of times passed away.
Who love old tales by the hearth to hear—
For the night is gusty, and dark, and drear,
And the moon hath told that a storm is near.
Let the blast without raise its angriest shout,
And howl in the chimney with sullen rout—
While I tell, as fairly as tell I may,
A tale of the seas, and of times passed away.
'Twas a wild, rough day, when winds were high,
And the autumn equinox drew nigh,
Years dead and gone some thirty and three,
A gallant ship was sailing the sea.
'Tis a sight to look on, right fair and brave—
How proudly she rises from wave to wave!
With her courses furled, as she ploughs along,
And a double reef in her topsails strong.
On her hull so black a row ye might mark
Of teeth that can bite as well as bark—
Grinning full grimly on either side,
For 'twas war-time then o'er the ocean wide;
And many a sail, both in channel and main,
Roved o'er the waters for plunder and gain.
And the autumn equinox drew nigh,
Years dead and gone some thirty and three,
A gallant ship was sailing the sea.
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How proudly she rises from wave to wave!
With her courses furled, as she ploughs along,
And a double reef in her topsails strong.
On her hull so black a row ye might mark
Of teeth that can bite as well as bark—
Grinning full grimly on either side,
For 'twas war-time then o'er the ocean wide;
And many a sail, both in channel and main,
Roved o'er the waters for plunder and gain.
On her privateering deck you might view
A long-sided, keen-visaged Yankee crew—
Features of marvellous shape and size,
Beet-like noses and fish-like eyes.
There was Obed the Skipper, and Peleg the mate,
And many a moe that I can't relate.
But all, as they ply the goodly trade,
Believe their eternal fortunes made.
For many a prize they have sent to shore,
And are keeping a sharp look-out for more.
A long-sided, keen-visaged Yankee crew—
Features of marvellous shape and size,
Beet-like noses and fish-like eyes.
There was Obed the Skipper, and Peleg the mate,
And many a moe that I can't relate.
But all, as they ply the goodly trade,
Believe their eternal fortunes made.
For many a prize they have sent to shore,
And are keeping a sharp look-out for more.
But who is he, of the boyish face?
He looks like one of another race.
With his light-curled hair, and cheek so fair,
Well you had marvelled to find him there.
Yet somewhat in him but half displayed,
Showeth that of which men are made:
A firm-wreathed lip, and an eye of pride
As bright and blue as the seas they ride.
He looks like one of another race.
With his light-curled hair, and cheek so fair,
Well you had marvelled to find him there.
Yet somewhat in him but half displayed,
Showeth that of which men are made:
A firm-wreathed lip, and an eye of pride
As bright and blue as the seas they ride.
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And why hath he left the pleasant shore,
For the gray salt deep, and its restless roar—
To rove with Obed on venture wild?
That grim old man hath an only child.
To his youthful heart she has long been dear,
Long he has loved her, in hope and fear—
Yet hardly knows why he dares aspire
To win the love of her rude old sire.
Playmates from childhood their simple flame
As yet, not even had found a name.
His voice had failed as he said “good bye,”
And a tear was trembling in Zillah's eye,
When his passionate arms were round her cast,
And he took one kiss—'twas their first and last.
Never again shall those lips be prest,
Or that form be clasped to his loving breast.
For the gray salt deep, and its restless roar—
To rove with Obed on venture wild?
That grim old man hath an only child.
To his youthful heart she has long been dear,
Long he has loved her, in hope and fear—
Yet hardly knows why he dares aspire
To win the love of her rude old sire.
Playmates from childhood their simple flame
As yet, not even had found a name.
His voice had failed as he said “good bye,”
And a tear was trembling in Zillah's eye,
When his passionate arms were round her cast,
And he took one kiss—'twas their first and last.
Never again shall those lips be prest,
Or that form be clasped to his loving breast.
And well and boldly full long he strove
To gain the surly old master's love.
None like William aloft could hie,
None like him could the wheel stand by.
Never a man on her deck, in sooth,
But loved the brave and the mirthful youth.
To gain the surly old master's love.
None like William aloft could hie,
None like him could the wheel stand by.
Never a man on her deck, in sooth,
But loved the brave and the mirthful youth.
Yet howsoever he dares or tries,
Small grace hath he in the skipper's eyes.
Or if he had, on a luckless day
By an evil wind it was blown away.
Small grace hath he in the skipper's eyes.
Or if he had, on a luckless day
By an evil wind it was blown away.
A week ago, they had hailed a bark
Steering from India—the stout St. Mark.
Sooth to say, 'twas a goodly craft,
Laden full deeply fore and aft.
Already in thought the greedy crew
Are hauling her choicest stores to view—
Already are passing from hand to hand
Silks of the East and golden sand,
Teas and spices from China-land!
The boat is lowered—in the stern-sheets
His personage gruff the skipper seats.
William enters too, at his word,
And takes the helm as he steps on board.
Steering from India—the stout St. Mark.
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Laden full deeply fore and aft.
Already in thought the greedy crew
Are hauling her choicest stores to view—
Already are passing from hand to hand
Silks of the East and golden sand,
Teas and spices from China-land!
The boat is lowered—in the stern-sheets
His personage gruff the skipper seats.
William enters too, at his word,
And takes the helm as he steps on board.
'Twas night when they reached the stranger's side,
But the moon shone high in her autumn pride,
And her light came down so cold and keen
The Man in the Moon could be almost seen.
But the moon shone high in her autumn pride,
And her light came down so cold and keen
The Man in the Moon could be almost seen.
None with Obed mounted on deck
But the boy who followed close at his beck.
With courtesy grim the skippers meet,
Grimly smile as they bow and greet.
Long the parley, as fore and aft
They walk the deck of the captive craft.
Long in the cabin they make their stay,
And when Obed cometh at last away,
(In grave and in courteous wise they parted,)
Nor locker was oped, nor hatch was started.
Nor silk nor spice did the skipper bring,
(He hath not brought us a curséd thing!)
Save one stout chest—'twas a grievous load—
In his private cabin right snugly stowed.
(When the cruise was o'er, and the good ship lay
Fast by the wharf in her native bay,
Cook and steward long tugged and swore
Or ever they got that chest on shore.)
But the boy who followed close at his beck.
With courtesy grim the skippers meet,
Grimly smile as they bow and greet.
Long the parley, as fore and aft
They walk the deck of the captive craft.
Long in the cabin they make their stay,
And when Obed cometh at last away,
(In grave and in courteous wise they parted,)
Nor locker was oped, nor hatch was started.
Nor silk nor spice did the skipper bring,
(He hath not brought us a curséd thing!)
Save one stout chest—'twas a grievous load—
In his private cabin right snugly stowed.
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Fast by the wharf in her native bay,
Cook and steward long tugged and swore
Or ever they got that chest on shore.)
But what the wonder, and rage, and grief
Of all on board, save their wily chief,
When they saw the stranger loose every sail
And glide away in the moonlight pale.
While their own swift bark, hove to at her ease,
Lay like a log on the rolling seas.
Of all on board, save their wily chief,
When they saw the stranger loose every sail
And glide away in the moonlight pale.
While their own swift bark, hove to at her ease,
Lay like a log on the rolling seas.
Some tale he told them—it matters not—
A letter of pass, and the Lord knows what!
But from that hour, (it was hardly strange,)
Hath fallen upon them a woful change.
The skipper weareth a threatening mien,
And a blush upon William's cheek is seen,
(For none but William had seen the gold
So slowly and grievously lugged from her hold).
He marks the boy with an evil eye
Fixed all sullenly and sly.
Seldom he cometh on deck, and then
'Tis but to growl, and to haze the men.
And on that day, with a sullen brow,
And a heart of evil, he sat below.
A letter of pass, and the Lord knows what!
But from that hour, (it was hardly strange,)
Hath fallen upon them a woful change.
The skipper weareth a threatening mien,
And a blush upon William's cheek is seen,
(For none but William had seen the gold
So slowly and grievously lugged from her hold).
He marks the boy with an evil eye
Fixed all sullenly and sly.
Seldom he cometh on deck, and then
'Tis but to growl, and to haze the men.
And on that day, with a sullen brow,
And a heart of evil, he sat below.
Full sorely he sighed, and slowly took
From his cabin locker the Holye Booke.
And now he is reading that pleasant part
Where David, (a man of the Lord's own heart,)
Bade that Uriah be left to die,
When the strife by the leaguered wall rose high.
From his cabin locker the Holye Booke.
And now he is reading that pleasant part
Where David, (a man of the Lord's own heart,)
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When the strife by the leaguered wall rose high.
He hath closed the Book—he hath laid it down—
And ta'en from his chest with a fretful frown
A pocket-pistol, loaded and large—
Yet it killeth not at the first discharge.
And ta'en from his chest with a fretful frown
A pocket-pistol, loaded and large—
Yet it killeth not at the first discharge.
What ship is that steering up from the south?
She carries a mighty bone in her mouth!
At her peak is a cross of glittering red—
And the pennon streams from her tall mast-head.
Mark how she rolls! for the sea runs high,
'Tis flecked with foam like a mackerel sky.
A scud from the south comes driving fast—
And winds are raving through shroud and mast.
She carries a mighty bone in her mouth!
At her peak is a cross of glittering red—
And the pennon streams from her tall mast-head.
Mark how she rolls! for the sea runs high,
'Tis flecked with foam like a mackerel sky.
A scud from the south comes driving fast—
And winds are raving through shroud and mast.
Obed the skipper on deck hath come,
And Ocean snuffeth the scent of rum.
Pepper-and-salt the skipper wore—
Pepper-and-salt behind and before.
Each button was big as a noddy's egg,
And the row thereof did reach to his leg.
It swelleth and tapereth o'er his thigh,
Like the shad ye catch when the stream runs high.
And Ocean snuffeth the scent of rum.
Pepper-and-salt the skipper wore—
Pepper-and-salt behind and before.
Each button was big as a noddy's egg,
And the row thereof did reach to his leg.
It swelleth and tapereth o'er his thigh,
Like the shad ye catch when the stream runs high.
Seven times stalked he the length of her keel—
Seven times hath he turned on his heel.
At the stem and at the stern,
Ever the skipper taketh a turn.
A big-bellied watch in his fob doth lurk,
He pulleth it out with a vicious jerk!
Six bells are sounded—an hour hath past
Since through the glass he sighted her last.
The night is at hand—but she nears us fast!
Seven times hath he turned on his heel.
At the stem and at the stern,
Ever the skipper taketh a turn.
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He pulleth it out with a vicious jerk!
Six bells are sounded—an hour hath past
Since through the glass he sighted her last.
The night is at hand—but she nears us fast!
Bitter the words he spake, and brief—
‘She gains,” he muttered, “shake out that reef!”
‘She gains,” he muttered, “shake out that reef!”
Ear-ring and reef-point loose are cast,
And the topsail flaps on the quivering mast.
As the halliards come home, to his startled men,
“Loose the to'gallant!” he shouts again.
And the topsail flaps on the quivering mast.
As the halliards come home, to his startled men,
“Loose the to'gallant!” he shouts again.
'Tis done—and she flies on the snowy sail,
As a mighty bird spreads her wings to the gale.
The mast yet stands, in the tempest's roar—
But it strains as a stick never strained before!
The crew are staring in doubt and fear,
And they stare yet wider the word to hear,
Another hand must hurry aloft,
And loose yon royal, they've furled so oft.
As a mighty bird spreads her wings to the gale.
The mast yet stands, in the tempest's roar—
But it strains as a stick never strained before!
The crew are staring in doubt and fear,
And they stare yet wider the word to hear,
Another hand must hurry aloft,
And loose yon royal, they've furled so oft.
He looked at his mates—they spoke not a word!
He looked at the crew—not a hand was stirred!
But an active step is heard at his side,
And he meets an eye of daring and pride.
And the devil within him softly said,
With a sneer, “Well, William! are you afraid?”
He looked at the crew—not a hand was stirred!
But an active step is heard at his side,
And he meets an eye of daring and pride.
And the devil within him softly said,
With a sneer, “Well, William! are you afraid?”
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No word he uttered—or low or loud—
But sprang at once to the weather shroud.
And o'er the ratlins he climbs amain,
Through a squall that comes like a hurricane.
He has gained the cross-trees—he mounts the yard—
And the loosened canvas is flapping hard.
A hail is heard from his eyrie high!
A crash! she has parted her royal-tie!
Far to leeward amid the storm
Flew the slender spar and the slender form!
But sprang at once to the weather shroud.
And o'er the ratlins he climbs amain,
Through a squall that comes like a hurricane.
He has gained the cross-trees—he mounts the yard—
And the loosened canvas is flapping hard.
A hail is heard from his eyrie high!
A crash! she has parted her royal-tie!
Far to leeward amid the storm
Flew the slender spar and the slender form!
Twenty feet to the boat have sprung!
Twenty hands to the braces clung!
Old Tom at the wheel lets her luff a wee,
All ready to hear them sing out “hard-a-lee!”
Twenty hands to the braces clung!
Old Tom at the wheel lets her luff a wee,
All ready to hear them sing out “hard-a-lee!”
But a hard rough hand, uplifted apace,
Hits old Tom in his honest face.
And a voice of anger is heard to say
“Keep fast that boat!—keep the ship away!”
Hits old Tom in his honest face.
And a voice of anger is heard to say
“Keep fast that boat!—keep the ship away!”
And this was all—save a single cry,
That pierced each heart as the hull drove by,
And a fair, pale face for an instant seen,
Ere the giant billow rose high between.
But the last look on one we shall see no more,
Is stamped far deeper than all before.
That pierced each heart as the hull drove by,
And a fair, pale face for an instant seen,
Ere the giant billow rose high between.
But the last look on one we shall see no more,
Is stamped far deeper than all before.
In her pomp and pride the ship went by,
And left him alone on the sea—to die.
But if he sank in its soundless bed,
When the first dark surf broke o'er his head,
Or struggled long o'er his ocean-grave,
Weaker and weaker, with wave on wave—
Will ne'er be known till that Day of Dread,
The Day when the seas give up their dead!
And left him alone on the sea—to die.
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When the first dark surf broke o'er his head,
Or struggled long o'er his ocean-grave,
Weaker and weaker, with wave on wave—
Will ne'er be known till that Day of Dread,
The Day when the seas give up their dead!
Rough Obed follows the seas no more;
He hath built him a shingled house on the shore,
Fairly chambered, and garnished well—
Yet therein he loveth not long to dwell.
He hath built him a shingled house on the shore,
Fairly chambered, and garnished well—
Yet therein he loveth not long to dwell.
He had faced the storm, when its wildest blast
Like chaff was scattering canvas and mast.
On the deck full bold he had stood,
When the scuppers streamed, and the planks ran blood.
Like chaff was scattering canvas and mast.
On the deck full bold he had stood,
When the scuppers streamed, and the planks ran blood.
But he cannot look on that fading eye,
That is dimmer daily, he well knows why;
And the form that all slowly is wasting away,
And the cheek growing paler, day by day.
That is dimmer daily, he well knows why;
And the form that all slowly is wasting away,
And the cheek growing paler, day by day.
Where the sign of the Whale hangs creaking on high,
He drinks like a fish—but he's always dry!
Old Ephraim wonders what's come to pass,
And shakes his head as he fills the glass.
The by-standers whisper and stare to behold
Close Obed pay over the good red gold.
They ring it to catch the golden sound—
Heft it, and turn it, and pass it round.
He drinks like a fish—but he's always dry!
Old Ephraim wonders what's come to pass,
And shakes his head as he fills the glass.
The by-standers whisper and stare to behold
Close Obed pay over the good red gold.
They ring it to catch the golden sound—
Heft it, and turn it, and pass it round.
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Full fairly it weighs, and 'tis red to the gaze
But it looks yet redder to him who pays!
But he eyes the change with a vacant air,
And the empty glass with an empty stare.
Nought he heeds what they look or say,
And he mutters still, as he turns away,
“They lie when they say I followed the sea—
And they lie when they say that a man follows me.”
But it looks yet redder to him who pays!
But he eyes the change with a vacant air,
And the empty glass with an empty stare.
Nought he heeds what they look or say,
And he mutters still, as he turns away,
“They lie when they say I followed the sea—
And they lie when they say that a man follows me.”
The frost was hard in the old churchyard
As the heart that hated a famished bard.
Pickaxe and mattock, crow and spade,
A long dark trench in the earth have made—
And a narrow chest beside it is laid:
Brightly polished and quaintly built,
With its many corners, and handles gilt.
But a piteous thing lies pillowed below,
With its pale hands crossed on a breast of snow,
And its frozen tresses—but all are hid
'Neath that never more to be opened lid.
'Twas a cruel dwelling for one so fair,
That cold, dark bed! but they left her there—
Where the shades fall saddest at twilight's close,
And the long weeds wave when the night-wind blows—
Where the weeping willows their lean arms toss,
And the stones are gray with a century's moss.
As the heart that hated a famished bard.
Pickaxe and mattock, crow and spade,
A long dark trench in the earth have made—
And a narrow chest beside it is laid:
Brightly polished and quaintly built,
With its many corners, and handles gilt.
But a piteous thing lies pillowed below,
With its pale hands crossed on a breast of snow,
And its frozen tresses—but all are hid
'Neath that never more to be opened lid.
'Twas a cruel dwelling for one so fair,
That cold, dark bed! but they left her there—
Where the shades fall saddest at twilight's close,
And the long weeds wave when the night-wind blows—
Where the weeping willows their lean arms toss,
And the stones are gray with a century's moss.
217
JACK'S VISITOR.
'Tis a dull, flat common—a lonely moor,
Where the grass is withered and scant and poor.
In its soil so barren, swampy, and low,
The very weeds have forgotten to grow.
Poisoning the air and clouding the sky,
The monster London croucheth hard by—
(All day long from her nostrils rolled
Flames and smoke, like the giants of old)—
And the breath of her thousand fires comes forth
To taint the air, when the wind is north.
Where the grass is withered and scant and poor.
In its soil so barren, swampy, and low,
The very weeds have forgotten to grow.
Poisoning the air and clouding the sky,
The monster London croucheth hard by—
(All day long from her nostrils rolled
Flames and smoke, like the giants of old)—
And the breath of her thousand fires comes forth
To taint the air, when the wind is north.
Beside it the brackish river runs,
Burdened with ships of a thousand tons.
Their black hulks float on the sluggish tide,
Or rot at anchor in reaches wide.
Burdened with ships of a thousand tons.
Their black hulks float on the sluggish tide,
Or rot at anchor in reaches wide.
Robbers and murderers, half a score,
Are hung in chains on the lonely shore;
Where the sun seems only to lend his light,
To “fleer and mock” at the ghastly sight.
Are hung in chains on the lonely shore;
This tasteful and salutary practice is of ancient date, and would seem to have been originally founded on the idea that —(to use the quaint words of Mr. Justice Blackstone)—“it is a comfortable sight to the relations and friends of the deceased.”
Further to promote this “comfortable” frame of mind, it was also customary for the relations and friends aforesaid to drag the criminal by a long rope to the place of execution,— a process ingeniously and kindly devised to soothe their bereaved and excited feelings.
The description which old Plowden (in his barbarous law-French) cites from Bromely, is too curious to be omitted.
“.... quaunt le felon fuit troue culpable en appel de murder, que le auncyant usage fuyt, que touts ceux del sanke (sang) cesty que fuyt murder traheront le felon per longe corde al execution, quel use fuit foundue sur le perd q tout le sank auoit pur le murder del un de eux, et pur lour reuengement, et le amour que ils auoyent a luy tue, ceo fuit suit use.”
—II Henry 4, 12.Where the sun seems only to lend his light,
To “fleer and mock” at the ghastly sight.
But the earth was hoary with frost and snow,
When here, in a house that is long laid low,
On a winter night, in the century gone,
Jack Ketch sat over his fire alone.
Weary—for he had been hard at work—
I know not whether on Hare or Burke—
But the noose on each neck had been deftly twined,
And the bodies wavered in frost and wind.
When here, in a house that is long laid low,
218
Jack Ketch sat over his fire alone.
Weary—for he had been hard at work—
I know not whether on Hare or Burke—
But the noose on each neck had been deftly twined,
And the bodies wavered in frost and wind.
The fire was low, the lamp burnt dim,
And the night seemed dreary, even to him.
For the storm was abroad in its wildest glee,
Rushing like mad over land and sea.
Shook each chimney and steeple high,
As the flap of its sullen wings flew by—
A sound ever followed by woe and wail,
Rending of roof and shivering of sail.
And the night seemed dreary, even to him.
For the storm was abroad in its wildest glee,
Rushing like mad over land and sea.
Shook each chimney and steeple high,
As the flap of its sullen wings flew by—
A sound ever followed by woe and wail,
Rending of roof and shivering of sail.
Lord! how it blew!—'twas a night as wild
As that, when a mother who bore her child
Starving and shivering amid the storm,
Had stolen a blanket to keep it warm.
'Twas a thought that well might his memory greet—
He had hanged her himself in Newgate-street!
As that, when a mother who bore her child
Starving and shivering amid the storm,
Had stolen a blanket to keep it warm.
'Twas a thought that well might his memory greet—
He had hanged her himself in Newgate-street!
He thinks of her—and he thinks of those
He has left without to the storms and snows:
Of the chains that creak where they swing on high,
And their rags that flap as the wind sweeps by.
He has left without to the storms and snows:
Of the chains that creak where they swing on high,
And their rags that flap as the wind sweeps by.
Was that a knock? no, 'tis but the blast,
That shakes his door as it hurries past.
For the winds, like urchins wild in their play,
Knock naughty “doubles,” and scamper away.
And the sleet and snow, and the hail and rain
Are tapping hard at his window-pane.
That shakes his door as it hurries past.
219
Knock naughty “doubles,” and scamper away.
And the sleet and snow, and the hail and rain
Are tapping hard at his window-pane.
What ails the dog that he creeps aside
Moaning and seeking a place to hide?
He lifts his paws as if stepping on eggs,
And his tail is hanging between his legs!
Moaning and seeking a place to hide?
He lifts his paws as if stepping on eggs,
And his tail is hanging between his legs!
Again, a knocking! but, as I live,
'Twas a knock that a dead-man's hand might give!
'Twas a knock that a dead-man's hand might give!
The sound was hollow, and heavy, and hard
As the oaken panel whereon it jarred.
And hark! through the storm it cometh again,
Like the knob of some testy old gentleman's cane!
As the oaken panel whereon it jarred.
And hark! through the storm it cometh again,
Like the knob of some testy old gentleman's cane!
A hand without is trying the pin—
He growls in a surly tone “come in.”
The door on its hinges slowly creaks
Like a wheel that hath not been oiled for weeks.
It grates half open—a man comes through,
And the wind, and the rain, and the snow come too.
But the door behind him he closeth tight,
As one who knew 'twas a bitter night.
And like one that dreadeth the dark and damp,
Draws near to the fire, and the fading lamp.
He growls in a surly tone “come in.”
The door on its hinges slowly creaks
Like a wheel that hath not been oiled for weeks.
It grates half open—a man comes through,
And the wind, and the rain, and the snow come too.
But the door behind him he closeth tight,
As one who knew 'twas a bitter night.
And like one that dreadeth the dark and damp,
Draws near to the fire, and the fading lamp.
Oh Christ! can this be a thing of earth,
That cowers and shivers upon the hearth?
And over the wretched spark that lingers,
Spreads those frozen, skeleton fingers!
That cowers and shivers upon the hearth?
220
Spreads those frozen, skeleton fingers!
With its hollow cheek, and its glassy eye,
All ghastly and withered, shrunken and dry!
Its ribs that hardly can hide the heart,
And its blue thin lips drawn wide apart!
So shrivelled, they cannot cover the teeth,
That grin like a starving dog's beneath—
And the arms all wasted and worn to the bone—
(Might move to pity a heart of stone.)
A few bleached rags on its limbs remain,
And rusted fragments of iron chain.
Crouching low o'er the dying brands,
It rubs and stretches its bony hands!
All ghastly and withered, shrunken and dry!
Its ribs that hardly can hide the heart,
And its blue thin lips drawn wide apart!
So shrivelled, they cannot cover the teeth,
That grin like a starving dog's beneath—
And the arms all wasted and worn to the bone—
(Might move to pity a heart of stone.)
A few bleached rags on its limbs remain,
And rusted fragments of iron chain.
Crouching low o'er the dying brands,
It rubs and stretches its bony hands!
Fain would he fly—but he sits there still—
Hand nor foot can move at his will.
Long o'er the ashes that shivering form
Strove its lean withered hands to warm—
But the air seemed death-like and icy chill,
And the storm waxed louder and colder still.
Hand nor foot can move at his will.
Long o'er the ashes that shivering form
Strove its lean withered hands to warm—
But the air seemed death-like and icy chill,
And the storm waxed louder and colder still.
The watch-dog moans, and the lamp burns blue,
And Jack on his brow feels a deadly dew.
But his heart grew chiller than Iceland snows,
When that fearful guest from the hearth arose,
And with faltering footsteps across the room,
Hath ta'en his way through the gathering gloom,
And stayed his steps at the wainscot, where
Jack's choicest gear was arrayed with care.
On a long row of pegs, in order strung,
The trophies and perquisites neatly hung,
Picked up in his pleasant official path—
For a goodly wardrobe our hangman hath!
And Jack on his brow feels a deadly dew.
But his heart grew chiller than Iceland snows,
When that fearful guest from the hearth arose,
And with faltering footsteps across the room,
Hath ta'en his way through the gathering gloom,
And stayed his steps at the wainscot, where
Jack's choicest gear was arrayed with care.
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The trophies and perquisites neatly hung,
Picked up in his pleasant official path—
For a goodly wardrobe our hangman hath!
There was many a garment great and small,
Surtout and jacket and over-all,
Kersey and beaver and fustian stout,
Waistcoat, breeches, and roundabout.
There was many a burly and bluff top-boot,
Drawn from a highwayman's sturdy foot:
And many a pump, thin-soled and spare,
That had danced at least when it “danced i'the air.”
Surtout and jacket and over-all,
Kersey and beaver and fustian stout,
Waistcoat, breeches, and roundabout.
There was many a burly and bluff top-boot,
Drawn from a highwayman's sturdy foot:
And many a pump, thin-soled and spare,
That had danced at least when it “danced i'the air.”
And the shivering wretch that gropes by the wall,
Its clammy grasp hath laid on them all.
One by one, they are fingered o'er,
Till it taketh the coat that once it wore.
It hath gotten its coat,—but there it stands
Fumbling and feeling with trembling hands:
Poking before and peeping behind—
“'Tis looking for summat it cannot find!”
Its clammy grasp hath laid on them all.
One by one, they are fingered o'er,
Till it taketh the coat that once it wore.
It hath gotten its coat,—but there it stands
Fumbling and feeling with trembling hands:
Poking before and peeping behind—
“'Tis looking for summat it cannot find!”
Why does the hangman start and stare
At the wasted knees, and the ankles bare?
He eyes those naked limbs with a groan—
The dead-man's small-clothes are on his own!
And the dead-man, or his skeleton ghost,
Turns a stony eye on his gasping host.
A bony foot at his side doth stand—
He feels the touch of a bony hand—
Cold as an icicle—nothing more—
For he fell in a fit on the old oak floor.
At the wasted knees, and the ankles bare?
He eyes those naked limbs with a groan—
The dead-man's small-clothes are on his own!
And the dead-man, or his skeleton ghost,
Turns a stony eye on his gasping host.
A bony foot at his side doth stand—
He feels the touch of a bony hand—
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For he fell in a fit on the old oak floor.
The morning broke over dale and hill;
The storm had passed, and the winds were still.
The sun was streaming the casement through,
And Jack, like a ship in a squall, “came to.”
Nipping and cold was the morning air—
The garment was gone, and his legs were bare!
The storm had passed, and the winds were still.
The sun was streaming the casement through,
And Jack, like a ship in a squall, “came to.”
Nipping and cold was the morning air—
The garment was gone, and his legs were bare!
Next day, where togs are offered to view,
As good as new, (if you'll trust the Jew,)
At the “Grand Emporium” in Monmouth-street,
A fine display might the passenger meet!
A goodly bargain hath Israel made—
Well hath he plenished his stock in trade.
As good as new, (if you'll trust the Jew,)
At the “Grand Emporium” in Monmouth-street,
A fine display might the passenger meet!
A goodly bargain hath Israel made—
Well hath he plenished his stock in trade.
In the Times, next morn, amid lands and rents,
Moneys, mortgages, Three per Cents—
Watches stolen—purses mislaid—
Children lost, and puppy-dogs strayed—
Wedding equipments—winding sheets—
Cradles and coffins, and juggler's feats—
'Mid Patent Pills—Insurance on lives—
Wives wanting husbands, and husbands, wives—
False teeth—false eyes—false bosoms—false hearts—
False heads—and other yet falser parts!
With similar items, was noted down
A “nice little residence, just out of town”—
“An airy location”—“convenient for trade”—
And a “pleasant neighborhood” too, 'twas said!
Just ere the Sheriff, in solemn state,
To his dinner that evening sate—
“Mr. Ketch,” said the footman tall,
“Vaits his vorship vithin the hall.”
A shocking bad hat is doffed to the ground,
And Jack bows low, as in duty bound;
And tenders in form a resignation
Of his useful, exalted—exalting station.
Moneys, mortgages, Three per Cents—
Watches stolen—purses mislaid—
Children lost, and puppy-dogs strayed—
Wedding equipments—winding sheets—
Cradles and coffins, and juggler's feats—
'Mid Patent Pills—Insurance on lives—
Wives wanting husbands, and husbands, wives—
False teeth—false eyes—false bosoms—false hearts—
False heads—and other yet falser parts!
With similar items, was noted down
A “nice little residence, just out of town”—
“An airy location”—“convenient for trade”—
And a “pleasant neighborhood” too, 'twas said!
223
To his dinner that evening sate—
“Mr. Ketch,” said the footman tall,
“Vaits his vorship vithin the hall.”
A shocking bad hat is doffed to the ground,
And Jack bows low, as in duty bound;
And tenders in form a resignation
Of his useful, exalted—exalting station.
The Sheriff hears with a heavy heart,
Loth from his trusty friend to part,
Who had served him long, and with right good-will—
'Twas not that the office was hard to fill!
He yields the point, though with evil grace—
“There were gemmen enough who would like the place.”
And from that hour, on the Thames' foul shore,
Jack Ketch in his haunts was seen no more.
Loth from his trusty friend to part,
Who had served him long, and with right good-will—
'Twas not that the office was hard to fill!
He yields the point, though with evil grace—
“There were gemmen enough who would like the place.”
And from that hour, on the Thames' foul shore,
Jack Ketch in his haunts was seen no more.
And oh, if the wisdom so dearly bought
In the dark, dark lesson the past hath taught—
If the slighted counsels of Love and Worth,
And the tears of angels weeping for earth,
And the prayers of the just were not all in vain—
We ne'er should look on his like again!
In the dark, dark lesson the past hath taught—
If the slighted counsels of Love and Worth,
And the tears of angels weeping for earth,
And the prayers of the just were not all in vain—
We ne'er should look on his like again!
224
DIES IRÆ.
Day of wrath! that awful day,
Earth in ashes sinks away!
David and the Sibyl say.
Earth in ashes sinks away!
David and the Sibyl say.
Oh! what terror will arise,
When the Judge shall leave the skies,
All to mark with searching eyes!
When the Judge shall leave the skies,
All to mark with searching eyes!
And the trumpet's wondrous sound
Through the nations under-ground
Gathers all the throne around.
Through the nations under-ground
Gathers all the throne around.
Death shall shudder—Nature then
Tremble, as she wakes agen,
Answering to the Judge of men.
Tremble, as she wakes agen,
Answering to the Judge of men.
Forth is brought the volume penned,
Wherein all things are contained,
Whence the world shall be arraigned.
Wherein all things are contained,
Whence the world shall be arraigned.
Therefore, when the Judge shall reign,
All that's hidden shall be plain,
Nought shall unavenged remain.
All that's hidden shall be plain,
Nought shall unavenged remain.
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What then, wretched, shall I say,
Or what intercessor pray,
When the just may scarce find stay.
Or what intercessor pray,
When the just may scarce find stay.
King of awful majesty!
Who thy chosen savest free,
Save me, Fount of Piety!
Who thy chosen savest free,
Save me, Fount of Piety!
Jesus, thou hast not forgot
Me, the cause of thy sad lot;
In that day, oh, lose me not!
Me, the cause of thy sad lot;
In that day, oh, lose me not!
Seeking me, thou satst in pain,
On the cross for me hast lain:
May such anguish not be vain!
On the cross for me hast lain:
May such anguish not be vain!
Judge of vengeance! righteous King!
Gift of thy remission bring,
Ere the day of reckoning.
Gift of thy remission bring,
Ere the day of reckoning.
Like a wretch condemned I groan,
Red with guilt my face is shown;
Spare me kneeling at thy throne!
Red with guilt my face is shown;
Spare me kneeling at thy throne!
Thou, who pitiedst Mary's grief,
And didst hear the dying thief,
Me hast also given relief.
And didst hear the dying thief,
Me hast also given relief.
All unworthy is my prayer,
But thou, good, in mercy spare
Flames eternal from my share.
But thou, good, in mercy spare
Flames eternal from my share.
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'Mid thy flock then let me stand,
Parted from the goats' foul band,
Placing me on thy right hand.
Parted from the goats' foul band,
Placing me on thy right hand.
When th' accurséd, put to shame,
Are consigned to fiercest flame,
With thy Blessed call my name.
Are consigned to fiercest flame,
With thy Blessed call my name.
Bowed and suppliant I bend,
Crushed like dust my heart I rend;
Take thou care, Lord! of mine end.
Crushed like dust my heart I rend;
Take thou care, Lord! of mine end.
TO ---
Thou gavest me a fair red rose,
Thou gavest me a violet—
I thought them poor and pale to those
In thy beloved features met.
Thou gavest me a violet—
I thought them poor and pale to those
In thy beloved features met.
No rose of June could e'er eclipse
The glory of those budding lips—
The glory of those budding lips—
And the flower that gathers its virgin hue
From the gleam of the summer skies,
Hath ne'er so lovely and tender a blue
As beams from thine own sweet eyes.
From the gleam of the summer skies,
Hath ne'er so lovely and tender a blue
As beams from thine own sweet eyes.
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ÆGRI SOMNIA.
Last night, in sad and troubled dreams,
Again thy spirit crossed my sleep—
That strange, unquiet slumber seems
No other form to keep.
Again thy spirit crossed my sleep—
That strange, unquiet slumber seems
No other form to keep.
Methought I wandered forth once more,
Beneath the dying moon's pale face,
And stood, as I have stood before,
At the old trysting-place.
Beneath the dying moon's pale face,
And stood, as I have stood before,
At the old trysting-place.
Long watching—but thou cam'st at last,
No longer proud—no longer cold—
And those dear arms were round me cast,
As kindly as of old.
No longer proud—no longer cold—
And those dear arms were round me cast,
As kindly as of old.
And that dear lip sought gently mine,
In mild and tender accents breaking—
Ah, [OMITTED]! if that dream divine
Had never known a waking!
In mild and tender accents breaking—
Ah, [OMITTED]! if that dream divine
Had never known a waking!
228
ANACREONTIC.
“It is worth the labor, saith Plotinus, to consider well of Love, whether it be a god or a divell, or passion of the minde, or partly god, partly divell, partly passion. [OMITTED] Give me leave then (to refresh my muse a little and my weary readers) to expatiate in this delightsome field, ‘hoc deliciarum campo,’ as Fonseca terms it, to season a surly discourse with a more pleasing aspersion of love-matters. [OMITTED] And there be those, without question, that are more willing to reade such toyes, then I am to write.”
—Burton's Anatomy of Melancholy.
Eros, graceless Wanton! thou
Wast mine earliest playfellow.
Well I knew thee, roguish Elf!
When an infant like thyself.
And thou still must needs abide
Clinging wilful to my side.
Wast mine earliest playfellow.
Well I knew thee, roguish Elf!
When an infant like thyself.
And thou still must needs abide
Clinging wilful to my side.
Every other frolic mate
Long has grown to man's estate—
Other childish sports have past,
Other toys aside are cast—
One alone could yet remain;
'Tis the vainest of the vain!
Long has grown to man's estate—
Other childish sports have past,
Other toys aside are cast—
One alone could yet remain;
'Tis the vainest of the vain!
Still this fond and foolish heart
Must enact a childish part,
And in Beauty's Presence still
Feel its wonted boyish thrill.
Chide thee—shun thee as I may,
Thou hast ever had thy way;
Many a subtle snare hast laid—
Many a wanton trick hast played.
E'en at Learning's council sage,
Thou hast perched upon the page,
(Latin could not mar thy glee,
Greek was never Greek to thee,)
And when Wisdom should prevail,
Told me many a roguish tale,
Many a scene of vanished Love—
Dicte's cave and Ida's grove,
And the mountain fringed with fir,
And the paths beloved of Her,
Who the sleeping hunter eyed
Couched on Latmos' shaggy side.
Of each old enchanted spot—
Tyrian mead—Egerian grot—
Each dim haunt, remembered yet,
Where mortal with Immortal met—
Darksome glen and sunny glade—
And all the pranks that Sylvan played.
Must enact a childish part,
229
Feel its wonted boyish thrill.
Chide thee—shun thee as I may,
Thou hast ever had thy way;
Many a subtle snare hast laid—
Many a wanton trick hast played.
E'en at Learning's council sage,
Thou hast perched upon the page,
(Latin could not mar thy glee,
Greek was never Greek to thee,)
And when Wisdom should prevail,
Told me many a roguish tale,
Many a scene of vanished Love—
Dicte's cave and Ida's grove,
And the mountain fringed with fir,
And the paths beloved of Her,
Who the sleeping hunter eyed
Couched on Latmos' shaggy side.
Of each old enchanted spot—
Tyrian mead—Egerian grot—
Each dim haunt, remembered yet,
Where mortal with Immortal met—
Darksome glen and sunny glade—
And all the pranks that Sylvan played.
One kind turn I owe thee—one
Kindly office thou hast done.
Ne'er shall I forget the hour,
When thy soft-persuading power
Led my footsteps, roving wide,
To the Sleeping Beauty's side.
Wearied, like a child from play,
Lightly slumbering, there she lay.
Half a crime though it might seem
To disturb so sweet a dream—
Yet, with tender, reverent soul,
Softly to her side I stole,
And the only means did take
Such a slumber e'er should wake.
Kindly office thou hast done.
Ne'er shall I forget the hour,
When thy soft-persuading power
Led my footsteps, roving wide,
To the Sleeping Beauty's side.
230
Lightly slumbering, there she lay.
Half a crime though it might seem
To disturb so sweet a dream—
Yet, with tender, reverent soul,
Softly to her side I stole,
And the only means did take
Such a slumber e'er should wake.
Like a half-awakened child,
Gently then she moved and smiled:
With a soft and wondering glance—
Such as Gyneth wore, perchance,
When she oped her lovely eyes
From the sleep of centuries.
Gently then she moved and smiled:
With a soft and wondering glance—
Such as Gyneth wore, perchance,
When she oped her lovely eyes
From the sleep of centuries.
THE ADIEU.
Sweet Falsehoods, fare ye well!
That may not longer dwell
In this fond heart, dear paramours of Youth!
A cold, unloving bride
Is ever at my side—
Yet who so pure, so beautiful as Truth?
That may not longer dwell
In this fond heart, dear paramours of Youth!
A cold, unloving bride
Is ever at my side—
Yet who so pure, so beautiful as Truth?
Long hath she sought my side,
And would not be denied,
Till, all perforce, she won my spirit o'er—
And though her glances be
But hard and stern to me,
At every step I love her more and more.
And would not be denied,
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And though her glances be
But hard and stern to me,
At every step I love her more and more.
LONG AGO.
When at eve I sit alone,
Thinking on the Past and Gone—
While the clock, with drowsy finger,
Marks how long the minutes linger—
And the embers, dimly burning,
Tell of Life to Dust returning—
Then my lonely chair around,
With a quiet, mournful sound,
With a murmur soft and low,
Come the Ghosts of Long Ago.
Thinking on the Past and Gone—
While the clock, with drowsy finger,
Marks how long the minutes linger—
And the embers, dimly burning,
Tell of Life to Dust returning—
Then my lonely chair around,
With a quiet, mournful sound,
With a murmur soft and low,
Come the Ghosts of Long Ago.
One by one, I count them o'er,
Voices, that are heard no more,
Tears, that loving cheeks have wet,
Words, whose music lingers yet—
Holy faces, pale and fair,
Shadowy locks of waving hair—
Happy sighs and whispers dear,
Songs forgotten many a year,—
Lips of dewy fragrance—eyes
Brighter, bluer than the skies—
Odors breathed from Paradise.
Voices, that are heard no more,
Tears, that loving cheeks have wet,
Words, whose music lingers yet—
Holy faces, pale and fair,
Shadowy locks of waving hair—
Happy sighs and whispers dear,
Songs forgotten many a year,—
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Brighter, bluer than the skies—
Odors breathed from Paradise.
And the gentle shadows glide
Softly murmuring at my side,
Till the long unfriended day,
All forgotten, fades away.
Softly murmuring at my side,
Till the long unfriended day,
All forgotten, fades away.
Thus, when I am all alone,
Dreaming o'er the Past and Gone,
All around me, sad and slow,
Come the Ghosts of Long Ago.
Dreaming o'er the Past and Gone,
All around me, sad and slow,
Come the Ghosts of Long Ago.
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